[Saturday, June 22]
This was our last morning on the east coast of Newfoundland, and our second consecutive sunny, warm day, likely a record that we won't see broken. Before we headed out, I wanted one last look at the massive iceberg that was still hanging around the harbour. As we checked out of the motel, the desk clerk said she was up by the lighthouse the night before, and of course she saw a whale. "Comin' right up out of the water, it was." Is everyone really seeing whales when we're not around, or is this an elaborate trick the locals play on the mainlanders?
After checking the iceberg - still there, still huge - we drove down the peninsula to Boyd's Cove. In that town, there's an interpretation centre about the Beothuks, the aboriginal people of Eastern Newfoundland. The Beothuks (pronounced "bee-othic," to rhyme with "gothic") were a culture of migratory hunter-gatherers who lived on and near the coast. Two hundred and fifty years after the first Europeans began to settle on the land, they were completely extinct.
Ralph Pastore, an archaeologist, searched the area for signs of Beothuk encampments, and found them in Boyd's Cove. The site turned out to be a treasure trove of artifacts and clues about Beothuk life. The museum we visited, a provincial park, displays artifacts, tells about Beothuk life (and their demise), and also emphasizes the methods and processes through which Pastore and his team derived the information. It was very well done. A trail that led to the site was wooded, secluded - and teeming with black flies and mosquitoes. Even with protection, we were both attacked.
Further down the peninsula, we stopped at a roadside restaurant and had a thoroughly delicious meal of two local specialties. Allan had "squid rings," what calamari is called here, which he never misses an opportunity to eat, and I had fish cakes and baked beans. The fish cakes were more like fish pancakes - crispy on the outside, and soft and fluffy on the inside. The baked beans were cooked in molasses and bacon, and were one of those "I didn't know this food could taste like this" experiences. I love eating in tiny, hole-in-the-wall places and stumbling on a truly delicious meal.
Further on, we drove around another small town looking for a laundromat, and spent a few hours getting clean clothes. From there, it was on to Grand Falls, where Newfie Campaign Friend grew up. Grand Falls is inland, and was settled relatively recently (compared to the fishing towns), in the late 1930s. I haven't had cell phone service since Clarenville, but we did find a pay phone so I could give NCF's mom a head's up.
NCFsM greeted us both with hugs, and five minutes later was insisting we spend the night there, and telling us what was for dinner. We wanted to take her out, but she wouldn't hear of it: cod au grautin was already in the oven. (That's another local standard, pronounced "cod-oh-grottin".)
NCFsM, Allan and I talked about Newfoundland, and the NCF family, and Canada, and pretty much everything. NCF likes to say that she is first generation Canadian-born, a bit of a puzzle since everyone knows she is from Newfoundland. But of course Newfoundland wasn't in Canada until NCFsM was a young adult.
We learned that the guides at Bonavista Lighthouse don't have the correct genealogy, and that NCF is also related to the Ryans of the Ryan Premises. We heard a story about some bad blood between the Ryans and our friend William Coaker of the FPU, who of course were on opposite sides of the political spectrum.
And speaking of politics, we also learned that NCFsM opposes Canada's presence in Afghanistan. She vehemently opposes US militarism and any Canadian support for it, and believes most people she knows feel the same way. She wants to see Canada return to peacekeeping, because "there's no such thing as winning this kind of war. There are only losers."
We had a truly lovely evening.
6.25.2008
6.22.2008
support for iraq war resisters grows in tory ridings
Support for allowing Iraq War resisters safe haven in Canada is growing. This video was made in St. Catherines, Ontario, the riding of Conservative MP Rick Dykstra. Mr. Dykstra won his seat by only 244 votes, one of the closest races in the country.
If you haven't bothered Stephen Harper or Diane Finley lately, there's no time like the present.
Minister of Citizenship and Immigration Diane Finley
613.996.4974
finley.d@parl.gc.ca / finled1@parl.gc.ca
Prime Minister Stephen Harper
613.992.4211
pm@pm.gc.ca
The message: respect the will of the Canadian people, as reflected in the June 3, 2008 vote in Parliament. Let Iraq War resisters stay in Canada!
war resisters speak out in diane finley's riding
Patrick Hart in Port Dover, Ontario, the riding of Immigration Minister Diane Finley.
Phil McDowell at the same event.
Chuck Wiley, also in Port Dover.
Three voices for peace and justice, speaking out on June 7, 2008 in Port Dover, Ontario. Port Dover is located in the riding of Conservative Minister of Citizenship and Immigration Diane Finley. We remind Ms. Finley and the Harper Government that they are morally and ethically obliged to obey the will of Parliament, who, on June 3, 2008, voted to let U.S. War Resisters stay in Canada.
Port Dover residents have established a local War Resisters Support Campaign. To join, e-mail them at resistersindover@hotmail.com.
Thanks to the great Alex Lisman for sending these along.
twillingate
We didn't get an early start this morning, but there's something about these lazy seaside towns that discourage rushing. But it's a glorious warm and sunny day, something to be treasured here, and you do want to stay outside as much as possible.
After breakfast, we drove around Twillingate's little harbour to the tour boat company that has the best reputation. Cecil Stockley has been in business 25 years, about 15 years longer than there has been a regular tourist trade in Twillingate. We booked a 1:00 boat, then headed farther down the road, just to see what was out there. Not 50 feet later, as the car came up over a hill, we saw a huge iceberg sitting out in the bay. It's a remarkable sight. It seems completely out of place, like it dropped from the sky.
We drove further out, thinking we could walk onto one of the headlands for a good view, but the berg disappeared. The roads are winding, and there are so many more inlets and coves than you think, you can't easily figure out how to view the berg. When we parked in one little cove, two women came by with stories of where they had seen it and how. The tourists here all bore each other with stories of where they saw icebergs or whales, or where they didn't see them but other people did, or where they hope to see them later.
Eventually it was time for our boat, and who is on the dock but the couple who shared our crabfest in Bonavista. This is one thing I dislike - seeing the same people on a travel "circuit". It makes me feel so touristy. But it's happened to us in many places, so I suppose it's inevitable.
The "Iceberg Alley" boat holds only 20 people, and it was only half full, which was nice. Cecil Stockley was excellent - very knowledgeable, friendly and without any hokey "entertainment". He said since there was only one iceberg in the vicinity right now, we'd go out whale-watching, and "god willing, we'll see one or two," then head over to the iceberg and check it out thoroughly.
On the way out of the harbour we saw a bald eagle high in the cliffs. The sun was sparkling on the water. All was completely calm. The moment was almost ruined by a BC man who couldn't stop yakking, but even he eventually entered into the spirit of the moment and shut the hell up.
Cecil said the morning boat had seen a Minke, which is the smallest whale, and one or two had been spotted last week. We've confirmed that it's a bit early for whales, and a bit late for icebergs, but it's possible to see either or both this time of year. Cecil said the only time he'll say you won't see a whale is when the tour ends and you haven't seen one. You never know.
Well, still no whale. We'll have a couple more chances on this trip. If we leave without having seen a whale, we just might have to return to Newfoundland. A few days in St. John's and a few days on the Avalon smack in the middle of whale season may be in our future.
When the boat headed towards the iceberg, the temperature dropped a bit. In this case it was refreshing, as we were overly bundled up for the sunny day. (When we took a boat tour in Alaska, as we headed into a glacial cove, it was like entering a giant walk-in freezer.) Cecil navigated as close to the iceberg as was safe, although apparently you can never be sure how big it is.
We were all riveted. It's massive, and looks totally different from every angle and in different light and shadow. Parts are polished smooth, and other parts are ridged or cross-hatched. The different textures are caused by the water and wind erosion, and by the constant splitting, turning and flipping of the iceberg. The berg erodes from the bottom, and as it does, its centre of gravity changes. It becomes imbalanced, until it eventually flips over, and a different part sticks out.
The berg we were watching was hollowed out in the centre, with two arms forming a little harbour. It also had three finger-like projections, like a claw, sticking up on the top. Cecil estimated that it was about 150 feet high. It's also 100,000 or 200,000 years old. It left Greenland three to five years ago, breaking apart and shrinking as it traveled. In a few weeks it will no longer exist.
While we were circling the berg, it made a few loud cracks, like a small explosion - the sound of the ice expanding. We were all hoping to see a piece break off and fall into the water, but that didn't happen while we were there.
Cecil mused on why these bergs command our attention this way. I liked that, because I always think about those kinds of things. Why do we all love to see wild animals? What is it about natural phenomena that stirs us so deeply?
Some of it must be the novelty. Most of us don't see icebergs where we live. Cecil thought that could only be a small portion of the attraction, as he sees them all the time and never tires of it.
They are extremely beautiful - Allan used the word "majestic" - and to think that this just happens, that no one sets about creating it, is quite amazing. But I don't know... there is something I can't articulate. I just appreciate the feeling.
That was really all we did on the boat - saw an eagle, looked for whales, and examined one iceberg - but it was great. The area itself is impossibly scenic. From the water, you see the little white houses clustered by the shore, as if they're clinging to their little footholds between rock and sea. Behind them is only rock. And out into the bay, rocky promontories and jagged cliffs jut out, one after the next, but no two alike.
After the boat ride, we had to get more of that seafood chowder, then spent the rest of the day driving or walking around admiring the scenery. On the way out to one lookout, I suddenly saw the iceberg across the bay. We pulled over and watched it between two houses. We went up to another lookout and scanned the horizon for whales... nothing.
I had more snow crabs for dinner; I had to pay for these, and I had to work on them myself, but it was still wonderful. Before we headed back to the room for the night, we drove out for one more glimpse of the iceberg. It looked completely different.
A huge piece had sheered off and a dozen or so smaller "bergy bits" were in the water alongside it. We were very far away and could see the pieces without binoculars, so they must have been sizeable. With the binos, you could tell the change was massive.
Back at the room, I'm blogging and Allan is watching today's Red Sox game in the MLB archives.
Tomorrow we will drive to Grand Forks, where NCF is from, and visit her mother and possibly her father and his wife as well. From there, we'll continue working our way west, then up the Great Northern Peninsula, for the next portion of the trip.
I've been emailing with Katherine The Dogsitter. Everyone seems to be fine, including her two bunny rabbits who are living in our spare bedroom (in their cage). Now Katherine understands why I was so concerned about having rabbits in the same house as Tala. Tala is a hunter, and I'd like Katherine's bunnies to live past July 2. But all the precautions we've taken seem to be working, and with any luck, both the bunnies and Tala will eventually settle down.
Random note. Our running gag is to tell each other about all the whales and other great wildlife that the other one missed. If one of us goes to the washroom or looks down to change the film or get something from the backpack, the other deadpans, "Don't you love it when the whales do that? Oh too bad you missed it." Or one of us says, "Was that before or after those seven whales swam by?" "Whale! Just kidding" will also work.
This Google image search might give you an idea of what I'm going on about.
Pictures of Twillingate are here.
After breakfast, we drove around Twillingate's little harbour to the tour boat company that has the best reputation. Cecil Stockley has been in business 25 years, about 15 years longer than there has been a regular tourist trade in Twillingate. We booked a 1:00 boat, then headed farther down the road, just to see what was out there. Not 50 feet later, as the car came up over a hill, we saw a huge iceberg sitting out in the bay. It's a remarkable sight. It seems completely out of place, like it dropped from the sky.
We drove further out, thinking we could walk onto one of the headlands for a good view, but the berg disappeared. The roads are winding, and there are so many more inlets and coves than you think, you can't easily figure out how to view the berg. When we parked in one little cove, two women came by with stories of where they had seen it and how. The tourists here all bore each other with stories of where they saw icebergs or whales, or where they didn't see them but other people did, or where they hope to see them later.
Eventually it was time for our boat, and who is on the dock but the couple who shared our crabfest in Bonavista. This is one thing I dislike - seeing the same people on a travel "circuit". It makes me feel so touristy. But it's happened to us in many places, so I suppose it's inevitable.
The "Iceberg Alley" boat holds only 20 people, and it was only half full, which was nice. Cecil Stockley was excellent - very knowledgeable, friendly and without any hokey "entertainment". He said since there was only one iceberg in the vicinity right now, we'd go out whale-watching, and "god willing, we'll see one or two," then head over to the iceberg and check it out thoroughly.
On the way out of the harbour we saw a bald eagle high in the cliffs. The sun was sparkling on the water. All was completely calm. The moment was almost ruined by a BC man who couldn't stop yakking, but even he eventually entered into the spirit of the moment and shut the hell up.
Cecil said the morning boat had seen a Minke, which is the smallest whale, and one or two had been spotted last week. We've confirmed that it's a bit early for whales, and a bit late for icebergs, but it's possible to see either or both this time of year. Cecil said the only time he'll say you won't see a whale is when the tour ends and you haven't seen one. You never know.
Well, still no whale. We'll have a couple more chances on this trip. If we leave without having seen a whale, we just might have to return to Newfoundland. A few days in St. John's and a few days on the Avalon smack in the middle of whale season may be in our future.
When the boat headed towards the iceberg, the temperature dropped a bit. In this case it was refreshing, as we were overly bundled up for the sunny day. (When we took a boat tour in Alaska, as we headed into a glacial cove, it was like entering a giant walk-in freezer.) Cecil navigated as close to the iceberg as was safe, although apparently you can never be sure how big it is.
We were all riveted. It's massive, and looks totally different from every angle and in different light and shadow. Parts are polished smooth, and other parts are ridged or cross-hatched. The different textures are caused by the water and wind erosion, and by the constant splitting, turning and flipping of the iceberg. The berg erodes from the bottom, and as it does, its centre of gravity changes. It becomes imbalanced, until it eventually flips over, and a different part sticks out.
The berg we were watching was hollowed out in the centre, with two arms forming a little harbour. It also had three finger-like projections, like a claw, sticking up on the top. Cecil estimated that it was about 150 feet high. It's also 100,000 or 200,000 years old. It left Greenland three to five years ago, breaking apart and shrinking as it traveled. In a few weeks it will no longer exist.
While we were circling the berg, it made a few loud cracks, like a small explosion - the sound of the ice expanding. We were all hoping to see a piece break off and fall into the water, but that didn't happen while we were there.
Cecil mused on why these bergs command our attention this way. I liked that, because I always think about those kinds of things. Why do we all love to see wild animals? What is it about natural phenomena that stirs us so deeply?
Some of it must be the novelty. Most of us don't see icebergs where we live. Cecil thought that could only be a small portion of the attraction, as he sees them all the time and never tires of it.
They are extremely beautiful - Allan used the word "majestic" - and to think that this just happens, that no one sets about creating it, is quite amazing. But I don't know... there is something I can't articulate. I just appreciate the feeling.
