Author Archives: brunhub

Voodoo Economics

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The hazy pea soup engulfing most of British Columbia is persisting and made me think of the nuclear winter scenario that was bandied about in the 70’s. I know the birds are freaked out and the trees are going into early fall mode, due to the diffused light and cooler temperatures. I can stare directly at the orange sun but not see the mountains or the islands. Somebody told me that it’s like smoking half a dozen cigarettes a day. I used to smoke a pack a day back in the day when you could still smoke on planes. But we all go on about our daily activities and watching the news makes me feel even more helpless than usual.  Campbell, my Thirsty Thursday beer buddy, has matters far removed from the Gibsons weather on his mind.

“Did you hear that Maduro in Venezuela has created the new Soverano Bolivaro, tied to a crypto currency called Petro which in turn is dependent on the Ayocucho 1 oil field that is deep underground and has neither been developed nor accessed. He’s also striking 5 zeros off the old Bolivar. He calls it a ‘magic formula’ to solve the hyperinflation in his country. He might as well wave a magic wand and sacrifice a chicken. It’s about that effective I think.”

“I read that one coffee that used to cost 450 Bolivars now cost one million and that 4000 people per day are fleeing into Ecuador. Apparently over one million have crossed into Columbia in the past year,” I said.

“Yes, it’s a disaster and Ecuador is now enforcing a passport requirement for anyone coming into the country. Many Venezuelans only have ID cards which will not allow them entry.”

“But Maduro had himself a big military parade last week and claims he was attacked by a drone.”

“More theatre of the absurd I think,” Camp said.

We both concentrated on our drinks, trying to think of something upbeat for a change but nothing came to mind. I wanted to mention an article I read waiting at the bank in line for a teller.

“Did you know that households directly own 36% of the $46 trillion U.S. equity market, and indirectly through mutual funds over 50%; not portfolio managers or other professional market participants. Think about it Camp, day traders and mamas and papas sitting at their laptops trading stocks according to their whims, fears, horoscopes, tips from neighbours, even advice from their priests and rabbis. It’s a gigantic casino and nobody is in charge.”

“That’s very interesting my friend but it means diddly squat to me since I don’t have casino money and even less control of what goes on in the stock market.”

“I think we’re all influenced by it by way of pensions or currency fluctuations.”

“That may be true but the voodoo economics practiced by the US lately has far more influence on our daily lives,” Camp said. “Between Wilbur Ross –

Trumps commerce secretary – Maduro and  Erdogan we have an unholy trinity. If I had a crystal ball my prophecy would be: If you didn’t change your misguided, self serving policies and refused to listen to reason, you will be remembered as the chief architect of the failure of the international trade and monetary system and are therefore to blame for the 2020 recession. But then again maybe that’s what they want to achieve. Maybe they’re all secret anarchists in capitalist cloaks.”

“A bit harsh don’t you think,” I said, “since economic theory is just that: a theory, from Adam Smith to Keynes on one side and Hayek and Friedman on the other side, all are preaching from their ivory towers. Try and explain to a Venezuelan why his cup of coffee costs a million bolivars.”

“How about Doug Ford’s promise on twitter that ‘a-buck-a-beer’was coming back to a shelf near you.”

“Beer politics at its basest,” Camp said.

“You boys ready for a refill,” Vicky asked. It was a rhetorical question since she swiftly exchanged our empties for two fresh pints.”

“Happy International Beer Day,” I toasted.

“You’re a couple of weeks late,” Vicky pointed out. “That was on August 3rd.”

“He means to say every day is beer day,” Camp said, raising his glass.

 

 

 

 

Hot days of Summer

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The water of Howe Sound is a dull green and the mountains and the Islands are obscured inside a shroud of smoky haze, like a Chinese watercolour painting, evidence of the 600 fires ravaging the province, displacing thousands of people. The sun is a fiery orange and the shadows are faded and an acrid smell permeates the air. It’s the new normal every summer it seems. Welcome to hot house earth, I thought, feeling a bit down.

I could see Campbell was already seated at our usual table in the corner, intent on his smart phone until he spotted me when he swiftly tucked it away. I was wondering what my friend Camp had to say about the ongoing spat between Saudi Arabia and Canada.

“King Salman of the house of Saud completely overreacted to a tweet from Ms. Freeland,” he said dismissive.

“Foreign policy by twitter? Like the prez?” I said.

“Not a good idea but nothing wrong with the message,” Camp pointed out. “I’m fully behind her asking for the release of jailed political dissidents. We all know that the Saudis human rights record is deplorable and the Wahabi interpretation of Sunni Islam and sharia law is not helping. Saudi Arabia is pretty well dead last when it comes to gender equality and they don’t want to be told by a woman – Ms Freeland – what to do.”

“Not on twitter,” I said. “She could have chosen a more appropriate method of communication.”

“Yes, maybe by diplomatic envoy, maybe asked some of our so-called allies to support us before delivering the message. It would have had more impact.”

“They now allow women to drive,” I said “and access medical and social services without the permission of a legal guardian, say husband.”

“Great, how are they going to get a drivers license covered with a hijab?” Camp said, “and how are they going to access services if they’re not allowed outside their house without a male family chaperon?”

“Pulling out 1600 students and their families and over 200 medical internists is kind of punishing their own kind. Imagine quitting your apartment, studies and friends you’ve made just because your irate head of state is having a hissy fit,” I said. Camp held up two fingers for Rosie or Vicky to see. This hot weather makes for a mighty thirst.

“The real shame is that no other country is supporting Canada on this. Nobody, except Amnesty International. Human rights take a back seat to petro dollars and oil,” I said.

“It probably also has to do with the proxy war in Yemen, Sunni Saudis against Iranian Shiites. The house of Saud wants to keep the upper hand on the peninsula and feels it cannot afford to be publicly shamed, by a woman of all people.”

Rosie brought two fresh pints, which we instantly attacked.

“Here is another question for you Camp,” I said, setting down the half empty mug. “Who or what is the real enemy of the people?”

Camp raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “This a trick question? We know it’s not the news media or the free press. You want a name? Comrade Stalin? Dear Leader? Trump? I tell you what is the real enemy of the people. Hubris! That’s what will bring about the downfall.”

Just at that time two couples, large, boisterous tourists, rose to their feet, laughing and guffawing loudly, like people do after a few drinks on a muggy summer evening. They left behind a battlefield tabletop littered with dishes, ketchup, spices, half eaten fries, empty chip bags, napkins, several glasses, bottles, straws, cutlery and other assorted garbage. Both Vicky and Rosie came to clean the mess while we looked on.

