Geography: Strange Places and Weird Spaces

The Earth is a fascinating and infuriating enigma, a patchwork of peculiarities stitched together with a combination of cartographic precision and human folly. It's a spinning mass of contradictions where one person’s backyard is another’s Everest, and where invisible borders turn friends into foes over imaginary lines. A chaotic swirl of mountains, rivers, and borders drawn as if by a caffeinated toddler with a crayon.

We hang out on this spinning rock like it’s a well-worn sofa - comfortable, familiar, and utterly taken for granted - rarely stopping to examine its quirks. But peel back the surface, and you'll find that geography isn’t just the dry stuff of maps and atlases; it’s a combination of human mischief and natures inside jokes. A riddle with answers so bizarre you have to wonder if the planet itself isn’t in on the joke.

For example, there’s a spot in the Pacific where you can stand in today, tomorrow, and yesterday all at the same time. Or a place in Spain that’s technically part of Morocco - but only for a few hours each year. And then there’s the diplomatic headache that is Bir Tawil, a strip of desert no country wants to claim. Or consider the borderline absurdity of Kaliningrad, a Russian exclave sandwiched between Poland and Lithuania, awkwardly pretending it isn’t 663 kilometers (412 miles) from the nearest Russian border. These oddities aren’t just accidents of history; they’re evidence that geography is less a science and more a game of drunken darts.

And then there’s the natural world, a cornucopia of geographical oddities that defy both logic and good taste. Ever heard of a boiling river hidden deep in the Amazon? Meanwhile, a Canadian island is home to so many wild rabbits it’s been unofficially rebranded as Bunny Paradise. And did you know that there’s an island that’s so remote it’s called "Inaccessible Island," which is either the laziest name ever given or the most honest. Even the Earth’s magnetic poles can’t seem to sit still, meandering like indecisive tourists.

Geography isn’t just about the shapes of places; it’s about the peculiarities that remind us that planet Earth is just as weird as we are.

Today, we’re taking a look at some of the strange places and weird spaces that geography has to offer - the kind that make you question not just your map skills but the entire concept of borders, nature, and logic itself. Buckle up; cause it’s going to get weird.

Today, Tomorrow, and Yesterday

The spot in the Pacific where you can metaphorically “stand” in today, tomorrow, and yesterday all at the same time is the result of the International Date Line (IDL) - a human-made concept that divides the calendar days of the world. The IDL zigzags through the Pacific Ocean, roughly following the 180° longitude line. It’s not a straight line because it accommodates national and territorial boundaries, curving around countries like Kiribati and Samoa to maintain their time zones. If you’re at the IDL, you’re essentially standing on the edge of two days: to the west of the line, it’s tomorrow; to the east, it’s still today.

This time-bending trick is entirely man-made. The IDL is a construct established to keep the world's time zones orderly. When you cross the line heading west, you "gain" a day - skipping ahead to tomorrow. Traveling eastward, you "lose" a day - stepping back into yesterday. Thanks to this arrangement, you can position yourself on islands or ships near the IDL and technically straddle the edge of three time zones, creating the illusion of existing in today, tomorrow, and yesterday all at once. While you can’t physically "stand" in three days simultaneously (the ocean tends to complicate such efforts), the idea symbolizes the odd and arbitrary ways humanity has tried to tame the chaos of time.

Wider Than the Moon

Australia is the smallest of the world's seven continents, a title it holds with an unassuming shrug and a quiet sense of superiority.

In fact, its land area is approximately 7.7 million square kilometers – larger than Europe by landmass but only about 60% the size of the second-smallest continent, Antarctica. The moon, meanwhile, has a land area of approximately 38 million square kilometers, or about five times the size of Australia giving it the heavyweight title in this comparison.