That was really all we did on the boat - saw an eagle, looked for whales, and examined one iceberg - but it was great. The area itself is impossibly scenic. From the water, you see the little white houses clustered by the shore, as if they're clinging to their little footholds between rock and sea. Behind them is only rock. And out into the bay, rocky promontories and jagged cliffs jut out, one after the next, but no two alike.
After the boat ride, we had to get more of that seafood chowder, then spent the rest of the day driving or walking around admiring the scenery. On the way out to one lookout, I suddenly saw the iceberg across the bay. We pulled over and watched it between two houses. We went up to another lookout and scanned the horizon for whales... nothing.
I had more snow crabs for dinner; I had to pay for these, and I had to work on them myself, but it was still wonderful. Before we headed back to the room for the night, we drove out for one more glimpse of the iceberg. It looked completely different.
A huge piece had sheered off and a dozen or so smaller "bergy bits" were in the water alongside it. We were very far away and could see the pieces without binoculars, so they must have been sizeable. With the binos, you could tell the change was massive.
Back at the room, I'm blogging and Allan is watching today's Red Sox game in the MLB archives.
Tomorrow we will drive to Grand Forks, where NCF is from, and visit her mother and possibly her father and his wife as well. From there, we'll continue working our way west, then up the Great Northern Peninsula, for the next portion of the trip.
I've been emailing with Katherine The Dogsitter. Everyone seems to be fine, including her two bunny rabbits who are living in our spare bedroom (in their cage). Now Katherine understands why I was so concerned about having rabbits in the same house as Tala. Tala is a hunter, and I'd like Katherine's bunnies to live past July 2. But all the precautions we've taken seem to be working, and with any luck, both the bunnies and Tala will eventually settle down.
Random note. Our running gag is to tell each other about all the whales and other great wildlife that the other one missed. If one of us goes to the washroom or looks down to change the film or get something from the backpack, the other deadpans, "Don't you love it when the whales do that? Oh too bad you missed it." Or one of us says, "Was that before or after those seven whales swam by?" "Whale! Just kidding" will also work.
This Google image search might give you an idea of what I'm going on about.
Pictures of Twillingate are here.
bonavista to twillingate
[Saturday, June 21]
Saturday morning, and most of the day, was chilly and drizzly. Everyone here talks about the weather all the time. Even taking into account the usual small-talk, this seems unusual. I imagine when you live in a place where the weather is constantly changing, and where a warm, sunny day is a minor event, and then throw in the influence of a maritime culture, where weather could mean life or death, it makes sense.
And everyone has been complaining about the weather, too. It hasn't seemed so bad to me - we've usually been comfortable with a light jacket, and only once had to really bundle up - but when you consider that it's late June, perhaps they've got a point. It was only when fellow guests at the B&B complained that it bothered me. Hell, you don't come to Newfoundland for the weather. And if sunny weather is that important to you, then wait for July and put up with the crowds. Grumble, grumble.
This mild irritation is the perfect lead-in to our breakfast on Saturday. On Friday morning we ate with our hosts, but this morning the table is full - us, a couple from BC, the couple from northern Ontario we met the night before and Teddy-Bear Guy.
TBG is declaiming loudly, holding court, making speechlets. He has a bad case of look-at-me-ism. Plus several disgusting personal habits that make it very difficult to look at him at all. Plus I haven't had my first cup of coffee. I can tell Allan is quietly gritting his teeth.
When TBG finally leaves - he had finished his breakfast a long time ago, and is just hanging around to make speeches - the atmosphere in my head improves considerably. But even making travel small-talk with the other couples (who are perfectly nice people) reminds me why we usually don't prefer B&Bs.
We settle up our ridiculously tiny bill, and thank Albert and Florence profusely. They see us off with directions and well-wishes as if we are family.
The plan is to drive down the Bonavista Peninsula to Clarenville, back to the Trans-Canada Highway to Gander, then turn off towards Twillingate. But first we want to stop at Port Union. Port Union represents a fascinating piece of history, and our stop there leads to one of our funniest travel moments, ever.
Port Union bills itself as Canada's only union-made town. It was founded in 1916 by William Ford Coaker, who began Canada's first fisherman's union, the Fisherman's Protective Union. Through Coaker's FPU, fishers and their families challenged the "merchant system," which was the maritime equivalent of sharecropping. The merchant - the big boss - owned everything. Fishers paid for all their essentials - tools, flour, anything - out of their catch and lived on credit. The system was designed to keep fishers in a constant state of poverty and debt.
Coaker encouraged community self-sufficiency, and unionism, and under his methods fisher communities lifted themselves out of poverty and began to thrive. The union motto was "To each his own".
The FPU formed a political party, and in 1912 ran on a platform of radical social change. In 1913, the FPU held eight seats in Newfoundland's House of Assembly. The FPU morphed into several different unions, but to this day, most fishers and fish-processing workers in Newfoundland are unionized.
It's a fascinating piece of labour - and of course, Newfoundland and Canadian - history. As its home is just down the road from Bonavista, we wanted to stop by. In Port Union, there's a small museum about Coaker, who was knighted in 1923, along with his home and grave. There's also an exhibit about the Fisherman's Advocate, the union newspaper that was an integral part of its organizing. Sounds perfect for us, eh? That's what we thought.
We purchased tickets, and the women hanging about introduced us to our guide. We'll call him Unintentionally Hilarious Tour Guide.
Now, Allan and I have taken guided tours or ranger talks on our travels together for more than 20 years, and I've been in this habit all my life, first from travel with my parents, then then on my own. Almost without exception, guides are very knowledgeable about their subject, offering context that illuminates whatever we're seeing, whether that is natural wonders or political history.
UHTG was in his 20s, and most likely intellectually disabled. Please know that we were nothing but polite and friendly to him. I'm certain no one else in Port Union knew what we were thinking.
As soon as UHTG started his talk, I knew something was wrong. He told a short story, probably memorized by rote, that was disjointed and out of context. The opening sentence: "We don't know what the workers earned, but after the strike, they made fifty cents an hour." What workers? What strike? What year is his? Then the Fisherman's Protective Union is formed. "On November 2, they held their first meeting." I asked, "Excuse me, what year is that?" He didn't know, but thought about it for a minute and decided on 1908. This was strange, but not yet ridiculous.
A few minutes later, UHTG told a story about the fishermen's opposition to the war, and how Coaker voted for the war anyway. (I haven't verified that.) The story had jumped around a lot, and we didn't know what year we were in, or even what war he was referring to. Allan asked, "Which war?" UHTG drew a blank. Allan said politely, "Was it World War I, or World War II?" UHTG: "Either World War I or World War II. One of those. World War I would have come first, then World War II would have been later." From the exhibit, we later saw that Coaker died in 1938. Oh boy. That's when I decided not to ask any more questions, so as not to possibly embarrass him.
We followed UHTG around, trying to read the printed material as he chattered. The tour included a walk around the old printing machinery used to create The Advocate, guided by a former pressman. He had a very strong accent, spoke very quickly, and although I have no doubt he was an excellent printer, he possessed no skill as a tour guide. But at least it was a break from UHTG.
After the press room, things really deteriorated. Upstairs in the woodworking area, UHTG read the labels on the display cases. "Here we have some saws, here are some nails, here are some hooks. This is a really big hook." He walked quickly through the room, reading the signs to us. "This table used to be over here, and this one was over here. We had to switch them around. It was really hard to do, the tables are very heavy!"
At this point, I feel a fit of giggles coming on, and I'm afraid that if I start to laugh, I will be completely out of control. (I'm laughing as I type this!) Allan and I had exchanged looks behind TG's back a few times, but now I have to stop looking at Allan altogether. I start biting my lip, and occasionally coughing into my hand when laughter threatens to become audible.
We follow UHTG outside, for a stroll past Sir Coaker's house, small bungalows were workers lived, Coaker's grave, and a walk near the bay, from which you can see the boarded-up fish processing plant and the small, active plant where shrimp is now processed. (The Port Union fish-processing plant was the huge employer of our lovely guide in Bonavista, along with everyone else in the area.)
Outside, UHTG seems to lose all memory of what he's supposed to be doing. It's like we're walking around with some guy we met. I am struggling not to burst out in an uncontrollable laughing fit. It's drizzly, so I use that as an excuse to pull the hood of my windbreaker tightly around my head, and I hang back a few steps, so I can't hear anything. It's the only way.
When I do catch some of the "tour", UHTG is pointing out the overgrown grass - "They really should do something about this" - or the poor condition of the town's sad-looking playground. By the time we're back at the bay, he's pointing to pieces of trash and musing on what happens when you feed seagulls.
On our way back to the gift shop, we pass the small Coaker museum without a word, like it's not even there!
Finally we return. I hope I don't need to say that we had no intentions of telling anyone what just happened. I think the rest of the staff doesn't know what goes on on these tours. Allan disagrees, and is convinced that they must know, and not realize how inappropriate it is. Either way is strange, and kind of sad. This is not an official historic site that gets funding from Parks Canada. The entrance fee is steep, but they're never going to attract more visitors like this.
At the gift shop, I want to get something with the FPU logo, a big red U surrounding a fish. There is nothing, not a pin or a keychain or a postcard. There's not even a pamphlet about the FPU, just stuffed puffins and other generic Newfoundland gifts. When I asked about something with the logo on it, a gift-shop employee said other people have asked about it, and she agrees that they ought to sell those.
We talked a little about the union - her husband was a member for 30 years - and how it changed the lives of so many people. She says, "We did well around here. People owned their own homes, and could even save a bit of money. Who ever heard of a fisherman able to save money? The union was everything to us."
Finally we said goodbye, thanking UHTG, shaking his hand, and managing to drive away before we exploded. The whole way down the Bonavista Peninsula, we couldn't stop talking about, alternating between hilarity and incredulity. We didn't learn very much, but as Allan said, we got plenty of material.
We drove to Clarenville, where my cell phone worked, and called a few places to stay in Twillingate. Our first priority was internet access. Being offline for a short time can be refreshing, but being cut off from our dogwalker, my blog and the Red Sox for days was stressful! A few B&Bs were fully booked, but after some phone calls, we found a room at a larger motel. And after our irritating breakfast that morning, the anonymity and privacy of a motel seems like a plus.
Back on the Trans-Canada, we drive on steep hills, past rock outcroppings and scrubby pine forests. The highway cuts through Terra Nova National Park. Every so often the trees give way to a view of a lake, pond, bay or inlet. There is water everywhere.
We exit the highway at Gander, where, surprisingly, I again don't have cell service, so good job we booked our room from Clarenville. The road out to Twillingate is rutted and slow, but the scenery is amazing. There are dozens of ponds and quiet bays, small white houses perched on the water's edge, a more gentle landscape then we had seen before. The road eventually branches out into causeways, as the end of the peninsula is an archipelago of large and small islands.
Towards Twillingate, the land becomes rugged again, with jagged cliffs and spectacular views. Twillingate calls itself the iceberg capital of Newfoundland. There are tour boat companies out here that are supposed to know where all the icebergs and whales have been spotted. As we approach Twillingate, the sun comes out, and suddenly it's summer again.
We find our hotel, and hooray, we're back online! We managed to pull ourselves away from our computers long enough to eat amazing seafood chowder and admire the sun-drenched scenery, then back inside to write more.
Random note: my feet don't hurt! I have had zero foot pain. It was this trip that pushed me to see a podiatrist and get orthotics, and it's really paying off. There's no way I could be doing this otherwise.
Saturday morning, and most of the day, was chilly and drizzly. Everyone here talks about the weather all the time. Even taking into account the usual small-talk, this seems unusual. I imagine when you live in a place where the weather is constantly changing, and where a warm, sunny day is a minor event, and then throw in the influence of a maritime culture, where weather could mean life or death, it makes sense.
And everyone has been complaining about the weather, too. It hasn't seemed so bad to me - we've usually been comfortable with a light jacket, and only once had to really bundle up - but when you consider that it's late June, perhaps they've got a point. It was only when fellow guests at the B&B complained that it bothered me. Hell, you don't come to Newfoundland for the weather. And if sunny weather is that important to you, then wait for July and put up with the crowds. Grumble, grumble.
This mild irritation is the perfect lead-in to our breakfast on Saturday. On Friday morning we ate with our hosts, but this morning the table is full - us, a couple from BC, the couple from northern Ontario we met the night before and Teddy-Bear Guy.
TBG is declaiming loudly, holding court, making speechlets. He has a bad case of look-at-me-ism. Plus several disgusting personal habits that make it very difficult to look at him at all. Plus I haven't had my first cup of coffee. I can tell Allan is quietly gritting his teeth.
When TBG finally leaves - he had finished his breakfast a long time ago, and is just hanging around to make speeches - the atmosphere in my head improves considerably. But even making travel small-talk with the other couples (who are perfectly nice people) reminds me why we usually don't prefer B&Bs.
We settle up our ridiculously tiny bill, and thank Albert and Florence profusely. They see us off with directions and well-wishes as if we are family.
The plan is to drive down the Bonavista Peninsula to Clarenville, back to the Trans-Canada Highway to Gander, then turn off towards Twillingate. But first we want to stop at Port Union. Port Union represents a fascinating piece of history, and our stop there leads to one of our funniest travel moments, ever.
Port Union bills itself as Canada's only union-made town. It was founded in 1916 by William Ford Coaker, who began Canada's first fisherman's union, the Fisherman's Protective Union. Through Coaker's FPU, fishers and their families challenged the "merchant system," which was the maritime equivalent of sharecropping. The merchant - the big boss - owned everything. Fishers paid for all their essentials - tools, flour, anything - out of their catch and lived on credit. The system was designed to keep fishers in a constant state of poverty and debt.
Coaker encouraged community self-sufficiency, and unionism, and under his methods fisher communities lifted themselves out of poverty and began to thrive. The union motto was "To each his own".
The FPU formed a political party, and in 1912 ran on a platform of radical social change. In 1913, the FPU held eight seats in Newfoundland's House of Assembly. The FPU morphed into several different unions, but to this day, most fishers and fish-processing workers in Newfoundland are unionized.
It's a fascinating piece of labour - and of course, Newfoundland and Canadian - history. As its home is just down the road from Bonavista, we wanted to stop by. In Port Union, there's a small museum about Coaker, who was knighted in 1923, along with his home and grave. There's also an exhibit about the Fisherman's Advocate, the union newspaper that was an integral part of its organizing. Sounds perfect for us, eh? That's what we thought.
We purchased tickets, and the women hanging about introduced us to our guide. We'll call him Unintentionally Hilarious Tour Guide.
Now, Allan and I have taken guided tours or ranger talks on our travels together for more than 20 years, and I've been in this habit all my life, first from travel with my parents, then then on my own. Almost without exception, guides are very knowledgeable about their subject, offering context that illuminates whatever we're seeing, whether that is natural wonders or political history.