“Lousy tippers,” Vicky grumbled, “but large eaters,” Rosie said.

Camp laughed. “I read somewhere that today is the first time in history that rich people are thin and poor people are fat,” Camp said.

“Indeed,” I said.  “Corpulence was always a sign of well-to-do and signified that he bearer of all this fleshy weight has recourses and means while the poor people were scrawny, overworked and underfed,” I said.

“Exactly and now it’s turned around, at least here in North America. Thanks to fast food and sugery pops,” Camp said.

“It’s an upside down world. I guess we somehow fall in the middle, not rich, not poor, not thin, not fat.”

“Not pop, just beer.”

“Cheers!”

 

 

 

Refugees

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“Apparently Trudeau is not handling the illegal migration, mostly from the US, very well. Canadians want a more conservative approach,” I said after Vicky brought us a couple of beers. Camp was unusually pensive and thought about a response for a few beats.

“Not sure what they want? More armed border guards along the 7000km, mostly open border and how do you stop them walking into Canada, claiming refugee status? Many of them have no IDs or papers, either tossed them or lost them. You can’t turn them back since the US will not let them back in and you can’t shoot them and you can’t ignore them.”

“When Trudeau tweeted that ‘all those fleeing persecution, terror and war are welcome, regardless of faith’ he scored an own goal since at the same time Trump told those with temporary status to leave. So they came to Canada.”

“Yes, we now have more illegal asylum seekers then legal ones,” Camp said, “and it’s not getting better. It seems that the rule of law has broken down and the process has been completely derailed. There was already a backlog of legal claims which now has exploded with the influx of illegal claimants. The waiting list today is up to 20 months for a claim to be heard.”

“The federal government says ‘we’re dealing with a challenge’while the conservative opposition calls it a crisis,” I said.

“Globally we’re nowhere near crisis level,” Camp said. “Only 0.2% of the worldwide refugee population has ended up in Canada according to the UNHCR. Transfer that number to the Sunshine Coast with a population of say 30’000; that would be 60. I don’t think that constitutes a crisis. Globally the refugee population rose to 25 million last year, half are children, the highest number since WWII. On a percentage basis we’re not in the top ten and for that matter neither is Germany. Sweden received 170’000 claims last year, which in Canada would be the equivalent of 600’000. Lebanon, Jordan and Turkey are the top three destinations and in those countries the unprecedented influx of refugees is a crisis.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“Well I get most of that from this article in the Globe and Mail from last week. Here it is.” Camp shoved the paper in front of me. While I concentrated on the article he focused on his pint.

“It says here that there is nothing illegal if someone crosses the border by whichever means is taken or goes to a port of entry. The term ‘illegal border crossers’ stigmatizes people as law-breakers when there is nothing unlawful at the point of entry. So what’s the fix? How can this be addressed without appearing xenophobic or cruel?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Trying to cut the wait time in half by some means would be a good start,” Camp said.

“And separating refugees from immigrants and migrants in the public’s mind would be another step.”

“You two ready for a refill?” Vicky asked. “You seem awfully busy. What is it this week that keeps you two so agitated?”

“Refugees,” Camp said, handing her his empty glass, “and I don’t mean the song by Tom Petty,” Camp said.

Vicky looked perplexed. “I don’t know any refugees personally,” she said. “Do you?”

“Not really,” I had to admit, “but apparently it’s a calamity in Ontario and Quebec.”

“I have to feel sorry for anyone running away from their home and country for whatever reason. I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”

“You’re right Vicky, none of us do. We travel around the world as tourists and avoid places of conflict. Refugees escape those places and then are treated as outcasts wherever they land.”

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/canada/article-asylum-seekers-in-canada-has-become-a-divisive-and-confusing-issue-a/

Swiss Rösti

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Rösti is an all time favorite ‘poor man’ left-over recipe and is served for dinner or lunch – never for breakfast – in most Swiss homes and restaurants, including the high-end gourmet palaces like the ‘Dolder Grand’ or the ‘Kronenhalle’, usually as an accompaniment to seared calf liver or ‘Zürich Geschnetzeltes’which is scalloped sirloin in a cream sauce with mushrooms. 

 Here is how it goes:

Boil half a dozen whole potatoes (yukon or white) until cooked (ca. 15-20 min)

drain water and let the potatoes sit for a couple of days (2-4) on top of the fridge or out of the way, no need to refrigerate

 Now the potatoes are firm and easy to peel, then grate or shred them into fettuccini sized strips

heat 2 tbsp of bacon fat or butter in a frying pan  (cast or stick-free)

add the shredded potatoes, turn over two or three times on high heat

turn heat down and let sit for a few minutes (2-3)

gently mix a couple more times

now leave it alone and let it cook on medium heat for ca. 8-10 min, until the bottom is brown and crisp

Cover the potatoes in the frying pan with a plate and flip the whole works over so the Rösti comes to rest on the serving plate with the crisp, browned side up

You can also add bacon cubes and/or finely chopped onions to the mix but fry them first before adding the potatoes

When I was a kid I always garnished the Rösti with a couple of fried eggs over top and my mom insisted on a green salad on the side

Rösti goes well as a side dish with veal stroganoff (or Zurich Geschnetzeltes) sausages or pork cutlets or seared calf liver or just green salad.

 

Politically Correct?

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It is already August and the days are cooling off. I like this month the best because the days are still long, and summer is in its languid stage. The tide was out when I walked to my weekly Thirsty Thursday meet-up with my cohort Campbell or Camp for short. He was already seated at our usual table talking to Rosie, who was sharing the floor with Vicky during the busy summer.

“Did I miss anything,” I said jokingly when I sat down.

“Not yet,” Camp said, “we’re just talking fishing, more precisely crabbing. Rosie puts out a crab trap in the evening on the Hopkins wharf and picks dinner up the next morning. Now that’s my kind of fishing. No wasting any time waiting for the fish to bite.”

“It’s not about catching alone Camp, fishing is a state of being, sort of a Zen thing. At one with nature, in the zone.” I said.

Rosie just laughed. “I’ll be right back with a couple of pints.”

“Talking about fishing,” I said, “I ran into an acquaintance the other day who just returned from the Queen Charlotte Islands where he was employed as a guide in one of those exclusive fishing lodges.”

“Haida Gway,” Camp said.

“Oh, yeah right, I keep forgetting. All these name changes. Anyway he told me that there were no fish, no salmon and that this is the worst year ever. They had thirty boats, each with three rods in the water and out of those they caught 2 salmon, maybe one small halibut. Even the local Indians don’t know what’s happening.”

