bobfoulkesadventures

I’m walking in the Cotswolds for a week, followed by a week in Cornwall – topped with a few days in London. Why walk at home when you can jump on a plane, fly for hours at great expense, catch a train and a bus, all to walk in unfamiliar territory in another country?  I keep trying to answer/explain that question to myself and my quizzical friends. 

Here’s one obvious reason. They have different fences. 

The land is portioned off by stone fences. Loose stone gathered from fields piled without mortar in a linked, orderly manner to be virtually indestructible. They go on for miles. They amaze me. I think the word is gobsmacked.  I’m equally impressed by hedgerows, ancient tangles of bushes, virtually impermeable,  a living home for rabbits and other beasties. Rural England fields, delineated by hedgerows and fences, are easily traversed however by right of passage paths; in most of the UK, a person can walk across a farmers field with impunity, although death-by-surprised/angered-cow happens more often that one might expect. It’s a Canadian hiker’s dream.

I’m also impressed by the quality of the mud here. March was the wettest on record in the Cotswolds. The Windrush river is high. Puddles abound especially around a plethora (love that word, had to use it; forgive me) of gates all ingeniously designed to befuddle sheep and foreigners. Foolishly, we try to stay clean and dry on our walks. A quarter hour in, I give up. Mud adds to the ambiance. 

The final reason that we travel afar to walk is we often come across the ‘sweet spot’, an unforgettable event that would never happen at home. 

We stopped at a small village green for a standup lunch. There was a checkin for some local event close by so we wandered over to see what it was about. Think of a treasure hunt with multiple stops, the avid participants being vintage motorcycle owners. In England there is a club for almost every interest; all taken seriously, all pursued with joyous concentrated eccentricity. A perfect example appeared in a puff of smoke – a couple on a motorcycle and a sidecar rolled in. 

Catnip! We had to investigate. The elderly couple (being slightly older than me) eagerly and proudly explained their hobby. The 1938 cycle had been owned by the driver for 60 years! His wife was the navigator. She looked warm all bundled in the cocoon of the sidecar; she assured me she wasn’t. They were feisty, fun-loving and full of laughter. This was their hobby, they were part of a club; this was a regular club outing, eccentric and idiosyncratic – enthusiastically enjoyed.

When I grow up, I want to be just like them. 

England is littered with history; celebrated, discussed and debated as if it still mattered. We casually visit small Norman churches that go back to the 12th century. Bourton-on-the-water is a perfect village, our home for the week, all golden cottages, picturesque pubs and stone bridges crossing the Windrush River, Upper Slaughter, a village close by even has a water wheel, still turning after all these years.

Next week, I exchange the rolling hills, quaint golden cottages and bursting-with-spring-green meadows of Bourton-on-the-Water for the rugged, wind-sculpted upsy/downsy terrain of Cornwall; defined by the ocean, cliffs and abandoned tin mines. It’s as desolate looking as the Cotswolds were lush. 

We walked various pieces of the iconic Coast Path. Blue skies, bluer ocean, stiff winds, lots of elevation gained and lost; broken regularly by hidden coves and pristine beaches. Malevolent looking clouds roll in, direct from Newfoundland. 

Cornwall’s tin mines in the late 19th century were a major industry. Nasty, brutish and short would inadequately describe the life of a Cornish tin miner. Few lived past their 40’s. A few structures still exist paying homage to their labour and to their lives. 

A slight digression if I might be allowed. At St.Just, I was compelled to sample my first.original pasty (pronounced with a soft ‘a’ like pasta). One cannot pass a shop that claims to be the oldest maker of Cornish Pasties. It would simply be wrong.

The Cornish Pastie was the traditional lunch for tin miners. A hearty stew of beef, potato, onion and swede (turnip to us) is scooped onto a round of sturdy pastry; the pastry dough is then folded over to make a half moon with thick crust around the crescent. Miners could find their lunch in the dark by feeling for the unique markings made in the cooked dough by their wives. They ate everything but the crust they held in their hands; their hands were contaminated with arsenic usually found in tin mines so they had to throw the crusts away. No one reports on the effect on mine rats who presumably ate the contaminated crusts. 

I’ve done a selective taste test and they are wonderful. And, not being a tin miner, I was encouraged to eat the crust. Risk taker that I am, I obliged. 

St. Ives, our base, has been a robust creative centre for the arts for almost a century, home to a Tate Modern satellite museum that pays homage to Barbara Hepworth, a famous sculptress whose best known piece graces UN headquarters in New York. 

Our walks along the Coast Trail are amazing confirmation of my desire for the experience. I choose the shortest of the daily walks – about 8 km. We ramble about for 4-5 hours, view the scenery, learn some fun facts, most of which I immediately forget. I have my own room, meals, a packed lunch and a guide.  I am getting an April tan. I become mildly addicted to canned pork and beans on toast for breakfast, as close to a vegetable as I can find. The English still seem mystified about how to cook vegetables; Ottolenghi is trying.

 It’s a big change from walking alone on a pilgrim path. 

Stories abound of resourceful Cornishmen who, not looking forward to a nasty, brutish and short life toiling in a tin mine, took matters into their own hands and became experts at salvaging whatever drifted ashore from wrecked ships. While lighthouses did exist to guide ships away from rocks and harm, enterprising Cornishmen were known to create illicit lighthouses, carefully designed to lure ships onto the rocks. The Cornish version of Robin Hood. 

Wicked and ever-changing weather is a Cornish trademark. We awoke one morning to predictions for heavy rains and winds of 60 mph gusting to 80 mph. (Yes that’s miles not km, do the math). And most of the group went out walking anyway; though they pointed out, they would not walk close to cliff’s edge for safety reasons. Rest assured, I was not one of them. I stayed home. ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen (and women)’…

I learned new definitions for a couple of common words that impressed upon me the English capacity for understatement.

 ‘Undulating’ in Cornish English means steep up or steep down. As in rollercoaster ups and downs. ‘Technical’ means the path is closed to mortals because boulders as big as bungalows block it constantly. If one does manage to climb the boulder, it inevitably drops down to a ‘puddle’ about the size of English Bay. And, about 5 miles is closer to 7, a fact confirmed by one of our group with a Garmin sophisticated enough to launch rockets for Elon Musk. 

It’s the unique nature of walking on foreign soil, with strangers who share this mild obsession. It’s also stopping for tea and crumpets at a little hut that magically appears along the way. It’s walking past the small building where Marconi and his colleagues gathered to receive the first telegraph message from Signal Hill – not the US – as I pointed out to my group. It’s walking close by the home of John leCarre, seeing the lighthouse that Virginia Woolf used as her model in To The Lighthouse.

It’s why we walk. It’s why we walk in strange faraway places. 

Lately, I have been musing about the nature of adventure; it’s my way of surviving a dull, gray, listless and seemingly endless winter. If I can’t have an adventure right now, or something similar to one, I can at least read about others who have.

“she has written so well, and marvelously well, that I was completely ashamed of myself as a writer. I felt that I was simply a carpenter with words, picking up whatever was furnished on the job and nailing them together and sometimes making an okay pig pen. But [she] can write rings around all of us who consider ourselves as writers … it really is a bloody wonderful book.”

– Ernest Hemingway.

Hemingway was never known for his humility. The woman to whom Hemingway bowed was Beryl Markham; to describe her as an iconic adventurer is to describe a rose as just another flower. Beryl Markham was many things, all of which she mastered. Writing was but one; her book West with the Night is a masterpiece. A box of fine chocolates, I forced myself to take one bit chapter, one bite, at a time; to bite into it slowly, to move it around my brain carefully so I could fully absorb each sensation, to hold it there as long as possible to extend my enjoyment, then to sit back and marvel at the experience. It is a book to be slowly savoured, not to be devoured.

This post is really a reflection on my growing affection and admiration for Libraries. The word library may not stir a rush of adrenaline to your heart, setting the synapses of your brain on high alert so that the colours are brighter, the sounds clearer, the tastes and smells more pronounced. It should. Libraries are a portal to an infinite supply of adventure. 

I grew up in a small town in southern Alberta, Taber, known for agriculture – sugar beets and corn – not ideas. It was however a surprising melting pot of people from other places, farmers, second generation immigrants, my own Welsh coal mining grandfather, various forced relocatees – the chinese, japanese, czechs, hungarians; all bringing their baggage and their cultural uniqueness and, their religions to this small remarkably diverse town. 

Taber had a library. It was housed upstairs from the local firehall, close to downtown; although everything in Taber was close to downtown. I like to think looking back that its location was portentous, while the firetrucks below were there to put out fires, the library above was there to start them, to offer books to inflame the minds of readers. There’s a new one now, thankfully bigger, more accessible, more animated, more welcoming.

It worked for me. One of my favorite memories of Taber involves the library. After supper, I would pick up my friend, Rod Adachi; we’d cross the tracks to downtown and head for the library. We’d both wander through the stacks (about 3000 books by then) and choose our full allotment – I think four was the limit. We’d wander home and repeat the process every week. Each week, I had four remarkable adventures, the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series stand out. It was inflammatory; I may have left Taber long ago but I never lost my love of books as a gateway to adventure, vicarious adventure but adventure nevertheless. 

I did stop going to libraries for many years though, only recently have I rediscovered their magic and their power to inflame my mind. Libraries are, again, tinderboxes lighting my imagination.

I found Beryl Markham at the Joe Fortes branch of the Vancouver Public Library, next to the West End Community Center – a ten minute walk from my home. You can often find me there, my gateway to adventure, along with adventure seekers of all ages, looking for another book by Beryl Markham.

They are magical places. And they’ve expanded, books in abundance, of course, but now in a variety of formats, e-books for your e-reader, audiobooks, big type books – all for the taking, all for free. All it takes is my library card and whatever I choose is mine for the taking – as long as I dutifully return them in three weeks. I can also access movies and music in as many formats as I can imagine – an improved technological dexterity is the only restriction.

My recent adventure in higher education has only enhanced my view of Libraries as gateways – anything ever printed is now digitized and available; books, journals, magazines, news stories, the list is endless. Feeling intimidated? I’ve discovered the solution. They’re called librarians – magical people, worthy of a Hogwarts’ gown and a conical hat. Ask them anything, and they love to be asked; the tougher the request, the puzzle, the more alive they come. One, Baharak, helped me find digital, obscure dust-covered journal articles on an equally obscure 15th century Florentine nun, Sister Plautilla Nelli, the only woman to paint her version of the Last Supper. Now that’s following Alice down a rare rabbit hole to a new world!

Let’s go back to Beryl Markham. West with the Night inflames the imagination. I had the great joy of taking my children, Blair and Kristen and Kristen’s husband Chris, to Africa. We spent some time in places where Markham grew up, a century earlier. Her stories reignite the tingly excitement, the awe, the jaw-drop of wonder that we experienced. 

We had seen warthogs from the safety of our land rover. They are not domestic pigs, as geckos are not crocodiles; they are much to be feared. Markham describes the warthog brilliantly: “His eyes are small and lightless and capable of but one expression – suspicion. What he does not understand, he suspects, and what he suspects, he fights.”

That’s just a teaser, her writing is infused with insight, her adventures crackle with risk and energy, each incident enough to anchor a full book.

Beryl Markham was a serial risk-taker, an adventure junkie; as a child – an African hunter, as a teen, a serious, successful thoroughbred race-horse trainer, as a mature woman, an extraordinary aviator, in later life a celebrated author. 

Markham certainly lived by her words: “It is no good telling yourself that one day you will wish you had never made that change; it is no good anticipating regrets. Every tomorrow ought not to resemble every yesterday.”

I have been home for a while and reflecting on my recent trip, the end of a ten year/5000 km series of four pilgrimages. I’m asked, and I ask myself, what did I get out of it? It’s not like I have, for a decade, carried an expectation of some grand epiphany or some other-worldly instant conversion like Saul/Paul on the road to Damascus. Yet something should have happened after all those miles, all those days alone, all that time away from the worldly distractions; something worth mentioning. Something kept me at it. The good news is that there has been transformation – not fireworks in the sky – but slow, gradual, meaningful and hopefully permanent transformation of the way I live my life.

All four of my walks have been firmly grounded in religious traditions and histories, Catholicism and Buddhism. I struggled with both but find myself now more firmly agnostic than a decade ago.

I simply wasn’t able to grasp one of the fundamentals of Buddhism – meditation; I was too restless for Buddhist philosophy. I failed the test of ‘can he sit still?’.

As for Catholicism, my personal experiences with organized Christian traditions and my jaded view of the impact of Christianity on people throughout history has made rethinking my beliefs a truly uphill battle, Sysiphus would have had an easier task.

There was, then, no profound religious epiphany. I do admit to a bit of a crack in my armour; a regular part of my walking routine involved stopping at churches along the way, lighting a candle and saying a small prayer of sorts for past friends/family.

There is a long tradition of serious philosophers rhapsodizing about the impact walking has had on their thoughts about the central question of philosophic inquiry. How do we live the good life? Walking seems conducive to thinking big thoughts. Philosophers since the Ancient Greeks have given considerable time and thought on how to live the good life by thinking while walking; the process seems to have failed me, I don’t feel much wiser about how to live the good life. As one Saturday Night Live actor said, “Deep down, I’m quite shallow.” – maybe that fits, or I can’t think deeply and walk at the same time.

Yet I haven’t felt that I have missed out on anything; I don’t regret my time spent, I don’t look back and feel it was time wasted. I have got value out of these pilgrimages.

I think I’ve actually pilgrimaged all there is to get from these pilgrimages. The beauty of nature, the kindness of strangers, the serenity of solitude, the comfort of being comfortable in my own skin, the beneficial impact on my health and well-being, the Tender Mercies offered without hesitation to a pilgrim stranger, seeing others close up and personal; all these and more have come my way on the paths I’ve walked. I cherish them all as gifts of the pilgrim path.

Having said all that, I have been thinking these past few miles. I have been thinking about stoicism. I have been thinking about how walking these long pilgrim walks over the past decade have helped me progress towards becoming a better stoic.

What’s stoicism? Like most philosophies, it’s a pretty flexible concept, open to interpretation. At its core, it is a profound recognition that we as human beings are not in control of all the events of our lives, that we must accept the externally generated events that shape our lives and adjust our actions constantly to accommodate the impact of these events.

There are three titans of Stoicism, all Romans; Epictetus, Seneca and Marcus Aurelius. My favourite is Marcus Aurelius. Even as a Roman Emperor at the height of his power, he recognized that he was powerless over most of his life events; yet he was active, he was a force to be reckoned with. I may have even walked the same road, the Via Cassia, that he walked.

To me Stoicism is about finding a suitable balance between acceptance and agency.

Here’s my best example. Rain.

Rain is in our lives; as a prairie boy moved to Vancouver, I found rain to be a daily frustration. Why did it always seem to rain on the days I had plans to be outdoors?

On my pilgrim walks, rain happened; it was beyond my control. I walked whether it rained or not, mostly muttering the words of the graphic above. That is the before of stoicism.

Here’s the after. On my latest walk this spring, a storm system had moved in over central Italy, rain was forecast every day for a week. I don’t mind the rain much anymore. It is and I accept it. I do mind the muddy paths created by rain that make walking tougher, less efficient and infinitely less enjoyable. But, I’m mostly in the ‘yup’ category now. That is acceptance.

But there is also agency. I can do something about it.  I have a backpack cover to protect my possessions, they’re all I have. I have a cheap, lightweight raincoat that I can put on if it rains. My trusty walking fedora will keep the rain off my face and my glasses. I can do things to manage. That is agency.

Agency is also watching the forecast and adjusting my walking schedule. For five days in a row, the forecast – foreboding the night before – had shifted to cloudy in the morning with rain forecast in early afternoon. So, every morning I would rise, check the rain forecast and respond. For five days, I started early and walked quickly to reach my destination before the rain set in. I do have some control over my life, that’s agency.

Walking these pilgrimages has opened a window for me; I have a better way of dealing with life. I don’t have to be angry when rain comes and I have to adjust my plans.

That old axiom still holds; “If you want to hear the gods laugh, tell them your plans for the future.” Stoicism allows me to laugh with the gods, or at least smile ruefully. Stoicism relieves me of the frustration of fighting against forces I do not control and allows me to focus on those aspects of my life over which I may have some control.