Surely this means that the moon must be wider than Australia, right? Wrong. Australia is actually slightly wider. Despite its sprawling surface area, the moon’s equatorial diameter - the cosmic equivalent of measuring its waistline - is only about 3,476 kilometers. Meanwhile, it’s about 3,600 square kilometers from Brisbane on Australia's eastern coast to Perth on its western coast. So yes, Australia, the “smallest” continent, is actually wider than the moon.

It’s like discovering your quiet neighbor has an Olympic-sized swimming pool in their backyard - unexpected, but undeniably true.

This peculiar fact might leave you pondering why someone has bothered measuring such things in the first place. After all, the moon gets the poetic odes and the lunar landings, but Australia gets to be wider while also hosting koalas and kangaroos. The moon may loom large in the night sky, but on the great cosmic tape measure, Australia still gets to edge it out in this oddly specific competition where, for once, size doesn’t matter.

France’s Longest Border

Here’s a little geography quiz enliven your next cocktail party: Which country shares France’s longest border? Belgium, with its waffles and bureaucrats? Spain, where the Pyrenees double as a picturesque natural wall? Or perhaps Germany, just waiting to rekindle their centuries-long "friendly rivalry"? Nope. France’s longest border isn’t even in Europe - it’s with Brazil. Yes, the land of the “Girl from Ipanema”.

The reason for this unlikely surprise is French Guiana, an overseas region of France perched on the northern coast of South America, sandwiched between Suriname to the northwest and Brazil to the south.

The border between French Guiana and Brazil stretches for a sprawling 730 kilometers (454 miles), easily outpacing France’s second-longest border with Belgium, which clocks in at a mere 657 kilometers (410 miles). While Belgium gives us fine beer and somewhat convoluted governance, Brazil offers a rainforest frontier and biodiversity that is something straight out of a nature documentary.

But let’s not gloss over the weirdness of French Guiana itself. It’s not a colony, a protectorate, or a charmingly retro relic of imperialism. Nope, it’s a fully integrated region of France, as French as Paris, minus the berets and baguettes. The locals speak French, use the euro, vote for the French president, and enjoy all the perks of European Union membership - despite being separated from the continent by the Atlantic Ocean. It’s essentially France, but with rainforests and tropical downpours instead of Riviera beaches and bikini’s along with a border that sounds like the setup to an unlikely geopolitical joke: "So a Frenchman and a Brazilian walk into the Amazon..."

Some Like it Hot

Nestled in the depths of the Peruvian rainforest is the La Bomba river, also known as the Shanay-Timpishka (which roughly translates to “boiled with the heat of the sun”). This is no ordinary stream for your lazy Sunday paddle-boarding session, this river is one of the few places on Earth where the water quite literally boils. Yes, boils. At a searing 203°F (95°C), you could cook pasta in it, provided of course you brought some salt and didn't mind a mosquito or two as garnish.

Normally, boiling rivers occur near volcanoes or hot springs because Earth, like the rest of us, likes to let off a little steam every now and then. But Shanay-Timpishka? No volcanoes in sight. The prevailing scientific theory involves underground geothermal systems that release scalding water into the river.

For the indigenous Oshheninka people, the boiling river isn’t just a bizarre tourist attraction; it’s sacred.

They believe the river holds spiritual power, which honestly checks out when you consider it can incinerate whatever falls into it. Forget about a casual swim; even dipping your fingers could result in third-degree burns. Birds unlucky enough to take a dip meet an unceremonious demise, and small animals? Well, you can think of it as nature’s instant hot pot. Respect for the river isn’t optional - it’s a matter of survival.

Taller than Everest

Mount Everest may get all the glory - postcards, documentaries, and a steady stream of oxygen-deprived climbers paying a small fortune to stand at the "top of the world." At 29,032 feet above sea level, it’s undeniably impressive, still inching upward thanks to geological activity.

Yet Everest isn’t quite the giant it’s made out to be. The title for the tallest mountain, measured from base to peak, actually belongs to Mauna Kea, a dormant volcano on Hawaii's Big Island that towers more than 33,500 feet from its base on the ocean floor to its sometimes snowy summit.  