“First Nation people,” Camp corrected. “You can’t call them Indians anymore or Eskimos for that mater. There are First Nations, Inuit and Metis.”

“Ok, I’m confused,” I said. “What can you call who anymore?”

“Well, you can’t call the Chinese chinks, or the British limeys, or the Italians waps or the French frogs or the Japanese japs. Those are all defamatory labels. Unacceptable today. You should know that.”

“But you can call Canadians Canucks and the Scots Highlanders and the Norwegians Vikings?”

“Sort of. It’s best to keep it simple and not use any labels,” Camp insisted.

“What about those sports teams like the ‘Edmonton Eskimos’ or the ‘Cleveland Indians’? They’re not going to change their names,” I said.

“Yes, they claim those are brand names and have historical significance. Beats me really. I just know that you have to be careful what you call a group of people. It’s all about being sensitive and politically correct.”

“Do you think all this correctness helps to reduce racism?”

“There you got me, probably not, telling by the recent rise of right wing demagogues who want to keep their populations ‘pure’ and keep the aliens out.

That sort of rhetoric always leads to hate of others, name calling,  blaming  ‘the others’ and racial violence like Nia Wilson’s murder last week in Oakland.”

“Sounds like a repeat of history.”

“Yes, and regrettably racism is alive and well, not just in the USA but here in Canada as well according to Stats Can,” Camp said.

I took a sip from my beer, which was in danger of going flat. “Long weekend coming up, B.C. day I think.”

“Yes,, commemorating 160 years of being a crown colony. And did you also know that the first settlers led by the Hudson Bay Company’s veteran James Douglas weremainly Indigenous people, Orkney Islanders, Hawaiians, Metis and Scots. Douglas who was Colonial Governor of Vancouver Island was himself part Irish Cree and his mother was a ‘free coloured woman’ from British Guiana. He invited Chinese immigrants as well as African Americans from California with their friends and families to settle on Vancouver Island. Just a bit of local history that you as an immigrant might be interested in.”

“I’ve always considered myself a DP,” I said, “half here, half there and not a day goes by without being asked where I’m from.”

“A displaced person?” Camp said, surprised. “I hope you find yourself soon because nobody else is really interested. As far as I’m concerned you have found your place, right here at the pub.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

 

 

 

Finland

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The LNG powered ferry from Tallinn, Estonia, to Helsinki takes two and a half hours and is a glitzy, floating restaurant, lounge, bar and garden patio with several large TV’s, a kids era, a live band and a whole floor dedicated to shopping.  You can buy a fancy watch or designer clothes while drinking a glass of champagne. Living in a ferry dependent community as we are here on the Sunshine Coast, this was a jaw dropping luxury cruise compared to the old rusty and creaky, diesel powered boats plying the waters of B.C. Mind you that crossing cost $ 50.- p/person as in compare to $ 17.- or free for seniors during the week.

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Senior Stoners

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“Did you read Trudeau’s announcement that Marijuana will be legal by October 17th,” He needs one good news story and I think Canadians in general will be pleased,” I said after I joined Camp who was already seated at our usual table at the pub.

“Yeah, except all the small growers, the experienced specialists who have been refining the art of the perfect Ganja, will be gobbled up by the big corporations or be left to remain underground,” Camp said. “Not good for all the small towns where these Grow-ops have contributed to their local economy for the past 30 years.”

“There will be problems with quality, standards, taxation and distribution,” I said. “and people who rely on medical marijuana will be taxed just like recreational users. Not fair, they say, since it should be treated like any other medicine.”

“Yeah, it will also be interesting to see what our bullish neighbour to the south thinks of this and should we even care?”

Vicky brought us two cold ones and I couldn’t help myself and asked her opinion about this issue.

“I don’t indulge, but it should be up to the people to decide what they consume, not the government. Most people are smart enough to decide what’s good for themselves, without the government getting in the way,” she said while giving the table next to us a perfunctory wipe.

“Exactly,” said Camp. “It smacks of legislating morality.”

“Guess which is the fastest growing population segment that indulges these days.”

“Teenagers?” I ventured.

“Seniors!” Camp said triumphantly, smacking the table with the palm of his hand for emphasis. “It’s senior stoners which are the biggest new Cannabis users according to a New Yorkerarticle. A US government survey found that cannabis use for those 65 years old and up increased by 250%. It’s simple demographics. Seniors today are the boomers, the first generation to seriously embrace Marijuana and now that they’re retired they’re taking up old habits. Remember those lids of Mexican weed or the Thai sticks?

“Yes, I remember,” I said. “You could tell a toker by the holes in their T-shirts from the exploding seeds.”

“Those were the days,” Camp waxed nostalgically.

We both concentrated on our beers for a couple of beats.

“I guess between the old stoners and those looking for health benefits you can add those who follow the law and are now free to get high and then there are those who never stopped,” I said.

“It’s not the teens but the geezers who will drive the green wave,” Camp said, “and the market will be driven by edibles, not smokers. Gummibears and popcorn, brownies, candy and vaporizers.”

“Amen,” Camp said and we finished our pints which didn’t last in this summer heat.

Vicky brought around a fresh round of cold ones and said. “While you two are concerned with recreation and high times, I’m more worried about the smoke covering much of the Okanagan. Over 120 wild fires are burning right now in B.C. and there is no rain in sight. I don’t even want to think about the horrible fires in Greece. My boyfriend just signed up with the fire fighters. He’s off to Kelowna today.”

We both looked a bit pathetic with our silly pot concerns in view of this real devastating threat to property and lives.

“I remember the awful Mountain Park fire in 2003,” I said.

“Or the Fort McMurray wild fire that destroyed 2400 homes and took 15 months to put out,” Camp added.

“Vicky you’re right of course, we’re very worried and fully support your boyfriends commitment,” I said rather lamely.

“You two don’t worry, I didn’t want to spoil your happy hour. Enjoy the breeze, the super weather and the free second pint.”

“And may the rain come soon,” I said, not believing I just said that.