The daily exposure to forces over which I have no control is the essence of pilgrim walking. Every morning when I rise, I have no idea what the day will bring. It is a slap in the face to all my compulsive planning instincts. I don’t know the trail; even with my maps, my fancy app, my guidebook descriptions, I am constantly surprised. My capacity to predict my day is tiny, so tiny as to be laughable.

I learn to stop trying. It is a daily lesson in the humility of Stoicism – daily; for weeks on end, daily. Epiphanies don’t happen overnight, for me at least they happen daily, the small constant reinforcement of the Stoic principle, the mix of acceptance and agency is like the drip, drip, drip of water on rock. Change does happen. It takes time but I learn.

I learn that not knowing has its advantages. It opens the door to wonder, to beautiful ah-ha moments – mists in a small valley, a deer surprised, irises by the roadside, olives groves of ancient mis-shaped trees, the scent of pine, or manure, or just plain freshness, the silence, or the sound of a distant tractor, the delightful relief of arrival at my lodging, the taste of my pasta reward for another day’s walk.

And flowers….

These are the images that are overwhelmingly memorable; they crowd out the fatigue, the forecast of rain, the rock in my shoe and the pain in my gluteus Maximus. I choose to remember the flowers and forget the fatigue.

It has taken some time, years and miles but it has been worth the toil. Now the challenge is to figure out what to do with the this knowledge, how to take my simple example of rain and apply it to the complex daily choices between acceptance and agency. There is no doubt of one certainty, whatever I choose as a future endeavour, it will involve walking.

I took poetry and writing for my last course at SFU. I am not a poet, but I did over the course of the course learn much about writing in new forms, new ways to communicate, ways that were more open to interpretation, more visceral, more nuanced and, more engaging for the reader. This is the final paper.

First Stage. The Camino de Santiago, 800 kilometres.

St. Jean Pied du Port, France September 16, 2013

The Camino de Santiago, the Way, is a famous Christian pilgrimage. Folklore says the headless body of Saint James was miraculously found by a shepherd, guided by a star, in the 9th century, somehow mysteriously transported there from the Holy Land centuries before. Sound familiar? Santiago Cathedral, the venerated mausoleum of Saint James’ body, became a pilgrim destination. These days, Popes walk back the dubious myth of Saint James’ miraculous discovery, the story defies logic, geography and history. Pilgrims still come; 250,000 a year.

Departure – September 17, 2013

The jumping off point is Saint Jean Pied du Port, on the French edge of the Pyrenees. A night of no sleep – nervous, manic energy, anxiety, fear of failure, pack/repack, fidget and fret. 

The first day is a test of determination, training, desire and grit – a hard 25 kilometre slog over the Roncevalles Pass into Spain. Rain, fog, wind, mud; a slap in the face, no extra charge. 

Near the pass, a brass plaque signifies the battle, mythologized in the Song of Roland, where the Christian knight and his crusaders were caught and slaughtered by the Moors as they retreated into France in the 8th century. 

Raincoats show their flaws, boots are sodden, packs become heavy, uphill is foreboding and constant, wind and rain are cyclonic. Reaching the hostel, persevering, becomes a quest; a shower, dry clothes, a hot meal and a warm bed await at the first Albergue, We’ve survived.

Along the Way – Finding the Rhythm

Walking consumes me, takes all my oxygen; I am obsessed, there is nothing else. It’s what I do, it’s the only thing I do. 

Walking is, 

weather is, 

the Way is. 

No trail finding skills necessary, no maps required, follow the signs. 

Stay on the Way, 

thirty days they say, 

walk every day. 

Routines emerge and harden; wake early, pack up gear, gulp a hot, bitter coffee, grab a pastry and set out; sunrise is best. When the sun is high, stop for second breakfast, another coffee and another pastry. Walk to day’s end, the chosen Albergue. Check in, unpack, shower, wash today’s clothes, put on tomorrow’s, rehydrate, nap, stretch. Commune with pilgrims; where are you from, why are you here, how are you feeling? Dinner is at 7, everyone is asleep early. Do the same for as many days as it takes to arrive at the Cathedral, to pay homage to the bones of Saint James that aren’t the bones of Saint James.

Fill the Void

Life on the Way is a void, no distractions; the outside world has ceased to exist. I walk alone. 

The silence, the emptiness, the lack of distractions create a void unlike anything experienced; the void demands to be filled. It is. Wild fennel grows along our path; I rub its seeds in my hands, rewarded with the pungency of dill and anise, indelible, now forever the smell of the Way. Sunflowers offer a canvas to passing pilgrim artists to create happy faces to tickle my whimsy. 

Early mornings are exhibitionists; the air is cool and fresh, the sky still filled with stars, sometimes a waning moon shines so brightly that my headlamp is superfluous. Mists swirl and curl, delineating contours of the land with their ever-shifting shrouds. The sun consumes them, they evaporate, light fills the gaps, a nuanced colour palate emerges offering impressionist paintings, the real reward for early-birds. 

Yellow arrows become luminous neon signs. Each day’s first familiar arrow on a wall, a curb, a pole is my reassuring security blanket; I’m on the Way!. 

Crowing roosters, cowbells, church bells off in the distance add melodies to my morning reverie. We walk from church to church, rest stops full of aged piety, sanctuaries of quiet contemplation, a vesper service in the evening, a cool oasis from the energy-drained afternoon slog. 

 Fellow Pilgrims 

We are pilgrims for a reason, each searching for something different; some not admitting, most not knowing, what we seek, what we need, what we want, what to hope for. Something other than the bones of Saint James calls to us. 

People insinuate themselves into my solitude. A troupe from PEI skips along like a traveling minstrel show, team t-shirts, a different color every day. 

Three women, Birthe from Denmark, Jennifer from California and Sally from Victoria, bond like sisters in a day. Sally celebrates her 65th, I’m invited to join. 

Jeanette, a petite grandmotherly woman in her 70’s, looks more at home in her kitchen. She lost her husband; rather than sink into mourning, she decides the Way is the way out. Her electric bike, her Rocinante, takes her to Santiago. Over a pilgrim dinner; she tells of sadness slowly being replaced by hope and joy. We meet again in Santiago; we hug, I shed a tear, lifted up by all that she is and all that she will be. Buon Camino.

Arrival – October 15, 2013

Arrival is sweet/bitter. The sweet is joyful, euphoric – deeply satisfying. Gratification, much delayed, is at hand. Attendance at the daily pilgrim mass in the Cathedral bookends the Way: closure, my exclamation point. Priests swing a monstrous cauldron of burning incense down the length of the cathedral and back; rumour has it the incense tradition was started to cover the malodor of pilgrims.  

The comes the bitter. It’s over; the void opens, I look into the abyss. 

Peggy Lee emerges, stage left, singing “Is That All There Is?”. 

No grand epiphanies, no insights into my soul, no nostrums on to how to lead ‘the good life’. The true gifts are the kindness of strangers, quiet, finding comfort in aloneness, a reconnection to the simplicity of nature, reawakened awareness of tiny pleasures, the physicality of walking, gratitude for gifts unexpected.

Second Stage – the Camino Portugues – 600 Kilometres

Lisbon, March 1, 2015

The Camino Portugues is a 600 kilometre pilgrimage from Lisbon to Santiago; it is sparsely traveled, fewer than 1000 pilgrims a year, lacks convenient amenities like hotels, hostels, restaurants, compensated by good signage, hospitable people and bread, extraordinary bread.

Slow down, again.

Spring in Portugal is idyllic, sunny and cool, farmers are in the fields, trees are blossoming, flowers are blooming, birds are singing.  The pungency of fresh pig manure offset by the earthiness of freshly plowed soil ignite memories of a small-town in Alberta, long ago and far, far away. The scent of the baker’s fresh bread at the edge of the village; I sniff it out like a hunting dog. Again attuned to the delicate sensual possibilities of my surroundings. Dawn brings the morning dew, that dew captured on a spider web in morning’s soft golden light reveals its intricate architecture. My crowing roosters, my cow bells mingling with my church bells. 

There is no clock but the sun, I lunch when the locals stop; their food, at their pace, leisurely, with appreciation. A park bench for siesta as the shadows grow in the afternoon.

Alone not Lonely.

Walking offers solitude; the emptiness opens room for awareness of the delicate, the whimsical, the ethereal. Without distractions, with abundant time to meander, my mind wanders further afield, seeks out distant recesses, rediscovers oft-forgotten memories. The interior space offers its own amusements, contemplations, dreams. The Knights Templar, a Catholic order of the 12th and 13th centuries, the Church’s warrior monks had their own castle in Tomar. Envious Kings and Popes disbanded the order, took their money, hunted them as fugitives. I create stories of those Knights Templar; heroes of my dreams, I join them for an adventure. 

In the Company of Strangers

Evenings are amenable to the company of strangers, evening meals break the fast of aloneness. We walkers, it seems, are more honest, more revealing, more vulnerable, more open to dialogue. We gather for the pilgrim meal; a young man arrives in a flurry, late. A cyclist with wild Rastafarian hair, a bit ragged around the edges, a vast array of tattoos; my privileged white man bias tags him as an English Football hooligan. I name him Hooligan Harry.

“Oh great,” I think, “another night at the Bates Hotel”. 

Our ragtag pilgrim group morphs into a fraternity of fellow travellers. Past travels, recent adventures, the philosophy of life, religion, football, human discourse at its best. Hooligan Harry is transformed into Renaissance Harold, a modest, thoughtful carpenter on a two year drop-out bike trek. Note to self, be aware of the fallibility of quick judgements. 

Ruts as old as time.

The pilgrim path follows the Via Roma XIX, created by the Romans in the first Century AD; a path so eroded by the passage of feet and time, now several feet below the surface of the forest. Bridges built centuries ago, repaired, provide pilgrim’s crossing connecting an age-old road: my trek again shared with the Centurions.

Tender Mercies 

In silence, uncluttered by noise and sensory overload, I become aware of nuances, subtleties and pleasures of human interaction, the kindness of strangers. I call them Tender Mercies. Drowned out in normal life, Tender Mercies are the oft-passed over, gossamer soft, fleeting, under-observed kindnesses of strangers brought to life. I catch them in the net of my empty mind. I play with them, shine them up, build stories around them, place them on my mind’s mantel, save them for special moments of remembrance. Later, as I roll them over in my brain, they bring smiles, driving away the lows, the sadness and the darkness. 

In Golega, the O Te restaurant/hotel, I’m refreshed by a second floor room, a suckling pig dinner, a morning espresso and insightful philosophical musings from an elderly French Moroccan who somehow ended up as a hotelier in rural Portugal. 

Miguel and Jennifer introduce me to Porto, their beloved city, an excursion ending with a match at FC Porto – futball, the other religion of Portugal. 

At Meson Pulpo, near San Amaro, I stop for my late morning coffee. Filled with warmth, I decided to rest, absorb the serenity, eat. I order a bacon bocadillo – such lovely words, bacon bocadillo – I taste the words, even before it arrives. I savor my bacon bocadillo, the aroma of the soft chewy bun, the crunchy, hot, greasy, salty, bacon. 

This restaurant is their home. I was their guest, radiant in their kindness, warmth, generosity, calm. Reluctant to go, reluctant to see me leave. That moment, my only human contact of the day; these are Tender Mercies.

There are sweet spots, fireflies of bliss, frozen in a minute. Ponte de Vila; a town of sublime beauty, shows deep respect for its history mixed with surprising modernity. Portuguese bread. Fresh fish, every piece cooked to perfection. Portuguese tiles turn buildings into art. The Portuguese tortilla, elevating potatoes to their rightful place as national cuisine. Bacon Bocadillo!  Sweet spots, brief magical moments over which pixie dust is sprinkled. They don’t arrive easily; they last forever, their fleeting evanescence filling my mind’s void.

Third Stage – 88 Temples  – 1400 Kilometres

Takushima, Shikoku, Japan April 1, 2016

The 88 Temples pilgrimage honors Kobo Daishi, a 10th century Japanese monk, instrumental in bringing Buddhism to Japan. 150,000 pilgrims annually replicate his travels. Daunting. A walk through time. A meditative search for Buddha. A stroll through rural Japan. Daunting, indeed. 

Becoming a Japanese Pilgrim.  

A Henro, a pilgrim, dresses to celebrate the ritual of pilgrimage. Requirements:

– a light white cotton vest/jacket representing purity and innocence. 

– a sugegasa, a sedge hat, a portable, hands-free umbrella, protection from rain and sun, surprisingly comfortable. 

• the kangozue, a long wooden walking stick topped with woven silk and a bell. Kobo Daishi’s spirit walks with us in our staff. It must be cared for, cleaned after every walk,
• – a Zudabukuro, a shoulder bag to carry candles, name slips, coins, incense sticks, and my precious stamp book, to honour temple rituals. 

– an ample supply of curiosity, humility and gratitude.

I have no north star, no compass, no past experience, as close to explorer as today’s connected world allows.

Temple Serenity. 

Each temple is unique, yet certain rituals are universal. Usually, after climbing stairway after stairway, the Henro reaches the gate. Henro pauses and bows, enters the temple grounds. To purify, Henro washes hands at a ceremonial basin, sips/spits a bit of well water to cleanse the mouth to enter the temple free of the dust of the journey. At the bell tower, Henro rings a massive brass gong – just once, more is bad luck. In the main hall, a name slip on which is written a short prayer for loved ones, is placed in a box. Three sticks of incense and a candle are lit and a donation placed in the offering box. 

Henro becomes me. I say my prayers. I pause. There is a colour, a purple, that is so regal I automatically bow to it, subjecting myself to its majesty. If I am fortunate, other pilgrims are chanting sutras, magical, lilting songlike. I listen, eyes-closed, transfixed, transformed and transported to another time, another place, another world. Still in the sutra’s aura, I sit quietly, solemnity seeping into my bones, a singular peacefulness, a warm blanket of serenity. 

I rouse myself, meander over to the Buddhist monk on duty, receive my temple stamp certified by a magnificent elaborate calligraphic flourish. We smile, acknowledge each other, a gift as valuable as the stamp. Exiting the temple, I bow to say goodbye.

The privilege of Pilgrims. 

On a cloudy morning with rain a definite likelihood, I walk through a small village, approaching a tiny elderly woman pushing her rolling portable chair. Stooped over, her back carries a lifetime of toil, of hand-planting a million rice shoots one-by-one. She looks at me, I pause and bow. She glances at the sky, I look up too. She looks back at me. I look back, respectfully. She holds up her umbrella and gestures for me to take it. Smiling, I shake my head no. We engage in a non-verbal test of wills. Will I take her umbrella? How can I take her umbrella? How can I say no graciously? She insists! I can’t take her umbrella. Finally, to break the impasse, I walk over to her, bow many, many times and give her a Canada pin. I refuse the umbrella, politely but firmly. We reconcile, we bow. I wander off, marveling at her aggressive generosity. 

It doesn’t rain.

A bus driver adopts me, foreign Henro, abandons his passengers, jumps out of his bus and shows me where I need to go, patiently waiting till he’s assured I’m on the right path. His passengers don’t seem to mind.

A man sees me walking past his home, rushes out, chases me down the street, catches me, bows, presents a small glazed clay pilgrim statue to carry on my pilgrimage.

The Japanese might have invented Tender Mercies.

For the love of blossoms

Blossoms burst into view, deep lipstick pinks, soft pastel white-pinks, every hue in between; across the field, a single cherry tree blazes pink amidst a forest painted the special greens of newly unfolding leaves, too many shades of pink and green to calibrate, each an affirmation of vitality and promise. Irises everywhere, splashes, slashes of brilliant purple accentuate the greens and pinks. At temples, umbrellas protect flowers from the rain so they may blossom fully. In the forests, bamboo, gently wave in the wind, next to pine trees that barely waver. 

Japanese Koi nobori – elongated, hollow, multi-coloured kites on high poles wave in the breeze – part streamers, part kite, part flag, funny carp-looking streamers swimming in the blue wind –  spring’s hopes in a kite. 

Japanese farmers, artisans of the earth, meticulously manicure their plots: they work the soil, rice planted here, winter wheat ripening there, bags of onions harvested alongside Japanese radishes, a few frogs, two snakes.