Mauna Kea’s name means "White Mountain," a nod to the icy caps that occasionally grace its peak, making it the oddball of a tropical paradise better known for sun-soaked beaches and fruity cocktails.

But don't let the tranquility of its dormant state fool you; this volcano is a sleeping giant. If we gave awards based on actual height instead of sea-level snobbery, Mauna Kea would be the reigning champ. Everest may scrape the sky, but Mauna Kea’s grandeur is hidden below the surface, sorta like a billionaire pretending to be "just folks" in cargo shorts and a t-shirt.

And then there’s Mount Chimborazo in Ecuador, which complicates things further.

While not the tallest by any traditional measure, Chimborazo claims the distinction of being the peak farthest from the Earth’s center. This isn’t some geographical sleight of hand; it’s physics. Sitting on the equatorial bulge - our planet’s not-so-subtle middle-aged spread - Chimborazo gets a head start, rising higher into space than Everest or Mauna Kea. So, if you’re looking for the true “top” of the world, head to Ecuador, where science - and the planet’s bulging waistline - give Chimborazo the edge.

The Tides Make the Difference

Perejil Island (or “Parsley Island” in English) is a tiny, uninhabited speck of land off the northern coast of Morocco that occasionally flirts with the idea of sovereignty. Measuring just 13.5 acres, it’s barely big enough for a picnic, let alone a geopolitical dispute. Yet, thanks to its proximity to Morocco and its historical ties to Spain, Perejil finds itself at the heart of a bizarre territorial arrangement.

Technically, Perejil Island is controlled by Spain, although it sits just 200 meters off the Moroccan coast. It’s one of those leftover oddities from Spain’s imperial days. Here’s where it gets strange: for a few hours each year, during high tide, the sea floods the narrow channel separating the island from the mainland. For that brief period, Perejil is entirely surrounded by water, making it feel less like a Mediterranean flashpoint and more like a temporarily forsaken rock.

How does this happen? Blame geography and the tides. The Strait of Gibraltar’s unique ebb and flow conspires to isolate Perejil just enough to make it, well, a bit of a joke in international circles. Morocco has long argued that the island is naturally part of its territory - after all, it’s close enough to the coast to hear a good couscous recipe being shared. Spain, however, clings to it as part of its sovereign territory, even though it holds absolutely no strategic or practical value.

Despite its diminutive size, Perejil Island has sparked diplomatic squabbles, most notably in 2002 when a small group of Moroccan soldiers landed on the island and raised their flag. Spain responded with an amphibious operation involving commandos, helicopters, and more firepower than anyone had likely ever imagined for what amounts to a glorified sandbar.

The incident was resolved peacefully, but it cemented Perejil’s reputation as one of the world’s most absurd contested territories. And there it sits: an unassuming spit of land that’s technically part of Spain, geographically Moroccan, and occasionally waterlogged - a monument to humanity’s enduring ability to argue over the utterly trivial.

Bugs’ Paradise

Welcome to Rabbit Island, Canada’s accidental homage to hopping chaos. Officially known as Deer Island, this tiny speck of land is located in the Broughton Archipelago off the coast of British Columbia, Canada.

Despite its official name, the deer population is nonexistent, thoroughly overshadowed by its new residents: an army of wild rabbits that have turned this unassuming patch of land into a fluffy, twitchy-nosed utopia.

The story of how Rabbit Island became the place for bunnies to see and be seen is a bit of a mystery. The prevailing theory involves a few domestic rabbits being released or escaping, only to discover that the island had no predators, plenty of vegetation, and a distinct lack of rabbit overpopulation bylaws. From there, nature did what nature does best - turn a few cuddly critters into a full-blown bunny bonanza.

