We catch up with Duncan the fisherman and his family to find him transformed into a farmer
15th August 2005

Relatively painless border crossing
Canada shows off it's liberality
Pat turns butcher, vaguely
Matters pertaining to horticulture and silviculture
Pat turns farmer, vaguely

At least Canadians know U.S. border policy

An early start was called for. My logic worked as follows. If our arrival was supposed to be a surprise for Simon and Sharon, ringing in advance may mar the dramatic effect. If, in fact, they were aware of our impending arrival, they may be waiting in for us and so we didn’t want to spoil their day. If they were oblivious, there could be no harm if we turned up and occupied ourselves for the afternoon. We knew they were going out for a planned evening and so wouldn’t have to rearrange anything on our account.

There was a huge up-side to rising early and getting on our way - we’d catch the border while it was quiet and the staff were chipper and relaxed. Or..... then again, they may just have suffered a boring night shift and be waiting to hassle an unsuspecting foreigner. There was no-one around at all. Good thing? Bad thing?

The charming but assertive Canadian immigration officer (rather a flat chested girl or was it the unflattering flak jacket she was wearing) seemed to be well up on all manner of immigration issues States-wise. Indeed she seemed more aware of the immigration rules than the US officials at Roma, Texas and Tecate, Ca. Regrettably that meant that we were currently without the correct tourist card to leave the U.S. How could they do this to us? I’d been shirty and a half just to get an entry stamp at Tecate and as I’d predicted at the time even that may not be enough. Unlike when there seemed to be a problem in Roma, this lass kept us informed of what was going on and made phone calls to superiors from within earshot of us. Altogether she gave us a feeling that everything was a bit more organised and open. Just a couple calls later and she was stamping us through whilst shrugging about how flakey the Yanks are. She was ultra-helpful, she checked whether we would be allowed back into the US to catch our flights, since officially, we are not meant to re-enter within 6 months. Not that any of the border guards in the US have noticed yet. She had been the only one who had been decent enough to explain why we had had to pay to enter by land but not at an airport. Either American border guards are ignorant of the information or just plain ignorant. Time will tell when we re-enter from Canada.

Right on B.C.

Wow, you know that you are in Canada when the first advert you see is a giant billboard advertising the ‘International Buddhist Temple’, when native Americans are ‘First Nations’ and people are generally wonderful. We whizzed to the port of Tsawwassen, I know it looks like a spelling error, but its not. We pulled up, and were waved straight through to the ferry which was due off in 15 minutes. Perfect timing. It is not until you leave the US after being there for so long that you realise how stifling the place is. We ended up in the usual conversations about travelling with a bike with a Brit plate, but here the responses were different to those of so many Americans. There were none of the assumptions that we were just travelling in the States, none of the incredulity that we were travelling further afield, none of the paranoid questions about security and safety. Instead there was a worldliness, and curiousity, that gave an understanding that the world was full of different cultures and lifestyles that made it interesting rather than threatening. The American limited and scare-mongering media has a lot to answer for. The world criticises Cuba for not allowing its people to leave the country, but the American media indoctrinates its people so that too many, are too frightened to go outside its borders, and encourages intolerance and ignorance. Which is worse? Cuba has a highly educated, and worldy population, but they are confined physically to their country while Americans are being misinformed, and mentally confined to theirs. Some how there is something more sneaky and insidious about the use of media to constrain people, convincing them it is their choice. Don’t get me wrong I’m talking here about your average American - there are certainly many we have met who are mortally embarrassed by the ignorance of their fellow countrymen.

We wended our way to Duncan and Tracy’s not knowing for sure whether we were expected or not. We, as ever, only needed a patch to plant the tent on and so there was no worry that we could fit into their few acres. We followed the instructions from Mapquest but not quite to the letter. We knew that we followed the highway past Nanaimo knowing that we had to pull of at the Jinglepot turning. Once onto Jinglepot, (what a lovely name for a road) things went horribly wrong. None of our further directions seemed to make any sense. We asked directions from folk by the road. None seemed to have any clue about where Andres Road was. Could be the fact that without exception all of the people that we spoke to were English. What was going on here? Had we passed through some kind of wormhole, or there been a wholescale exodus?