UHTG was in his 20s, and most likely intellectually disabled. Please know that we were nothing but polite and friendly to him. I'm certain no one else in Port Union knew what we were thinking.
As soon as UHTG started his talk, I knew something was wrong. He told a short story, probably memorized by rote, that was disjointed and out of context. The opening sentence: "We don't know what the workers earned, but after the strike, they made fifty cents an hour." What workers? What strike? What year is his? Then the Fisherman's Protective Union is formed. "On November 2, they held their first meeting." I asked, "Excuse me, what year is that?" He didn't know, but thought about it for a minute and decided on 1908. This was strange, but not yet ridiculous.
A few minutes later, UHTG told a story about the fishermen's opposition to the war, and how Coaker voted for the war anyway. (I haven't verified that.) The story had jumped around a lot, and we didn't know what year we were in, or even what war he was referring to. Allan asked, "Which war?" UHTG drew a blank. Allan said politely, "Was it World War I, or World War II?" UHTG: "Either World War I or World War II. One of those. World War I would have come first, then World War II would have been later." From the exhibit, we later saw that Coaker died in 1938. Oh boy. That's when I decided not to ask any more questions, so as not to possibly embarrass him.
We followed UHTG around, trying to read the printed material as he chattered. The tour included a walk around the old printing machinery used to create The Advocate, guided by a former pressman. He had a very strong accent, spoke very quickly, and although I have no doubt he was an excellent printer, he possessed no skill as a tour guide. But at least it was a break from UHTG.
After the press room, things really deteriorated. Upstairs in the woodworking area, UHTG read the labels on the display cases. "Here we have some saws, here are some nails, here are some hooks. This is a really big hook." He walked quickly through the room, reading the signs to us. "This table used to be over here, and this one was over here. We had to switch them around. It was really hard to do, the tables are very heavy!"
At this point, I feel a fit of giggles coming on, and I'm afraid that if I start to laugh, I will be completely out of control. (I'm laughing as I type this!) Allan and I had exchanged looks behind TG's back a few times, but now I have to stop looking at Allan altogether. I start biting my lip, and occasionally coughing into my hand when laughter threatens to become audible.
We follow UHTG outside, for a stroll past Sir Coaker's house, small bungalows were workers lived, Coaker's grave, and a walk near the bay, from which you can see the boarded-up fish processing plant and the small, active plant where shrimp is now processed. (The Port Union fish-processing plant was the huge employer of our lovely guide in Bonavista, along with everyone else in the area.)
Outside, UHTG seems to lose all memory of what he's supposed to be doing. It's like we're walking around with some guy we met. I am struggling not to burst out in an uncontrollable laughing fit. It's drizzly, so I use that as an excuse to pull the hood of my windbreaker tightly around my head, and I hang back a few steps, so I can't hear anything. It's the only way.
When I do catch some of the "tour", UHTG is pointing out the overgrown grass - "They really should do something about this" - or the poor condition of the town's sad-looking playground. By the time we're back at the bay, he's pointing to pieces of trash and musing on what happens when you feed seagulls.
On our way back to the gift shop, we pass the small Coaker museum without a word, like it's not even there!
Finally we return. I hope I don't need to say that we had no intentions of telling anyone what just happened. I think the rest of the staff doesn't know what goes on on these tours. Allan disagrees, and is convinced that they must know, and not realize how inappropriate it is. Either way is strange, and kind of sad. This is not an official historic site that gets funding from Parks Canada. The entrance fee is steep, but they're never going to attract more visitors like this.
At the gift shop, I want to get something with the FPU logo, a big red U surrounding a fish. There is nothing, not a pin or a keychain or a postcard. There's not even a pamphlet about the FPU, just stuffed puffins and other generic Newfoundland gifts. When I asked about something with the logo on it, a gift-shop employee said other people have asked about it, and she agrees that they ought to sell those.
We talked a little about the union - her husband was a member for 30 years - and how it changed the lives of so many people. She says, "We did well around here. People owned their own homes, and could even save a bit of money. Who ever heard of a fisherman able to save money? The union was everything to us."
Finally we said goodbye, thanking UHTG, shaking his hand, and managing to drive away before we exploded. The whole way down the Bonavista Peninsula, we couldn't stop talking about, alternating between hilarity and incredulity. We didn't learn very much, but as Allan said, we got plenty of material.
We drove to Clarenville, where my cell phone worked, and called a few places to stay in Twillingate. Our first priority was internet access. Being offline for a short time can be refreshing, but being cut off from our dogwalker, my blog and the Red Sox for days was stressful! A few B&Bs were fully booked, but after some phone calls, we found a room at a larger motel. And after our irritating breakfast that morning, the anonymity and privacy of a motel seems like a plus.
Back on the Trans-Canada, we drive on steep hills, past rock outcroppings and scrubby pine forests. The highway cuts through Terra Nova National Park. Every so often the trees give way to a view of a lake, pond, bay or inlet. There is water everywhere.
We exit the highway at Gander, where, surprisingly, I again don't have cell service, so good job we booked our room from Clarenville. The road out to Twillingate is rutted and slow, but the scenery is amazing. There are dozens of ponds and quiet bays, small white houses perched on the water's edge, a more gentle landscape then we had seen before. The road eventually branches out into causeways, as the end of the peninsula is an archipelago of large and small islands.
Towards Twillingate, the land becomes rugged again, with jagged cliffs and spectacular views. Twillingate calls itself the iceberg capital of Newfoundland. There are tour boat companies out here that are supposed to know where all the icebergs and whales have been spotted. As we approach Twillingate, the sun comes out, and suddenly it's summer again.
We find our hotel, and hooray, we're back online! We managed to pull ourselves away from our computers long enough to eat amazing seafood chowder and admire the sun-drenched scenery, then back inside to write more.
Random note: my feet don't hurt! I have had zero foot pain. It was this trip that pushed me to see a podiatrist and get orthotics, and it's really paying off. There's no way I could be doing this otherwise.
6.21.2008
bonavista, second day and night
[Friday, June 20]
After Florence cooked us a full breakfast, including homemade bread and jams, we walked down the street to Ryan Premises, a national historic site. We weren't expecting much, just a town museum and something about the fishing industry, but it turned out to be absolutely fascinating, a must-see if you visit Bonavista.
Ryan Premises is a group of buildings on the harbour, which includes the home of the Ryan family, who owned much of the town, and pretty much owned the fishermen and their families, too. It houses the Bonavista historical society, an collection of artifacts from generations of town families.
The best part of Ryan Premises is an interpretative centre telling the story of the fishing industry in Newfoundland, from its beginning in the 1500s to its demise in the early 1990s. (There's a separate exhibit on sealing.) From it, I gained a much deeper understanding of the history and culture of the province.
The exhibit includes a National Film Board movie called "Taking Stock," about the end of the cod industry (and possibly the end of the northern cod species). It was very moving, and very disturbing. The film takes a strong viewpoint in favour of the "inshore fishermen," which are the people of Bonavista and hundreds of communities like it, whose lives have been bound up in cod fishing for centuries.
The filmmaker compares the destruction of the northern cod stock and its effect on Newfoundlanders to the destruction of the buffalo and its effect on the native peoples of the plains. That's a powerful image, and an apt one. I did realize later that the people of Newfoundland had Canada. For whatever it might have done better, Canada didn't let them just fade away and die.
You know I hate the dilution of language, and I try not to throw around words like tragic and heroic. But if ever there was a tragic story, it's the demise of the northern cod. It is all the more tragic because it was completely preventable, and given what we know about human behaviour, also almost inevitable.
While the movie shows the complexity of blame and responsibility, to my mind this tragedy has some clear villains, too. One species of fish can't be caught twelve months a year, and it can't be caught in massive quantities, hauling in a daily catch as large as most fishermen would see in an entire season. The ocean is not a factory. The cod is not a widget.
The story brings up two themes I've hammered on at wmtc. One, Jared Diamond in Collapse: people thinking they were spending the interest of their environments, when they were actually spending their capital and draining their bank accounts. (In this case, knowingly draining the bank account, because they'd run off with the money while the family stayed behind in poverty.) And two, Michael Pollan on the horrific consequences of trying to apply the principles of mass production to food. Both ideas are brilliantly and tragically illustrated in the complete collapse of a food web and way of life that thrived for 500 years.
After we saw the film, we talked for a while with one of the guides, who grew up in Bonavista. She and her husband - and everyone they knew - worked at the fish processing plant. She told us about her old life - how the increased production from the trawlers brought them a comfort level and prosperity they had never known (who ever heard of middle-class fishermen?), and also how they saw the signs that something was going very wrong, such as the size of the fish getting smaller and smaller.
Then the devastation, the disbelief, the depression, as their entire way of life is made obsolete. Something unthinkable, impossible: the end of commercial cod fishing in Newfoundland.
And then, their options for survival, brought to them by the government. She chose to get more education - none of her family had ever finished high school, and her parents and in-laws had left school to work while still in their single-digits. I could hear this woman had an inner strength and flexibility to persevere against strong odds, and without a lot of support.
She went back to school, then started working for the town museum, at first earning a tiny fraction of her former factory pay. She learned new skills, and worked hard, and eventually landed a highly competitive job with Parks Canada, telling the story of her own culture. It's an excellent job, and she loves it, but unfortunately it is only seasonal (4.5 months out of the year), and she doubts she can advance in the parks service because she doesn't speak French. But she's already done so much - she's transformed herself and her family. I really admire her.
One huge part of the rebirth of a post-fishing Newfoundland is what Allan and I are enjoying right now. I'm told that ten years ago, there was almost no tourism infrastructure here at all. Grants, education programs, and such helped Newfoundlanders build a tourism economy, to share the beauty of their land and culture with us mainlanders.
After the museum, it was back to Marsh's, for more fish and chips (it never ends), then to the Bonavista Lighthouse.
This is a beautiful lighthouse, similar to the one at Cape Spear, but we were there on a special mission. My Newfie-born friend from the War Resisters Campaign - Newfie Campaign Friend, NCF? - sent me there. Her grandmother was born in that lighthouse!
We took a short and very informative tour, and told the tour guides (who are dressed in period costumes) about this connection. They looked it up, and we derived that NCF's grandmother was the youngest child of Nicholas White. Nicholas was the son of Bonavista's very first lighthouse keeper, and took over for his father when he died.
NCF told me to check out the cliffs behind the lighthouse and realize that was this family's backyard. There's a fence there now, of course, but the drop is steep and the rocks are like a dragon's teeth snapping in the air. But they never lost a child over the cliffs, and some lightkeepers' families had as many as 11 children.
Near the lighthouse is a statue of John Cabot (given name Giovanni Caboto!), who may or may not have first touched the New World at Bonavista in 1497. He did "discover" (ahem) this New Found Land, the first toehold of the nascent British Empire, and "legend has it" that was at Cape Bonavista. A replica of his boat, The Matthew, is on display in the town. It also has an interpretative centre, called The Matthew Legacy.
After the lighthouse, we went to Bonavista's little public library. We had been waiting for it to open, as we hadn't had internet access since leaving St. John's. I have no cell phone service either, and I get a little nervous being completely out of touch with our dogsitter. (This comes from one very bad past experience.) I was also anxious to blog, and Allan needed some game information. The library is only open a few hours a day - and not even every day - and there is no other public internet in town.
When the library finally opened, we couldn't do anything but check email. Blogger was blocked! The entire Newfoundland/Labrador Community Access Internet Program cannot access Blogger or any blog created with blogger.
Our hosts had told us that the door would be open all day, and we should feel free to stop in any time and put the kettle on. So we did, and while we were having our tea, we met another guest I'll call Teddy Bear Guy.
Bonavista is celebrating Discovery Days, a local holiday commemorating Cabot's landing. Teddy Bear Guy is performing a children's music event, and whenever he's in, he stays with the Alberts. I don't want to go on about TBG; let's just say "irritating" and leave it at that.
For dinner, we couldn't bear another meal at Marsh's, so we drove out of town a ways and found another little joint, and ate some non-seafood, non-fried food.
Back in Bonavista, we missed the parade that opens the festivities, but settled in at the Orange Hall (like the Legion Hall, but for Orangemen) for some music. Local people drifted in, wearing jackets against the chill, even inside. There were chips and cans of beer or pop for sale, and everyone sat at big folding tables on hard wooden chairs.
The first act was a duo, one man on guitar and one with a concertina, singing Irish or Newfoundland ballads and spinning off reels. They were followed by a man on guitar and harmonica, singing Hank Williams-style country songs, with a few Irish numbers mixed in. We enjoyed them both, but when the next act did a Canadian-style Toby Keith "Canada Is Number One" kind of song, we got ready to leave. They also had a Gordon Lightfoot-influenced folk thing going on, and as you may know, we are not fans of Mr Lightfoot. Besides, it was almost crab time!
Back at the B&B, our crabfest was joined by another couple from Northern Ontario. Albert told the same jokes, Florence walked in at the same time with the same tarts, and I realized we had witnessed an old routine. They seem to love it, and I sincerely hope they do. These folks give so much to their guests, and they could fill their house at twice the rate. In fact, Albert told us that he has never raised the rates in 11 years. They have no employees to pay, they own their home outright, and they live simply but want for nothing. Their daughter is an RCMP officer and their surviving son lives in St. John's. They're a wonderful couple, and I promised I would tell you all about their wonderful home.
That catches us up with last night. Today was fun and accidentally hilarious. I'll write about it tomorrow morning.
After Florence cooked us a full breakfast, including homemade bread and jams, we walked down the street to Ryan Premises, a national historic site. We weren't expecting much, just a town museum and something about the fishing industry, but it turned out to be absolutely fascinating, a must-see if you visit Bonavista.
Ryan Premises is a group of buildings on the harbour, which includes the home of the Ryan family, who owned much of the town, and pretty much owned the fishermen and their families, too. It houses the Bonavista historical society, an collection of artifacts from generations of town families.
The best part of Ryan Premises is an interpretative centre telling the story of the fishing industry in Newfoundland, from its beginning in the 1500s to its demise in the early 1990s. (There's a separate exhibit on sealing.) From it, I gained a much deeper understanding of the history and culture of the province.
The exhibit includes a National Film Board movie called "Taking Stock," about the end of the cod industry (and possibly the end of the northern cod species). It was very moving, and very disturbing. The film takes a strong viewpoint in favour of the "inshore fishermen," which are the people of Bonavista and hundreds of communities like it, whose lives have been bound up in cod fishing for centuries.
The filmmaker compares the destruction of the northern cod stock and its effect on Newfoundlanders to the destruction of the buffalo and its effect on the native peoples of the plains. That's a powerful image, and an apt one. I did realize later that the people of Newfoundland had Canada. For whatever it might have done better, Canada didn't let them just fade away and die.