Baltic Impressions

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Before we embarked on our Baltic holiday this June we watched ‘The Singing Revolution’, an Estonian documentary chronicling the subsequent occupations by Tsarists, then the USSR followed by Nazi Germany and back to the Soviets. The only weapon the Estonians brandished in their ongoing protest against the tyranny of the occupiers were their song festivals. Over a hundred thousand Estonians gathered to belt out patriotic songs led by conductors and dozens of united choirs, embraced by old and young. In August 1989, these singing protests culminated in a human chain, two million people holding hands, 630 km long, linking the three Baltic states from Tallinn in Estonia to Riga in Latvia all the way to Vilnius in Lithuania. This was before Facebook or smart phones. Two years later Estonia declared formal independence during the Soviet military coup against Gorbachev, when Yelstsin, standing on a tank, dissolved the USSR.  The film culminated in the heroic feat of two policemen defending the TV tower in Tallinn, against the Russian tanks who retreated when their command structure broke down.

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Only Change Endures

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         It has been a hot week here on the coast. Perfect temperature, always a cool breeze off the water and no bugs. We eat outside, all the kids swim and play off the Granthams Wharf all day long and we leave every window open. Rich man’s weather, Clare calls it. She is out in her garden at daybreak when it’s still cool and only the birds are up. I live in T-shirts, short and sandals while my friend Campbell has to wear a proper shirt and pants, looking respectable in his bookstore. He sits down with a sigh of relief, looking for the shady side at our usual table.

         “It’s been a cooker,” he said, “and to Vicky who like a mirage set two ice cold lagers in front of us. “And how was the holiday my dear?”

         “It was a family reunion for my boyfriend’s tribe. We drove 2500 km from here to Winnipeg and then back again. I had no idea how big this country is and that wasn’t even half way across. He drove and I watched the scenery pass by. We got to talk a lot.”

         “Well, we’re glad you’re back although we really like Rosie as well,” Camp flustered. He’s just not good with compliments. His strength is more in criticism.

         “Enjoy the summer,” he said, “you know it won’t last,” but Vicky was already gone, missing his last comment.

         “So much for positive thinking,” I said but in response Camp warbled philosophically.

         “There is change in everything,” he said. “Climate change, change of partners, seasons, change of the guard, change of everything including the change in my pocket.”

         “It’s what it is Camp. Change is here to stay,” I said offhandedly. “What’s on your mind? Trouble with Muriel? Trump’s treasonous betrayal in Helsinki? or is it too many book browsers and too few book buyers?”

         “No, not really. I can deal with reality since I don’t expect too much, definitely not from Trump. I shouldn’t complain but I need a holiday, put my toes in the sand, gaze at the sky, maybe even read a novel in the afternoon. All work and no play makes Camp a dull boy.”

         “The Shining?” I asked.

         “King borrowed the saying from James Howards Proverbs, published in 1659,” Camp said dismissively. “I just could use a change of scenery I guess.”

         “Yes, change is a good thing, except climate change of course,” I said, taking a long thirsty swallow.

          “Without changing climates we wouldn’t have any seasons, any different fauna’s or temperate zones. The hysterics about climate change are a bit like the fears and complaints about stress. Here it is: Stress is normal; distress is not. Climate change is normal; Climate destruction is not.”

         I was a bit taken aback by his passionate response to my off the cuff remark. “I agree whole heartedly,” I said. “We need to curb our opinionated, emotional reasoning and replace it with sober, scientific and factual assessments and solutions.”

          “Yes, and we need to reduce our toxic emissions, manage our recourses, curb our population growth and educate, educate, educate. Education is the key to empowerment; it supplies the tools to change to a better world. Recognition of a problem is part of its solution. And in the end: Only Change Endures.”

       Camp’s diatribe resulted in a mighty thirst and there was Rosie bringing us two refills. “Vicky told me you’re ready for these,” she said.

         “Is it still happy hour?” Camp asked.

         “For you two lucky guys, it never changes.”

         “It’s a wonderful world,” I said, raising my glass in a universal toast.   

Sad New World

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We live in the best part of the world I thought to myself as I walked along the pebbly beach towards our village by the sea and my weekly chin wag with my pal Campbell, simply Camp to all of us. I was early, worried that we wouldn’t get our usual table because of all the summer traffic. I needn’t have worried because Rosie, like Vicky, knew our habits and was holding the spot. I sat down, ordered and there was Camp walking in, his shoulders a bit slumped and his head slightly inclined, not his usual forward and upright stance. I immediately knew what ailed him. England lost against Croatia and even if he didn’t admit it, he had secretly been hoping for England, The Three Lions, to bring home the golden cup.

“Sorry about the loss,” I said as soon as he sat down.

He gave me a surprised look and then the quarter dropped. “Ah, yes, but you can’t win if you can’t kick the ball at the goal,” he said, shaking his head in sorrow.

Just then Rosie arrived with our pints. “Why so glum,” she asked. “Did you know that we now have Happy Hour in the summer. Two for one. And you two lucky guys just made it in time.”

“Fantastic,” Camp said, regaining some of his old composure.

I tried to change the subject towards something positive. “It’s amazing that all 12 teenagers and their coach have been brought to safety by a spectacular rescue operation in Thailand. I can’t believe that it took over 5 hours to bring each of the kids through 2.5 km of murky cold water and tight dark passages. This is surely a good news story,” I said.

“Yes, it’s fantastic and heroic,” Camp said but then added: “What on earth were 12 ill equipped teenagers and a young coach doing so far into an underground cave? Trying to find the arc of the covenant? A rite of passage? Anyway, you’re right, we’re all very happy they’re safe. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this was a welcome distraction from the usual smorgasbord of miserable news.”

Boy, was he in a foul mood. “Like what?” I said, “Merkel’s fight against the rise of the neo fascists or Trumps pick of supreme court judge or his latest verbal gymnastics at the NATO summit and in England or his ludicrous trade tirades or more importantly: how about those devasting floods in Japan or the sauna like temperatures in Montreal.”

“Yes, yes, all of the above but I just read the latest stats on refugees by the UNHCR.”

“That sounds uplifting,” I said with a whiff of sarcasm knowing that I was in for one of Camp’s lectures. Those usually made him feel better in inverse proportion to his audience.

“Just to clarify the refugee part: According to the report, one out of every hundred humans is on the run from war, famine or persecution, in other words a fugitive and potential refugee and asylum seeker in a safer part of the world. All together about 66 million people but the impression that the rich countries are the most impacted is simply wrong. About 85% have fled to countries close to home like Jordan, Lebanon and Turkey but 3 out of 5 fugitives have remained in their own country but fled conflict zones.” Camp was on his soapbox, finger wagging and nose in the air.

“It’s a sad world when we start talking about closing boarders and building fences, going back to a medieval model of fortresses mentality,” I said. “Considering that all of North America’s ancestry came from Europe and other parts of the world in search of a better life. How quickly we forget and how convenient to blame the victims.”

