How Satellites Changed How I See The World
I grew up on the edge of a new world. I was the first of my friend group to own a mobile phone—an indestructible Nokia that could call and text, but I didn’t use it to text because that was expensive and who would I text anyway? No internet. No satellite navigation system.
I was 16. My parents gave me the phone because we lived in the country and I had just gotten plastic proof of my adulthood: a full driver’s licence. I drove our little Toyota pickup truck with a tape deck that was so old the tapes would play faster or slower according to the engine rpms—so the tempo of the music changed every time I changed gears. It was hilarious. And really annoying. That truck was mostly reliable, but only mostly. I remember it breaking down on top of a mountain and how thankful I was that I could just barely coast into the driveway of the first house after miles of forest. I didn’t know the people there, but they helped me. I couldn’t always depend on the car, or the phone signal, so I had to depend on strangers. Gradually, as the cellular towers sprang up and the satellite networks became more reliable, our family breakdown stories changed. Helpful strangers began to feature less often in them.
Cars still break down, of course, but now everyone has their own reliable way to call for help. If you see people stranded on the side of the road, you can safely assume that they won’t be for long. You can safely drive on without worrying or interrupting your day to lend a hand. I remember when stranded people were really stranded, when stopping to help change a punctured tyre was part of what it meant to use the roads well. Those days are gone. That’s one less way that we get to be human.
We don’t need strangers to see us now, and we don’t need to be careful to see them. We have satellites. We don’t need to see the land, either. We used to tell each other which signs to watch for and what landmarks would help us find the next turn. We used to spread out maps and pre-plan routes and pay careful attention to every bend and hill and file every notable tree and river in our heads. Now I say, “Text me the address” and that’s it. The phone know the way, so I don’t need to.
This, of course, is very convenient. But it means that I don’t see the road the same way I used to see it. I mean, yes, obviously my eyes are open and I see it, but I don’t pay attention to it the same way. I don’t need to watch carefully for the next turn, or try to measure the distance in my head. I don’t need to remember that it’s a left at the big oak tree, followed by a right after the second bridge. The sat nav remembers for me now, so why would I bother? There’s an oak tree? I didn’t see it. A river with two bridges? I didn’t count.
I love the convenience of the sat nav, but I miss the counting. I miss the feeling of connection I used to develop, studying hard to learn the winding ways of the roads and the lands they took me through. I used to know that if I didn’t study the land well, I would get lost. I don’t get lost anymore. But I do miss the way I used to see on the land. And the people. I miss the unwritten social connection that I used to feel with other drivers—knowing that someone would see my plight and stop for me, if I needed it, and that I would do the same for them. It’s been years since a stranger helped me on the road, or I helped a stranger.
The world has changed, but I still want to see. I want to see the people in the other cars as real people, and count the bridges over real rivers, and see and remember the big, notable oak tree at the corner even when I don’t need to, but it’s harder now. My phone has freed me from needing to notice the world or the people around me.
That’s what we call progress.