You know I hate the dilution of language, and I try not to throw around words like tragic and heroic. But if ever there was a tragic story, it's the demise of the northern cod. It is all the more tragic because it was completely preventable, and given what we know about human behaviour, also almost inevitable.
While the movie shows the complexity of blame and responsibility, to my mind this tragedy has some clear villains, too. One species of fish can't be caught twelve months a year, and it can't be caught in massive quantities, hauling in a daily catch as large as most fishermen would see in an entire season. The ocean is not a factory. The cod is not a widget.
The story brings up two themes I've hammered on at wmtc. One, Jared Diamond in Collapse: people thinking they were spending the interest of their environments, when they were actually spending their capital and draining their bank accounts. (In this case, knowingly draining the bank account, because they'd run off with the money while the family stayed behind in poverty.) And two, Michael Pollan on the horrific consequences of trying to apply the principles of mass production to food. Both ideas are brilliantly and tragically illustrated in the complete collapse of a food web and way of life that thrived for 500 years.
After we saw the film, we talked for a while with one of the guides, who grew up in Bonavista. She and her husband - and everyone they knew - worked at the fish processing plant. She told us about her old life - how the increased production from the trawlers brought them a comfort level and prosperity they had never known (who ever heard of middle-class fishermen?), and also how they saw the signs that something was going very wrong, such as the size of the fish getting smaller and smaller.
Then the devastation, the disbelief, the depression, as their entire way of life is made obsolete. Something unthinkable, impossible: the end of commercial cod fishing in Newfoundland.
And then, their options for survival, brought to them by the government. She chose to get more education - none of her family had ever finished high school, and her parents and in-laws had left school to work while still in their single-digits. I could hear this woman had an inner strength and flexibility to persevere against strong odds, and without a lot of support.
She went back to school, then started working for the town museum, at first earning a tiny fraction of her former factory pay. She learned new skills, and worked hard, and eventually landed a highly competitive job with Parks Canada, telling the story of her own culture. It's an excellent job, and she loves it, but unfortunately it is only seasonal (4.5 months out of the year), and she doubts she can advance in the parks service because she doesn't speak French. But she's already done so much - she's transformed herself and her family. I really admire her.
One huge part of the rebirth of a post-fishing Newfoundland is what Allan and I are enjoying right now. I'm told that ten years ago, there was almost no tourism infrastructure here at all. Grants, education programs, and such helped Newfoundlanders build a tourism economy, to share the beauty of their land and culture with us mainlanders.
After the museum, it was back to Marsh's, for more fish and chips (it never ends), then to the Bonavista Lighthouse.
This is a beautiful lighthouse, similar to the one at Cape Spear, but we were there on a special mission. My Newfie-born friend from the War Resisters Campaign - Newfie Campaign Friend, NCF? - sent me there. Her grandmother was born in that lighthouse!
We took a short and very informative tour, and told the tour guides (who are dressed in period costumes) about this connection. They looked it up, and we derived that NCF's grandmother was the youngest child of Nicholas White. Nicholas was the son of Bonavista's very first lighthouse keeper, and took over for his father when he died.
NCF told me to check out the cliffs behind the lighthouse and realize that was this family's backyard. There's a fence there now, of course, but the drop is steep and the rocks are like a dragon's teeth snapping in the air. But they never lost a child over the cliffs, and some lightkeepers' families had as many as 11 children.
Near the lighthouse is a statue of John Cabot (given name Giovanni Caboto!), who may or may not have first touched the New World at Bonavista in 1497. He did "discover" (ahem) this New Found Land, the first toehold of the nascent British Empire, and "legend has it" that was at Cape Bonavista. A replica of his boat, The Matthew, is on display in the town. It also has an interpretative centre, called The Matthew Legacy.
After the lighthouse, we went to Bonavista's little public library. We had been waiting for it to open, as we hadn't had internet access since leaving St. John's. I have no cell phone service either, and I get a little nervous being completely out of touch with our dogsitter. (This comes from one very bad past experience.) I was also anxious to blog, and Allan needed some game information. The library is only open a few hours a day - and not even every day - and there is no other public internet in town.
When the library finally opened, we couldn't do anything but check email. Blogger was blocked! The entire Newfoundland/Labrador Community Access Internet Program cannot access Blogger or any blog created with blogger.
Our hosts had told us that the door would be open all day, and we should feel free to stop in any time and put the kettle on. So we did, and while we were having our tea, we met another guest I'll call Teddy Bear Guy.
Bonavista is celebrating Discovery Days, a local holiday commemorating Cabot's landing. Teddy Bear Guy is performing a children's music event, and whenever he's in, he stays with the Alberts. I don't want to go on about TBG; let's just say "irritating" and leave it at that.
For dinner, we couldn't bear another meal at Marsh's, so we drove out of town a ways and found another little joint, and ate some non-seafood, non-fried food.
Back in Bonavista, we missed the parade that opens the festivities, but settled in at the Orange Hall (like the Legion Hall, but for Orangemen) for some music. Local people drifted in, wearing jackets against the chill, even inside. There were chips and cans of beer or pop for sale, and everyone sat at big folding tables on hard wooden chairs.
The first act was a duo, one man on guitar and one with a concertina, singing Irish or Newfoundland ballads and spinning off reels. They were followed by a man on guitar and harmonica, singing Hank Williams-style country songs, with a few Irish numbers mixed in. We enjoyed them both, but when the next act did a Canadian-style Toby Keith "Canada Is Number One" kind of song, we got ready to leave. They also had a Gordon Lightfoot-influenced folk thing going on, and as you may know, we are not fans of Mr Lightfoot. Besides, it was almost crab time!
Back at the B&B, our crabfest was joined by another couple from Northern Ontario. Albert told the same jokes, Florence walked in at the same time with the same tarts, and I realized we had witnessed an old routine. They seem to love it, and I sincerely hope they do. These folks give so much to their guests, and they could fill their house at twice the rate. In fact, Albert told us that he has never raised the rates in 11 years. They have no employees to pay, they own their home outright, and they live simply but want for nothing. Their daughter is an RCMP officer and their surviving son lives in St. John's. They're a wonderful couple, and I promised I would tell you all about their wonderful home.
That catches us up with last night. Today was fun and accidentally hilarious. I'll write about it tomorrow morning.
bonavista, first night
[Thursday, June 19]
On Mr. Albert's recommendation, we drove to the other end of town, near the lighthouse, to Marsh's, a restaurant and dairy bar, which elsewhere might be called a seafood shack and ice cream stand. All the restaurants we've been to so far have been extremely simple rooms, with folding chairs, plastic table cloths, and Newfoundland tourism posters on the wall. The menus are all about the same. Everything is either deep-fried or pan-fried, everything comes with french fries and the spit-cup of coleslaw. There might be homemade pies on the menu, but there won't be anything resembling a vegetable or a salad. Not that I'm complaining. I always go with the flow; wherever I am, I eat what the locals eat. But Newfoundlanders must be the most unhealthy people in Canada. Most people are quite large, and everyone smokes.
After dinner we walked around the town a bit. There's a beautiful 1-kilometer boardwalk encircling a pond; the boardwalk is even accessible by ramp, and has gazebos and benches at intervals. Then we picked up a couple of beverages and sat on the porch of the B&B, overlooking the harbour. After a while Albert came by, made some small talk, then asked us if we wanted to see some of the town. Why not?
As we're leaving, Albert asks, "Did you see our snack?" He shows us three plates piled high with crab - huge snow crabs, legs 10 or 12 inches long. If you love seafood, as I do, this is a rare sight. We aren't sure what Albert means. Are we actually going to eat all that? Is he kidding?
On the subject of crabs, there's a factory in town that obviously has something to do with fish processing. Knowing the cod industry is no more, I asked Albert what they do at this plant. He says, "It's crab". Crab processing? Yes. Canned? Frozen? Albert says, "It's the damnedest thing. They used to take the crab and make a finished product and ship it directly to the States. Now they cut it into sections and freeze it, then it's shipped to China, the rest of the processing is done there, then it comes back here, and it's sold to the U.S. Product of Canada." Argh!
This ties in to so many conversations we've had at wmtc. It's awful for labour, for the environment and for our health. It also ties into what might be the only good thing the Harper Government ever does: the proposal for more honest food labelling. We'll have to see how that pans out, how much industry is allowed to interfere.
Albert drove us across town, back towards where we had dinner, then down a dirt road. Horses, cows and sheep were grazing on common pasture, a rare bit of farmland for this region. Past that is a provincial park called The Dungeon.
A platform overlooks a cove, where a rock is split into two tunnels. Waves are crashing all around and through them; it looks like something out of a pirate movie. There's some geological information on how it was formed, and how the rock will one day look like the stand-alone outcroppings that dot the coastline. Albert says, "Come on, how would anyone know how old a rock is?"
This is one of the most rugged coastlines I have ever seen - jagged rocks, waves crashing, all sharp outlines. There's something very stirring about it, a kind of wild beauty.
From there we drive over to the lighthouse, where Albert says thousands of puffins will be coming in from their day at sea, but it's fogged in.
On the way back, Albert shows us some local landmarks, including a Catholic church that holds 1400 people: "The only time it was ever full was when I buried my son". He was 13 years old. He went to a hockey tournament on a Friday, and was dead by Saturday, drowned in a hotel pool in St. John's.
There wasn't much time for sympathy; Albert wanted us to know, but then quickly changed the subject. After some question of mine, he said, "Before 1949 we were under British rule, you know. Then we joined Canada, the best decision we ever made." I said I had heard a lot of people opposed Confederation. "It was 49% to 51% but thank goodness we come out on top. I think Canada is one of the greatest countries in the world." This prompted me to tell him we chose to live in Canada over the U.S. To which he said: "Strange."
This made Albert think of the war (funny how that works!), and he told us he is against Canada's presence in Afghanistan. "What are we doing there anyway? I wouldn't send my son there, so why should I ask anyone else to send their own?" I asked if he thought other people in the area felt this way. He said, "Ninety percent! We all oppose it. But that's our government for you."
Albert was born in the house we are staying in, and except for eight years in Ontario working on the Canadian Pacific Railroad, has lived in Central Newfoundland all his life. Bonavista has had about the same population the whole time, about 5,000 people, although now about 650 young people are off working in Alberta. Last year in Bonavista, 36 new homes were built, mostly vacation homes for Americans.
We get home and Albert says, "Let's go eat some crab, eh?"
Inside, he puts down a plastic table cloth, then a green garbage bag on top of that, pulls over a giant plate of snow crabs, picks up a huge knife and starts hacking away. He shows us how to use the backs of our forks to scoop out the meat, then keeps hacking with the knife, tossing pieces on the table in front of us. We're eating and he's cutting, and he's also pulling out choice bits and putting them on a plate to give to his wife when she comes later.
We ate a mountain of crab. A mountain. And it is the freshest, sweetest, most delicious crab I have ever eaten.
Albert says he's been doing this every night for 11 years. When crabs are not in season, there is shrimp. The men who catch the crabs get only $1.50 per pound, and they are weighed and checked, so no one can take home a crab without a reduction in his quota. But Albert has "some friends on the boats", and he always has crab.
I told Albert the guidebook says the B&B has "a late-night snack", and we thought there might be a glass of milk and a cookie. He says, "I'll close up before I do that!"
Then Albert's wife comes in, Florence Albert. She puts the kettle on and says she has fresh bakeapple tarts. Albert makes toast and starts slathering it with jam. The jam is partridgeberry, which tastes similar to cranberry. Bakeapples are also berries, not crab apples as I thought. Albert shows us what the berries look like and how they are picked.
Florence puts down tarts dolloped with sweet cream, plus some other kind of cookie with coconut marshmallows inside. So now we're drinking mugs of tea and eating desserts at 11:00 at night, after eating a full dinner, including ice cream, not five hours earlier. We hang out with Albert and Florence for a while, and it feels more like sitting in a friends' kitchen than staying in a hotel.
They tell us it's a rare night that they're not fully booked, and indeed the next night they are full again, so we were very lucky to have this private little treat to ourselves.
Most of their guests have been from either Ontario or BC. "Where are you from in Ontario?" "Mississauga." "Is there anyone left in Mississauga? They're all here!" We've heard this from several people already: that a huge preponderance of Newfoundland tourism right now is from Ontario. I'm so glad to hear it, as it contradicts my impression that Canadians don't seem to travel much, and especially don't travel within Canada.
Albert also says we're probably too early for whales, but reminds me that you really never know. You can see them any time from May to September, so June is still possible.
Pictures of Bonavista are here.
On Mr. Albert's recommendation, we drove to the other end of town, near the lighthouse, to Marsh's, a restaurant and dairy bar, which elsewhere might be called a seafood shack and ice cream stand. All the restaurants we've been to so far have been extremely simple rooms, with folding chairs, plastic table cloths, and Newfoundland tourism posters on the wall. The menus are all about the same. Everything is either deep-fried or pan-fried, everything comes with french fries and the spit-cup of coleslaw. There might be homemade pies on the menu, but there won't be anything resembling a vegetable or a salad. Not that I'm complaining. I always go with the flow; wherever I am, I eat what the locals eat. But Newfoundlanders must be the most unhealthy people in Canada. Most people are quite large, and everyone smokes.
After dinner we walked around the town a bit. There's a beautiful 1-kilometer boardwalk encircling a pond; the boardwalk is even accessible by ramp, and has gazebos and benches at intervals. Then we picked up a couple of beverages and sat on the porch of the B&B, overlooking the harbour. After a while Albert came by, made some small talk, then asked us if we wanted to see some of the town. Why not?
As we're leaving, Albert asks, "Did you see our snack?" He shows us three plates piled high with crab - huge snow crabs, legs 10 or 12 inches long. If you love seafood, as I do, this is a rare sight. We aren't sure what Albert means. Are we actually going to eat all that? Is he kidding?
On the subject of crabs, there's a factory in town that obviously has something to do with fish processing. Knowing the cod industry is no more, I asked Albert what they do at this plant. He says, "It's crab". Crab processing? Yes. Canned? Frozen? Albert says, "It's the damnedest thing. They used to take the crab and make a finished product and ship it directly to the States. Now they cut it into sections and freeze it, then it's shipped to China, the rest of the processing is done there, then it comes back here, and it's sold to the U.S. Product of Canada." Argh!
This ties in to so many conversations we've had at wmtc. It's awful for labour, for the environment and for our health. It also ties into what might be the only good thing the Harper Government ever does: the proposal for more honest food labelling. We'll have to see how that pans out, how much industry is allowed to interfere.
