Blue Remembered Hills

The people we've met in Vancouver have been friendly and positive except one (half Swedish admittedly).  He interrogated us: "Where are you going?"  The Art Gallery.  "You'll be disappointed.  Where else?"   The museum. "Even worse".  But he did accept the Museum of Anthropology was quite good so we managed a face saving Canadian compromise.  Mostly he wanted to convince us that house prices were impossible in Vancouver.  His girl friend looked suitably embarassed as he demanded to know how much we'd paid for our house and what our salaries had been at the time.  We hurried off the bus to the art gallery.

We liked some: Emily Carr (very big in Canada) reminded us of young Georgia O'Keefe (but, being Canadian, rather more into dark forests).  A touch of theosophy inherited from her teacher may explain the tendency of some of her pictures to look as if we were seeing just the wrapping around something.  The pictures were counterpointed with a series by a Chinese painter, Lui Shou Kwan, which we preferred.

And, though I can imagine our sullen Swedish Canadian's response, I liked the anime and manga influenced irreverence and exuberent silliness of Takashi Murakami.

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The Museum of Vancouver was almost a history of protest: Chinese immigrants; Japanese interned in WW2; women wanting education, jobs, the vote; opposition to big freeways; hippies; feminism; gay rights and even neon signs.

But eventually there is always acceptance or compromise.  The First Nations have gone to court over their lost lands but are adamant they aren't trying to take back ownership - just a degree of stewardship to ensure burial sites and sacred places aren't abused. 

Today we visited Stanley Park and walked back on the path beside the wintery beach.

Two people were swimming (it's 4°C) and several kids played.  People jogged .  The park benches have the usual dedications, some silly, some personal, some, well, Canadian: "sit here, share",  "see from my perspective", "enjoy what they enjoyed".  

From the small bit of Canada we've seen, and from what we've heard of the country generally, there is a quiet respect for others, openness, politeness, and being prepared to help and contribute.

Canadian people are just NICE.  I don't know how often we've stopped to look at a map and someone has asked if we needed help.  On buses passengers frequently get up for us and nonchalently nod at the vacated seat, offering it to us.  Buying tickets for a play and not having enough cash, we were told we could take the tickets and pay later.  In cafes people automatically take back plates having scraped left overs into a 'composting' bin, and put plastic into recycling. And so on. 

It's not Utopia, there are people sleeping rough and in the city centre people do walk past them as they do everywhere.  In Kitsilano one local homeless man has a tent on the sidewalk - some people stop and talk, the duvet in it's plastic wrapping is presumably a gift.   Two other men have made a 'den' by an empty shop.  They don't seem to be hassled and sit in the shop doorway chatting amiably.  We've yet to see a police officer anywhere in Vancouver.

Tomorrow we go home to a land of snow and occasional minor earthquakes.  In some ways we're looking forward to being back but long holidays are unsettling. They make you homeless.  The wheel's still in spin and there's no telling who that it's naming.  We always ask each other: could we live here? what would be lost? what would be gained?  Today, near the end of our walk, we sat in the warmth of Granville Market (once a fish market, now just about everything and every sort of food you can imagine) and relaxed, Eleanor with a sophisticated Iced Mocha, me with a banana and strawberry milkshake.  "Could we live here?" I asked.  Unfortunately we fail to meet the strict niceness criteria insisted upon by the Immigration Department so it has to be "No".

But we'll remember.

See you all soon.

Old Friends

Canada is a big place (in case you hadn't noticed) and we'd only been in one part of it (British Columbia) and so far seen only a tiny bit of one city (Vancouver - population approx 2.5 million) the time had come to branch out, embrace the pioneering ethos, and visit friends on Vancouver Island.  It's an easy trip: walk through the early stages of a snow storm to the bus stop; then take the Skytrain (metro) to where we can get the next bus for a one hour journey to the ferry port.  We'd looked forward to this stage as a chance to see outside Vancouver but the snow closed in and we were coccooned in whiteness.

I can't recall how many times we've been told that snow is rare in Vancouver.  I'm beginning to get a bit nervous.  In every cafe, shop, gallery, museum, theatre or bus stop someone tells us that the weather is exceptional this year.  It's never this cold.  Is it our fault?  Have we brought it with us, signalling some catastrophic climatic tipping point?  They do admit it can be wet in winter (as I write this, it's pouring with rain; I can't see the mountains though the bay is starting to struggle towards visibility).  Enough paranoia, it's not our fault any more than New Zealand being deluged with tropical storms as soon as we arrived or blizzards being forecast for our return to the UK.  Probably.

The ferry crossing to Victoria passes between beautiful islands and rugged forested bays and coves.  It takes about 1.5 hours and Jane and Mark collect and take us to their house.  They moved to Canada from Edinburgh about fifteen years ago and have never been back. Their fabulous house has views that are equally magnificent: across the bay are the Olympic Mountains of Washington State.  Geese and Bald Eagles drift across the the sky, orca's splash in the bay, there are cougars in the woods.  And lots of other stuff I know nothing about.

We last visited them about twelve years ago and so there's not much to report other than we talked, ate, talked, drank, talked, and played with Zoey (sorry for putting 'y' when it should be a diaeresis but you're too kind a dog to take offence).  We had a lot of catching up to do.  The next day we ate breakfasts that would have felled lumberjacks, went for a walk and talked some more - all against a backdrop of sea, mountains, trees, green fields and spring flowers.  All the usual things which make life worth living.  Mark gave us a copy of his latest book, inscribed with a message looking forward to seeing us again in another 12 years  .... would you mind if it's a bit sooner?

Zoey - A new friend.  A bit grey like the
rest of us but still a puppy at heart.

Would you like a walk on the beach in February? 

Mark, the author of the must-read, soon-to-be bestseller ....

Buy this book!

Jane, Mark, Zoey  thanks again for everything, with love from us both.

The Damage Done?

"During these gatherings they lose months of time, waste their substance,  contract all kinds of diseases and generally unfit themselves for being British subjects in the proper sense of the word."

These are the conclusions of an Indian Agent, William Halliday, on the potlatch gatherings of the First Nation tribes of the NW American coasts ("First Nation" is Canadian, "Native American" is the US equivalent).  Potlatchs were the backbone of First Nation culture.  Paraphrasing a modern FN woman, they were where disagreements were resolved, children were named, tribal leadership was confirmed, marriages celebrated, goods of all sorts shared out, the old stories retold and the tribal dances performed in fabulous costumes.  The reference to "waste their substance" reflects the the gift culture of the FNs.  At potlatches the wealthy gave stuff away.  In the wonderful Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia are any number of fantastic things, among which are carved structures like short canoes with wheels.  These would be filled with goods for people at a potlach to take and/or eat.  In one example, several are joined like into a train at the front of which is an elaborately carved fish head from whose mouth a giant spoon extends for extra goodies.  The potlatch gives birth to the hostess trolly!

William Halliday's report was written in 1918, when large parts of the world had just lost four years in war,  wasted the substance of millions, spread disease on a global scale (Spanish Flu began in an army base and killed at least 3% of the world's population).  

European settlers did their best to wipe out potlatchs and impose Western assumptions about work and ownership.  And now, writing about modern life almost always seems to bemoan the "loss of community".  

Every blog is allowed one rant.  This was mine.  Now some pictures.

Scary totem - most are more friendly

Some sort of birdy thing

Salish Rugs - Woven from wild goat hair, woolly dogs' hair and feathers.