Small plots where mechanical planters immerse tender shoots in water without maiming them; infinitely superior to one-at-a-time hand planting. Derelict houses witness the exodus of young people to the city, neglect amidst the farmers’ verdant crops.

Mountain paths, misty and mystically enhanced by aged Buddhist and Shinto monuments, stand silent, commemorating centuries of walkers. Paths are littered with monuments and statues, many adorned with brightly coloured knit caps, bibs and capes; offered up to the gods to keep them warm and save them from chills. Graveyards with ancient headstones – Shinto shrines – placed long before and long after Kobo Daishi and his Buddhism encroached, speak for another, more animist, religion, silently resisting the Buddhist invader.

Home not home.

Traditional Japanese hotels, ryokans, offer a simple room covered with Tatami mats, futons on the floor for sleeping and a toilet/sink. It is easy to go to bed, just flop down and pull the covers over you. Getting up is tougher. Done in stages, stiff muscles roll over onto all-fours, kneeling, lifting, finally upright, noisy and ungainly. Thankfully there are no witnesses.

Toilets designed by a techno-madman; a terrifying array of buttons offering options to do things to my bottom that are unimaginable. I touch none, barely trusting the normal flush lever. 

Several pairs of slippers are provided, guests remove street shoes at the door and put on floor slippers, then remove floor slippers to put on room slippers; there’s usually a special pair of bathroom only slippers. No exceptions. Do not mix them up. 

Onsen, Japanese communal baths, require special tourist courage. Segregated but public, very public. I wash, thoroughly, publicly, noisily, nakedly with the rest of the male bathers, then I bathe with them – again naked. Like the water, it is all too hot. I retreat to my room, red-faced but cleansed. This home doesn’t feel homey.

Food for the Epicurious

Meals are for the epicurious. Rice, salad, soup, fish bits, pickled vegetables – breakfast at the traditional Japanese hotels. Foraging for lunch is more familiar. Convenience stores, astonishingly, offer fresh full nutritious meals for the pilgrim walker. Lawson is my favourite, offering food, an ATM and wifi – sustenance, cash and contact with home, convenience redefined. Restaurants offer pictures and odd little plastic replicas of the dinner menu items. Sushi is my mainstay; the sushi-chef in his special jacket, shirt and tie is king. I give him respectful license to feed me, he’s never wrong. 

Visual presentation and display are carefully considered. I am advised to pause a few minutes to observe and take pleasure in the beauty of my food – art enhances the dining experience.

Koyo-san

The Buddhist monk stamps my book, my 88th stamp, signs it with his elaborate calligraphy. I’m done. I give my staff to the caretaker, they are ceremoniously burned as a sacrifice. A new pilgrim in my hotel takes my sedge hat, the rest of my uniform and my stamp book are mine. I board the bus to Koya-san, a temple rich village in the mountains above Kyoto to pay respect to Kobo Daishi. He is here, in eternal meditation. Eternal meditation sounds so much more dignified than death.

Down and done

It’s not all fun and games. I’m drained. I spend my last few days in Kyoto, drinking coffee at Starbucks, reading the International New York Times, eating egg salad sandwiches, listening to a Japanese curated playlist of best American hits of the 50’s and 60’s, trying to cover myself in a warm blanket of the familiar till Air Canada takes me home. 

Fourth Stage – The Via Francigena – 2000 Kilometres

1 – Canterbury, England – Reims France July 16, 2017

2 – Reims, France – Ivrea, Italy July 16, 2018

3- Ivrea, Italy – Lucca, Italy, September 2, 2021

4- Lucca, Italy – Rome, Italy, April 16, 2022

In 990 AD, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sigeric, walked to Rome to be confirmed by the Pope as a Cardinal, his return trip chronicled, 79 stops preserved on a single sheet now preserved in the British Museum. His journey inspired the Via Francigena. With only 2500 pilgrims annually, it’s a lonely walk. Yet, through the years, through invasions, wars, the plague, predation from two and four-legged animals, scorching summer sun, freezing Alpine passes, pilgrims have endured, walking to Rome to seek enlightenment, forgiveness of past sins, healing. 

Motivations as varied as the human condition.

The comfort of the familiar

After Japan, walking the VF is like putting on a pair of old slippers. My pack is light, I have my guidebook, my passport and my credit card. My old routine still works, a study in positive addiction. I rise, eat, drink and walk – stay on path, observe the scenery and its minute miracles. Hours of mindful vacancy are my familiar rewards. It feels good. Another day done, I dump my pack, wash my clothes, eat simple French rural food at its best. I sleep well. 

I am where I want to be, walking my path, reacquainting myself with tiny miracles of a flower, a sunrise, mist, cool water, a simple buttered baguette, a wave to the locals as I pass through near abandoned villages,

Walking through History. 

Kristen is with me for a while. In northern France, remnants of the great war share their horrors. A small cemetery, populated with random crosses – French, Belgian, English, German, an occasional Canadian define the losses at a field hospital. Hospitals at the front took anyone brought to them; death took its share, they were buried together without discrimination. Here no one was friend or enemy, no one won – war’s cruel egalitarianism.

Bapaume has a Sunday circus. Serendipitous surprise, we arrive in time for the parade! We drop our packs, find French profiteroles, carny pastry at its best and pull up a piece of curb to watch – unexpected, enthralling entertainment. We saw camels! 

Villages, hollowed out by farm consolidation, efficiency and the inevitable migration to cities, leave only the elderly and the stubborn; a rich tapestry of rural French life gone – old people, old ways, churches decimated of congregations, priests and abandoned beliefs. The ultimate indignity, a bread dispensing machine – even the fresh baguette has been forsaken. 

Much is left to appreciate; rolling hills, the wheat fields golden, heavy and ready for harvest, a donkey shocking us with his ungodly bray, the sheer joy of walking, the blessing of companionship, the connection with weather, land and the ground beneath our feet. The simple joy of a ham and cheese baguette, a drenching summer rain showering our sense of humour, the celebratory glass of champagne for my daughter/companion, the pride of accomplishment in achieving something that can only be gained by one measure – footsteps.

Reims, the city of kings when kings mattered, is now more famous as the home of Champagne; more venerated than generations of kings buried at the Cathedral. 

Walking alone or together.

I travel alone, pilgrim journeys are solitary by choice. Alone does not mean lonely, one does not have to be an introvert to realize that some activities are best experienced on one’s own. It’s called being comfortable in one’s own skin. 

A proper companion adds to solo walks. My daughter Kristen and I walk well together; long silences, mutual chatter, a few deeper conversations, some code-talk decipherable only to us, years and years of old dead-cat bounce jokes.

On the next leg my friend John walks with me from Reims to Besancon. The perfect walking companion, quiet till he has something to say, amiable to a fault, pleasant dinner companion and roomie, adding bright and shiny observations, new dimensions, to the journey.  

A summer heat wave defines this walk. Hollowed out rural France limits our options, access to water becomes an overarching necessity, finding sanctuary in shade – straw hats, a tree, the cool church – weather rules at 30+ degrees. We hitch rides, hire taxis, start earlier, anything to reduce our walking time under the relentless sun and heat. The pavement softens.

Up and Over

The Great Saint Bernard Pass is the halfway point of the VF. A Roman gateway to Europe before the birth of Christ; Napoleon marched back to attack the Italian city states in 1800. At 2473 metres, it is formidable; travel by foot is only possible in July and August.

Blair joins me in Lausanne, five days up to the top of the pass. It’s not easy. I struggle, grateful for his presence, his support and his encouragement. It’s always a test of will over wish. 

Late afternoon, within sight of the summit, Blair surprises me. We find a flat rock, drop our packs, sit; he pulls two Astronaut-ready freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches from his pack, feeding my legendary love of ice cream. We sit on our rock, basking in the sun, and savour our treat. Priceless. 

Icing on the ice cream, a young woman appears, out for a walk with three Great Saint Bernard dogs, sent by the gods to guide us through the Great Saint Bernard Pass.

Pandemic interlude

If you want to hear the gods laugh, tell them your plans for the future. Life’s distractions necessitate a year’s delay; then covid closes all doors. We hunker down; a trip to buy groceries becomes unthinkable, Italy, impossible. Doubt creeps in, fear its companion. Anxiety and the desire for safety inflates risks, problems, what-ifs. Lethargy kills dreams. Months of whiling away hours, the only goal being to while away the hours. Has the joy of adventures lost its joy?

A window opens in autumn of 2021. Italy’s vaccination rates are high, infections are down, hospitalizations down, deaths down. Travel restrictions are loosened, BC immunization cards are recognized by Italian authorities. Walking in rural areas with minimal contact with others; no more hostels, my own hotel room, tough Italian no-nonsense rules. Needless risk is not smart, minimizing risk is. It’s worth the risk. 

I have unfinished business, it’s time to go.

Italy – fountain of renewed faith 

Ivrea to Lucca; down out of the Alps, across the Po valley, over the Apennines, into Tuscany – 450 kilometres in all. The Po Valley is famous for growing risotto, a signature dish for Italian cuisine. Rice growing requires flooding; water being what it is, flood irrigation requires flat land – relentlessly flat land. A complex grid system of canals, ditches and sliding gates has been created to ensure the channeling of river water across vast distances to irrigate the valley, a massive engineering project worthy of the plumbers who brought us aqueducts 2000 years ago. Flat is good for walkers.

Familiar ways of seeing

The Po Valley offers rural ambling at its best, especially early mornings. The misty coolness, the scent in the air, surprised little beasties – rabbits, feral cats, cranes and herons, a dead snake. The dew on slender stalks of grass, the amazing light as it plays across the sky and the land; dark turns to dawn, dawn turns to morning.  It is the magical part of the walking day. It’s also practical; the earlier the start, the sooner the finish – and out of 30+ heat. The now familiar rhythm of pilgrim walking is satisfying. Elemental, simple, rustic, like meeting an old friend. 

Covid anxiety drains away like excess water into the channel.

My Passport

In Tromello, I stop for my morning coffee. While I’m resting in the small central square of this village, a spare, elderly man rolled up on an equally aged bicycle. 

“Pelegrino?” He asked. 

I nodded.

“Passport?” 

I nodded again. 

He motioned that I should give it to him. 

I did. 

He rode off. 

Pelegrinos carry a pilgrim passport. We collect stamps from hotels and churches to verify our passage. It’s like getting stars in your school workbook. It’s oddly satisfying.

In a few minutes he returned, his church stamp proudly displayed in my passport forever. 

“Buon Camino.”  

Grazie mille. 

We finished the formalities, smiled to each other,

Off he rode. 

Such Tender Mercies…

Crossing the Po

Danillo has been running a ferry for pilgrims to cross the Po for 23 years. He is a legend; ferry boat captain, historian of the VF, certifier of passage and keeper of the Big Book. The night before our crossing, I stay at the hostel in Corte S. Andrea right beside the Po River. There is an Osteria close by; it’s Sunday, long Sunday family lunches are a tradition. I arrive unannounced, bedraggled; a table is set up, I’m fed like a prince. They give me the hostel key, I wander over, find a bed. Giovanni and his wife, voluntary caretakers both in their 80’s, pop over to welcome us. Kindness isn’t always large and dramatic, sometimes it’s daily and small.

Next morning we meet Danillo. Well into his elder years, he captains his boat across the Po, ferries pilgrims, offers a history lesson and permits us to sign his pilgrim ledger, the Big Book.

It leaves passengers giddy. 

Over the Apps.

The Appenines are the last serious elevation on my way to Rome. Wild animals set paths long ago that followed contours, not losing elevation unless necessary.  Smart people followed the animals, turning their trails into paths. VF planners ignore contours, plot a bizarre path with needless ups and downs. I follow contours, plot shortcuts, muttering vile threats. I hope I’m right. 

First day is 20 km with about 1000m of elevation. After an early morning train ride, I reach my B&B, check in with Manuella, drop the Beast and manage to make it to Cassio. I am grateful that, after much huffing and puffing, vehement curses on the heads of route planners and a brief storm, I arrive in time for my afternoon espressos. The local bus arrives, I make it home In time for a shower and dinner. Slick! Damn I’m good!

Day two is shorter, 10 km and 300 m of elevation. Saturday, only a few buses run. I hitched a ride to Cassio, did my walk to Bercetto and caught the ONLY bus back home – again in time for dinner. 

Hah! Easy peasy!

Third day, there are no buses on Sunday! Major tactical flaw, no plan B. 

Crap. What now!

Manuela, my saviour, manufactures a new plan and we move; she calmly feeds me breakfast, drives me to Bercetto, drops me off at my B&B, perfectly positioned for my final day. In doing do, she sacrifices hours of time, a busy B&B and kilometres of driving to move me forward. The final day, I quick-march to the summit, stroll 22 kilometres downhill to Pontremoli. 

Victory achieved. That wasn’t so bad, I think. Why was I so worried?

It was Manuella who made it not so bad. She rescued me, the saint of Tender Mercies, proof again that one doesn’t always walk alone, that ups and downs can be navigated by following the contours.

Wading through Italian history.

A walk to Lucca is a walking history lesson. The landscape, rolling hills and valleys, rugged forests broken occasionally by pastures and crops, strung together by small villages. Pontremoli, a fortress town controlling access to two valleys and lands above and below for centuries, houses a museum of stele discovered nearby dating back to the 3rd/ 4th century BC.

Filleto, a fortress of its own, is Saracen, another word for the Moors – invaders, bandits and raiders who dominated much of the Mediterranean for centuries. 

After Filleto, I walk a road that dates back to the Roman Empire. With everything measured in seconds and sound bites, to walk the footpath Roman armies used to cross the Alps more than 2000 years ago, used for so long that the road is sunk several feet below the forest floor brings perspective to the quicksilver of immediacy.

Luna offers proof that Carrara marble has been used from Roman times. Carrara quarries are famous since the golden age of Rome; Michelangelo’s David, marble from Carrara, has the unsurpassed purity of the white Carrara marble. 

Saint Michele Paolino Cathedral in Lucca, fittingly clad in Carrara marble, I receive my pilgrim stamp, the end of this section. The final walk, 350 kilometres fromLucca to Rome, is – like life – to be continued. 

The Polish author, Ogla Tokarczuk, a Nobel Prize winner, develops her idea of synchronicity: 

“…evidence of the world making sense. Evidence that throughout this beautiful chaos threads of meaning spread in every direction.” 

This is a bit different from my regular posts. I am attaching a paper I completed for a course I took this spring on Reconciliation issues in the Graduate Liberal Studies program at Simon Fraser University. 

It was a challenging course led by Dr. Eldon Yellowhorn, an archeology professor at SFU. Coincidentally, Dr Yellowhorn grew up on the Piikani First Nation near Brocket Alberta, about 130 kilometres from my home town in Taber. He was outstanding; guiding us through some very difficult topics with a careful, thoughtful, and scholarly perspective. Needless to say, I spent as much time unlearning as I did learning. Learning more about such a complex issue is challenging but always worthwhile.

It was invaluable. 

I served as Executive Assistant to Hon. Judd Buchanan, Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, from August 1974 to June of !976. I wanted, in this research, to better understand the tumultuous years that preceded Buchanan’s time as Minister and my time on his staff, to understand more clearly the forces at play over that time. 

Needless to say I wish I had been more knowledgeable of the issues we faced at the time, more sensitive to the history of Canada’s relationship with the Indigenous peoples and more empathetic to their point of view. At the age of 26, I had little capacity to understand all that was happening; like most, I just tried to do my best. 

This paper captures a period of great turmoil in the relationship of Indigenous peoples and Canada. I have let the source documents largely speak for themselves. They speak to where we were and perhaps reflect how far we’ve come in the long process we call reconciliation.

Resistance and Assimilation

In a few short years between 1966 and 1971, the strained, uncomfortable restrictive relationship between the federal government and Canada’s indigenous peoples was rocked by events that forever changed the nature of that relationship. It started with the Hawthorn Report, forever memorialized by a positive affirmation of the need to raise the status of Indigenous peoples, to see them as Citizens Plus. The report concluded that policies of the past century had failed, Indigenous peoples were Citizens Minus, deprived of services and rights that all Canadians received, wards of the state. The policy goal to assimilate Indigenous peoples into the Canadian mainstream was also deemed a failure. That policy of assimilation was brought into focus by the Trudeau government’s policy announcement in the 1969 White Paper, contradicting its own multi-year study.