Later we discovered that Jinglepot crosses and recrosses the highway as it weaves all over the area. If we’d been more attentive to detail, we would have left the highway at a more appropriate junction. No matter, we got there in the end. We spent a lovely afternoon basking in the sun and delighting in the country sounds surrounding Duncan and Tracy’s house. We debated whether the adjacent field full of sheep were part of the same patch or not. Helen fretted that we’d not thoroughly announced our intentions. I maintained the ‘keeping it a surprise for Simon and Sharon’ line and hoped that their absence for the afternoon indicated that they were indeed oblivious of our intentions. When they finally arrived, it was like the cool meeting between Zaphod Beeblebrox and Ford Prefect. Clearly they were aware that we were in the ‘hood.

I’d never met Tracy or Molly before. Not only have we been away for so long, but add on the normal gaps between meeting some friends in particular and by a rough calculation I hadn’t seen Duncan for about 7 years. Most of our acquaintance has been muddled with the quaffing of copious quantities of beer that a visit to Sidmouth always seemed to involve. It was wonderful to meet such a chilled family that have transferred from Britain to the Vancouver Island lifestyle with seeming ease and great happiness. Tracy, of course, had the advantage of being Canadian in the first place and so although she moved a few miles from Ontario across the country, was ‘au fait’ with Canadian ways.

Tracy was wonderfully welcoming, in true Canadian style, to a pair of travelling waifs, like ourselves. In fact, our relationship with Duncan seemed more awkward. As is the way, with relationships that have been allowed, through lack of maintenance, to wane. You are not exactly, strangers, but after so many years of being out of touch, you are not really close friends either. It is hard to judge the social ground rules. With Tracy and Molly it was easy, we were strangers getting to know each other. But I felt somehow we were injecting an alien dynamic into they relationship with Simon and Sharon. Pat thinks that I worry too much.

That evening we shared a few drinks down by the habour. Is was easy to see why Duncan and Tracy had not found it hard to settle there. The Habour of Nanaimo, is an egalitarian and courteous locale. Wee sea-planes, kayakers, ferries, power and sail boats share the busy waters amicably. There was something so delightfully, un-American about it. In America there would have all kinds of concerns about safety, that would have constrained peoples activities. Here, people are so courteous, that they understand, and look out for each other, so that people yield to each other. I am sorry that I am making so many comparisons between the American and the Canadians, but there is such a change in general atmosphere, that it is hard not to. In America power is king, power boats and the sea planes, would have bullied their way into a situation where it was no longer safe for kayakers, or the suing culture in the USA would have forced legislation and they would be restricted to certain areas. Here everyone is just generally considerate, so there is more relaxed freedom.

It was, as ever, good to touch base with old friends, but somehow hard to accept the truth that, as our lives have diverged from the mainstream, others lives have moved on. People get promotions, have children, plan to buy bigger houses, while our ‘normal’ life regresses. If we try to return to our professions we will be demoted, for having spent years outside the system. I can’t help getting the feeling that as we move laterally through life, our friends move on, we are losing touch with them, our priorities diverging to such an extent that we are becoming distant. I feel I am losing touch with ‘normal’ life. Talk, of house prices, promotions, DIY and decorating, that once kept me interested for hours, all seem so far divorced from our life that I don’t know how to contribute to the conversation any more.

Now with Molly, Tracy and Duncan’s, daughter, things were different. Molly, is a confident, polite, open and curious child, who was at that wonderful age that everything is interesting. She had not yet been tainted by the conventions of adult conversation. The next day, she asked to sit on the bike, to her each lever, button and facet of the bike and our helmets was fascinating. Life to her is still magical, flowers still enthralling, bugs still engrossing and not plain gross. She was a delight. When is it that people lose that sparkle of being a curiosity sponge?

Realities of being down on the farm

Duncan decided to kill a couple of fatted chickens for the prodigal friends. Pat and I are not chicken gutting experts but it was not virgin territory either. So while while Simon and Sharon were out shopping in town, we set about, tidying the chucks to present them supermarket fashion. It brought back a few memories of Guyana, but that’s a another story. I am sure that professionals would have down it quicker, but in the end there was little to distingish the pair from the cellophane wrapped variety in Sainsbury’s.

We disposed of the guts to the cannibalistic chucks and set about other chores of trying to sort shippage to Philippines. It was all beginning to fall into plce. The nice guys at BMW in Vancouver, would let us have an old crate for nowt.