Albert drove us across town, back towards where we had dinner, then down a dirt road. Horses, cows and sheep were grazing on common pasture, a rare bit of farmland for this region. Past that is a provincial park called The Dungeon.
A platform overlooks a cove, where a rock is split into two tunnels. Waves are crashing all around and through them; it looks like something out of a pirate movie. There's some geological information on how it was formed, and how the rock will one day look like the stand-alone outcroppings that dot the coastline. Albert says, "Come on, how would anyone know how old a rock is?"
This is one of the most rugged coastlines I have ever seen - jagged rocks, waves crashing, all sharp outlines. There's something very stirring about it, a kind of wild beauty.
From there we drive over to the lighthouse, where Albert says thousands of puffins will be coming in from their day at sea, but it's fogged in.
On the way back, Albert shows us some local landmarks, including a Catholic church that holds 1400 people: "The only time it was ever full was when I buried my son". He was 13 years old. He went to a hockey tournament on a Friday, and was dead by Saturday, drowned in a hotel pool in St. John's.
There wasn't much time for sympathy; Albert wanted us to know, but then quickly changed the subject. After some question of mine, he said, "Before 1949 we were under British rule, you know. Then we joined Canada, the best decision we ever made." I said I had heard a lot of people opposed Confederation. "It was 49% to 51% but thank goodness we come out on top. I think Canada is one of the greatest countries in the world." This prompted me to tell him we chose to live in Canada over the U.S. To which he said: "Strange."
This made Albert think of the war (funny how that works!), and he told us he is against Canada's presence in Afghanistan. "What are we doing there anyway? I wouldn't send my son there, so why should I ask anyone else to send their own?" I asked if he thought other people in the area felt this way. He said, "Ninety percent! We all oppose it. But that's our government for you."
Albert was born in the house we are staying in, and except for eight years in Ontario working on the Canadian Pacific Railroad, has lived in Central Newfoundland all his life. Bonavista has had about the same population the whole time, about 5,000 people, although now about 650 young people are off working in Alberta. Last year in Bonavista, 36 new homes were built, mostly vacation homes for Americans.
We get home and Albert says, "Let's go eat some crab, eh?"
Inside, he puts down a plastic table cloth, then a green garbage bag on top of that, pulls over a giant plate of snow crabs, picks up a huge knife and starts hacking away. He shows us how to use the backs of our forks to scoop out the meat, then keeps hacking with the knife, tossing pieces on the table in front of us. We're eating and he's cutting, and he's also pulling out choice bits and putting them on a plate to give to his wife when she comes later.
We ate a mountain of crab. A mountain. And it is the freshest, sweetest, most delicious crab I have ever eaten.
Albert says he's been doing this every night for 11 years. When crabs are not in season, there is shrimp. The men who catch the crabs get only $1.50 per pound, and they are weighed and checked, so no one can take home a crab without a reduction in his quota. But Albert has "some friends on the boats", and he always has crab.
I told Albert the guidebook says the B&B has "a late-night snack", and we thought there might be a glass of milk and a cookie. He says, "I'll close up before I do that!"
Then Albert's wife comes in, Florence Albert. She puts the kettle on and says she has fresh bakeapple tarts. Albert makes toast and starts slathering it with jam. The jam is partridgeberry, which tastes similar to cranberry. Bakeapples are also berries, not crab apples as I thought. Albert shows us what the berries look like and how they are picked.
Florence puts down tarts dolloped with sweet cream, plus some other kind of cookie with coconut marshmallows inside. So now we're drinking mugs of tea and eating desserts at 11:00 at night, after eating a full dinner, including ice cream, not five hours earlier. We hang out with Albert and Florence for a while, and it feels more like sitting in a friends' kitchen than staying in a hotel.
They tell us it's a rare night that they're not fully booked, and indeed the next night they are full again, so we were very lucky to have this private little treat to ourselves.
Most of their guests have been from either Ontario or BC. "Where are you from in Ontario?" "Mississauga." "Is there anyone left in Mississauga? They're all here!" We've heard this from several people already: that a huge preponderance of Newfoundland tourism right now is from Ontario. I'm so glad to hear it, as it contradicts my impression that Canadians don't seem to travel much, and especially don't travel within Canada.
Albert also says we're probably too early for whales, but reminds me that you really never know. You can see them any time from May to September, so June is still possible.
Pictures of Bonavista are here.
cape spear to bonavista
[Thursday, June 19]
We were out very early on Thursday morning, but thanks to some very poorly written directions in a guidebook, we got completely lost (twice) on the way to Cape Spear. And when we finally got there, it was completely fogged in. We could just barely make out the outline of the lighthouse on the cliffs above us. But we hiked out to the point marked "Most Easterly Point in North America".
Despite the fog, I was very glad to be there. On a trip to England in 1985 (a few months before I met Allan), I traveled by myself to Land's End in Penzance, the most westerly point in Europe. As soon as we decided to go to Newfoundland, I wanted to stand on its easterly counterpoint. And even with the fog, it was dramatic, high on the cliffs with the waves crashing on the rocks below. The World War II gun battlement is still there, and some underground rooms from that time.
We hiked around the cliffs for a while, then went up to the lighthouse. We didn't go into the lighthouse because of the fog, and because we knew we'd have other chances later on. But on a tip from a friendly park ranger - a redundancy, I have never met a park ranger who was anything but friendly and helpful - I went into the coast guard building, which now serves as an art gallery.
As I walked in the little building, a uniformed man approached me and said something... but what? What language was he speaking? I blinked at him dumbly; I think I said, "Sorry?" He repeated himself. Still nothing. Round about the fourth or fifth sentence, I realized he was speaking English! This was an accent like nothing I have ever heard. Once I got used to it, I could understand most of what he said. (I don't know what part of Newfoundland he is from, because no one else has sounded like that yet!)
This art gallery was more story than art. Some 25 years ago, a Newfoundland man painted every lighthouse on the island, then donated the paintings to the Coast Guard Alumni Association. The paintings are now used as part of an art program for Canadian school children, who come to the lighthouse to sketch them. There's a competition, and several winners are awarded art kits. (I saw a sample, they're terrific.)
The paintings themselves were not special as art, but I had a lovely time hearing wild anecdotes about them and the people who tended them. (That is, the parts of the stories I could understand.) Beneath each painting was a small plaque showing the outline of Newfoundland, with a star marking the location of that lighthouse, with the lighthouse's stats. It was fun, but the best part was the man's accent.
From there we found the Trans-Canada Highway, and the driving was much faster than we expected. We had heard that it might be slow going on many Newfoundland roads, and perhaps that will be true, but the one big highway that runs east-west across the province is a smooth, fast road. The highway was almost empty, and we breezed along.
The road cuts through rocky outcroppings, sometimes beautiful green hills, but often just rugged, jagged rock. The hills are too steep to be called rolling - you're really climbing and diving - and occasionally you catch a glimpse of lakes, bays or inlets. It's a fierce, rugged beauty. You can see right away why everyone lived on the coast through most of Newfoundland's history, with the interior settled only in modern times. It looks completely inhospitable. You also see why it's called The Rock.
Here are some towns we passed on our way: Come By Chance, Doody Bay, Great Mosquito, Dildo, Goobies. There are hundreds of towns named Something Cove: Tickle Cove, Lady Cove, Lance Cove, Ochre Cove, Pelican Cove, on and on. And about a hundred more named Something Harbour.
At Clarenville we turned off the TCH onto the Bonavista Peninsula, and even this smaller, more rural road was still easy driving. We thought we'd call some bed-and-breakfasts on our way out to Bonavista, but I had no cell phone service.
On the Bonavista Peninsula, we stopped in Trinity, an historic town, and where the movie "The Shipping News" was filmed. The town is postcard beautiful, full of richly painted saltbox houses and churches. To say Trinity is sleepy is understatement: it was comatose. We saw a half-dozen "for sale" signs, and thought it must be very sad, the death of a lovely historic town. We later learned that Trinity mostly exists for tourism only now. People come a few weeks before the start of the season to open the B&Bs, then close up and leave after the tourists go home.
Driving into Bonavista, we found a tourist information booth staffed by a young, friendly, completely unknowledgeable person. But she was able to call our first-choice B&B, which turned out to be right next door, and they had a vacancy. Our host, Ryan Albert (known as "Halpert" in the town dialect) was friendly and talkative, but little did we know he's a town character. The guidebook said the B&B serves a full breakfast and an evening snack, and Albert told us we'd have "lunch" around 9:30 or 10:00 p.m. Mark my words.
Pictures of Trinity are here.
We were out very early on Thursday morning, but thanks to some very poorly written directions in a guidebook, we got completely lost (twice) on the way to Cape Spear. And when we finally got there, it was completely fogged in. We could just barely make out the outline of the lighthouse on the cliffs above us. But we hiked out to the point marked "Most Easterly Point in North America".
Despite the fog, I was very glad to be there. On a trip to England in 1985 (a few months before I met Allan), I traveled by myself to Land's End in Penzance, the most westerly point in Europe. As soon as we decided to go to Newfoundland, I wanted to stand on its easterly counterpoint. And even with the fog, it was dramatic, high on the cliffs with the waves crashing on the rocks below. The World War II gun battlement is still there, and some underground rooms from that time.
We hiked around the cliffs for a while, then went up to the lighthouse. We didn't go into the lighthouse because of the fog, and because we knew we'd have other chances later on. But on a tip from a friendly park ranger - a redundancy, I have never met a park ranger who was anything but friendly and helpful - I went into the coast guard building, which now serves as an art gallery.
As I walked in the little building, a uniformed man approached me and said something... but what? What language was he speaking? I blinked at him dumbly; I think I said, "Sorry?" He repeated himself. Still nothing. Round about the fourth or fifth sentence, I realized he was speaking English! This was an accent like nothing I have ever heard. Once I got used to it, I could understand most of what he said. (I don't know what part of Newfoundland he is from, because no one else has sounded like that yet!)
This art gallery was more story than art. Some 25 years ago, a Newfoundland man painted every lighthouse on the island, then donated the paintings to the Coast Guard Alumni Association. The paintings are now used as part of an art program for Canadian school children, who come to the lighthouse to sketch them. There's a competition, and several winners are awarded art kits. (I saw a sample, they're terrific.)
The paintings themselves were not special as art, but I had a lovely time hearing wild anecdotes about them and the people who tended them. (That is, the parts of the stories I could understand.) Beneath each painting was a small plaque showing the outline of Newfoundland, with a star marking the location of that lighthouse, with the lighthouse's stats. It was fun, but the best part was the man's accent.
From there we found the Trans-Canada Highway, and the driving was much faster than we expected. We had heard that it might be slow going on many Newfoundland roads, and perhaps that will be true, but the one big highway that runs east-west across the province is a smooth, fast road. The highway was almost empty, and we breezed along.
The road cuts through rocky outcroppings, sometimes beautiful green hills, but often just rugged, jagged rock. The hills are too steep to be called rolling - you're really climbing and diving - and occasionally you catch a glimpse of lakes, bays or inlets. It's a fierce, rugged beauty. You can see right away why everyone lived on the coast through most of Newfoundland's history, with the interior settled only in modern times. It looks completely inhospitable. You also see why it's called The Rock.
Here are some towns we passed on our way: Come By Chance, Doody Bay, Great Mosquito, Dildo, Goobies. There are hundreds of towns named Something Cove: Tickle Cove, Lady Cove, Lance Cove, Ochre Cove, Pelican Cove, on and on. And about a hundred more named Something Harbour.
At Clarenville we turned off the TCH onto the Bonavista Peninsula, and even this smaller, more rural road was still easy driving. We thought we'd call some bed-and-breakfasts on our way out to Bonavista, but I had no cell phone service.
On the Bonavista Peninsula, we stopped in Trinity, an historic town, and where the movie "The Shipping News" was filmed. The town is postcard beautiful, full of richly painted saltbox houses and churches. To say Trinity is sleepy is understatement: it was comatose. We saw a half-dozen "for sale" signs, and thought it must be very sad, the death of a lovely historic town. We later learned that Trinity mostly exists for tourism only now. People come a few weeks before the start of the season to open the B&Bs, then close up and leave after the tourists go home.
Driving into Bonavista, we found a tourist information booth staffed by a young, friendly, completely unknowledgeable person. But she was able to call our first-choice B&B, which turned out to be right next door, and they had a vacancy. Our host, Ryan Albert (known as "Halpert" in the town dialect) was friendly and talkative, but little did we know he's a town character. The guidebook said the B&B serves a full breakfast and an evening snack, and Albert told us we'd have "lunch" around 9:30 or 10:00 p.m. Mark my words.
Pictures of Trinity are here.
we are still here, will be catching up soon
We've been without internet access or cell phone for several days - inconvenient, irritating, relaxing and refreshing at the same time. But we're online tonight, and I'm planning on getting my travel journal all caught up, plus posting a few resister-related videos.
In a word: Newfoundland is amazing. More soon.
In a word: Newfoundland is amazing. More soon.
6.19.2008
wednesday night in st. john's
We did make it out last night. First we stopped in the Duke of Duckworth, which would pass muster in any village in Ireland or England. I adore pubs - New York doesn't really have them, and it's something I love about Toronto - and I can see Newfoundland will deliver on this score. We had a pint and hung out a bit, then headed for The Ship, which I heard was the best pub in town, and had music every night.
Walking into The Ship, we were quite surprised to see a gentleman on the small stage, quite senior, sitting in a chair, singing an a capella ballad. I'd say it was an Irish ballad, but not quite: it was a Newfoundland song. There was a sizeable crowd - it's a small room, but it was full - and they were rapt, hanging on every word. We grabbed two bar stools and listened.
The man spun off ballad after ballad, each one a little world unto itself. The songs followed the standard conventions (although I had never heard any of them), and on several the crowd chanted along with the chorus.
When he finished, an emcee came up, and we gathered this was some kind of open-mic folk night. A dreadful storyteller was up next, so I was able to learn from the bartender that Wednesday is folk night at The Ship. We were sorry we hadn't come earlier, although after that last story, perhaps it's just as well.
Next up, a younger man took the stage, doing ballads similar to the older man's songs, but with modern lyrics that he had written himself. He had a good voice and a nice presence; I thought he was quite good. In between ballads, he picked up a concertina - a little squeeze box - and played a few reels. I don't know if either of my accordion-loving blog-friends still read wmtc, but they would have appreciated it.
The music soon wrapped up, but I was really happy to have found it even for a short while. I don't yet know the differences between Newfoundland music and Irish music, but perhaps I'll find out on this trip. There are several kinds of American music that use Irish sounds, but none sound as Irish as this.
We had another pint and chatted with the bartender, who is from Twillingate and wanted to make sure we were going there. To "where are you folks from", I've decided to say "Ontario". It seems to be enough information.