The battle lines over assimilation were clearly drawn. The forceful reaction and the overwhelming resistance to this policy by Indigenous people and their emerging political leaders forced the withdrawal of the White Paper in 1971. For the first time, disparate indigenous political organizations coalesced; an intellectual and policy framework was formed and agreed upon, bringing unity and power that surprised almost everyone. This small, almost forgotten marginal one percent of the population had fought the Trudeau government to a standstill and force a complete abandonment of one of the cornerstones of the new Trudeau government. In a few short years, events had completely changed the policy landscape, the possibilities and the options available to both government and the indigenous peoples.

The Hawthorne Report 

In October 1966, the first volume of the Hawthorne Report was published. Entitled A Survey of the Contemporary Indians of Canada, the report was the most comprehensive study to date of important aspects of the troubled relationship between Canada and the Indigenous people who occupied the land before the settlers arrived. One year before Canada’s centennial, such a study was long overdue, for the first time offering comprehensive data, substantial research and rigorous scholarship on an issue that was defined by conjecture, controversy and polarized opinion, not an adequate means of creating public policy at the best of times. 

The study was commissioned by Hon. Arthur Laing, Minister of Citizenship and Immigration in 1964. H.B. Hawthorne, an anthropologist at the University of British Columbia, and M.A.Tremblay, an anthropologist/sociologist from Laval University, were tasked with undertaking ‘a study of the social, educational and economic situation of the Indians of Canada and to offer recommendations where it appeared benefits might be gained’.(1) 

Arthur Laing was a senior member in the Cabinet of Lester Pearson at the time of the commissioning of the report. He later presided over a reorganization of department responsibilities and when the report was delivered two years later, he received it as Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, a position he held until July 1968. 

The ‘Indian problem’ had become a serious public issue bringing attention to a public disgrace, a stain on Canada’s reputation and on the federal government’s failure to improve the lives of people specifically placed under its care. This marginalized population – less than 250,000 status Indians in 1969 – and the plight of Canada’s indigenous peoples moved onto the public agenda, hotly debated. (2)

Canadians became deeply critical of the treatment of Indigenous peoples and, in advance of the 1967 centennial, the federal government was pushed to do something about the deplorable conditions. A study in 1963 showed that per capita income of Indigenous peoples was half of that of other Canadians, that one third of indigenous people were on public assistance versus just three percent of Canadians, and shockingly that, if one included deaths in the first year, the average Indigenous male lived to only 35 years of age and the average indigenous female lived to only 34 years of age, compared to national averages of men (64) and women (60).(3)

The Hawthorn study was the first major attempt by Canada to study the issue, gather serious data, analyze the reasons behind these horrendous gaps and recommend solutions – to show government resolve in dealing with the problems faced by Canada’s indigenous peoples and finding solutions. 

The research findings that were announced in 1966 were clear, stark and beyond dispute; Indians in the mid-sixties were, as the report called it, Citizens Minus. The goal of assimilation had failed not the least because there was a long record of neglect, of the federal government treating Indians as less than Canadians; present policies offered little hope for the future.(4)  

Hawthorn chose a bold and proactive approach; “to review the arguments establishing the right of Indians to be citizens plus, and to spell out some of the ways in which this status can be given practical meaning. The argument presents facts and legal and political decisions leading to the conclusion that the right derives from promises made to them, from expectations they were encouraged to hold, and from the simple fact that they once occupied and used a country to which others came to gain enormous wealth in which Indians have shared little.”(5) 

The report is remembered mostly for this comprehensive research and for its startling recommendation – Indigenous people should be considered Citizens Plus. It was a memorable statement; for the first time, a government commissioned report backed up by authoritative and comprehensive research from establishment academics declared that Canada’s indigenous peoples should be seen as Citizens Plus, worthy of more rights/benefits/services/privileges of Canadian citizenship than non-Indigenous Canadians. 

The Commission findings were startling. Part one of the Report focused on economic development, trying to discern why Canada’s indigenous communities had fallen so far behind the rest of Canada, and subsequently, what might be done to close the gap. Part two focused on education and local government was released in 1969, much too late to have any impact on the new Trudeau Government and its policy review. Inconsistent leadership also impaired the report’s chances of success; from 1963 when the commission was initiated to 1969 when the final report was released, the department had been led by seven ministers, leaving it orphaned without a committed, knowledgeable sponsor and champion.(6) 

Using a sample of representative bands across Canada, the researchers found that Indigenous people earned less than one-quarter of Canadians, resulting from rampant underemployment and unemployment. The gap was even wider when researchers took into account that about one-third of Indigenous income came from publicly funded subsidies such as welfare, unemployment insurance, family allowances and funds from bands themselves.(7)

Researchers looked at the level of education of Indians. One of many findings is startling; the number of students who had achieved a grade ten level of education was less than 5% on all reserves surveyed, fewer than 5% were still in school at the age of 16. This lack of education, exacerbated by the major problems of isolation, small reserves, federal underfunding of education on and off reserve and reliance on the residential school system was an appalling failure of both policy and administration.(8) This was a direct condemnation of the Indian Affairs branch programs to provide on-reserve education to Indians and of the contracted-out education provided by church operated residential schools. As further proof of the failure of the federal government’s provision of education, in another study in 1969, only 800 Indigenous students were enrolled in post-secondary education, further reinforcing Hawthorn’s observations documenting the failure of education support for Indigenous peoples. (8)  

The Commission pointed a finger directly at the Federal Government for its dereliction of responsibilities. The Indian Affairs branch was inadequately funded and staffed, programs were haphazard and badly managed, and the staff were seen as impediments to advancing the cause of Indigenous peoples. The report strongly recommended a transformation of the Indian Affairs branch: “should act as a national conscience to see that social and economic equality is achieved between Indians and Whites. This role includes the persistent advocacy of Indian needs, the persistent exposure of shortcomings in the governmental treatment that Indians receive, and persistent removal of ethnic tensions between Indians and Whites.”(9) 

The plight of reserve-based Indians was made worse by the fact that provincial governments generally viewed all Indians as wards of the federal government, people they did not have any obligation to serve. The federal government helped jointly fund new provincial programs but did not provide commensurate funding to the Indian Affairs branch to ensure such services of the same value and quality were made available to indigenous peoples. Hawthorn noted the lack of any capacity or interest by staff to bridge this gap or seek to engage the provincial governments to provide services. Provincial governments did not extend any of the growing number of new modern provincial services to Indians, further widening the gap on all levels of health, education and social services.(10) 

A further challenge for all was the wide diversity of the state of economic well-being of individual bands across Canada; some larger urban-adjacent bands were doing well, some bands were more generously endowed with resources for harvesting and commercial sale of natural resources which provided employment and band income. Most bands were, by design when they were set, remote, desolate, isolated and lacking any economic viability. When treaties were signed, the lands chosen for reserves were the leftovers; isolated reserves on marginal land and in isolated areas away from towns and cities – doomed to failure. 

There was the challenge of band governance. Much of the research on band governance dealt with the role of the Indian Agent, the role of the band council, an artificial governance system that ignored traditional band governance. It simply wasn’t working for the members of the band.

A final challenge that was not addressed by Hawthorn was the issue of land claims. Outside its mandate, the Hawthorn Commission did not engage in the complex issue of land claims for areas where no treaty had been signed, nor did it engage in any analysis of whether the federal government had lived up to its obligations, even though the issue overshadowed every aspect of the relationship between Canada and indigenous peoples. 

The Report offered 91 recommendations for the federal government to begin to right the many wrongs that had been inflicted on the Indigenous community under its responsibility.(11)

The concept of Citizens Plus was an important contribution of the Hawthorn report to the conversation. Popularizing and legitimizing the idea of Citizens Plus, the report, its intellectual rigour, the extensive research results and the innovative perspective for changes put forward – offered creative options for a more positive and productive relationship among Canada’s indigenous communities and the people of Canada. 

Hawthorn’s report rejected the policy of assimilation, the cornerstone of Canadian government policy for a century: “The research group do not think that the Indian should be required to assimilate, neither in order to receive what he now needs nor at any future time’ (12).

The report was quickly forgotten, superseded by events bigger than the issue of Indigenous peoples. Lester Pearson, the Liberal Prime Minister, announced his intention to retire in December 1967, setting a leadership vote for spring 1968. The leadership question consumed the governing Liberal Party and all policy deliberations and decisions were put on hold, especially contentious ones. 

In April 1968, Pierre Trudeau, the Liberal Justice Minister and a relative newcomer to Federal politics, was elected Leader and Prime Minister. He quickly called an election and was rewarded with a majority government in late June, 1968. In the span of less than two years, a new leader, an election, a new government and a new Cabinet transformed the whole framework of Liberal government and its policy in many controversial areas. 

The White Paper

The Hawthorn report was lost in these bigger events. Trudeau was by training and inclination a constitutional lawyer, he was well read in the philosophical issues surrounding the tensions between individual rights and collective responsibilities, the core issue of political governance. He had successfully campaigned on ‘The Just Society’, the cornerstone of which was his conception that all Canadians should be individuals and treated as equals; his personal philosophy of ‘reason over passion’ became the intellectual anchors of his government.

The largest challenge to Trudeau’s view was the rising sentiment for a separate Quebec based on its unique language and culture. Indians, identified as Citizens Plus, would become another attempt to define a separate and distinct entity. Their cause became caught up in that greater battle of Francophones in Quebec who wanted to be distinct.(13) 

Inexplicably, in the formation of his cabinet, Trudeau put two ministers in charge of creating a new federal policy for Indians, Jean Chretien and Robert Andras. They immediately set to work to develop a new policy towards Indigenous peoples in Canada with extensive consultations that culminated in a major conference with Indigenous leaders in late April and early May 1969. 

The policies emerging in the White Paper had been the culmination of an extensive debate and policy decisions, deliberations separated from the public consultations and confined to a select few within the federal government: “…developed within the upper reaches of the federal government, under tight secrecy common to the policy making process. The policy makers were minister, their advisers and senior public servants, and although the policy making group included almost fifty people during the peak period, less than twenty played a major part in shaping the policy.”(14) 

The policy making process was further complicated by a new approach to policymaking in the Trudeau regime, by internal divisions within the Department, conflicts with the Privy Council office and the Prime Minister’s office. The imposition of this new complicated policy decision process developed by the new Trudeau government consisted of major consultations with a newly created cabinet committee system with which long time public servants were unfamiliar. The ministers, Chretien and Andras, were assigned overlapping and vague responsibilities for the consultative and policy making process and for managing the progress of the White Paper through the cabinet decision-making process. They developed strong and starkly different, often conflicting, views of the way forward, differences that were sometimes aired in public and caused confusion amongst all participants.(15) In the end, the result satisfied few.

Jean Chretien tabled the Statement of the Government of Canada on Indian Policy in the House of Commons on June 25, 1969. The core policy directions were summed up;

True equality presupposes that the Indian people have the right to full and

equal participation in the cultural, social, economic and political life of

Canada.

The government believes that the framework within which individual Indians

and bands could achieve full participation requires:

1. that the legislative and constitutional bases of discrimination be

removed;

2 that there be positive recognition by everyone of the unique contribution

of Indian culture to Canadian life;

3. that services come through the same channels and from the same

government agencies for all Canadians;

4 that those who are furthest behind be helped most;

5. that lawful obligations be recognized; 

6 that control of Indian lands be transferred to the Indian people.

The Government would be prepared to take the following steps to create

this framework:

1. Propose to Parliament that the Indian Act be repealed and take such

legislative steps as may be necessary to enable Indians to control Indian

lands and to acquire title to them.

2. Propose to the governments of the provinces that they take over the

same responsibility for Indians that they have for other citizens in their

provinces. The take-over would be accompanied by the transfer to the

provinces of federal funds normally provided for Indian programs,

augmented as may be necessary.

3. Make substantial funds available for Indian economic development as an

interim measure.

4. Wind up that part of the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern

Development which deals with Indian Affairs. The residual responsibilities

of the Federal Government for programs in the field of Indian affairs would

be transferred to other appropriate federal departments.

In addition, the Government will appoint a Commissioner to consult with the

Indians and to study and recommend acceptable procedures for the

adjudication of claims. (16)

The Minister ended his speech by offering a rosy picture of the future and extending the smallest of olive branches – an expressed willingness to respond to offers of cooperation from Indians and the provinces:

The new policy looks to a better future for all Indian people wherever they

may be. The measures for implementation are straightforward. They

require discussion, consultation and negotiation with the Indian people 

individuals, bands and associations and with provincial governments.

Success will depend upon the co-operation and assistance of the Indians

and the provinces. The Government seeks this cooperation and will respond      when it is offered. (17)

The White paper was an audacious attempt to achieve full, complete and final assimilation of Canada’s indigenous peoples and to end forever any special relationship between the indigenous people of Canada and the Canadian Government. Citizens Minus was the reality, Citizens Plus was the discarded Hawthorn dream, assimilation was the way forward. The goal was to ensure that indigenous people were equal, no positive or negative discrimination allowed; no distinctions, no deviations: “This Government believes in equality. It believes that all men and women have equal rights. It is determined that all shall be treated fairly and that no one shall be shut out of Canadian life, and especially that no one shall be shut out because of his race.” (18)

The Prime Minster was blunt in his defence of his Just Society principle and its manifestation in the White Paper. In a speech in August in Vancouver, just a few months after the White paper had been tabled, he made the government’s position crystal clear:

 “…we’re at a crossroads, we can go on treating the Indians as having a special status; we can go on adding bricks of discrimination around the ghetto in which they live and, at the same time, perhaps helping them preserve certain cultural traits and certain ancestral rights or we can say: “You’re at a crossroads, the time is now to decide whether the Indians will be a race apart in Canada or whether they will be Canadians of full status.”

….a group of Canadians with which we have treaties, a group of Canadians who have, as many of them claim, aboriginal rights; or whether we will say forget the past and begin today.….this is a tremendously difficult choice because if one of the things the Indian bands very often refer to are their aboriginal rights and In our policy the way we propose it we won’t recognize aboriginal rights. 

….We will recognize treaty rights, we will recognize forms of contract which have been made with the Indian people by the Crown. And we will try to bring justice in that area. And this will mean that perhaps they shouldn’t go on forever. 

…..It’s inconceivable I think for one section of the society to have a treaty with the other section of the society. We must be all equal under the law and we must not sign treaties amongst ourselves and many of these treaties indeed would have less and less significance in the future anyhow. 

….They should become Canadians as all other Canadians…whether they be Indians or English Canadians or French Canadians or Maritimers and this is the only basis on which I see our society can develop as equals. But aboriginal rights this really means saying we were here before you, you came and you took the land from us and perhaps you cheated us by giving us some worthless things in return for vast expanses of land. And we want to re-open this question. We want you to preserve our aboriginal rights and to restore them to us. Our answer may not be the right one and may not be one which is accepted but it will be up to all of you people to make your minds up and to choose for or against it and to discuss it with the Indians. Our answer is no. We can’t recognize aboriginal rights because no society can be built, on historical “might-have-beens”. (19)

He went out of his way to trivialize the treaties reducing them to a dispute over unpaid bills for twine and gunpowder: 

“… things that in the past that were covered by the treaties like – things like so much twine or so much gunpowder and which haven’t been paid, this must be paid. But I don’t think that we should encourage the Indians to feel that their treaties should last forever within Canada so that they’ll be able to receive their twine and their gunpowder.” (20)

The position of the Trudeau government could not have been more clearly expressed, there was no ambiguity, no flowery phrases, no vacuous gestures. There would be no serious debate, the answer was NO. The Prime Minister had clearly, publicly and unequivocally endorsed the White Paper. 