Sh.........it, shit, shit shit! I looked at my hand, my gold ring that Fazi and Mansoor had given me as a parting gift from Guyana was gone. My thoughts re-ran the events of the days, my hand up a chicken’s arse, removing guts, the feeding of the guts to the chickens, the plucking of feathers into the rubbish bin. It could be anywhere, inside the bin; inside a dead carcase; inside a live chicken’s intestine; somewhere in the fields. I was frustrated, angry with myself, that I had not thought to take it off, how dumb am I? But mostly, I was distraught. I travel with very few things of sentimental value, but that ring was one of them, and somehow the fact that I have so few precious possessions with me, makes it all the heart rending that fact that it was gone.

We searched the bin, through bloody ended chicken feathers; we searched the chicken cavities; the plug hole in the sink; the chicken coup. No joy, it was gone. It all felt wrong. There had been understandable awkward-ness about our presence, and now this. Something was telling me that this was all wrong. Simon and Sharon had come out to spend time with Duncan and Tracy - we hadn’t been part of the equation when the itinerary was put together. Plans for their time in Canada had been made months before hand and I felt we were gatecrashing, now I had lost my ring, it was all very, inauspicious.

I wanted to somehow, run time backwards and re-do things. But it was not to be. I was more upset than I thought possible by the loss of the ring, I found it difficult to think of anything else, I was concentrating on fighting back the tears when Duncan returned from work and went about his husbandry with the chucks and lambs.

He found it. He really found it. The relief was tangible - it swept over me. I was so grateful, the tears welled up. I felt slightly silly about being so happy,over something so seemingly minor. I don’t think the loss of a valued keepsake from great friends should be considered minor, my love.

Being back in Canada brought back memories of the last time we were there. We had returned to the UK, thinking very seriously about migrating to Canada, and had gone as far as looking into our eligibility to discover that we were lacking in enough ‘points’. Canada, fairly, has a system where you have to show that you are going to be a valuable citizen of their country. So, points are allocated according to various criteria; qualifications, fluency in multiple languages, occupation, age etc. Teaching had given me nil points, but Pat had done OK with civil engineering. We had not pursued it at the time thinking that we would both have to have the required total individually to be allowed in. In retrospect being back there we regreted that we had given up so easily. Maybe if one of a married couple qualifies, it is enough to bring their spouse. Canada has the space, standard of living, and wonderful wide open spaces of the US, without its anality and paranoia. They have and believe in a welfare state, their multicultural society is a dynamic and vital part of the Canadian ethos. They are trying hard to reasonably compensate the First Nations, for loss of territory.

There is a lot to recommend Canada, so much so that it is no surprise that others are seeing its potential. When a country is attractive to immigrants, it is inevitable that a few with less than honorable intentions will also chose it as home. Duncan and Tracy, told us of a couple of Brits, who seemingly are systematically abusing the trusting, welcoming nature of Canadians to weedle their way into and out of scams.

They had put down a bond, of $100,000 on a business to ensure their citizenship. They had then pretended to split up, so that the wife could go weeping to the consulate to plead for her bond back, while hubby sat in the car outside. They had promised to buy a house, signed the agreement and everything, and backed out without paying the lawyer, or honouring the contract. Had advertised their house a couple of times and sold it, only to betray the buyers. They had blagged their way into good jobs on the Island, while Islanders struggle to find work, and don’t appear to appreciate their luck. Poor Tracy was clearly distressed by their behaviour. It understandably left a nasty taste in her mouth that when they had first arrived, they had stayed in their apartment, she and Duncan had introduced them to people and now they were happily ripping people off.

Tracy has British parents and has an affection for Anglo-Saxons enough to have endeavoured to fit into Devonian society with Duncan. So she felt doubly hurt that it was British kinsmen who were taking advantage of fellow Canadians. I could see her point, the Brits have become quite ruthless in the housing market, dropping out of offers is common and guzumping is not unknown. We are distrusting, and half expect a sale to fall through before completion, but in Canada an agreement still means - an agreement.

As Duncan says, Canada reminds him of Britain 20, or 30 years ago. When people did not have burglar alarms, people knew they neighbours, people were helpful and courteous.

Courgette courtesy

This brings me to the zucchini (courgette) custom on the island. Duncan and Tracy had been a little bemused by a parcel of zucchini that was left on their on their doorstep. We later discovered that this is a tradition born out of generousity and excess. As is the way with crops, all the zucchini plants on the island produce simultaneously, and rather than waste them the islanders deliver their excess to all and sundry. So the courgette fairies do their thing.