St. John's itself seems like a lovely town. Duckworth Street is lively with pubs, shops and restaurants, some very upscale and smart-looking. Newfoundland tourism information is trying to sell St. John's as having newly sophisticated dining, and from the look of it, I'd say there's been a concerted effort to cultivate that.
It's wonderfully refreshing to be somewhere without all the same old chain stores and logos. This is a constant theme for me; the homogenization of New York City had been bothering me for years before we left, and I certainly live in the midst of that now. When we travel, I love to go places that are free or nearly free of that scourge. That was one thing I loved about Ireland - it was all independent bookstores, cafes, pubs; nary a Starbucks or Gap in sight. St. John's has a couple of fast food chains at one end of Duckworth Street, but seems largely untouched by the scourge of chain-stores and corporate logos.
From the harbor, St. John's rises up a steep hill. The main streets are semi-circles, and there are lanes with steps connecting the streets, like passageways. Very inaccessible, but very pretty. On many streets, the house fronts are painted in varying rich colours - exactly like towns in Ireland. It's a beautiful effect, especially in a place which is often overcast and gray.
Now we're bound for Cape Spear, then towards the Bonavista Peninsula. Thanks for reading, hope you are all well.
Walking into The Ship, we were quite surprised to see a gentleman on the small stage, quite senior, sitting in a chair, singing an a capella ballad. I'd say it was an Irish ballad, but not quite: it was a Newfoundland song. There was a sizeable crowd - it's a small room, but it was full - and they were rapt, hanging on every word. We grabbed two bar stools and listened.
The man spun off ballad after ballad, each one a little world unto itself. The songs followed the standard conventions (although I had never heard any of them), and on several the crowd chanted along with the chorus.
When he finished, an emcee came up, and we gathered this was some kind of open-mic folk night. A dreadful storyteller was up next, so I was able to learn from the bartender that Wednesday is folk night at The Ship. We were sorry we hadn't come earlier, although after that last story, perhaps it's just as well.
Next up, a younger man took the stage, doing ballads similar to the older man's songs, but with modern lyrics that he had written himself. He had a good voice and a nice presence; I thought he was quite good. In between ballads, he picked up a concertina - a little squeeze box - and played a few reels. I don't know if either of my accordion-loving blog-friends still read wmtc, but they would have appreciated it.
The music soon wrapped up, but I was really happy to have found it even for a short while. I don't yet know the differences between Newfoundland music and Irish music, but perhaps I'll find out on this trip. There are several kinds of American music that use Irish sounds, but none sound as Irish as this.
We had another pint and chatted with the bartender, who is from Twillingate and wanted to make sure we were going there. To "where are you folks from", I've decided to say "Ontario". It seems to be enough information.
St. John's itself seems like a lovely town. Duckworth Street is lively with pubs, shops and restaurants, some very upscale and smart-looking. Newfoundland tourism information is trying to sell St. John's as having newly sophisticated dining, and from the look of it, I'd say there's been a concerted effort to cultivate that.
It's wonderfully refreshing to be somewhere without all the same old chain stores and logos. This is a constant theme for me; the homogenization of New York City had been bothering me for years before we left, and I certainly live in the midst of that now. When we travel, I love to go places that are free or nearly free of that scourge. That was one thing I loved about Ireland - it was all independent bookstores, cafes, pubs; nary a Starbucks or Gap in sight. St. John's has a couple of fast food chains at one end of Duckworth Street, but seems largely untouched by the scourge of chain-stores and corporate logos.
From the harbor, St. John's rises up a steep hill. The main streets are semi-circles, and there are lanes with steps connecting the streets, like passageways. Very inaccessible, but very pretty. On many streets, the house fronts are painted in varying rich colours - exactly like towns in Ireland. It's a beautiful effect, especially in a place which is often overcast and gray.
Now we're bound for Cape Spear, then towards the Bonavista Peninsula. Thanks for reading, hope you are all well.
6.18.2008
st. john's / witless bay
This morning we headed south on the Avalon Peninsula to the beautifully named Witless Bay Ecological Reserve, hoping to see icebergs, whales and birds. (Newfoundland is famous for its place names. The Avalon Peninsula alone sports towns called Dildo, Heart's Content and Tickle Cove, among many others.)
Witless Bay is a group of four rocky islands just off the shore, about 25 kms south of St. John's. On our way down, as soon as we spotted the bay, we could see a few icebergs from the road. It's really a surprise the first time you spot them - shining white and bright blue in the middle of the bay.
We had some trouble finding a boat tour operator, and now we realize that's because many of the smaller ones haven't opened for business yet. We're a little ahead of the tourist season. We followed a sign down to a dock, but it seemed deserted, although there was a boat in the water.
We asked at a nearby coffee shop, and the owner said she'd ring them up. She made a call, put me on the phone. Another woman gave me a man's name and number and told me to call him. Everyone was super-friendly, but it was a bit mysterious, like I was arranging some sort of shady deal.
The man who I called asked how many people we were, and could we wait an hour, which was perfect, since we were in a coffee shop and hungry. As it turns out, the guys who run this boat-tour company are carpenters all year, and they take off July and August to do the tours. One of them left work to come over and get us.
We had a lunch in an adorable little place, with huge windows overlooking the bay. You could see icebergs in the bay, and the islands that form the Witless Bay Reserve.
After we ate, we met a guy named Ray on the dock. He gave us big orange jumpsuits that double as insulation and life preserver, which we wrestled on over our clothes. It was a beautiful day - sparkling sun and calm water. It was just Ray driving the boat and us, an open boat that seats maybe 6 or 8, tops. That's the upside of traveling a off-season.
I know it should be no surprise, but Ray sounded like a stereotype of a Newfie. I would almost think he was someone putting on a Newfie accent. It took me a couple of minutes to get used to it, but it's a great sound. I hear the Celtic in it, and also bits of New England.
First we went out to the icebergs, which are closer than the islands. They're so beautiful! We saw icebergs in Alaska, but that was a very different setting, an ice cove with huge walls and shelves of ice. Seeing these miniature ice mountains floating out in the middle of a bay, ringed by houses, boats and greenery all around, was pretty amazing. Ray told us that a few months earlier, the whole bay would be full of icebergs, changing size and shape as they flow south, melting and breaking up along the way.
Ray also said we were early for whales, that whales usually begin to be seen in Witless Bay and the St. John's area in early July, often lasting until September. He described the bay full of all kinds of whales, to the point where you can see them from land. Several people and guidebooks said whales can be seen from June to September, so I'm trying to not get too disappointed yet. But if I go home without seeing whales, I will be.
After driving around the icebergs for a while, we headed out towards the islands. They are rocky outcroppings with some scrubby grass and shrubs, but as you approach them you realize the rocks are completely covered in birds. Thousands - hundreds of thousands! - of birds.
There are mainly puffins, kittiwakes (a kind of gull) and murres. The murres are beautiful - they look like miniature penguins.
Ray was knowledgeable about the birds, their habits, who eats what, who is seen when. There are no other land animals on these islands - the birds' natural predators are other birds, such as eagles (who don't nest there but come to feed) and gulls. We could see hundreds of nests, as well as holes that are the openings to puffins' underground nests. They are all mostly marine birds, and only come on land to mate and breed.
During World War II the bird population declined from all the oil in the water, and in the 1950s there were only a few thousand left, total. But the islands have been protected since 1962, when the population started to grow again. They've also benefited from the collapse of the fishing industry in the early 1990s: birds used to get caught in the nets. Now they are all thriving.
On every rock ledge, on every crevice and nook, there is a bird. Thick clouds of birds fly near the rocks. And all along the surface of the water, low flying birds are splashing the water. You hear hundreds of little thwacks as their wings flutter on the surface.
We drove past all four islands, getting very close to the rocks so we had a very good view. We spotted one gull with a few chicks - tiny fluffy grey balls with legs, wobbling on the rocks. Later on there will be thousands of chicks, and hundreds of other birds trying to eat them.
Before the islands were protected, locals hunted the birds all the time, and also gathered their eggs. Ray said now there are two times a year when hunting is permitted, with strict limits. He said locals eat murres, which they call ters (sp?). "We got a different name for all de birds." I asked him what the bird is like to eat. He said the old joke is you put the ter in the oven with a beach rock. Bake it for four hours, when it's done, throw the bird out and eat the rock, it will be more tender.
To me the most notable part of this bird reserve was the sheer number of birds. Several times we thought we were looking at gravel or striated rock, only to realize it was actually a huge crowd of birds.
On the way back, Ray regaled us with stories of the bay full of whales. Ah well. Here's hoping.
After the boat ride, on Ray's recommendation, we drove further south, to La Manche Provincial Park. We hiked down a flat, wooded trail next to a marshy lake. We saw a sizeable beaver dam and tracks that must have been moose, and eventually came to a waterfall, but we never found our supposed destination. There used to be a remote fishing village here, until it was washed away by a tidal surge. The government helped people relocate, but there are remains of the village and an old bridge, somewhere on the trail. We never found it, but we had a nice hike without it.
We were starved by this time, and stopped at a roadside place for - what else? - fried seafood. This will clearly be the mainstay of our eating habits here.
I think we're going to a pub tonight to hear music, although Allan is sleeping right now. (You can't imagine how many sentences I can end that way.) Tomorrow morning we'll visit Cape Spear before heading towards Clarenville on our way to the Bonavista Peninsula.
Random note I forgot to post yesterday. In the Signal Hill visitors' centre, I learned that St. John's was attacked by German U-boats on more than one occasion, including the sinking of a passenger ferry. Canadian readers probably all know that, but I don't think I knew that U-boats had ever actually fired on North America. I found that quite amazing - both that it happened and that I didn't know!
Pictures of Witless Bay are here.
Witless Bay is a group of four rocky islands just off the shore, about 25 kms south of St. John's. On our way down, as soon as we spotted the bay, we could see a few icebergs from the road. It's really a surprise the first time you spot them - shining white and bright blue in the middle of the bay.
We had some trouble finding a boat tour operator, and now we realize that's because many of the smaller ones haven't opened for business yet. We're a little ahead of the tourist season. We followed a sign down to a dock, but it seemed deserted, although there was a boat in the water.
We asked at a nearby coffee shop, and the owner said she'd ring them up. She made a call, put me on the phone. Another woman gave me a man's name and number and told me to call him. Everyone was super-friendly, but it was a bit mysterious, like I was arranging some sort of shady deal.
The man who I called asked how many people we were, and could we wait an hour, which was perfect, since we were in a coffee shop and hungry. As it turns out, the guys who run this boat-tour company are carpenters all year, and they take off July and August to do the tours. One of them left work to come over and get us.
We had a lunch in an adorable little place, with huge windows overlooking the bay. You could see icebergs in the bay, and the islands that form the Witless Bay Reserve.
After we ate, we met a guy named Ray on the dock. He gave us big orange jumpsuits that double as insulation and life preserver, which we wrestled on over our clothes. It was a beautiful day - sparkling sun and calm water. It was just Ray driving the boat and us, an open boat that seats maybe 6 or 8, tops. That's the upside of traveling a off-season.
I know it should be no surprise, but Ray sounded like a stereotype of a Newfie. I would almost think he was someone putting on a Newfie accent. It took me a couple of minutes to get used to it, but it's a great sound. I hear the Celtic in it, and also bits of New England.
First we went out to the icebergs, which are closer than the islands. They're so beautiful! We saw icebergs in Alaska, but that was a very different setting, an ice cove with huge walls and shelves of ice. Seeing these miniature ice mountains floating out in the middle of a bay, ringed by houses, boats and greenery all around, was pretty amazing. Ray told us that a few months earlier, the whole bay would be full of icebergs, changing size and shape as they flow south, melting and breaking up along the way.
Ray also said we were early for whales, that whales usually begin to be seen in Witless Bay and the St. John's area in early July, often lasting until September. He described the bay full of all kinds of whales, to the point where you can see them from land. Several people and guidebooks said whales can be seen from June to September, so I'm trying to not get too disappointed yet. But if I go home without seeing whales, I will be.
After driving around the icebergs for a while, we headed out towards the islands. They are rocky outcroppings with some scrubby grass and shrubs, but as you approach them you realize the rocks are completely covered in birds. Thousands - hundreds of thousands! - of birds.
There are mainly puffins, kittiwakes (a kind of gull) and murres. The murres are beautiful - they look like miniature penguins.
Ray was knowledgeable about the birds, their habits, who eats what, who is seen when. There are no other land animals on these islands - the birds' natural predators are other birds, such as eagles (who don't nest there but come to feed) and gulls. We could see hundreds of nests, as well as holes that are the openings to puffins' underground nests. They are all mostly marine birds, and only come on land to mate and breed.
During World War II the bird population declined from all the oil in the water, and in the 1950s there were only a few thousand left, total. But the islands have been protected since 1962, when the population started to grow again. They've also benefited from the collapse of the fishing industry in the early 1990s: birds used to get caught in the nets. Now they are all thriving.
On every rock ledge, on every crevice and nook, there is a bird. Thick clouds of birds fly near the rocks. And all along the surface of the water, low flying birds are splashing the water. You hear hundreds of little thwacks as their wings flutter on the surface.
We drove past all four islands, getting very close to the rocks so we had a very good view. We spotted one gull with a few chicks - tiny fluffy grey balls with legs, wobbling on the rocks. Later on there will be thousands of chicks, and hundreds of other birds trying to eat them.
Before the islands were protected, locals hunted the birds all the time, and also gathered their eggs. Ray said now there are two times a year when hunting is permitted, with strict limits. He said locals eat murres, which they call ters (sp?). "We got a different name for all de birds." I asked him what the bird is like to eat. He said the old joke is you put the ter in the oven with a beach rock. Bake it for four hours, when it's done, throw the bird out and eat the rock, it will be more tender.
To me the most notable part of this bird reserve was the sheer number of birds. Several times we thought we were looking at gravel or striated rock, only to realize it was actually a huge crowd of birds.
On the way back, Ray regaled us with stories of the bay full of whales. Ah well. Here's hoping.
After the boat ride, on Ray's recommendation, we drove further south, to La Manche Provincial Park. We hiked down a flat, wooded trail next to a marshy lake. We saw a sizeable beaver dam and tracks that must have been moose, and eventually came to a waterfall, but we never found our supposed destination. There used to be a remote fishing village here, until it was washed away by a tidal surge. The government helped people relocate, but there are remains of the village and an old bridge, somewhere on the trail. We never found it, but we had a nice hike without it.
We were starved by this time, and stopped at a roadside place for - what else? - fried seafood. This will clearly be the mainstay of our eating habits here.
I think we're going to a pub tonight to hear music, although Allan is sleeping right now. (You can't imagine how many sentences I can end that way.) Tomorrow morning we'll visit Cape Spear before heading towards Clarenville on our way to the Bonavista Peninsula.