“It’s about sharing responsibility,” Camp carried on, “and about finding common solutions. We should be concentrating on solving the causes of wars instead of managing the dire consequences but there goes Trump calling for doubling military spending as if there weren’t enough weapons in this world already.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “Closer to home we are not doing a great job either,” I said, staring into my empty beer. Vicky would have sensed that moment, but Rosie needed to be signalled with the customary V sign for a refill. “I was in town the other day on Commercial, known to be a trendy, fun neighbourhood full of cafes and funky stores but not so much anymore. The old hood seemed a bit downtrodden and stressed. And then I took the # 20 bus along East Hastings, that sad corridor of human misery. Everybody should take a ride on that bus once a year to see what I mean. It is depressing and infuriating how many people there are just barely existing. While stopped at a red light I watched three geezers dressed in Salvation Army fashion share a joint on a bench. That was one of the brighter sights.”

Rosie put down a couple of free and happy pints in front of us, which helped considerably to improve the mood.

“When is Vicky back?” Camp asked a bit offhandish.

“She’s due back next week, but you’ll have to put up with me for the summer,” Rosie said, giving me a conspiratorial wink.

“Oh, that’s great, I didn’t mean it to sound like I prefer Vicky. In fact, I love both of you,” Camp warbled and wiggled.

“And the feeling is mutual,” Rosie said, “You remind me of my dad. Mind you he ran away when I was a young teen.”

Camp was going to say something, but then he thought better of it.

“May you always have love in your hearts and beer in your belly,” Rosie said.

“We’ll drink to that,” I laughed.

 

No Home – No Health

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“You know Camp, we’re lucky to have a permanent roof over our heads, unlike the over 3’000 homeless people in Metro Vancouver.”
Campbell or Camp for short was just putting away the local paper while Rosie, our new Irish waitress, arrived with two ice cold pints of happiness. “Yes, but luck should have nothing to do with shelter and health in our rich society,” Camp said, “the right to healthcare is universal but impossible to achieve without proper shelter and housing.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “The reason I bring this up is I came across a year old report by the EU housing organization ‘Feantsa’ which concluded that every country in the EU is in the midst of a homeless crisis with one exception: Finland.”
“Really, so how has Finland done it?”
“By giving homeless people permanent housing as soon as they become homeless, rather than muddling along with various services that may eventually result in an offer of accommodation,” I quoted from the article. “They enacted a policy called ‘Housing First’ dedicated to ending homelessness instead of managing it. With Housing First people do not have to earn their right to housing by proving their capability to manage their lives. Instead, they are provided with a stable home and individually tailored support.”
“That sounds almost utopian and why can Finland do it but we cannot?”
“That’s the multimillion dollar question,” I said. “It’s quite simple really. They made Housing First a national homelessness policy, making it possible to establish a wide partnership of state authorities, local communities and non-governmental organisations.”
“There must have been problems and opposition to this common sense but albeit radical approach?” Camp said.
“Not really since the plan included concrete objectives and resources to meet them. However some attitudes did have to change I’m sure.”
“But how does it work? It all sounds so simple?” Camp said.
“From what I read the tenants pay rent and are entitled to housing benefits, depending on their income. The rest is covered by the municipalities or services they buy from NGO’s. It costs money for sure but there is plenty of evidence that shows it is more cost effective to end homelessness instead of trying to manage it, to say nothing of the human and ethical reasons.”
“Why didn’t the outgoing major of Vancouver look at this policy or was he too busy building bicycle paths? Imagine how many homes they could have built for the 400 million dollars they spent on bicycle lanes in the past 10 years,” Camp said. “Nothing against bicycles but isn’t housing a more pressing priority?”
“How about 1600 quarter million dollar apartments?” Rosie said – who was just swooshing by with a tray of drinks – while we were still trying to figure out the math with our smart phones. “I did study 2 years of engineering before I switched to the arts,” she informed us. “That’s why I need this summer job here.”
“I think Moonbeam, as the mayor of Vancouver is sometimes referred to, tried to address the crisis and he certainly started the conversation but he was up against developers, too many levels of government and independent organisations getting in each other’s way,” I said.
“It’s not too late but there needs to be a political will and a change in attitude. Homelessness is not a shame, it’s a personal disaster,” Camp said.
“Or as Juha Kaakinen pointed out, the chief executive of the Finnish Y-Foundation, which provides 16,300 low cost flats to homeless people in Finland: Helping homeless people starts with giving them homes.”
“Yes, that makes sense to me,” Camp said, “but as long as housing is seen as a speculative real-estate market instead of a fundamental right, we will not be able to duplicate what Finland has done.”
Just then Rosie showed up with our refills and Camp had to ask her what she thought about housing and homelessness. “Well, I stayed with my single mom, first in the Kootenays and then in Roberts Creek with my step day until I was 22 and then moved into a shared flat with two other class mates from Emily Carr. Now I stay with my mom and Robert – my step dad – during the summer. I’ve never had a home of my own. Most of my friends share and many stay with their parents until their thirties.
“And the flipside is the kind of new subdivision like behind us,” I pointed out to Rosie and Camp. ‘There are now a dozen new million dollar houses and only in one house is there a family with 2 kids, all the others are dream homes for baby boomers. 4000 sqft, or 370 m2 of ten shades of Hardyboard mansions with four bathrooms for two people. Something is out of sync in this picture.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Camp said while Rosie cleaned the table next to us. “And all they do is clean all day long like me,” she said with a chuckle. “At least I get paid for it.”

 