I love the open nature of Canadians, but their lack of cynicism will mean unfortunately that they are an easy target for the unscrupulous. This all means that it if we try to emigrate to Canada when we return no doubt the authorities will be clamped down more to prevent this kind of thing.

Months back in Alamos we had met a couple from Nanaimo, Jonathon and Jessica. They’d given us their numbers and insisted that if we landed in the area we should give them a bell. We did.

Jonathon works for the Men’s Resource Centre in town, and part time as the captain of a ferry boat. Last time we saw him he had been traveling and camping in his van with his girlfriend and a large, hairy, randy, dog called Rainbear, due to his delight in shaking water over people. Now, sitting in his office, he looked like a different man, all kempt and professional. I wonder if we brush up so well. He’s one of the only 20% native-born residents of the Island, and has watched it change almost beyond recognition over the years.

People attracted to the laid back nature of the Island and its temperate climate, are making the place their home. As the population increases, the pace of life grows with it. Land prices are soaring, and the virgin nature of the land is under threat. As more and more people want their little piece of paradise, more and more virgin forest it being divided into building lots. There is of course, a lot more dollars swishing about in the economy and tourists on their hols are easily tempted to part with their hard earned with some wonderful eateries and the high concentration of talented artists of all muses. I can see how the local Islanders are rather ambivalent about the development of the area.

Jonathon is in touch with down-sizing. He has built a house of straw. Wonderful material, insulatory from both the heat in the summer and cold in the winter, and cheap and quick to built. Officially the house doesn’t exist, of course. Not many planning authorities are able to keep up with exotica in building practise and regs don’t exist for the type of house first blown down by the big bad wolf. He’s perfectly happy with the performance of the chosen materials - even planning an extra floor. He has enough solar panelled to provide him the required elctricity, if he is careful about what he uses. He plumbs into his Mum’s water line that passes across the property and subs her for the extra water, and has the beginnings of a kitchen garden. The place was rustic, but enough is plenty.

We spent a couple of hours down at Jessica’s community garden where we learned, amongst other things, about that peculiar zucchini giving culture that exists on Vancouver Island when there is a glut of a harvest before we headed off to a hidden away part of the Nanaimo River where naturism reigns. If you’re getting Hippy from all of this, you could well be right and I don’t think Jonathon and Jessica would be too offended by the moniker. The picture of dirty scruffy herberts smoking endless spliff is thankfully consigned to the wastebasket of the 60’s and your modern hippy is simply someone who actually cares about the environment without having to be completely boxed to feel that way. I think I’m starting to see the light.

The community garden is a great concept. The people who volunteer to work, share in the produce, it is all organic and sustainable. Jessica manages the project, so that you don’t everyone watering the same row, or tramping over a newly, seeded bed. I was treated to a couple of hours being able to help out gardening - in return I left with a couple of courgettes (of course), some beans, a couple of beetroots and a wee squash. Not bad eh?

Company at the river was fun. A lovely couple of blokes who got excited about the idea of getting married by Jonathon when they heard that he has a captain’s certificate. Theo was building a drum to a design he’d downloaded off the internet which would be big enough for nearly all of his men’s group to beat at the same time. The dogs displayed their water absorbing and distributing potential with gusto. Water temperature perfect, weather perfect, snacks perfect. Just perfect, really.

Jessica lives in a little house in a clearing of a sustained forest called Wildwood. The forest has something of an international reputation thanks to the outspoken owner/manager, Merve Wilkinson, who has serially lambasted all manner of authorities for decades. By a chain of happy coincidences, she placed an ad. asking for accomodation when she came out west to be passionate about trees and Merve offered the spot where she still resides.

We took a tour of the forest with Jay, a charming young Canadian Indian guy who works the forest now that its getting beyond Merve who is now into his 90’s and perhaps beyond lumberjacking. He told us of the fragile position of the forest due to Merv having given a part of the wood away to his son who promptly gave it to the church he attends (just what every church needs - a piece of forest!) The church then sold it on for a huge sum so that they could buy new worshipping paraphernalia no doubt. Thus began a 40 year feud between son and father, that only recently has began to be reconciled. Fortunately the purchasers were happy to allow Merve to manage the land for the duration of his earthly term. Thereafter who knows? I never knew it but the first nation had a method of planking by inserting hardwood wedges into drying timber. Apparently they took their planks with them when they migrated in the winter - seems sensible after all that hard work. Seems the first Nation folk also had large tracts of the island producing some kind of food-bulb for them. Now you can’t find ‘em for love nor money.