While the rabbits have unofficially rebranded the island as Bunny Paradise, the locals on the mainland remain divided. On one hand, it’s an Instagram goldmine, drawing visitors enchanted by the idea of being surrounded by a living, breathing cartoon.

On the other hand, the rabbits are prolific diggers, turning patches of earth into Swiss cheese and making plant life a distant memory. The island may be a utopia for its fuzzy inhabitants, but it’s also a cautionary tale about what happens when nature’s cutest anarchists are left to their own devices.

An Island In A Lake In A Volcano In A Lake In An Island

Got that? No? Perfect. Let’s unpack. Welcome to Vulcan Point, the geographical equivalent of a Russian nesting doll.

It all starts with Luzon, the largest island in the Philippines. On Luzon sits Lake Taal, a deceptively serene body of water that cradles Taal Volcano, also known as Volcano Island.

Taal isn’t your run-of-the-mill mountain; it’s one of the most active volcanoes in the world, with 33 recorded eruptions. Nestled inside Taal Volcano’s fiery embrace is Main Crater Lake, a charming little body of water perched 10,000 feet above Lake Taal. And, naturally, inside that lake sits Vulcan Point Island. So, yes, it’s an island in a lake in a volcano in a lake in an island.

Makes perfect sense, really.

But that was then. On January 12, 2020, Taal Volcano erupted with catastrophic force, claiming 39 lives and shaking the region to its core. The Main Crater Lake? Poof - gone, evaporated in a fiery tantrum. Which raises a mildly existential question: Can Vulcan Point still be called an “island” if its lake no longer exists? Geography, it seems, is just as prone to mood swings as the rest of us.

A Sea in Search of a Coastline

The Sargasso Sea is proof that even geography can have a rebellious streak. While every other sea in the world cozies up to some coast or landmass, the Sargasso Sea floats freely in the Atlantic Ocean, untethered and unbothered. Named for the sargassum seaweed that thrives there, it’s located smack in the middle of the Northern Atlantic Subtropical Gyre, which is science-speak for "a big spinning mess of ocean currents."

Instead of having tidy borders like a proper sea, the Sargasso Sea lets nature do the heavy lifting. Its edges are defined not by cliffs or beaches but by the Gulf Stream to the west, the Canary Current to the east, the North Atlantic Current to the north, and the North Atlantic Equatorial Current to the south. It’s distinguished from other parts of the Atlantic Ocean by its characteristic brown Sargassum seaweed and often calm blue water. It’s the oceanographic equivalent of living in a gated community, except the gates are made of water, and the neighbors are eels and sharks.

Speaking of neighbors, the Sargasso Sea is often called a "golden floating rainforest," though don’t pack your hiking boots just yet. This seaweed-laden paradise plays host to some of the ocean’s most intriguing tenants, serving as a nursery, feeding ground, and migratory highway for species like the porbeagle shark,

and the endlessly jet-setting American and European eels. In short, it’s a VIP lounge for sea life.

Does This Mean Canadians Have a Southern Accent?

Here’s a geography twist to mess with your mental map: most Canadians - yes, those friendly folks from “the Great White North”- actually live farther south than Seattle, Washington. That’s right. While the 49th parallel gets all the fame as the U.S.-Canada border, it turns out that around 72% of Canadians live below it. So much for the image of lumberjacks and polar bears thriving together in the tundra.

In fact, Canada’s two biggest cities, Toronto and Montreal, are both well south of Seattle, and even Ottawa, the nation's capital, is closer to Starbucks HQ than you might expect.

Turns out, Canadians aren’t exactly queuing up to settle in the icy expanse of the true north. Instead, they’ve strategically clustered near the U.S. border, apparently for warmth.

So, the next time someone waxes poetic about Canada as the ultimate northern frontier, feel free to remind them that most of the country’s population is kicking back in latitudes south of a city best known for drizzle and grunge music. It seems Canada’s biggest export, aside from maple syrup and hockey players, might just be our collective misunderstanding of where Canadians actually live.