Random note I forgot to post yesterday. In the Signal Hill visitors' centre, I learned that St. John's was attacked by German U-boats on more than one occasion, including the sinking of a passenger ferry. Canadian readers probably all know that, but I don't think I knew that U-boats had ever actually fired on North America. I found that quite amazing - both that it happened and that I didn't know!
Pictures of Witless Bay are here.
6.17.2008
st. john's
We were up at 5:00 for our 7:30 flight, which was an uneventful not-quite three hours. In Pearson, I saw a newspaper over a man's shoulder, with a headline reading "send him back to pay his dues". I did a double-take, and realized it was the National Post (for non-Canadian readers: a right-wing rag), a dueling viewpoint they have already run online, Corey Glass vs. columnist Jonathan Kay. The man reading and his wife noticed we were talking about them, so I asked what paper it was and explained I was involved in the issue. As we were getting ready to board, the woman asked if I wanted the paper. As he was giving me the section, the man was eager to tell me that it gave "both sides of the story," in a way that told us where he stood. After all, he is reading the Post. But I called the Campaign - at least we have a hard copy of it now. Allan says we'll see them in Gros Morne; he's calling it now.
The airport is not far from downtown, and we drove right in and found our hotel. On our way there, we drove through the main drag of downtown St. John's, Duckworth Street. I noticed the two pubs my Newfie Campaign Friend recommended, one that has live music every night.
The hotel is a "Hometel" - rooms in brownstone houses. It's a much nicer room that we expected, stylish and comfy, with free phone, internet, parking and a hot breakfast. It's right at the base of Signal Hill.
After getting settled in a bit, we went downtown for lunch at a pub - fish and chips, of course. I have no idea if the fish actually comes from here anymore, but it seems like the thing to do. We also had local beer, Quidi Vidi (pronounced "Kiddy Viddy"). My pan-fried cod came with "scrunchions," which are diced bits of fried pork rinds. Kind of like salty fried fat.
From there we drove up Signal Hill, which overlooks St. John's Harbour, with the city on one side and the Atlantic on the other. The approach to the harbour is a narrows, with cliffs rising on both side; it's easy to see why this was such an important strategic point.
I thought Signal Hill got its name because it's the spot where Marconi received the first Transatlantic radio signal, but the signalling dates much farther back, to the signal flags (a redundancy, I think - the flags were called signals) that were raised to communicate from ship to shore. There's a little look-out building that looks like a mini-castle, and the remains of the fort, powder magazine and cannons. This is all perched on high cliffs, the kind you always see in photos of Newfoundland. It reminded us both of Ireland.
The whole point is a national park, and there are trails along the cliffs. We walked some, mostly to get good views. It's a great view of St. John's. The building where Marconi received that radio signal is gone (burned in a fire), but there's a plaque marking the spot.
We were tired and not up for a big hike, but on the way out of Signal Hill, we stopped at the visitor's centre, which was very nice. It tells the history of the hill in terms of its military and communications significance. And guess who we saw there? The National Post readers from the airport in Toronto. They didn't see us. Gros Morne? We'll see.
From there we went back downtown for coffee, then we were going to hang out in a pub, but suddenly realized how tired we were. We picked up some food and went back to the room, thinking we would join tonight's Red Sox game in progress on our computers. It was 7:30; game time is at 7:00. But our laptops said 6:00. Duh: time zone! We're on Newfoundland time, and we didn't miss a pitch. Pub tomorrow night, tonight we're crashed.
* * * *
People here are extremely friendly, as advertised. If this is what they're like in St. John's will they be pathologically friendly in the rest of the province?
Weather watch: it's nice so far, mostly sunny or a bit overcast, and the occasional mist. I was too warm in a long-sleeved t-shirt and windbreaker. Everyone we speak to says we've brought the sun; it's been raining solidly and cold for weeks. We have tons of stuff with us, many more clothes than we would normally pack, but when you have to prepare for heat, cold, rain and sun, what else can you do?
* * * *
I can scarcely describe how happy I am about this big writing assignment that fell from the sky last night. My original plan of how I was paying for this trip fell through a while back. It was too late to cancel (nonrefundable air and rental car) and I knew I'd figure out a way to pay for it over time, although it could potentially take quite a long time. Goddess knows it wouldn't be the first trip we paid for six or eight months after it ended. My plan was to spend July trying to drum up some decent paid writing work. Then the night before we leave, some comes to me!
Spinal Network is a very well-known and highly regarded resource guide for people with spinal cord injuries. It was created by Sam Maddox, a pioneer in the field; Sam also began New Mobility, the magazine I've been associated with for a long time. Spinal Network, New Mobility and now Kids On Wheels (which I helped create) are now all published by the same group.
Ten years ago, the current publishers of Spinal Network put out a new edition, and I edited the Sports chapter. Then, some years later, Kids On Wheels was born, the first-ever resource guide for children who use wheelchairs and their parents. I wrote the sports and recreation chapter for that, then wrote and edited for the magazine before I recently gave it up.
So last night, the editorial director emailed me: they are doing a completely new edition of Spinal Network, a thorough overhaul, am I interested in working on it? I'll be re-writing and editing the Sports section. It's going to be a lot of work - work that I will really enjoy, and which should pay nicely. I'm excited! But right now the best thing is the financial concern has been lifted from my mind, just as I start the trip. Lovely.
* * * *
I called home, just to satisfy my mind that the Katherine The Dogsitter had arrived. They were all outside, doing fine. I miss Tala! (Don't worry, I miss Cody a little, which is more than she misses me.)
Pictures of St. John's are here.
The airport is not far from downtown, and we drove right in and found our hotel. On our way there, we drove through the main drag of downtown St. John's, Duckworth Street. I noticed the two pubs my Newfie Campaign Friend recommended, one that has live music every night.
The hotel is a "Hometel" - rooms in brownstone houses. It's a much nicer room that we expected, stylish and comfy, with free phone, internet, parking and a hot breakfast. It's right at the base of Signal Hill.
After getting settled in a bit, we went downtown for lunch at a pub - fish and chips, of course. I have no idea if the fish actually comes from here anymore, but it seems like the thing to do. We also had local beer, Quidi Vidi (pronounced "Kiddy Viddy"). My pan-fried cod came with "scrunchions," which are diced bits of fried pork rinds. Kind of like salty fried fat.
From there we drove up Signal Hill, which overlooks St. John's Harbour, with the city on one side and the Atlantic on the other. The approach to the harbour is a narrows, with cliffs rising on both side; it's easy to see why this was such an important strategic point.
I thought Signal Hill got its name because it's the spot where Marconi received the first Transatlantic radio signal, but the signalling dates much farther back, to the signal flags (a redundancy, I think - the flags were called signals) that were raised to communicate from ship to shore. There's a little look-out building that looks like a mini-castle, and the remains of the fort, powder magazine and cannons. This is all perched on high cliffs, the kind you always see in photos of Newfoundland. It reminded us both of Ireland.
The whole point is a national park, and there are trails along the cliffs. We walked some, mostly to get good views. It's a great view of St. John's. The building where Marconi received that radio signal is gone (burned in a fire), but there's a plaque marking the spot.
We were tired and not up for a big hike, but on the way out of Signal Hill, we stopped at the visitor's centre, which was very nice. It tells the history of the hill in terms of its military and communications significance. And guess who we saw there? The National Post readers from the airport in Toronto. They didn't see us. Gros Morne? We'll see.
From there we went back downtown for coffee, then we were going to hang out in a pub, but suddenly realized how tired we were. We picked up some food and went back to the room, thinking we would join tonight's Red Sox game in progress on our computers. It was 7:30; game time is at 7:00. But our laptops said 6:00. Duh: time zone! We're on Newfoundland time, and we didn't miss a pitch. Pub tomorrow night, tonight we're crashed.
* * * *
People here are extremely friendly, as advertised. If this is what they're like in St. John's will they be pathologically friendly in the rest of the province?
Weather watch: it's nice so far, mostly sunny or a bit overcast, and the occasional mist. I was too warm in a long-sleeved t-shirt and windbreaker. Everyone we speak to says we've brought the sun; it's been raining solidly and cold for weeks. We have tons of stuff with us, many more clothes than we would normally pack, but when you have to prepare for heat, cold, rain and sun, what else can you do?
* * * *
I can scarcely describe how happy I am about this big writing assignment that fell from the sky last night. My original plan of how I was paying for this trip fell through a while back. It was too late to cancel (nonrefundable air and rental car) and I knew I'd figure out a way to pay for it over time, although it could potentially take quite a long time. Goddess knows it wouldn't be the first trip we paid for six or eight months after it ended. My plan was to spend July trying to drum up some decent paid writing work. Then the night before we leave, some comes to me!
Spinal Network is a very well-known and highly regarded resource guide for people with spinal cord injuries. It was created by Sam Maddox, a pioneer in the field; Sam also began New Mobility, the magazine I've been associated with for a long time. Spinal Network, New Mobility and now Kids On Wheels (which I helped create) are now all published by the same group.
Ten years ago, the current publishers of Spinal Network put out a new edition, and I edited the Sports chapter. Then, some years later, Kids On Wheels was born, the first-ever resource guide for children who use wheelchairs and their parents. I wrote the sports and recreation chapter for that, then wrote and edited for the magazine before I recently gave it up.
So last night, the editorial director emailed me: they are doing a completely new edition of Spinal Network, a thorough overhaul, am I interested in working on it? I'll be re-writing and editing the Sports section. It's going to be a lot of work - work that I will really enjoy, and which should pay nicely. I'm excited! But right now the best thing is the financial concern has been lifted from my mind, just as I start the trip. Lovely.
* * * *
I called home, just to satisfy my mind that the Katherine The Dogsitter had arrived. They were all outside, doing fine. I miss Tala! (Don't worry, I miss Cody a little, which is more than she misses me.)
Pictures of St. John's are here.
6.16.2008
we go to newfoundland
I can't travel without writing about it. I have a travel journal from every trip I've taken as an adult, beginning with my first trip to Europe, with my dear friend NN, in 1982.
When Allan and I went to Peru in 2006, I blogged my travel journal for the first time, and I really enjoyed it. So I'm doing it again. If other people's travel diaries are not your thing, check back in early July.
I'll be writing daily, but I may not have daily internet access. It's possible I'll have to post a few days' worth of journal all at once.
As with Peru, this will be text only, no pictures. After we get back, I'll sort through the photos and choose a selection to post. We're bringing both film and digital cameras.
This blog now uses comment moderation permanently; I'll put comments through once or twice daily.
I'm really excited. If I'm going somewhere, I'm happy. And extra-special-happy news, I was just offered a big writing/editing job that will pay for the trip!
We leave very early tomorrow morning. Keep in touch, ok?
When Allan and I went to Peru in 2006, I blogged my travel journal for the first time, and I really enjoyed it. So I'm doing it again. If other people's travel diaries are not your thing, check back in early July.
I'll be writing daily, but I may not have daily internet access. It's possible I'll have to post a few days' worth of journal all at once.
As with Peru, this will be text only, no pictures. After we get back, I'll sort through the photos and choose a selection to post. We're bringing both film and digital cameras.
This blog now uses comment moderation permanently; I'll put comments through once or twice daily.
I'm really excited. If I'm going somewhere, I'm happy. And extra-special-happy news, I was just offered a big writing/editing job that will pay for the trip!
We leave very early tomorrow morning. Keep in touch, ok?
note to readers here for war resister news and updates
If you click on wmtc through the War Resisters Support Campaign, and read mainly (or only) the war resisters updates, news will be thin for a while. I'll be out of town for 16 days, and will have limited access to Campaign news. I'll post any big updates I get, but chances are you'll hear those before I get to them.
If you're interested in following my trip to Newfoundland, feel free! Go to the main page.
I'll be thinking of the Campaign constantly. The safety of the war resisters is always in my thoughts.
Peace.
If you're interested in following my trip to Newfoundland, feel free! Go to the main page.
I'll be thinking of the Campaign constantly. The safety of the war resisters is always in my thoughts.
Peace.
the american empire in iraq
I recently posted about the US building permanent bases in Iraq. Here's the story to read on that subject: The Greatest Story Never Told - Finally, the U.S. Mega-Bases in Iraq Make the News, by Tom Engelhardt. I'm working my way through it now.
I ask you, does this sound like an empire ready to make an exit any time soon?
Read.
I ask you, does this sound like an empire ready to make an exit any time soon?
Read.
6.15.2008
ethics question
I have an online friend, an acquaintance really. This person confided something very serious to me. She or he recently suffered a terrible ordeal. A tragedy.
This person sometimes behaves like a jerk, and I think it may be related to this very recent trauma.
Do I tell other people the extenuating circumstances that may underlie the jerk-like behaviour? It would help people be more tolerant of him or her, reduce the potential for hurt feelings.
Or is keeping someone's confidence (as in "I am telling you this in confidence") more important?
My inclination is to be a mediator, to share the information. But is that the right thing to do?
* * * *
More information that might be relevant. All the people involved are online friends only. Some are better friends than others, but to my knowledge, no one knows this person in real life. She or he is just an online name to them. There's very little chance of real-life contact.
This person sometimes behaves like a jerk, and I think it may be related to this very recent trauma.
Do I tell other people the extenuating circumstances that may underlie the jerk-like behaviour? It would help people be more tolerant of him or her, reduce the potential for hurt feelings.
Or is keeping someone's confidence (as in "I am telling you this in confidence") more important?
My inclination is to be a mediator, to share the information. But is that the right thing to do?
* * * *
More information that might be relevant. All the people involved are online friends only. Some are better friends than others, but to my knowledge, no one knows this person in real life. She or he is just an online name to them. There's very little chance of real-life contact.
john pilger: "in the grand tradition, obama is a hawk"
While debating the significance - or, in my opinion, lack thereof - of the death of Tim Russert, I was amazed to hear Russert referred to as a great journalist. I can barely apply the word "journalism" to what Russert did and what the rest of the TV talking-head crowd do.
Great journalists of our time? Seymour Hersh. Naomi Klein. Robert Fisk. Amy Goodman. Barbara Ehrenreich. Christopher Hedges.
Those are just a few off the top of my head.
What's that you say? They're all on the left end of the political spectrum? That's no coincidence: it's where real journalism leads.
The right doesn't want journalism. Journalism is the relentless press for truth, wherever it leads. It involves nuance, contradiction, and often painful revelations. The right deals in simple images, duality, blind loyalty, bigotry, fear.
Another truly extraordinary journalist is John Pilger. If you don't know Pilger, check out the website; it speaks for itself.
Here's his latest column, with thanks to Allan.