Merv is understandably concerned that after his death, the impetus will die with him, and the forest that he has tried so hard to preseve and maintain wil be sold on for big bucks to property developers. The forest although not huge in acreage, was a delight, I was made up to finally see one of the tiny tree frogs that chirp so persistently, there are golden eagles nesting, woody wood peckers and everthing. They still manage the forest, beause clearings need to be made to allow the seedlings some space, but the old wood remains, the trees the birds favour are left standing, and dead wood is left to rot and grow all those fascinating fungi. It is good to see in a world of corporate pressure, one guy can still make people listen.

Although starting on these themes pertaining to the forest and the potential of associating a collection separate patches into a continuous band of virgin or at least eco-forest across Vancouver island, we drifted onto a fact-finding mission about what is waiting for us in India. It sounds pretty much as crazy as I expected.

Jay admitted that although entitled to an Indian passport, through parentage, he could not manage to blend into Indian culture. He could wear the right gear, but somehow his stance was different, the way he walked was different - there was no escaping his Canadian demeanor. We, obviously, will stand out like sore thumbs. He clearly, had a respect and a fondness for Indian ways, and understood them well enough to smile at India’s frustrations. It was interesting to hear, that as India moves on the middle class is growing and there is a move toward vacation homes in the highlands to escape the heat of the summer. So the locals of North India are suffering like the Islanders from property price rises. Maybe estate agents will inheret the earth.

Farming isn’t just about muck spreading

Our genial hosts were off for the weekend to an art festival up the road with Simon and Sharon. I had seen it advertised but knew it would be an Aladdin’s Cave of temptations, and it only depress me that we had neither the space nor money for such delights. We planned to hang around Nanaimo and spend a little time with Jessica and Jonathon, whilst they were off. Duncan had a plan than seemed to suit all concerned. We needed somewhere to stay, they needed someone to mind the chucks and sheep. So it all fell into place. Little did I know that whilst I was chatting with Duncan, Pat was talking about alternative offers from Jonathon. Why are hospitality offers like London buses? We couldn’t see the sheep starve, or the chickens unwater-ed so we stayed.

I managed the few days of herd management without inadvertantly killing anything , or advertantly for that matter. The poor critters didn’t get their usual early awakening, though, and rather than accepting the situation with good grace and having a lie-in, they clamoured for attention. But seriously, folks, I did take my duties seriously and fed and watered at appropriate times. Although it was all fun, I’d need to be settled into a good rhythm before I sould consider keeping chickens again. Not the best thing to deal with if your doing late nights. Had a bit of a panic when the feed ran out for the meat birds but Dunc had left his pickup and the nice man at the garden shop led me through the minefield of feed selection.

I struggle generally with accepting hospitality, and feel an overwhelming urge, to treat people back with wine, meals, or dismantaling their garage. In this case both Tracy and Duncan had mentioned their dearth of decent curry houses. So we set about plans for a few curries for their return on Monday. Luckily, the blackberries were just fruiting, and I had scrumped enough from Jonathon’s drive and up the road to even rustle up a pudding, to go with my party piece curry offerings.

Our recurrent dilemma is how to give thanks to our hosts for their kindness. What constitutes a treat for us may seem almost insulting to people who are working and enjoying a generally better standard of living (in material terms). We try to do things where we can rather than buying gifts which may seem trivial or meals that may be (to our hosts) even less impressive than their normal fare; helping with a garage sale, cooking meals for busy people or, in this case, managing a menagerie for a while. It never really seems enough though and we apologise for our inability to repay kindness.

Staying with Duncan and Tracy, had been a taste of a different (and very attractive) lifestyle. Duncan had few regrets about leaving Sidmouth, where he worked unreasonably hard, running his fishing business, to live. In Canada, he has an equally full but more rewarding life, working as a part time labourer, running his small holding, managing a vacation cottage and the flat in his house for people like themselves re-locating and looking after his delightful daughter. There is beautiful forest, beaches and lakes spitting distance from their home. He and Tracy have made a wonderful life for themselves. I am sure there were those that were surprised by a West country boy born and bred, picking up sticks and heading half way round the world, but to me there is nothing more rational.

I felt that the fading friendship was on a road to recovery. We left wishing we could stay longer, but the bike shippage really needed sorting so to Vancouver we went.