Unwanted and Unloved

Bir Tawil holds the unfortunate title as the world’s most unwanted patch of real estate. Nestled awkwardly between Egypt and Sudan, this 2,060-square-kilometer strip of desert is the geopolitical equivalent of a mystery casserole at a potluck: everyone’s pointing fingers, but nobody wants to take it home. In an era where nations have gone to war over uninhabitable rocks in the middle of the ocean, Bir Tawil stands as a baffling anomaly: land so undesirable that two countries actively refuse to claim it.

The problem lies in a cartographic mix-up dating back to colonial times. In 1899, the British drew a straight line creating the border between Egypt and Sudan. But in 1902, another map designated a "practical administrative border" that handed Bir Tawil to Egypt while giving a more lucrative chunk of land, the Hala’ib Triangle, to Sudan. Fast forward a century or so, and Egypt insists the 1899 border is correct, which would leave Bir Tawil to Sudan. Sudan, meanwhile, claims the 1902 map, which puts Bir Tawil squarely in Egypt’s lap. It’s the ultimate game of "not it," with each side determined to offload this geopolitical orphan.

So, what’s so terrible about Bir Tawil? For starters, it’s a scorching wasteland with no water, no resources, and no inhabitants to speak of. Even the camels seem to steer clear. Yet, ironically, its lack of claimants has made it a peculiar magnet for self-styled micronation founders, adventurers, and Internet eccentrics. Over the years, people have shown up to plant flags, declare themselves monarchs, and dub it things like "The Kingdom of North Sudan" or "The Kingdom of Dixit.

The truth is, Bir Tawil is not a place you conquer; it’s a place you stumble into when your GPS has truly betrayed you.

And so, it sits, unclaimed and unloved, a testament to humanity's remarkable ability to quarrel over everything including a barren patch of desert no one really wants.

Perhaps that’s the ultimate irony: Bir Tawil may be worthless in a practical sense, but as a symbol of our collective absurdity, it’s priceless.

Geography, it seems, is where the absurdity of human ambition meets the indifference of nature. It’s the planet’s way of reminding us that we’re just tenants on a cosmic Airbnb with very strict rules which we don’t control. We fight over imaginary lines, celebrate arbitrary facts, and occasionally try to climb mountains that clearly don’t want us there. Yet, it's also a reminder that the lines we draw - be they borders, time zones, or boiling rivers - are often as arbitrary as they are fascinating. In the end, geography isn't just a map; it's a mirror, reflecting our quirks, our egos, and our relentless need to measure, divide, and claim the unclaimable.

And let’s not forget Mother Nature, the unflappable stage manager of this terrestrial circus. She’s out there shrugging off our arguments about which peak is tallest or which patch of desert is most useless, busy churning out boiling rivers, floating seas, and bulging equators just to keep things interesting. The oddities we’ve explored aren’t just curiosities; they’re mirrors reflecting our tendency to overthink a perfectly chaotic world. Yet Earth, with its boiling rivers and bunny-filled islands, quietly mocks our efforts, like a cat knocking over a carefully arranged chessboard. Geography isn’t just the study of where things are; it’s a reminder of how little control we really have, no matter how many lines we draw on a map.

Yet here we are, clinging to our little slices of dirt and sea, pretending we’ve tamed a planet that refuses to be tamed. So, whether you're standing in today, tomorrow, and yesterday all at once or arguing over a sandbar that disappears with the tide, remember this: the world is vast, weird, and endlessly fascinating. Maybe it’s not meant to make sense, and maybe that’s the point. As we navigate this spinning rock - armed with maps, apps, and a shaky grasp of time zones - take a moment to marvel at the madness. Then, go find the nearest oddly named mountain or inexplicably contested island and laugh, because if Mother Nature has taught us anything, it’s that the joke is always on us.

Tell us about the strangest place that you’ve been to in the comments below.

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