I do think a US president who is not a white male would be historic. And I'd be damn glad to see it, both for its own sake, and because it would mean (I think) the election was not cancelled or fixed.
But let's be reasonable about how much change one can expect, especially on foreign policy. The constantly repeated statement that Obama was always against the invasion of Iraq is certainly questionable. (That source, Joseph Cannon, despises Obama in a way I definitely do not, and his writing style is shrill, but his work is solid, and everything is sourced.) And has Obama changed his position on Iran?
Great journalists of our time? Seymour Hersh. Naomi Klein. Robert Fisk. Amy Goodman. Barbara Ehrenreich. Christopher Hedges.
Those are just a few off the top of my head.
What's that you say? They're all on the left end of the political spectrum? That's no coincidence: it's where real journalism leads.
The right doesn't want journalism. Journalism is the relentless press for truth, wherever it leads. It involves nuance, contradiction, and often painful revelations. The right deals in simple images, duality, blind loyalty, bigotry, fear.
Another truly extraordinary journalist is John Pilger. If you don't know Pilger, check out the website; it speaks for itself.
Here's his latest column, with thanks to Allan.
In the great tradition, Obama is a hawk
by John Pilger
In 1941, the editor Edward Dowling wrote: "The two greatest obstacles to democracy in the United States are, first, the widespread delusion among the poor that we have a democracy, and second, the chronic terror among the rich, lest we get it." What has changed? The terror of the rich is greater than ever, and the poor have passed on their delusion to those who believe that when George W Bush finally steps down next January, his numerous threats to the rest of humanity will diminish.
The foregone nomination of Barack Obama, which, according to one breathless commentator, "marks a truly exciting and historic moment in US history", is a product of the new delusion. Actually, it just seems new. Truly exciting and historic moments have been fabricated around US presidential campaigns for as long as I can recall, generating what can only be described as bullshit on a grand scale. Race, gender, appearance, body language, rictal spouses and offspring, even bursts of tragic grandeur, are all subsumed by marketing and "image-making", now magnified by "virtual" technology. Thanks to an undemocratic electoral college system (or, in Bush's case, tampered voting machines) only those who both control and obey the system can win.
For example, since I compared Obama with Robert Kennedy in these pages, he has made two important statements, the implications of which have not been allowed to intrude on the celebrations. The first was at the conference of the American Israel Public Affairs Committee (Aipac), the Zionist lobby, which, as Ian Williams has pointed out, "will get you accused of anti-Semitism if you quote its own website about its power". Obama had already offered his genuflection, but on 4 June went further. He promised to support an "undivided Jerusalem" as Israel's capital. Not a single government on earth supports the Israeli annexation of all of Jerusalem, including the Bush regime, which recognises the UN resolution designating Jerusalem an international city.
His second statement, largely ignored, was made in Miami on 23 May. Speaking to the expatriate Cuban community – which over the years has faithfully produced terrorists, assassins and drug runners for US administrations – Obama promised to continue a 47-year crippling embargo on Cuba that has been declared illegal by the UN year after year.
Again, Obama went further than Bush. He said the United States had "lost Latin America". He described the democratically elected governments in Venezuela, Bolivia and Nicaragua as a "vacuum" to be filled. He raised the nonsense of Iranian influence in Latin America, and he endorsed Colombia's "right to strike terrorists who seek safe-havens across its borders". Translated, this means the "right" of a regime, whose president and leading politicians are linked to death squads, to invade its neighbours on behalf of Washington. He also endorsed the so-called Merida Initiative, which Amnesty International and others have condemned as the US bringing the "Colombian solution" to Mexico. He did not stop there. "We must press further south as well," he said. Not even Bush has said that.
It is time the wishful-thinkers grew up politically and debated the world of great power as it is, not as they hope it will be. Like all serious presidential candidates, past and present, Obama is a hawk and an expansionist. He comes from an unbroken Democratic tradition, as the war-making of presidents Truman, Kennedy, Johnson, Carter and Clinton demonstrates. Obama's difference may be that he feels an even greater need to show how tough he is. However much the colour of his skin draws out both racists and supporters, it is otherwise irrelevant to the great power game. The "truly exciting and historic moment in US history" will only occur when the game itself is challenged.
I do think a US president who is not a white male would be historic. And I'd be damn glad to see it, both for its own sake, and because it would mean (I think) the election was not cancelled or fixed.
But let's be reasonable about how much change one can expect, especially on foreign policy. The constantly repeated statement that Obama was always against the invasion of Iraq is certainly questionable. (That source, Joseph Cannon, despises Obama in a way I definitely do not, and his writing style is shrill, but his work is solid, and everything is sourced.) And has Obama changed his position on Iran?
the newfoundland packing challenge
When we went to Ireland in 2001, some friends told me an old cliche: be prepared for all four seasons, every day. Perhaps we were just lucky, but we didn't find quite that much variation. It was November, so often overcast and chilly, but it was mostly what I would consider typical autumn weather.
But Newfoundland, from what I hear, really is like that. A Campaigner friend who grew up in Newfoundland has been giving me tips and advice. In our email exchange today (with her parents' addresses!), I said, "Packing for this is a challenge, but we're trying to prepare for all four seasons.". Her reply:
Now, I am the woman who spent her anniversary in an Ice Hotel. I love the cold, but I do need to be dressed for it. I also don't like being damp (people with arthritis usually find damp weather very uncomfortable), so I have to take extra care with a damp cold, as opposed to the dry cold we had in Quebec.
We went back into historical data for Newfoundland weather (very cool feature), and it seems like we're arriving on the cusp of summer. Right now it's cold, but if the last few years are a guide, it will get much warmer while we're there.
But Newfoundland, from what I hear, really is like that. A Campaigner friend who grew up in Newfoundland has been giving me tips and advice. In our email exchange today (with her parents' addresses!), I said, "Packing for this is a challenge, but we're trying to prepare for all four seasons.". Her reply:
Quite often experienced in the same day. A warm sweater and windbreaker is essential for hiking in Gros Morne. When you see how bent the trees are around the shores you'll know why. Then as you progress inland, you'll need to take off the sweater, then 10 mins later you'll need it again. They give out light parkas on whale watching tours in St. John's. This is not enough -- you'll need a warm sweater as well. Even if the temp is 25 degrees, it'll be freezing on the water, this is the North Atlantic. When I went, I was wearing a turtleneck, wool sweater, fleece sweatshirt, plus the jacket they give you on the boat and it still took about two hours to thaw out once we got off the boat. And it was a really warm day.
Now, I am the woman who spent her anniversary in an Ice Hotel. I love the cold, but I do need to be dressed for it. I also don't like being damp (people with arthritis usually find damp weather very uncomfortable), so I have to take extra care with a damp cold, as opposed to the dry cold we had in Quebec.
We went back into historical data for Newfoundland weather (very cool feature), and it seems like we're arriving on the cusp of summer. Right now it's cold, but if the last few years are a guide, it will get much warmer while we're there.
i tried to watch some advertising and a baseball game broke out
You may recall how much I resent advertising swallowing up our entire landscape, exemplified by how difficult it has become to enjoy a baseball game in between ads.
I may have neglected to mention (on anywhere but our Red Sox "gamethread") a recent development in the decline of civilization. During Blue Jays games, Rogers SportsNet is now squeezing in ads in between pitches. Pitch is thrown, ad opens, ad closes, next pitch is thrown.
Do you hear me? Are you getting this? They are showing ads IN BETWEEN PITCHES!!!
And yet, to my amazement, James sent me one that might actually be worse.
Anyone who watches even a bit of TV has had the teeth-grinding experience of ads (usually for other shows on the same channel) being shown at the bottom of the screen. These in-show ads have become larger and more intrusive, with more moving animation, often blocking the show you are watching. Now it gets even better. And by better, I mean worse.
Click and watch. The original post James sent is here: a site over-run by ads.
And from Allan:
"Privacy should not be a concern." Thanks, advertisers! We trust you to keep us safe!
I may have neglected to mention (on anywhere but our Red Sox "gamethread") a recent development in the decline of civilization. During Blue Jays games, Rogers SportsNet is now squeezing in ads in between pitches. Pitch is thrown, ad opens, ad closes, next pitch is thrown.
Do you hear me? Are you getting this? They are showing ads IN BETWEEN PITCHES!!!
And yet, to my amazement, James sent me one that might actually be worse.
Anyone who watches even a bit of TV has had the teeth-grinding experience of ads (usually for other shows on the same channel) being shown at the bottom of the screen. These in-show ads have become larger and more intrusive, with more moving animation, often blocking the show you are watching. Now it gets even better. And by better, I mean worse.
Click and watch. The original post James sent is here: a site over-run by ads.
And from Allan:
In advertising these days, the brass ring goes to those who can measure everything — how many people see a particular advertisement, when they see it, who they are. All of that is easy on the Internet, and getting easier in television and print.
Billboards are a different story. For the most part, they are still a relic of old-world media, and the best guesses about viewership numbers come from foot traffic counts or highway reports, neither of which guarantees that the people passing by were really looking at the billboard, or that they were the ones sought out.
Now, some entrepreneurs have introduced technology to solve that problem. They are equipping billboards with tiny cameras that gather details about passers-by — their gender, approximate age and how long they looked at the billboard. These details are transmitted to a central database.
Behind the technology are small start-ups that say they are not storing actual images of the passers-by, so privacy should not be a concern.
"Privacy should not be a concern." Thanks, advertisers! We trust you to keep us safe!
just how vast is the american gulag?
In The End of America - which I blogged about here, here and here - Naomi Wolf lists ten elements that, taken together, suggest a society is moving from democracy to authoritarianism: the fascist shift. One element is secret prisons.
We already know the US is operating so-called "black sites" where prisoners are held without charges, trial or access to counsel - and tortured. Here's more.
Story here.
Just the other day, a US State Department official called Maher Arar's extraordinary rendition a "myth". War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.
And in related news [all emphasis mine]:
Why is the US in Iraq?
And what about that "volunteer" army?
Looking up some links, I noticed this choice fact from Amy Goodman's interview with a torture survivor: the Democrats learned about the "black site" renditions in 2002. And did nothing.
But don't worry, Obama will be different. This time he'll change.
We already know the US is operating so-called "black sites" where prisoners are held without charges, trial or access to counsel - and tortured. Here's more.
The United States is operating "floating prisons" to house those arrested in its war on terror, according to human rights lawyers, who claim there has been an attempt to conceal the numbers and whereabouts of detainees.
Details of ships where detainees have been held and sites allegedly being used in countries across the world have been compiled as the debate over detention without trial intensifies on both sides of the Atlantic. The US government was yesterday urged to list the names and whereabouts of all those detained.
Information about the operation of prison ships has emerged through a number of sources, including statements from the US military, the Council of Europe and related parliamentary bodies, and the testimonies of prisoners.
The analysis, due to be published this year by the human rights organisation Reprieve, also claims there have been more than 200 new cases of rendition since 2006, when President George Bush declared that the practice had stopped.
It is the use of ships to detain prisoners, however, that is raising fresh concern and demands for inquiries in Britain and the US.
According to research carried out by Reprieve, the US may have used as many as 17 ships as "floating prisons" since 2001. Detainees are interrogated aboard the vessels and then rendered to other, often undisclosed, locations, it is claimed.
. . .
At this time many people were abducted by Somali, Kenyan and Ethiopian forces in a systematic operation involving regular interrogations by individuals believed to be members of the FBI and CIA. Ultimately more than 100 individuals were "disappeared" to prisons in locations including Kenya, Somalia, Ethiopia, Djibouti and Guantánamo Bay.
Reprieve believes prisoners may have also been held for interrogation on the USS Ashland and other ships in the Gulf of Aden during this time.
The Reprieve study includes the account of a prisoner released from Guantánamo Bay, who described a fellow inmate's story of detention on an amphibious assault ship. "One of my fellow prisoners in Guantánamo was at sea on an American ship with about 50 others before coming to Guantánamo ... he was in the cage next to me. He told me that there were about 50 other people on the ship. They were all closed off in the bottom of the ship. The prisoner commented to me that it was like something you see on TV. The people held on the ship were beaten even more severely than in Guantánamo."
Clive Stafford Smith, Reprieve's legal director, said: "They choose ships to try to keep their misconduct as far as possible from the prying eyes of the media and lawyers. We will eventually reunite these ghost prisoners with their legal rights.
"By its own admission, the US government is currently detaining at least 26,000 people without trial in secret prisons, and information suggests up to 80,000 have been 'through the system' since 2001. The US government must show a commitment to rights and basic humanity by immediately revealing who these people are, where they are, and what has been done to them."
Story here.
Just the other day, a US State Department official called Maher Arar's extraordinary rendition a "myth". War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.
And in related news [all emphasis mine]:
Why is the US in Iraq?
"A BBC investigation estimates that around $23 billion may have been lost, stolen or just not properly accounted for in Iraq.
The BBC's Panorama programme has used US and Iraqi government sources to research how much some private contractors have profited from the conflict and rebuilding.
A US gagging order is preventing discussion of the allegations.
The order applies to 70 court cases against some of the top US companies.
. . .
To date, no major US contractor faces trial for fraud or mismanagement in Iraq.
. . .
Henry Waxman, who chairs the House committee on oversight and government reform, said: "The money that's gone into waste, fraud and abuse under these contracts is just so outrageous, it's egregious. "It may well turn out to be the largest war profiteering in history."
And what about that "volunteer" army?
The U.S. military's top uniformed officer told an audience of Army troops Wednesday the unpopular "stop loss" policy won't end anytime soon, and he predicted a small rise in the number of troops forced to serve past their re-enlistment or retirement dates.
Navy Adm. Mike Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, told an audience of 600 soldiers at Fort Stewart he understands the strain the stop loss practice and multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan have placed on service members.
"I would like to see an end to the stop loss policy, but I don't see it happening in the near future," Mullen said during a question-and-answer session with the troops. "I see a slight growth in the next couple of years based on predictions right now."
Mullen said about 11,000 Army troops are now serving under the stop loss policy, which critics have referred to as a "backdoor draft." Retaining troops beyond the date they're due to leave the military has been necessary to keep units stocked with trained soldiers ready to deploy to Iraq and Afghanistan, he said.
The stop loss question came up as Mullen spoke to noncommissioned and junior officers from the 3rd Infantry Division who returned from a 15-month deployment to Iraq in the last few months.
The 20,000-soldier division was the first tapped by the Army to serve a third tour in Iraq since 2003, and about half the soldiers in the room raised their hands when Mullen asked how many had deployed three times or more.
Looking up some links, I noticed this choice fact from Amy Goodman's interview with a torture survivor: the Democrats learned about the "black site" renditions in 2002. And did nothing.
But don't worry, Obama will be different. This time he'll change.
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