Resistance and The Red Paper

When, in June 1969, Indian Affairs and Northern Development Minister Chretien unveiled the White Paper, it became immediately evident that the ‘consultations’ in the previous year and the significant final meeting in late April were more for performance than substance. The direction of the White Paper had been decided months earlier in Cabinet, final details were being negotiated in secret by Ottawa officials. The White Paper was starkly different, almost eerily contrary in every respect, from the policy and program suggestions of the Indigenous leaders.(21) Indigenous political leaders were rebuffed, their recommendations and the recommendations of the Hawthorn Report were ignored by the White Paper. Consultation was seen by Indigenous leadership as another cynical fraud.

The drafters of the White Paper had anticipated the expected negative reaction and treated it as a communications issue, they were surprised by the vehemence of the response.(22) Reaction to the White Paper and the dismissal of every Indigenous recommendation was swift, vocal and furiously negative.

Harold Cardinal, the head of the Indian Association of Alberta was amongst the most critical. In less than a year, the Indian Chiefs of Alberta released a rebuttal, Citizens Plus, popularly known as the Red Paper, offering their view of the White Paper and another proposal for creating a new relationship with Canada.

The Red Paper was endorsed and adopted by the National Indian Brotherhood presented to the federal government on June 3, 1970 and presented to the federal Cabinet at a public meeting the next day. It was an historic event, the culmination of a coming together of many diverse and fledgling Indigenous political organizations and their neophyte leaders to confront the most powerful Canadian elected leaders – people exercising direct control over every aspect of their lives: “it was an affirmation of faith in their Indian identity. After a century of being engulfed by a white tidal wave, they were still here, they were still different, and they were not about to themselves be pushed into oblivion.”(23)

Cardinal, a key author of the Paper also published a scathing reply to Trudeau’s cavalier dismissal of Indigenous claims. His book, The Unjust Society, was a passionate rebuttal, not just to the White Paper but to the Trudeau vision of a Just society as it was inflicted upon Indigenous peoples and the whole history of government disregard for Indigenous peoples. He described the White Paper and the new policy direction of the Trudeau Government as cultural genocide: “a thinly disguised programme of extermination through assimilation.”(24)

Cardinal affirmed the desire of the Indigenous peoples of Canada to be proud members of Canadian society. He often said he wanted Canada’s indigenous peoples to be a ‘red tile in the Canadian mosaic’: “always I find that as Indian people, we share hopes for a better Canada, a better future and a better deal. We share hopes the Canadian society will accept us as we are and listen to what we have to say.”(25) 

Alan Cairns noted two major themes of the controversy over the White Paper. First, the White Paper ignored and rejected all the recommendations made by Indigenous organizations in extensive consultations leaving an overwhelming feeling of distrust by Indigenous leaders. Second, the Prime Minister was completely involved, playing a leading role and further accentuating the enormous stakes involved. There was little hope for Indigenous leaders to press for change, especially given that he was so intimately involved with the creation of the policy embodied in the White Paper and had so publicly supported it: “Trudeau reported that he had spent more time on Indian policy than on any other issue in his first year in office.” (26)

The defeat of the White Paper

The most obvious unintended consequence of the White Paper, was how it galvanized the nascent Indigenous leadership and created a solidarity that had ever existed before.(27) Public meetings to explain the policy to indigenous groups across the country became heated and confrontational. It wasn’t just the Indigenous leadership that rejected the White Paper, several provincial governments expressed concern about accepting new responsibilities and the attendant costs to expanded programs.  The opposition spilled over into the media and, by the time Parliament began to debate the issue, reservations and criticisms were mounting. Through the fall of 1969 opposition grew, the articulation of opposition was coalescing. The Red Paper was released in 1970. Other provincial Indian organizations, especially Manitoba and British Columbia waded into the fray; in June 1970, the National Indian Brotherhood, in a meeting with the Prime Minister and his Cabinet in Ottawa on June 4, 1970, publicly rejected the The White Paper and ceremoniously replaced it with the Red Paper

Prime Minister Trudeau responded; in impromptu comments he opened the door that he had closed so firmly less than a year previously. He acknowledged that he may have been naive, may have had ‘the prejudices of small ‘l’ liberals and white men at that who thought that equality meant the same law for everybody’. He also made it clear that the White Paper and all it represented would not be forced upon the Indigenous peoples ‘We won’t force any solution on you, because we are not looking for any solution’.(28)

Trudeau’s statement was followed up by a statement by Minister Jean Chretien in the spring of 1971 in a speech at Queen’s University; ‘ the government does not intend to force progress along the directions set out in the policy proposals of June 1969. The future direction will be that which emerges in meetings between Government and Indian representatives and people’.(29)  

The White Paper was quietly withdrawn in 1971 after Chretien’s speech.  Pierre Trudeau was said to have remarked: “We’ll keep them in the ghetto as long as they want.”(30)

The Courts become players – Drybones and Calder. 

The courts over the years had not played a major role in shaping the relationship between the federal Government and Indigenous people. If anything, their impact added to the repression of Indigenous peoples. One of the reasons for this “was an amendment to the Indian Act in 1927 that made it an offence for Indians to raise money for the purpose of suing in the courts to establish Aboriginal title to their land. This provision of the Indian Act remained in force until 1951.”(31)

While the controversy over the White Paper and the assimilationist policy it advocated was playing out in the public domain, the courts were engaged in a similar but more sedate looking judicial controversy. In April 1967, Joseph Drybones was apprehended for drunkenness in a public place and charged under the Indian Act which had extensive prohibitions against alcohol purchase, consumption and behaviour for Indians. These prohibitions were different from those for Canadians under the Criminal code. The court was asked to decide if prosecuting Drybones under the Indian Act violated his rights under the Canadian Bill of Rights which protected his right to equality before the law.

In June 1967, the NWT territorial court acquitted Drybones, in August the NWT court of Appeal affirmed the acquittal. In November 1969, the Supreme Court of Canada also affirmed the acquittal in a 6-3 decision. The SCC affirmed that the specific provisions of the Indian Act relating to alcohol prohibitions for Indians were discriminatory and therefore inoperative because they violated sections of the Canadian Bill of Rights and therefore discriminated against Indians because of their race.(32) The court did not widen their decision to include other provisions of the Indian Act but the implications for further challenges were clear. For lawmakers, a significant section of the Indian act was now stricken from the Act as “inoperative”; the obvious question was how many other pieces of the Indian Act might now be subject to judicial review under the Canadian Bill of Rights and, indeed, whether the whole Indian Act would be declared inoperative – null and void – for conflicting with The Canadian Bill of Rights.

Such issues must have been on the minds of the Trudeau cabinet, particularly given Prime Minister Trudeau’s long career as a constitutional scholar and former minister of Justice. In that context, the White Paper recommendations aligned with the Drybones decision, the Supreme Court of Canada had clearly indicated that all Canadians should be treated equally before the law – The Canadian Bill of Rights. The White Paper sought to do just that. 

Another important legal case, the Calder case, was winding its way through the court system. The Nisga’a nation had a long history of seeking affirmation of its aboriginal title and rights to traditional Nisga’a territory. 

In 1969, Frank Calder brought an action against the province of British Columbia to affirm the rights and title of the Nisga’a. After defeats in BC provincial court and on appeal to the BC court of Appeal, Calder applied to the Supreme Court of Canada in a final appeal. The case was heard in November of 1971. While the decision on whether the Nisga’a had title to their lands by right of their indigenous occupation before settlers arrived, was not announced until January, 1973, the unresolved issue was a dark cloud looming over the federal government, particularly given the White Paper and Trudeau’s dismissal of aboriginal claims in areas where claims had not been settled by treaty and his cavalier treatment of claims in treaty areas as flights over ‘twine and gunpowder’.(33)

While the direction the courts would take on various disputes between indigenous groups over their various conflict was uncertain, one thing was certain, the courts had become pivotal players in adjudicating issues related to Indigenous peoples. The federal government had been shown, by both the Indigenous peoples and now by the courts, that it could not act unilaterally in making policy that impacted Indigenous peoples. 

Conclusion

The five years from 1966 to 1971 were tumultuous and surprising, given the previous 100 years of dominance and servitude. After half a century, it is possible to make a few preliminary observations about these pivotal events. 

First, the fundamental research gathered by the Hawthorn report provided a basis for all much that happened. Arthur Laing initiated a serious study, albeit by mainstream white academics. Validated by the rational, academic, intellectual process, the results were irrefutable. Hawthorn had taken the discussion of the ‘Indian problem’ out of the context of opinion and moved it into the more measured and rational discussion of cause/effect, options, measurable results, and scientific rationality. 

Second, whether by design of by luck, the Hawthorn report created an instantly understandable trope. Canada’s indigenous peoples were told they were Citizens Minus and they deserved to be Citizens Plus. That was an easy concept for both Indigenous and ordinary Canadians to grasp. It appealed to people who had no idea what circumstances were like on reserves, no interaction with one percent of the population that had been mostly confined to reserves, people who had mostly been defined by Hollywood. 

Third, by expanding the discussion to the notion of Citizens Plus, Hawthorn opened the door for the emerging Indigenous leadership to think bigger, to not just ask for adherence to treaties and promises but to demand more, to demand a rightful place in Canadian society that recognized their uniqueness as first nations. Harold Cardinal and the Indian Association of Alberta paid homage to Hawthorn by titling the Red Paper ‘Citizens Plus’. 

Fourth, the White Paper accelerated the growth to full maturity of the small Indigenous leadership cadre, a process achieved almost overnight without the long, evolutionary growth pains usually associated with such processes. It also facilitated cohesion and solidarity; in the face of such an overwhelming and stark threat to their survival posed by the White Paper and Trudeau’s unequivocal ultimatums, petty differences amongst individual Indigenous organizations faded to insignificance. Within a year, the Red Paper, a compelling, logical and forceful denunciation of the White Paper. a thoughtful policy option to replace it, was endorsed by the National Indian Brotherhood, a monumental achievement for such a young organization.

The fight over the White Paper, coming immediately after the celebration of Canada’s centennial and in such stark contrast to the celebration of a century of  lofty achievements, brought the plight of Indigenous peoples out of the shadows and into the public square. Canadians, unfamiliar with the long history of subjugation and neglect, were profoundly shocked to be shown the appalling statistics that defined the life of Canada’s Indigenous peoples. It stood in stark contrast to the smug image of Canada promoted during the centennial celebrations. Public pressure profoundly affected the federal government. It was so contrary to Trudeau’s notion of a Just Society; Harold Cardinal captured the awful reality in his book, aptly and ironically named the Unjust Society. 

The defeat of the White Paper, the humiliating withdrawal of the centrepiece of the Trudeau government’s policy and the dawning realization by both Trudeau and Chretien that they had completely misunderstood the history of Canada’s aboriginal peoples – Indians, Metis and Inuit – was unprecedented. Trudeau had been personally involved in all stages of the policy development, he acknowledged such when he noted that he had spent more time on this issue than any other. A proud man, a constitutional lawyer, a philosopher, a thoughtful intellectual, he had been found wanting and had to admit as much in his discussion with the National Indian Brotherhood in Ottawa in June 1970. He was not used to being wrong, or being so publicly exposed for being wrong.

The withdrawal of the White Paper was the final nail in the intellectual coffin of assimilation. While that didn’t end the discrimination, the attempt to make “good little brown white men”, it opened the doors to a complete rethinking of Canada’s relationship with the Indigenous peoples. It gave Canada’s indigenous people hope, power and a bigger vision. Resistance had paid off. Resistance was fertile. A new relationship was possible, the door was open to new opportunities.  

Afterword.

Yet, 50 years later, even with all the progress made, the life of an Indigenous person is still starkly different from that of the ordinary Canadian. Indigenous people in Canada are still Citizens Minus.

Harry Slade, BC’s Indian Claims Commissioner outlined the yawning gap:

• First Nations, Metis and Inuit youth make up 52% of all foster children under 14 in Canada, yet the represent only 5% of Canada’s youth.
• Indigenous men and women represent 5% of Canada’s adult population, yet 28% of all male incarcerations are Indigenous men, 43% are indigenous women.
• In Saskatchewan 92% of the male youth and 98% of the female youth in custody are Indigenous. Across Canada, Indigenous youth in custody are 46% but only 5% of the general population.
• Almost two thirds of food bank users are Indigenous. Again, disproportionate to their size in the Canadian population.
• One quarter of children in First Nations communities live in poverty. 
• Suicide rates among First Nations youth are 5 to 7 times higher than national averages. 
• Tuberculosis rates in Indigenous communities are 34 times higher than the national average.

The statistics on housing, clean water, general health, education attainment levels are all equally alarming.

Almost 50 years ago, the Hawthorn report published equally alarming statistics. Little has changed where it truly matters, in Indigenous peoples daily lives. The health and well being of Canada’s indigenous peoples and prospects for a promising future for their children are still dismal. 

I saw him on the other side of the intersection. It was a chilly day last December in Edmonton. There wasn’t much snow on the ground but there was enough to make it difficult for him to move through it. It would not be taken kindly to rush across the intersection to help him, although it was becoming obvious that with his 76 years, he had slowed down. Not one to complain much, he had casually mentioned some arthritis and a steady pain in both hands,  carpal tunnel he said. 

He struggled, he persevered, he progressed; slowly making his way across the intersection. Old school, we didn’t hug or even shake hands; instead we joshed, me about being a delicate Vancouver flower struggling in the arctic chill of below zero, he about how much he hated the ice on the roads and the lack of snow clearing on the sidewalks. 

We slowly navigated our way to our favourite lunch spot, a vegetarian restaurant on Whyte Avenue, an unlikely favourite for two Alberta boys raised on meat and potatoes, a common sense response to old age and delicate stomachs. He’d actually upped his game and was now going gluten-free; no bread, no pasta, the man was insane!

Finishing our coffee, we casually, warily circled the inevitable; how are we feeling these days? Then, mutually satisfied we’d make it another day, we paid and left, on to our next adventure to a downtown movie – we both shared a deep fascination with the magic of movies, the escapism of it all.

“The bus stop is just around the corner” he said. 

“Let me help this time,” I replied. “You’ve been pushing that wheelchair for 60 years, maybe you can let me push a bit now.” It was always a touchy subject, to help or not to help with the pushing.

That was our last big adventure, a vegan lunch, a movie downtown, a cold wait for the bus, an evening that culminated in NFL Monday Night Football and a fragrant, steaming bowl of pho from his favourite Vietnamese hole-in the wall – Friends and Neighbours – what a perfect name for a restaurant. 

Going to Edmonton to see my brother Marvin was always a special event in my life.

Life is full of surprises, the past two years of the pandemic had brought us closer than ever before, more frequent visits, regular phone chats lasting an hour at least, till one of us signalled sign off with the not-so-secret code, “well, I’ve run out of words for today.” 

The weather turned cold the next day, the first of many chilling arctic fronts had arrived. I scurried home to Vancouver, wondering how people survived. 

Two months later, I returned. Marvin was in hospital, something had afflicted him with a rasping cough and a perilous decline in strength and energy. He’d lost the strength to lift himself from bed to chair, to get safely from chair to bed. By the time I arrived, the mounting but confusing array of results of medical probings had not comforted us. More and more, the bits and bites of news dashed any hopes of a return to normalcy; the news became grim, consistently and pervasively grim. 

We met the doctors on Friday. Stage four, nothing to be done; the palliative care team was his only option. We talked of many things when they all left; some important, some the remains of the day. Words mattered, especially then; he needed to know that he was loved and valued, that his life had been filled with meaning, that we all admired him, cherished him and, again, loved him. Michael, his son, and I shared his time for the next few days, talking with him till he told us he’d ‘run out of words for today’. 

He passed away on March 8th, just four days short of his 77th birthday, Michael by his side.

That last short visit was a micro-example of the man I had known all my life. 

He was a stoic, of the best kind. He had to be, at the age of sixteen, injured in a freak car accident and confined to a wheelchair after an extra-ordinarily long rehab, he chose to accept his new life and get on with it rather that rage against fate, the gods, God or anyone else he could focus his anger on. He chose to accept and be optimistic, to manage those parts of his life where he had control, where he could choose. Years later, as Executive Director of the Canadian Paraplegic Association in Calgary he learned that he could only help those who had chosen to be positive, who had not succumbed to rage and self-pity. He had chosen wisely – at sixteen. His stoicism guided and informed his life; he never let his limitations define him or limit him. 