Alone we fail

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“Summer still isn’t here yet,” I said to Camp, taking off my windbreaker.
“It was warmer a month ago,” Campbell, as he refers to himself, agreed with a sigh. “It’s the end of the month, the kids are out of school and I’m starting to see a few tourists in the book shop. It can only get better,” he added, while a new waitress asked us politely what we would like to drink.
“The usual, I mean two pints, one ale, one lager please,” Camp said.
“Where is Vicky?” I asked.
“She’s off on holidays with her boyfriend. Winnipeg I think. By the way my name is Rose or Rosie to my friends.”
“A proper Irish name,” Camp said.
“Yes, my mom is Irish. Immigrated to the Kootenays in the seventies.
“The good old days,” Camp said, “when life seemed somewhat simpler or we were just more ignorant and less informed and distracted by all this electronic information and propaganda.”
“Or time plays tricks with the memory,” Rosie said. “My mom said that money was scarce but people looked out for each other. I remember lots of potlucks and neighborhood parties. Now it’s everybody for themselves and money is still scarce. Two pints coming right up.”
“She has a point,” I said. “We are much more focused on individuals than on the community.”
“Speak for yourself,” Camp retorted. “I’m trying to do my part at the town hall. We have a recreation center, parks – even for dogs – soccer fields, indoor swimming pools and ice rinks, mountain bike and walking trails.”
“How about the German loss last night? An epic defeat and the whole of Germany is in mourning,” I said.
“It’s the one big surprise so far. South Korea beating the mighty Germans. Unheard of. But that’s what I like about the game. You just never know. Plenty of drama and excitement and it’s all unedited, uninterrupted live broadcasts. No fake news there.”
We both took a sip from our cold drinks and contemplated the universe.
“What about those primaries in the US and Judge Kennedy resigning from the Supreme Court. Now Trump can really put his stamp on the future. Probably re-open Roe vs. Wade for starters.”
“Maybe he’ll appoint his sister. She’s a judge.”
“Yeah, but maybe too old and not as radical as he would like.”
“You know Camp,” I said, “maybe we’re doing this all wrong. We’ve all fallen into the Trump trap. Exactly what he wanted. It doesn’t matter what he says or does, how much he lies and cheats, we lap it up like free beer. Instead we should all just ignore him and focus on the real important things in life, like healthcare, education, the environment, energy and helping each other out.”
“You’re such a romantic,” Camp laughed, “how can you ignore the elephant in the room?”
“I think we should just close the door on the room and concentrate on the rest of the big house we all live in,” I said. “Trumpism isn’t a way of life, it’s an aberration like Nazism or Communism.”
“Dream on my friend,” Camp said. “People seem to want a strong leader, not a philosophy. They want somebody who articulates all the things they dare not say themselves, somebody they can identify with and somebody that blames everybody else but themselves.”
“Somebody as ignorant, as biased, as prejudiced, as uncouth and as bigoted as you know who?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s starting to look like a civil a war. The people are so divided and the Democrats so disarrayed that they are starting to attack people personally. It’s not what will inspire anyone to change their minds. We need to completely shift focus away from personality to policy,” Camp said. “Alone we will fail, together we may yet prevail.”
“Sounds like you two guys are sorting out the world,” Rosie said, “sounds like my mom’s friends.”
“What we need is more pot-lucks and neighborhood parties,” Camp said.
“That’s a good idea,” I said, “These days people will think it’s a pot party and to bring your own luck.”
“We used to have a dog named Lucky. He had one leg and one eye missing and one lame ear,” Rosie said. We both looked at her not knowing if to laugh or to cry. “And what you two really seem to need right now is a refill.”                                                    In perfect synchronicity we passed Rosie our two empty mugs.

Money 101

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“Camp, I just read that article in the Coast Reporter that points out that 30% of local renters spend over 50% of their income on rent, putting them at risk of homelessness,“ I said as soon as I sat down at our corner table on the glassed in veranda, loosing no time in airing what’s been bothering me.
“Yes, I read it,” Campbell or Camp to us patrons at ‘Gramma’s’ said, “and just as many people are one payday away from being broke.”
“We are the lucky ones Camp,” I said, “we have money to drink, eat and buy stuff. I’ve been thinking that money has a lot to do of how we look at the world, each other and the future.”
“You’re right there,” Camp said. “Money, or the lack thereof, is what rules our existence. Money has been called many things from the curse of mankind to its saviour. Some are born into it, most of us work hard for it; millions of people never have any, no matter how hard they work.”
“I know, but being born rich doesn’t guarantee personal success in life but on the other hand nobody sympathizes with a depressed millionaire.”
“The majority of the planet’s 7 billion homo sapiens are born into poverty and into a life of drudgery, toil and subsistence. Common clichés like: Money isn’t everything or Money can’t buy you love is not the kind of wisdom that serves the poor dirt farmer in Uttar Pradesh or South Sudan. We also know that money breeds snobbery and self-aggrandizement to the point where some meatheads equal being rich with being favoured by God himself,” Camp stated unequivocally, downing half his pint in one go. He was either very thirsty or agitated. Probably both.
“Money can buy almost anything except Immortality, Youth or Truelove,” I said, taking a long drought from my mug as well. This warm weather makes for a healthy thirst.
“Except from exactly those three – the holy trinity you might say – the most money is made,” Camp insisted. “The cosmetics and fashion industry cater to everlasting youth, religions extol and guarantee eternal after-life and love is for sale in the guise of sex, drugs and happiness, promised by a myriad of potions, books and dating sites.”
“But where does money really come from.,” I asked, knowing Camp would have an answer.
Camp sat back in his chair and rubbed the side of his nose, a telltale sign that he is about to step on his soap box. “A government or a bank prints a quantity of money and then they hire and pay a group of people to dig a hole. When the hole is deep enough, they hire another group to fill it in, while the first group digs a new hole. Now two groups have money and income with which they can buy things, which prompts others to make stuff and add value to various commodities as well as create services like clothing, transportation and yes, even pubs. Commerce and industry is now in full swing,” Camp lectured with one professorial finger pointing in the air while balancing a half a pint with the other hand.
“Personally I like having enough money so I don’t have to worry about it.,” I quipped.
“How much is that?” Camp said. “I don’t desire millions because that amount of money implies responsibilities. I would have to invest, divest and probably hire people like lawyers, advisers and servants to manage the millions. It gives me a headache just thinking about the implications of being filthy rich.”
“Well, I have a working wife whom I fully support with cooking, shopping, washing and cleaning. The kind of responsibility I can handle and according to Clare is the perfect division of labour, which cannot be expressed in simple monetary terms. You’re priceless, she told me the other day. I’m not sure if she referred to my invaluable domestic services or my lack of ambition.”
“Likely both,” Camp said.
“There was a time when I thought I could make some money for nothing, you know, invest in the big casino called the stock market. I got this tip standing in line at the grocery store. ‘Opportunities like that come once or twice a lifetime,’ I argued with Clare who was adamantly shaking her head. “Let me quote you a guy in the know love, she said. Warren Buffet famously said: ‘When everybody else gets in the stock market, it’s time to get out.”
“What does that tequila head from Margarita Ville know about the stock market?” I retorted. No need to explain why Clare’s mouth wouldn’t close for lack of air. I was confusing Warren and Jimmy.
“Even if you behave like the perfect idiot, I can’t help it, I still love you,” she said. Which makes me the luckiest – not the richest – man in the universe.”
Camp chuckled and said: “All the money that passes through my life, I never see any of it. It disappears down the rabbit hole of bills and debts and just leaves enough left over for a couple of pints every now and then.”
“Let the government buy the next round,” I offered. “I just got my tax rebate.”
“You two talking high finance?” Vicky said. She has ears that can hear the sound of an empty glass being set down from a mile away. “I advise investing into a refill which will earn you instant benefits.”
We couldn’t argue with that.