Marvin created a career for himself; he moved to Edmonton in 1977 to become Executive Director of Chimo, providing interim care for at risk youth and as a long standing board member of the Boyle Street Education Center, a unique public charter school offering an educational haven for urban street youth. He served other agencies in the youth care and education fields for over 40 years; he seemed to have a particular affinity with, and understanding of, those people who, faced with challenges not of their making, sought to rise above them.

He was also quietly but fiercely independent. Resolute. Persistent. Unflinching and unflagging. In 1970, nine years after his accident, he and I signed up for the newly launched Master’s program in Public Affairs at Carleton University. We pooled our resources, meagre, and drove his car to Ottawa. We never missed a class in a year of unprecedented snowfall; we showed up, he would have it no other way. It was one of the few times when he allowed me to help push. He kept that independence for another 50 years, we all learned to ask politely if we could help him navigate a crosswalk or a curb-cut. 

He loved hole-in-the-wall restaurants, was known by most of the places within a short wheel of his home and took hot and spicy as a challenge. Sushi was top of his list but anything Asian seemed to tickle his taste buds.  

He loved movies. I found out that he loved books and, courtesy of the pandemic which gave us time to explore such weighty topics, we nattered like a couple of preteens about books we liked and why. He wrote a movie script once with a friend, it was remarkable, he had a keen eye for the human condition and admired good writing. I will some day read the Kafka and Dostoyevsky he extolled, but not for a while. He never shined it up and put it on the mantle but he had a keen intelligence and abundant curiosity. 

He was most proud of his son, Michael. Michael grew up with Marvin in Edmonton, some might say they grew up together though fathering seemed to come naturally to him. Every chat we had required a long update on our kids, always proudly positive and with a sense of wonder at our good fortune. One of Marvin’s happiest days was to be father-of-the-groom at Michael’s wedding in Halifax.

He took care of himself; he had to, to survive all those years. He was disciplined, consistent and careful of his health. 

Finally, I’m learning that he loved a good party, never the centre of attention but always the anchor and usually there till the end. He pretended to be a hermit but had more friends than most of us could wish for; all he needed was some quiet time to recharge. He had several friends who dated back 60 plus years to his home town, Taber. He shared life and regular meals for decades in Edmonton with John, one of those Taber buddies; he regularly rode shotgun while John did a Meals on Wheels route.

It took grit and courage to get up and go out the door to meet the day, but he did and he greeted his friends with a smile and a direct, friendly look, some said a twinkle, in his eye. 

He was honest, frugal, grounded. Why have a chair in his apartment? He didn’t need it, if I came for a visit, we borrowed one from the common room of Abby Road, his coop apartment. 

Tender Mercies are small acts of kindness that make the lives of the recipients glow. They are given with no strings, no presumption that they will be returned. They are given out of love. Marvin spread those Tender Mercies like confetti at a wedding.

He was a good man.

Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too well pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we have dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wider seas
Where storms will show your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.

– Sir Francis Drake

Drake may have been dreaming too little because he felt too pleased with himself; I have not been dreaming much at all lately  because of Covid 19. I’ve been trying to break free from some bad habits I’ve picked up during my time of covid.

The first is lethargy. All those months of finding small ways to amuse myself, of jigsaw puzzles, reading and mindless TV watching, have created a habit of whiling away hours with the only goal being to while away the hours while staying out of trouble.  Unfortunately, doing nothing is now a habit and my dreams of adventure have disappeared.  

The second is fear, anxiety and the desire for safety. I fell into a trap of only looking at the risk, the problems, the downside; I am too-much driven by the negative. The positive side of venturing out has blurred, it’s out of focus.

Oh, and that mindless TV watching – it took over my life for a while. And not in a good way. I’ve been captured by the ‘what if?’ anxiety of news reporting – aimed at raising questions that cannot be answered definitively, concerns that cannot be resolved, fears that cannot be put to rest. It makes me timid, anxious and risk adverse – in the covid environment the world became a scary place.

I forgot how to adventure. I lost the joy of possibility.

What greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate into these footpaths that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live those wild beasts, our fellow men? That is true: to escape is the greatest of pleasures; street haunting in winter the greatest of adventures.

– Virginia Woolf

It has been a struggle to find my equilibrium, to focus on the joy of adventure, to savour again the before-times. 

My first tentative moves as the covid crisis lifted, enabled by my two vaccination shots, seem almost laughable now. I ventured out to see friends again, although mostly outside. My circle widened slowly. I actually hugged someone for the first time – leaving us both a bit red faced and skittish. It seemed so strange. 

A few weeks ago I flew to Ottawa to see Blair, for the first time in some 18 months. Going into an airport, getting on a plane, traveling across the country; all things I never gave a moment’s thought, now seemed edgy, risky. 

And then they weren’t. 

I’m now standing on the precipice ready to leap off into the world. I have unfinished business that requires a conscious choice to take some risks and venture out. 

I’m off to Italy to finish my walk on the Via Francigena. The Via is an epic pilgrimage, replicating the walk Sigeric made in the 10th century from Canterbury to Rome (and back) to receive his vestments and become a Cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church. 

My pilgrimage has taken some time.  Thru-walkers do it all at once, from start to finish. I’m not so driven. In 2017, I managed to make it from Canterbury to Reims with Kristen part of the way. In 2018, I walked from through France from Reims, part way with my friend John, to Lausanne. 

Blair joined me at Lausanne; we crossed the Great Saint Bernard Pass into Italy and meandered down to Ivrea. So far, I’ve managed 1200 km, with about 800 km left to go. (You’ll notice I didn’t say I walked 1200 km, there were trains and automobiles involved on occasion). 

I feel a strong desire to pick up where I left off and finish this. 

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

– Mark Twain

I’m not sure I have twenty years so the time is now, not when the world is risk free. It never was. But I’m not into foolish risk-taking, at my age that is unwise. This is not my first rodeo and I think I’m clear-eyed about the risks. 

Italy’s vaccination rates are high and moving briskly to cover more of the population (70% have the first shot, 60% have both). I am assured by people who have already traveled to Italy that my BC immunization card is recognized proof by Italian authorities. I will be in rural areas with minimal contact with others; no more hostels, I’m going upscale to my own hotel room! I’ll wear a mask and carry the equivalent of my weight in hand sanitizer. I have some new electronics that offer a communication and information safety net and a real live on-the-ground person (Bless you Shannon) who has volunteered to be my guardian angel should I need it. Needless risk is not smart, minimizing risk is.

So, I’m off.  

Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.

– Anthony Bourdain

Anthony Bourdain is right. This will not always be pretty. I’ve been walking like Forrest Gump for a while now trying to get in shape but I expect much pain along the way. I also expect moments of pure joy. Whatever happens, I’ll be out there again, open to the possibilities. 

Hark now, hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic.

– Van Morrison

The Gift

Sometimes, the spirit of this season is crystallized in a small moment, a gesture, a simple kindness, what I like to call a Tender Mercy. I had one two days ago that has blessed me with a renewed faith in the human spirit.

I have mixed views about this holiday. I’m not a Christian, but I have a belief in what I have learned to call a higher power. I settle somewhere in the realm of aspirational secular humanist. I can give a long blah-blah-blah about the commercialization of this holiday as one of many other digressions but I am a softy.

I’ve never made it through any of the cheesy seasonal movies without tearing up a bit at the end – even Love Actually. Forget I ever said that, I’ll deny it.

But I struggle sometimes, capturing the spirit of the season can be a challenge, especially this year with Covid hanging over us all.

This year is different.

There is a woman binner in our neighbourhood. I’ll call her Jane, not her real name. For anyone who believes that being poor is a result of laziness, I would suggest they spend a day with Jane. She pushes her trusty shopping cart loaded with cans, bottles and plastic through our neighbourhood every day. She has a route, checking the bins, the dumpsters, the recycle containers for our cast-offs, which she then exchanges for a pittance. I don’t know what she makes a day but I’m told $15-20 is a good day.

She is at it every day, except maybe Sunday.

I started to chat with her whenever I met her. One thing I learned from my friend Susan and others at places where I volunteered is that people like Jane are seldom recognized or spoken to, we make them invisible. It isolates them, dehumanizes them and robs them of their humanity, their individuality and their dignity.

So, we chat. Each time, I learn a bit about her. A few months ago, she got a place of her own, an SRO somewhere near here. Her biggest joy, she said, was that she had a freezer to put a carton of ice cream in, she didn’t have to eat the whole thing when she spent some hard earned money on a little treat.

She had a boyfriend who died a while ago, it saddened her.

Two day ago, I asked about the holidays, did she have some people to spend Xmas with? She said she was still grieving over her ex-boyfriend’s death so she was going to spend some time alone.

Then she volunteered a bit of information. She had been stopped by someone in the neighbourhood a day ago. They had given her a check for $1000. Out of the blue, a gift of the magi; she teared up as she told me, so did I.

I could not imagine what that meant to her, so stumbling around for something to say, I asked her what she would do with that gift. “Well,” she said, “I think I’ll take tomorrow off.”

I wished her a happy holiday and we went on our separate ways.

Tender Mercy.

My good friend Bob, observed one day that the first sign of aging is a “hardening of the attitudes.” 

The phrase has been around for decades but it was new to me. It resonated.

There have been a few too many times lately when I say something about a current issue that is patently ridiculous. A disturbing pattern is emerging. It speaks volumes about a certitude that is too loud and ill-informed, a resoluteness that is unnecessary and an infallibility that is too noisily and abashedly defensive. Hardening of the attitudes indeed.

At it’s core is a been-there-done-that belief that I have gathered enough wisdom and my brain is full. It also means that my brain is closed to new information, new ideas, new points of view. There is no dialogue with certitude, no negotiation with resoluteness and no modifications to infallibility.

In an effort to fight this hardening of the attitudes, I am reading things I have never read before. I am discovering writers who are brilliant, exposing me to ideas and points of view that have never entered my conscious realm. It has a bit of a randomness to it all but is nevertheless refreshing and humbling.

I came across a small book by Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own, in a discount bin at Munro’s Books in Victoria last weekend.  I’ve never read Virginia Woolf so it was worth a try (especially, I thought, at the discount price).

It is an extended essay resulting from lectures Woolf gave to two women’s colleges affiliated with Cambridge University in 1928. I won’t try to summarize it, it would not do her justice. I can only say she is brilliant in laying out her case for gender equality, surpassing any modern feminist writings in her logic, her calm reasoning and her eloquence.

I wish I had read it when I was 20, or 30, or 40, or 50… or anytime in between. I am convinced it would have changed me and my view of the world.

The fact that there are writers like Woolf, and books like A Room of One’s Own that have eluded me at this stage of my intellectual and moral development suggests that maybe I don’t know everything there is to know, that my certitude is misplaced, that my resoluteness is fragile and my sense of infallibility is tragically flawed.

Fortunately, in a bit of serendipity, I have found a possible way out.  There is no cure for stupid but there is an opportunity to push back on the hardening of the attitudes.

There may even be other benefits to discarding my certitude.

Einstein is quoted as saying; “Once you stop learning, you start dying”.

My solution to all this is that I am going back to school.

 

It’s too long a story to describe in detail but, last spring, I managed to talk my way into a study tour of southern Spain run by a small program at Simon Fraser University, the Graduate Liberal Studies (GLS) Program. It involved a mix of students who were taking the course for credit, alumnae who were meeting up with old colleagues and a few strays like myself who had wandered in off the street.

It is a Master’s degree program, part-time and geared for adults. The curriculum for the two mandatory courses is a survey of the classics around the two themes of reason and passion. Then I must take more course options or a thesis option etc. to qualify for a degree.

The program is run out of the downtown Harbour Centre campus, I can walk to classes. The place hums and has the feel of a downtown university. The first two mandatory courses are held one night a week; they consist of a dinner and a three hour session, a discussion led by the professor.

The reading list is diverse and intimidating; there is not a single book on it that I have read. I like the idea of reading and discussing a serious work of literature, that seems to be my favoured learning style these days. 

If my Spanish sojourn is any indication, I am going to spend time with some truly special people. There are only 20 students admitted to the course every year so the cohort will be small. The people I have met so far are all interesting, curious and come from diverse backgrounds; people outside my normal and narrow social contact groups.

Why, at my age go back to school?

It seems I have a choice. I can remain aloof in my certitude, comfortable in my rut, and unassailable in my resoluteness and my infallibility – and as Einstein says, I can start dying. You see us everywhere, huddled in coffee shops, muttering to ourselves over the latest edition of the daily newspaper, looking and feeling left out and left behind. Like we’ve been weaned on a pickle – sour and un-nurtured.

I can also lift the veil a bit, without getting too far out of my comfort zone and rummage around in the remainders piles of bookstores – quality bookstores mind you – in my attempt to expand my horizons. But I will choose to do it only on my terms. I will acknowledge my failings only in the quiet of my apartment and the comfort of my reading chair. Being the intrepid explorer I fancy myself to be, I will continue to attend the theatre, visit museums and galleries and go to the opera occasionally to prove to myself that I still don’t like opera.

Or I can admit to a monumental lack of knowledge and awareness and set myself onto the stormy seas of learning. I love this quote by Sir Francis Drake; the problem is I have and irrational fear of water and have tipped many floatable vessels over at inopportune times. On the other hand, even drowning in new ideas is preferable to the other two options.

 

“Disturb us, Lord, when we are too well pleased with ourselves,
when our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little,
when we arrive safely because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly, to venture on wider seas,
where storms will show your mastery,
where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.”

This is my story about learning – again – to receive the gifts of others, about recognizing our vulnerability, our inability to go-it-alone through any and all circumstances and our need, our profound need, for a community of others.

I grew up fed by a stew of manly self-reliance, old fashioned prairie pride where one never asked for help, spiced with a dash of virtuous superiority that I could and would help those for whom I cared but would never deign to ask for, much less receive, help even in my darkest moments.

Confronted with a stark reality, I really did need help.

This time it was an operation at Vancouver General Hospital.

About six months ago, an alert doctor inadvertently but alertly found a potential health issue which required a specialist’s attention. I underwent a number of tests and was told that I was a candidate for elective surgery. I had no symptoms, the procedure was intrusive but not particularly risky so I was put in the queue. I volunteered to be on a 24 hour cancellation list.

The call came four weeks ago, on a Tuesday afternoon. Could I check in that evening and be ready for an operation the next day?

I didn’t hesitate; when the call comes, go!

One of life’s little surprises; it meant I needed help. My plan to go it alone was deeply flawed. Luckily, providence and serendipity worked on my behalf – my better angels showed up in the form of my children, Kristen and Blair.

Kristen happened to be visiting in Vancouver on spring break from her position at an International School in Dresden. She was with me as I swung into action, helped me navigate checking into VGH, was with me in pre-op and – most important of all – was waiting for me when they wheeled me out of post-op to my room in the ward.

Every time I awoke that first night, confused, drugged, tied to tubes and beeping/blinking instruments, prodded by nurses for vital signs, she was there, sitting calmly and quietly by my side exuding comfort and support. She was my guardian angel; a memory that will stay with me forever.

Blair had just finished his winter semester at Grad school at Carleton. He dropped off his dog with his mother, jumped on a plane and headed to Vancouver. They spent a few days together with me and even managed to enjoy some sibling time before Kristen had to depart.

Blair took over, cancelled two weeks of his life and managed my transition back to my apartment and steered me through the first weeks of recovery; medication, nutrition, laundry, groceries, my first tentative walks through the neighbourhood and my constant search for a comfortable place to catch a few hours of sleep; the list could be longer but you get the point. He was invaluable.

Other friends pitched in before and after Blair left and they have been pitching in constantly, daily since his departure.

It has been four weeks, recovery is exactly as outlined by my Doctor and I’m returning to normal. The meds have been put away and the fog has lifted a bit. Already, I’m searching for deeper meaning.

More blinding flashes of the obvious? Yes but they are mine and they’re meaningful to me.

What is abundantly clear is that Canada’s medical system functions extraordinarily well. There is not a single instance in the last 8 months since and including my diagnosis that I could imagine might have gone better. Not one!  No bills have arrived at my door. The dozens of health care professionals went beyond professionalism; they were at all times caring and kind. We should be forever proud of our health care system. 

Most notable, was my role reversal; instead of noble giver of kindness, I was the recipient of the abundant kindness of others. It is this generosity of others that I have been blind to, oblivious of its breadth, power and strength.

John Steinbeck, chronicler of the great depression, summed up the challenge:

“It is so easy to give, so exquisitely rewarding. Receiving, on the other hand, if it be well done, requires a fine balance of self knowledge and kindness. It requires humility and tact and great understanding of relationships. In receiving, you cannot appear, even to yourself, better or stronger or wiser than the giver, although you must be wiser to do it well. it requires a self-esteem to receive — not self-love but just a pleasant acquaintance and liking for oneself.”

I would fail Steinbeck’s test.

I need to face the folly of wanting to do it all myself; the absurdity of going it alone. I need to recognize and embrace my vulnerability, to allow my needs to be known by others who stand ready to help. 

I must do so in the honest recognition that relationships and community are essential to the human condition – to my humanity.

I need my community, we all need our communities; not just for support but for mutual support. Giving to my community is but part of what cements relationships in my community; receiving, receiving gracefully, humbly and with integrity, is also a bedrock of community.

I was trying to articulate this with a friend; how asking for and receiving help was half of the bond we have with people. Her response was insightful; even the act of receiving is an act of giving.

It allows someone’s generosity to find a home. It is these tender mercies that bind us to each other – both giving and receiving. Kristen and Blair helped me see that these acts of kindness were expressions of love from both giver and receiver. For all that I’m grateful.

One final insight. I discovered the tremendous healing powers of PJ’s. I now have several pairs. They may not be fashionable and I doubt I’ll wear them in public like I did when I was released from hospital but, at home….

I have found that fear is a powerful motivator for me; in my running days I had a fear based training program. Set an impossible goal, then use fear of failing to motivate the necessary training.  A few sleepless nights drives serious training and it usually works. The pain is always worth the joy of crossing the finish line.

My latest application of the principle is crossing the Great Saint Bernard Pass; I spend several months walking every day around Vancouver, motivated by a self-generated fear that the famous Saint Bernard dogs would have to rescue me because I couldn’t make it up the Pass under my own steam.

There’s another powerful motivator – the prize; if I complete a task, I get a prize. I dangle it like a carrot in front of me.

This summer I created fear and manufactured a prize. I turned the Great Saint Bernard pass into Mount Everest in my mind – fear.

I created a bright and shiny prize; when Blair and I finished our walk, we would reward ourselves with a visit to Kristen and Chris in their new home in Dresden, Germany – the prize.

Five years ago, Kristen and Christopher embarked on a grand adventure in life; this was not a holiday, not a temporary adventure for a few weeks or a few months but a full life commitment. They moved to Basel, Switzerland where Kristen started as a counsellor at the international school.

It has been a rollercoaster ride for both of them. In her first years, Kristen faced an evolving set of assignments; in her last two she found her ideal role as a full-time counsellor. She made an enormous contribution to the people who mattered most to her – students who needed her wisdom, advice and support.

Chris faced daily life in Basel, managing a host of tasks in a different language, a different culture; untold numbers of ways to make things complicated and add multiple twists and turns to even the simplest task.

He also managed in his time there to make big strides in learning German, became an accomplished cyclist and weekend adventure planner. He became an aficionado of stylish European ways; at times he seemed more European than the locals.

 

They also took advantage of every long weekend, school holiday and vacation to explore all of western Europe. I know because I got to tag along occasionally – Lisbon, Rome, Paris, dozens of postcard picture-perfect spots in Switzerland carefully researched and curated by them for our enjoyment. We even managed to spend some time with Bruce Springsteen on his final European tour stop in Zurich.

To call it life affirming is obvious; from my vantage point, it has been a profoundly enriching experience for both, not without challenges but worthy of celebration on so many levels.

And now they have moved to Dresden, where she is school counsellor for the  international school.

Our prize starts when we meet them in Prague.

The prize for the next days and weeks is worth all our sweat and toil. Prague is delightful.

I have never visited central Europe; Prague is a delightful place to start. The architecture is fascinating; the city is steeped in a history unfamiliar to me, there’s an enervating exoticism to everything.

We share an eight course tasting menu that is as inspired as any I have tasted in Paris; the wine pairings, all local, have both Kristen and Chris asking where they can find more of the sampled wines.

I walk the Charles Bridge in early morning, the only time free of pesky tourists, and am convinced of the merits of returning to Prague soon. We board the train and, in less than two hours, we are in Dresden.

 

 

Kristen and Chris have found a charming two bedroom apartment near a trolley line just a short commute from her work and city centre.

Dresden is universally known as the German city that was firebombed by the Allies in the last months of the war, despite it’s marginal strategic value. Kurt Vonnegut, an American prisoner of war, witnessed the destruction and wrote of its effects in his acclaimed fiction, Slaughterhouse Five.

Unlike most European cities that rebuilt their torn infrastructure with new modern buildings Dresden, once called the Florence of the Elbe, laboured for decades to recreate the astounding 17th, 18th and 19th century architecture for which it was rightly renowned.

With the support of governments and private donors from around the world, such building as the Frauenkirche, a Lutheran cupola Cathedral and the Zwinger, an 18th century Baroque palace now hosting three separate museums.

The bombed out centre of the city is restored using whatever materials were able to be salvaged from the absolute destruction of the war, augment with modern building materials, leaving an ever-present reminder of the devastation of war. It has become again the Jewel Box of Europe.

Situated on the Elbe River, it is now a modern, bustling city with one of the largest technical universities, a diverse economy and a vibrant nightlife – we managed to survive our first biergarten under the landmark bridge, the Blaues Wunder – the Blue Wonder.

Having moved just three weeks before our arrival, they have been busily starting a new job, exploring the city, setting up their new apartment and unpacking boxes. 

Like all adventures it’s not always easy; getting everything set up takes time, negotiations are in German and it all requires a secret sauce of patience and persistence. 

Blair and I want to be welcomed back so we set ourselves to being useful and lighten the load. 

There is a list….

Job 1 is making the apartment Matisse safe. A new bamboo skirt for the balcony successfully installed by Chris and Blair takes one item off the list. 

Blair and Chris make a productive team. My challenge is to stay out of the way. Its tough work but I try. 

Of course, we get a chance to see K’s workplace – even after school, it sparkles with youthful energy. Her office is warm, comfortable and easy to relax in – her students are lucky to have her as a resource. 

I find it comforting, even now, to see where my children live and work. It adds immeasurably to my future conversations to have a mental image of their kitchen, their office, their favourite patio, their quiet spot to decompress, their best biergarten. 

This is a completely new adventure, Dresden, so long inside the Iron Curtain, is different from the western Europe they have seen from their old base in Basel. The opportunity to explore central Europe, Poland, Ukraine, the Baltic, Denmark, northern Scandinavia, Hungary, the Czech Republic are all waiting their arrival.

I am overjoyed. They are true intrepid explorers. I have high hopes of tagging along occasionally, using Dresden as a base for my own explorations and living vicariously through their adventures.

We ended my summer adventure with a celebration, of their tenth anniversary, of their courage in drinking avidly from the firehose of life and for the future of their adventure in Dresden. An end to my summer adventure and a start to their new adventure in Dresden.

  

Joseph Stiglitz is a Nobel Prize winning economist, a past chair of the US Council of Economic Advisors and a past chief economist of the World Bank. I may be going with my gut here but I’m thinking he has the credentials to be a credible commentator on how economic policy affects our life.

I first became aware of Stiglitz when he predicted that George Bush’s invasion of Iraq in 2002 would cost Americans a trillion dollars. At the time, the neo-cons around Bush scoffed – a few hundred million max, and Iraqi oil would pay for it. Guess who was right – the tally has passed a trillion dollars and is still mounting. The real cost in deaths, shattered lives and permanently disabled veterans is even more horrific.

So, when I saw an anthology of his columns called The Great Divide, I had to buy it.

It is a chilling read. Stiglitz provides a litany of cautionary advice about the growing concentration of wealth in America. He is the intellectual godfather of the 99% movement in the US.

He is a clear, concise and engaging writer. Most of the pieces in this book are short, forcing him to communicate clearly, to use startling examples, to make his points easily understandable to those of use whose grasp of economics is tenuous. He succeeds.

Stiglitz believes that the growing concentration of wealth and income in the top 1% of Americans, the greed that propels this continuing aggregation of wealth and the complicity of policy makers and elected officials to make the rich richer is the biggest challenge Americans face.

He’s amassed some pretty powerful evidence.

• The top 1% now owns some 40% of America’s wealth and about 25% of America’s income.
• The incomes of the top 1% have doubled over the past 25 years; over the last decade, their incomes have risen almost 20%. The rest of us are not so blessed. Incomes remain stubbornly flat; in fact, median incomes have been flat for 40 years.
• The six members of the Walton family, the owners of Walmart, now own more American wealth – some $130 billion – than the bottom 30% of the US population. That’s more than 100 million people!
• Almost all – 95% actually – of the increases in income after the recovery from that cataclysmic events of 2007-08 went to the top 1% of Americans.
• More than a trillion dollars was spent bailing out US banks in the aftermath of the economic meltdown that almost destroyed the world’s economy; little was spent helping millions (yes millions) of ordinary Americans keep their homes or fight illegal foreclosures.
• The bankers kept their bonuses, investors kept their dividends, bondholders got their interest; the 99% lost their homes, their cars, their jobs, their future. No one went to jail; no one was punished.

It is my personal view that the current turmoil sweeping across America is directly related to the economic disparities that are cleaving American society. People are coming to understand that the American dream is available only to the 1%.

Stiglitz shows that this concentration of wealth is the result of policies that were designed to deliver benefits to the wealthy. Tax cuts and public policy were designed to benefit the rich.

The American tax system feeds the concentration of wealth. Tax deductions for capital gains are generous compared to those for wage earner’s income; other tax deductions reward the rich and burden the 99%. Higher education has been made too expensive for any but the wealthy, health care is beyond the reach of many and the relentless dismantling of the Affordable Care Act is destroying health care plans for millions.

America is falling in rankings of many indices which measure quality of life, mobility and well-being. Child poverty, poverty, food insecurity, growing unemployment in specific demographics, lower social and economic mobility – all indications of the dramatic impacts of the inequities – are growing.

Stiglitz quotes Warren Buffett; “there’s been class warfare going on for the last 20 years and my class has won.”

Buffett does not say that proudly; he has been quick to point out that he pays less tax on a percentage basis than his secretary and he has pledged to give his accumulated wealth to charity. His enlightenment is not emulated by the rest of the American 1%.

Leonard Cohen saw the game, way back in 1988.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed

Everybody knows the war is over

Everybody knows the good guys lost

Everybody knows the fight was fixed

The poor stay poor, the rich get rich

That’s how it goes

Everybody knows

An engaging melody and Cohen’s incredible voice could not hide the cynicism of the lyrics.

Stiglitz is clear; inequality is a choice that American policy makers have made and continue to make. In the US Supreme Court’s decision in Citizen’s United, they have ensured that money rules the US political process. It almost guarantees that policy will ensure the rich get richer; everybody – even Leonard Cohen – knows.

Stiglitz knows that the dry world of economics cannot capture the importance of trust and fairness as bedrocks of society, of myriads of financial transaction, of the hope that one can advance through hard work and playing by the rules, of the belief that there is justice for all. Without these beliefs and a strong set of rules and regulations that govern the excesses of capitalism, society itself fails.

As Canadians, we should not be too smug; our levels of inequality are almost as drastic as those in America. Many of our public policies help the rich stay rich and force the poor to remain poor.

We cannot be too sanctimonious, nor can we rest. Our unique Canadian successes are more fragile than we might expect. The disparity of income and wealth is not inexorable or inevitable, but pressure from powerful interests is relentless.

And, here is the point dear friends. As we celebrate Canada Day, we cannot take anything for granted.

Our challenge as Canadians as we celebrate our 151st year as a nation is to constantly make the right choices.

When we pay our taxes, we make the choice to sustain our unique Canadian way of life.

We live in one of the safest countries in the world, we are supporting one of the best health care systems in the world, we have access to a whole range of public services that are the envy of the rest of world.

We live in an open society where social mobility is possible, where equality and egalitarianism exist, where the fight is not fixed.

We have a remarkably good public education system and a post-secondary education that is still accessible to all.

These social norms do not come cheaply; they require vigilance, an engaged thoughtful electorate, a fair tax system and a smart well educated public service.

We must consciously choose to support an equality of opportunity for all Canadians, an equality of access to basic public services, an openness in our society, a willingness to include everyone in the public discourse and a shared responsibility for each other’s wellness.

When we participate in the public discourse we need to be ever mindful of the importance of trust in others, of reasonableness and civility, of the necessity to respect others, of the need to not fall prey to a sense of grievance or of the easy path to demonize the other.

We cannot inoculate ourselves from the current malaise working its way through America, but with vigilance, conviction, faith and trust in each other, we can avoid the inevitability of their choices.

That is my hope for Canada Day.

What’s history? In my schoolchild days it was a long, complicated series of dates and names to be memorized; kings and queens of western European countries, battles and maps and heroes and villains. It was dead white men of privilege exploring and conquering the world. While it could be exciting stuff for a child with an overactive imagination, it was pretty dull and boring.

Later it became more serious. In my pipe-smoking undergraduate and graduate school days, the study of history was important because it gave us insight. I was in love with politics and policy, constantly admonished by my professors quoting George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”   

I repeated that saying like a mantra as I read history, mostly the biographies of famous/infamous men, looking for insight – my own crystal ball into the future.

Not so today, somehow while I was off doing other things, history has become more complicated, more subject to more debate.

Nothing so clearly points out the complexity of interpreting history than a book that formed the basis of my latest adventure.

I was fortunate enough to join a travel study course offered by Simon Fraser University focusing on a book by historian Maria Rosa Menocal: Ornament of the World; How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain.

It has caused a bit of a stir amongst scholars and historians.

Three weeks on my study tour that would take us to Cordoba, Seville and Granada in southern Spain and offered an opportunity to explore this somewhat controversial assertion further.   

I was only tangentially aware of the Moorish domination of southern Spain. I encountered it on my pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago de Compostella.

The Camino pilgrimage honors Santiago de Matamoros – Saint James the Moor Slayer.

The myth of Saint James defies credulity.  Saint James’ remains were said to have been found by a Spanish shepherd following a star in the 9th century. Pilgrimages were promoted to honour Saint James and support the Catholic attempts to drive the Moors from Spain.

Saint James became the moor slayer in a revised Catholic myth created in the 12th century when he is attributed to have miraculously appeared on the side of Christian forces to defeat the Moors in the legendary battle of Clavijo.

While historians have proven the so-called decisive battle never actually happened, one historian noted; “While this event is based on legend, the supposed battle has provided one of the strongest ideological icons in the Spanish national identity.”

Saint James is celebrated with in art and sculpture, with a prominent position of honour in the Santiago Cathedral. I came across another Santiago de Matamoros statue in Granada while on my study course, trying to assess the impact of 700 years of Moorish domination of large swaths of what we now call Spain.

Such is the power of building a narrative that attempts to create, write and use “history” for other purposes.

I, like some millions of others, have walked 800 kilometres on a pilgrimage based on fantasy, myth and centuries old propaganda!

My study tour was a delightful re-entry into the world of Santayana and his bold assertion. Along with some 20 others, I was confronted with the reality that history is messy.

Menocal asserts that Muslims, Jews and Christians were able to live in relative harmony in southern Spain for centuries. She celebrates the achievements of that golden period in Spain’s history – the introduction of new plants and fruit to Spain, the widespread development of agriculture and irrigation, the explosion of trade throughout the Mediterranean of Spanish goods, improvements in manufacturing, mining and industry – all creating a robust economy while the rest of Europe stumbled.

She describes a culture of architectural innovation, poetry, an explosion of learning, a multiplication of libraries and a reverence for intellectual discovery in science and medicine. She credits the Moors with the vital transfer of the ideas and philosophical debates of the Greeks to Europe. In the 10th century, Cordoba was one of the five largest cities in the world – London and Paris were riverside towns.

It is a positive and optimistic portrayal of a time when history was being made. To Menocal, the Muslim willingness to tolerate, engage and integrate Jews and Christians into their governance and society was the cause of this Golden Age, a renaissance that preceded and set the stage for Europe’s emergence from the dark ages.