 

Theatre of the Absurd

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“This was quite the week”, I said to Camp who was sitting in my seat as arranged a week ago.. “We had the theater of the grotesque in Singapore.”

“Yep, a photo op for a mass murderer who killed his uncle and poisoned his half brother in Malaysia. Just a week ago he was the dictator of the most brutal regime on the planet with over 200’000 prisoners in the gulag.?”

“And then Trump made him into a pop-star. For what? Did anything of substance result from this depressing charade,” I asked.

“Not really, no time plan for denuclearisation, no concrete agreements, just a publicity coup for Kim the pariah and an embarrassment for world politics.”

“All hype and bluster, theater of the absurd,” I said. “He insults Trudeau, the host of the G-7 club in Quebec, and then calls Kim his new best friend.”

“That’s what you get when you let the lunatics run the asylum.”

“On another sad note, Anthony Bourdain stepped off this world last week. He was one of my heroes ever since ‘Kitchen Confidential’, the book that started the whole food and chef fascination. “

“Yes, quite sad really,” Camp said, “he is the one who said: our bodies are not temples but amusement parks, enjoy the ride.”

We quietly toasted Anthony and paused for just a few beats taking in the summery vista out front our perch above the pebble beach of Gibsons Harbour.

“How is business these days,” I asked Camp, owner of Coast Books, one of the few independent bookstores left and an anachronism of sorts.

“The tourists are here already, every ferry is overloaded and the store is always full of browsers,” Camp said, “but hey, I’m not complaining about a fate of my own making. There are still people who buy books.”

“I personally enjoy nothing more then reading a book when I find the time,” I said, “mind you, more often then not I’m staring into my small or big screen instead, consuming the latest news clips. It’s a bit like an addiction. You can never get enough and it’s always the same. You think the sun would still rise and the tides would still go in and out if I would go cold turkey and not watch the news for a month?”

“The world would never be the same,” Camp laughed, “but you might feel left out. I for one will be glued to the screen for the next month, waiting to catch that magic move or brilliant pass to stop time. It’s the world cup in Russia, that’s what I’m talking about, sure to distract, entertain and provide drama, tears and glory.”

“I might stop by and join you for a few games. Maybe I’ll even buy a book from you. How many books do you think are out there?” I asked. “Must be a challenge to keep up with the latest.”

“I can tell you. According to Google, some 130 million books have been published and every year, in the US alone, there are between 600’000 and a million new books. About half of them are self-published and sell less then 250 copies each. I stock about 1’000 titles and some of those haven’t moved in years. It’s a fickle business and I’m constantly second guessing myself. My perennial bestsellers are children’s books, mostly purchased by grandmothers. My personal favourite this season: Ferdinand, now a major motion picture cartoon. You should watch it.”

“A cartoon?” I said, somewhat baffled.

“I watched it with my niece,” Vicky said, having overheard Camp’s recommendation while refreshing our beverage. “It’s a great story and a fun film about a gentle soul inside the wrong body. A flower loving bull who doesn’t want to fight.”

“Wow, sounds like they should screen that at the White House,” I said.

“Right after they show that bizarre Destiny Pictures propaganda video for the hundredth time, the one Trump presented to Kim. ‘Out of the dark can come the light and the light of hope can burn bright. Leni Riefenstahl would be jealous. Guess who the two main protagonists are.”

“Dear Leader and Manchild? Are people really that gullible,” I asked.

“People love nothing more then fantasy, especially when the reality is a disaster. Give me Laurel and Hardy any time,” Camp said, finished his beer and got up. “I’m taking Muriel to the new pizza place,” he announced.

“Pizza, cartoons, soccer? What happened to the Campbell I knew, the recluse and naysayer of yesterday, now suddenly the man of the world,” I wisecracked.

“You need to get out more often. See you next week,” he said with a wink and a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who we elect and Why

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Camp was already into his beer when I got to the pub. I wasn’t late, he was just early. “Slow day at the old book store? I asked.

“You could say that. I just didn’t feel like hanging around any longer, staring out the window and twiddling my thumbs. It’s one of the privileges of running my own small business. I can come and go as I like.”

“It’s almost like retirement,” I said.

“Yes, without the pension and the discounts and plenty of responsibility.” Camp retorted.

“Did you watch the Ontario election last night?’ I asked.

“As you know I don’t have a TV but I saw it on my computer. No surprise there except in the broader sense. It puzzles me how people can elect a guy to run the province and yet he cannot even run his own family business and has no legislative experience.”

“Why do the people keep electing governments that go completely against their interests like poor people supporting a candidate who is owned by the rich.

We keep electing leaders and parties who have no interests in the ordinary people but they get elected on simplistic promises that nobody expects them to keep.”

“Yes, it’s a riddle. Maybe it’s leadership by resentment. Working class whites are frustrated and resentful and perceive social programs geared towards ethnic minorities. So they elect populists who promise to go against the political establishment and change everything.”

“Everybody wants change for the better, mostly for themselves and their own economic position. Everybody wants more money and more rights. The poor as well as the rich,” I said.

“People vote emotionally and the young aren’t interested it seems. Just look at the Brexit analytics. The ones with the least education and the poorest voted for Brexit or look at the Hungarians and Poles. It’s called nationalistic, populist illiberalism but they voted for it, against immigrants and EU policies.”

“The EU is mostly about money.I’ve read that in Poland EU money represents over 60% of infrastructure spending while for Hungary the figure is 55%. Why bite the hand that feeds you?”

“Somebody once said: Democracy is not a paradise, democracy offers the possibility to change what’s bad. With the erosion of democracy that possibility for positive change goes away as well,” Camp said.

We both stared glumly into our stale beers. Luckily Vicky took pity on us and without asking brought around two fresh pints.

“It’s a crazy world out there,” I said, shaking my head. “We have a summit between a mass murderer and a misanthropic man-child touted as the biggest news and now we have Doug Ford in charge of Ontario. It’s driving me to drink,” I said.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Vicky joked, “you’re at the right place.”

“Is there any good news?” I said and then remembered. “Oh yeah, the Senate passed bill C-45 yesterday, the recreational marijuana bill by a vote of 56-30.”