I wish it were so.

Many historians have pushed back, questioning her bold assertions.

There’s not enough data, knowledge or information they say.

And that is the problem with writing history. It’s like buying a picture puzzle that promises 1000 pieces. When I open the box there are only 200 pieces. With 800 pieces missing, I am left to imagine, intuit and interpret with what little I have.

It’s not for lack of trying, Archeologists, anthropologists and historians have worked prodigiously to help us learn from history, for we do intuitively believe in Santayana’s maxim.

Now we add the second challenge – trying to sort various interpretations of the scanty evidence, trying to sort myth from reality, trying to conclude with only the evidence we have without taking it too far into conjecture.

There is plenty of room for conjecture. Santiago de Matamoros is but one example of propaganda widely accepted as history. Millions of pilgrims believe in the alternative narrative.

Past historical writing is under some attack these days from other quarters. We all know that history is written by the victors; losers don’t control the pen that writes history, hagiographers are in charge.

We all know that history has been written by and about men, that it is focused on conquest and war, ego and the glorification of aggression, that the post colonial world is awakening to a new narrative for their history, that women have made history without being acknowledged, that too little has been written about slow moving events that don’t follow a story-like narrative.

I’m pleased to say that my study tour raised many questions and answered few of them. We debated the interpretations of fine and grand points of Moorish influence in Spain amongst many other issues – such as what to have for lunch that day. I came away confused but pleasantly so: life is confusing, why shouldn’t history reflect that.

Santayana may be right, we should study our past, our many histories, our various perspectives on what happened, how and why it occurred. I am coming to believe that history is plural; it is a conflicting set of stories we tell ourselves. Stories will change over time, with new information, new insights, new voices claiming a share of the narrative.

We need to be critical in our reading of history; it is messy.

If we don’t we are likely condemned to repeat our mistakes.

Over the last five years, I have enjoyed the warm hospitality and my very own bedroom in Basel, Switzerland courtesy of Kristen and Christopher. A few weeks ago, I made what is likely my last visit to Basel. They are moving this summer to Dresden to start a new adventure.

When they were deciding to throw all the cards up in the air and play 52 pick with their lives, I was privileged to be included in their discussions.

They were changing the course of their lives.

It was a brave and bold decision and they thought about it a lot. They were moving a long way away – nine time zones to be exact.

At about this time five years ago, we gathered to send them off; reminding them constantly that home would stay where it always was – in our hearts and in the hearts of our family and friends. Home is a feeling not a place. We could and would visit back and forth; Vancouver would patiently await their return.

I’m grateful that they decided to embark on that adventure five years ago. It made a huge difference in my life.

Their courage gave me courage; courage to expand my own capacity for adventure.

It happened quickly; I used Christopher’s world triathlon competition in London that year as a jumping-off point for my first pilgrimage, an 800 km walk on the Camino de Santiago in Spain. He finished his triathlon and went on to Basel and I left to start the Camino.

Somehow it seemed more doable knowing Kristen and Chris were close by; I had a safety net, our quick text messages at the end of every day gave me comfort. 

The prize I dangled in front of myself was a visit in Basel, complete with my first fondue and a few days of R&R in my new home after a month of vagabonding. It worked so well, I did it again a few years later in Portugal.  

Over the years there have been so many visits with so many wonderful adventures – the one constant was knowing that I had a home in Basel,  a greeting at the train station, a welcome mat at the door, a bed to sleep in, two friends to share the joy of life, a cat who tolerated me.

It was base camp Basel, a place to drop my pack, to relax and feel safe and secure and so much more.

Base camp Basel was the jumping off point for our African safari and the place we returned to when we had finished our glorious adventure.

 

 

 

It was base camp for Blair and me; we could land in Basel and nip over to Zermatt. He skied and I snowshoed under the shadow of the Matterhorn.  The Matterhorn!

 

 

Base camp that allowed us to experience the total insanity of Swiss Fasnacht, the only time the Swiss drop their massive stuffiness and go crazy, worshipping fire, parading through the streets at odd hours; a long stream of weird fife and drum bands, the oddest parade floats, even odder costumes fuelled by the consumption of vast quantities of alcohol. Carnival in Rio is choir-like by comparison.

 

Chris taught me about European football. I’m now a fan; I’ve dropped the NFL completely, it’s crude, dangerous and thoughtless.

 

 

Kristen walked me all over Switzerland, winter and summer. We rode sledges down steep ski slopes, we wanderwegged through the Jungfrau in the shadow of the Eiger. We hiked up to Heidi’s village. We  did everything but yodel.

 

 

 

 

We ate magnificently at the end of every hike ; sausages and cheese and mountain macaroni – guiltless extravagance. In fact we ate well every time I visited. 

 

 

 

 

We celebrated Christmas there – twice. The uniquely joyful European Christmas markets will forever define the holiday now ; north American consumerism is shallow and uninspired by comparison.

 

 

We stood in the stands cheering a pickup team of Canadians playing in various European leagues who come together every year at the Spengler cup in Davos, more pure joy in one game than in any I’ve seen in the NHL lately – Gary Bettman are you listening? 

 

 

Base camp Basel became the meeting point for adventures all over Europe. Italian Espresso and a foodie tour in Rome, the final Bruce Springsteen European concert in Zurich, Lisbon for the best Pasteis de Nata ever!, Paris and more Paris, Varengeville for dinner, and Krakow in winter.

 

 

There was always a constant; a chance to fly into Basel and get settled then head off in any one of a multitude of directions to find an adventure. Base camp Basel was my geographic center for five years, a landing pad and a launch pad that made all of Europe more accessible, more friendly, more enticing. 

 

I also saw my daughter grow into a woman who had met a complex professional challenge, who had mastered each successive iteration of a constantly evolving position and who had contributed to a school environment where she will be sorely missed.

 

 

I remember being somewhat sad when they announced their decision to move to Basel; rightfully so, I don’t see them as often. Facetime, WhatsAp and phone calls help but frequent visits are the best; each visit is an adventure. I am almost embarrassed by the rich rewards that have come my way from the unintended consequences of their decision. 

Basel is one of those places that could be described as a town that fun forgot. Not for me. To me it will always be Base Camp Basel, a place where I‘ve shared lots of laughs, lots of talk, lots of shared adventure, big and small.

A place to jump off from and to return home to. Base Camp.

I signed up for Twitter about a month ago; Trump tweets were the catnip for joining. I NEEDED to see Trump’s tweets directly; news casts blaring BREAKING NEWS and showing me the feeds were not enough.

I wanted to go to the source – Twitter itself.

I finally folded like a cheap lawn chair and signed up.

Last week, I closed my account and unloaded it from my smartphone.

What a let-down! Twitter was a monumental waste of time.

A perfect example of the oft-quoted Shakespeare nugget;

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

I doubt that every person who uses Twitter is an idiot but there are enough idiots tweeting and retweeting – shouting their nothing with sound and fury – to poison it for me.

I walked away from Twitter. I don’t need the company of those idiots.

Deleting Twitter opened the door to a more serious internal dilemma.

I’m a news junkie, I like to think positively: I have an active curiosity about the world. Information is important; the source of my information and the veracity of it profoundly affects my view of the world.

Over the years, I developed a reliable pattern for accessing news. In the mornings, with my coffee, I scan emails, read items that interest me from a few news aggregators:  NationalNewswatch.com, https://qz.com/.

I check theglobeandmail.com and CBC.ca to see what’s happened overnight and then read through the US and International news on the NYtimes.com. I have slowly given up on print and magazines; I now find digital sources of information more convenient.

I glance at the CBC and CTV morning news, finish my coffee, check Facebook and go about my day. All this consumed about an hour of my time.

In the evenings, I catch BBC, PBS and sometimes the National on CBC.

I am well aware that I live in an information silo of my own making; to compensate, I deliberately try to read opinions that do not conform with my own.

I’m trying to forestall the inevitable hardening of the attitudes that come irrevocably with age.

I am also well aware of the polarization of society into factions – discourse and dialogue are smothered in the shout-out of inflamed opinions. The fools are winning.

Bertrand Russel predicted our dilemma;

“The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wise people so full of doubts.”

Lately, my prurient need for more, stimulated by watching the freak show called the Trump presidency has subverted and perverted this pattern. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.

For the moment I have deleted Twitter from my life. I have suspended Instagram but am reconsidering; it seems benign if I control it.

I was digging myself out, then Facebook hit the fan. With Blair’s help, I have immediately tightened my privacy settings and blocked all the apps from accessing my information. I have never knowingly allowed Facebook or any of my digital tools to access my address book or my contacts. Knowingly is the key word in that sentence. I’m convinced now that, like millions of others, I am not very KNOWING.

The privacy thing is long gone; everyone tells me that the digital universe has enough data on each of us that we are an open book. Data doesn’t disappear apparently.

I doubt that deleting Facebook is going to retrieve my privacy but I am debating how I can best take back control of my digital life while still being an active, responsible and informed citizen.

I also recognize that I am my own worst enemy. I write a blog for goodness sake. I’ve written two books. I post all these musings on Facebook so more people will benefit from my wisdom ( a dubious rationale but it’s all I can cling to at the moment).

Much of my privacy is truly gone, never to be retrieved. Yet, I can be more conscientious about what I say, write, record and distribute and where I choose to do those things.

I can also put on my big boy pants and recognize a few realities.

Facebook, Twitter, Google, Amazon and every other site out there are NOT free. We pay a price to use these facilities.

Facebook and the like are not benign, they are businesses trading in our data.

They are not worried about us or our privacy, they are resolute in their pursuit of profit. Forget their high-minded statements of purpose – follow the money.

I am the one who punches in the info; they are happy to seduce me with free shipping and instant access to much that I desire – with instant gratification delivered to my door.

I could go on but this much is clear. There will be much more self awareness and self censure in the future. And I may yet delete Facebook.   

My primary purpose in visiting China was as a tourist; to see the sights, taste the food, hear the sounds, experience the reality. It is after all a foreign place.

Is Canadian Chinese food really Chinese? Is the Great Wall really that great? What does Tiananmen Square really look like? Is the Forbidden City really that forbidden or is it just foreboding?  Does the bullet train look like a bullet? Is Shanghai as futuristic as it looked in the James Bond movie Skyfall?

So many questions and only one way to find out. The essence of travel is to see and experience directly – time to check image against reality!

Beijing, with 26 million people, has six ring roads, we stayed just inside ring road #3. It is formidable; thick smog,  jammed traffic, jumbles of rental bicycles at street corners, masses of people on the subway; more than a bit intimidating.  

Tiananmen Square can accommodate a million people for the much-favored mass rallies held on special dates like October 1, the Chinese national Day. Hundreds of thousands are said to attend the morning ritual of flag raising. It is filled every day with thousands in an orderly queue to visit Mao’s tomb.  No courageous boys standing up to tanks on the Square this day, only happy ‘ethnic’ Chinese dressed in their finest to pay homage to Mao. Shattered Image.

The Forbidden City, adjacent and two kilometers long in its own magnificent sprawl, dwarfs Tiannamen Square. While the Forbidden City is a must-see, I have to bring my imagination with me; we are allowed only to see the external buildings and read carefully edited signs, we are not allowed access to the interior. There are a few exceptions where doors are open and we may jostle our way to the front of deep crowds of selfie-seekers, an exercise in cultural politeness. Without a vivid imagination, I’m incapable of fully appreciating this icon. There doesn’t seem to be much there there. Shattered image.

The Great Wall fulfills its promise. It is GREAT. It doesn’t make sense; even in its visual grandeur, it seems to aimlessly meander off into both distant horizons. I try to imagine the sacrifice of those serfs, slaves and citizens in building it; I also try to imagine it being manned by an alert army of watchmen and defended from alien hordes who regularly breached its walls.

This section, Mutianyu, has been specifically rebuilt and maintained for tourists. Off in the distance, I see only rubble where wall used to be. It seems more a monument to some Emperor’s fear, hubris and folly than anything. Like other such exercises in hubris, the pyramids for example, it makes for a good tourist attraction. The Great Wall has finally achieved meaningful utility – as a tourist attraction! I guess that qualifies as a shattered image.

The bullet train does shatter my image for another reason; it is better than anything I expected – by a speedy margin. New, clean, comfortable, quiet, easy to board and exit, staffed (yes, and with enough attendants to notice) and fast. It makes the TGV and the Swiss train system look a decade or two out of date. No backward third world nation here – shattered image indeed.

Shanghai’s architecture exemplifies an interesting historical juxtaposition. On one side of the river is the Bund, a long boulevard of 1900’s buildings created by the European colonial powers to celebrate their superiority and their dominance of China for a period; across the river, the new Shanghai – postmodern architecture bursting with the vitality and exuberance of the 21st century.  The only image shattered here is that New York, Tokyo and London are NOT the most interesting city skyscapes on earth.

Xi’an is the jumping off point for the most iconic Chinese image of all – the Terra Cota warriors. The display is truly magnificent; now four separate displays, the central one is breath-taking. Words will not do it justice – pictures help but being present and seeing, witnessing is necessary.

After all this, connected by the unexpected but memorable (I can’t think of a more polite descriptor) trip on a Chinese overnight train, we needed a break. Overnight trains are democratic; six bunks per partition, a few seats in the aisle, room to store a bag overhead, a pillow and a ‘comforter’, ample hot water for tea and noodles, one communal sink and Asian style toilet per car. The upper bunk is the most private, it takes a contortionist/gymnast to climb there, and even more dexterity to climb down. An adventure in its own right – shattered image – tourist friendly travel hasn’t arrived everywhere in China. 

The Buddhist monastery at Baoguo Temple, Mount Emei provided our oasis of calm serenity. We were permitted to stay inside the monastery overnight – afforded access to the same luxuries as monks, (communal showers open 5:30-9:30 pm every night, ample hot water, comfortable beds, private rooms, shared toilets) and the opportunity to witness morning prayers – announced by gongs and chimes at 5am, prayers at 5:30.

It was a privilege, to some of us at least, and a refreshing change from the cacophony of the past week. Peace. calm, serenity; I now understand the attraction of Buddhism!

Godless communism never succeeded in inflicting itself on China or in wiping out Buddhism. I suspect the Chinese communists conceded defeat before trying, if they had tried it would have been a miserable failure. Everywhere we went, we saw Buddhist monuments, Buddhist temples, Buddhas in museums and practising Buddhists. Shattered image indeed!

The Pandas were, well, pandas. They eat, they sleep, they change positions occasionally to affirm they are alive. Pandas are only found in China; the Chinese have found gold in their exclusivity. I was cautioned that they were hard selling their exclusivity; Kristen specifically told me to NOT join the long lineups that allow visitors to cuddle a panda – for a fee. Shattered image, they have created an enviable parklike setting for their pandas, they seem to have developed a responsible program working with zoos around the world to display and support Pandas, the World Wildlife Fund uses the Panda as their international symbol and they discontinued their ‘cuddle’ program – the poor panda died from too much human contact and kindness. The Chinese have taken responsibility for Pandas, now cherished and protected. Shattered Image. 

We cruise down the Yangtze River from Chongqing, a city engorged with the displaced peasants from the flooding of the Three Gorges Dam – now with a population greater than all of Canada. Yes, 30 million people in one “city”.

The cruise is all lemons into lemonade; flood a vast area to create the largest hydro-electric dam in the world and then charge people to see the vast engineering feat! Three days later at midnight we were lowered some 200 meters to the lower dam-site level and sent on our way. Such Chutzpa – image shattered!

Finally, Hong Kong. Glitz and glitter, hustle and bustle. Yet its impressive skyline is rivalled by Shanghai, it’s entrepreneurial activity dwarfed by dozens of mainland China cities, it’s faint hope for special status diminished regularly. Is the rest of China catching up or is Hong Kong being pulled back into the pot with the others?

Whatever the answer, the changes roiling through China are evident everywhere. Last shattered image – over 500 million Chinese have been lifted out of poverty in the last decade. Joseph Stiglitz called China a socialist market economy with Chinese Characteristics. Whatever it is, it shatters images everywhere I go. This is definitely not the third world Toto!