“That’s right and all against were conservative, overpaid non-elected legislators,” Camp said and then added: “Now the House of Commons will have to decide what to do with the over 40 amendments. Then it will have to go back to the Senate for a second vote and it will also require Royal Assent.”

“This will take months I said, “and it will be so complicated and restrictive that it will barely change anything.”

“We should just concentrate on what’s important like the upcoming World Cup in Russia and the sunny weather,” Camp said. “I even got myself a TV from the thrift store in order to watch a few games at work.”

“You’re right of course. It’s no use getting frustrated and depressed by events and situations outside our limited sphere of influence and control. As Clare puts it: It’s the small things in life that count: a blooming flower, a dinner with friends, a decent bottle of wine, a good night sleep and a clear conscience.”

“I second all that but I still can’t believe they voted in Doug Ford as premier of Ontario.”

“It is democracy at it’s worst,” I conceded, drowning my disappointment.

 

 

Trade Wars

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I love these bright early summer evenings. The tide was going out and I walked along the beach to my usual Thursday meeting with Campbell at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ on our quaint Gibsons harbour. Camp as I’ve called him for years, is my friend and occasional verbal adversary and sparring partner but this time I came with an agenda.

“I’ll trade you seats,” I offered Camp as soon as I sat down, “I think you have the better view.”

“Oh,” he said, taken aback, “that depends on your point of view. Tell you what, I’ll trade seats with you if you pay for the first round, and the one after that.”

“Now is that fair?” I asked, “you not only get to have the better view but now you have free drinks as well.”

“We can always go to a court of arbitration, hoping to get a fair ruling.”

“We’ll ask Vicky, she’ll give us her wise counsel.”

Just at that very moment Vicky was striding over to clean off the table next to us, a perfect time to ask her while she was working.

“Vicky, who do you think has the better seat here?” I asked, “Camp with the frontal water view and the harbour and the island or I with my back in the corner and the view of the whole terrace and a bit of the dock and the water off to the side.”

Without interrupting her chores she said: “Depends what you want to see: The far and serene view of the water, Keats Island and the leisurely boat traffic or the busy circulation of people coming and going, whose drinking what and with whom and how much. I’d say you both have the best seat in the house and I call it even. How about you swap seats every other Thursday.”

“That’s the longest speech I ever heard from Vicky,” Camp said, after she wiped the table with a bit of extra gusto and vanished into the interior of the pub.

“Brilliant solution really.”

“She must have watched the news last night about Trump’s trade wars. Upsetting every ally and apparent friend. What does he hope to gain?”

“Notoriety and longevity,” Camp said.

“How to do you mean?”

“He doesn’t want to be remembered for just a different kind of president, he wants to go down in history for the one who upset the balance of power and brought the world to the edge of the precipice, just to try and bring it back and thereby win the Nobel peace price.”

“Like a poker player? Is it all a bluff?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so. He has surrounded himself with likeminded people and sycophants who love nothing better but to make history and if it takes a war then what better way then to have a trade war, at least it’s some kind of war. It’s simple hubris.”

“Maybe it’s just a side show and Iran and Korea will be the main feature.”

“Maybe, but he will blame the rest of the world for the uptick in prices and commodities which are sure to follow all these new tariffs. I told you so, he’ll say, they all have it in for us.”

“At least Trudeau stepped up to the plate and called for common sense to prevail,” I said.

“About time, but he only made it to first base, a long way from the home plate.”

“I don’t get it. Everybody will lose, meaning everybody is you and I. If there is a sudden tariff on hops and malt then the price of beer goes up. Very bad news and if for every $ 100 of aluminum the Canadians are charged a $ 25 tariff then that cost gets added on at the production end and passed on to the customer like Boeing and Ford who then roll it on to the consumer.”

“And in retaliation an equal punitive tariff gets imposed on a bottle of Bourbon and a Harley bike, which will put out the Hells Angels, surely a core part of Trump’s base. That will have its own consequences. Might even lead to a world war, sort of like the butterfly effect,” Camp mused.

“That’s Trump for you, chaos theory in action. You think he knows what he is doing?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Does the emperor know he has no clothes, believing he’s wearing the finest and most magnificent cloak?  And did any of his advisers or his loyal legions of admirers tell him that? No, it was a little boy that cried out: “But he has no clothes.”

“Who has no clothes,” Vicky, who just appeared at the perfect moment, asked surprised, “you two naughty boys having indecent thoughts?”

“No, not at all,” Camp cried out, throwing up his hands and laughing, “we’re just picturing Trump appearing naked on Fox News while everybody claps and applauds his fantastic new outfit.”

“I think you two maybe need something stronger than beer, how about a shot of Jim Bean, I hear the price is going up.”

 

Democracy at its Worst

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“Camp, did you follow the elections in Venezuela last Sunday? What a sham and disaster for the people of that country. ‘Maduro would beat Jesus’is how Venezuelans lament the rigged system.”

“I’ve come across a few articles but Venezuela is not exactly hot news here in the Great White North. We have floods in BC, the ongoing NAFTA theatre and Lord Stanley’s cup to keep us distracted. The Gaza-Israeli border war, the Venezuelan election or the ongoing refugee crises in Europe are too far away and too depressing to affect our day-to-day lives.”

Not to be deterred I said: “According to the UN, last year alone Venezuelan’s economy shrank by 13% and the hyperinflation is at 13’000%. Imagine that. Maduro’s brilliant solution: strike three zeros. Still, today a dozen eggs cost an equivalent of $ 150 and some 5’000 citizens leave their country every day.”

“Vote for Maduro if you want food, starve if you vote for somebody else, he proclaimed without shame,” Camp pointed out.

“You could be Major of this town Camp if you handed out free beer,” I suggested.

“That’s been done before. It was called the Beer Hall putsch.”

“What about our own pipeline wars between Alberta, British Columbia and the federal government.  Who is right there?” I asked. “Premier Notley claims that thousands of jobs in her province depend on it.  Horgen shouts that the B.C. coastline is in danger from increased tanker traffic and Trudeau yammers on about national interest and energy security,” I said.

“All three seem to have a point,” Camp said.

“Let me ask you this Camp, how many tanker accidents have occurred on the B.C, waterways? I tell you: none. A quick overview on the B.C. government site lists all the oil and gas accidents  have occurred on land involving trucks, trains, and processing plants and one pipeline. No tanker accidents, no spills at sea, not from any double hulled tankers, not even in Strait of Hormuz. So what is Horgan talking about?”

“He has to pander to the Green’s, his coalition partners who secured him a tenuous hold on government. It’s first and foremost a political position.”

“An April Angus Reidpoll has 58% of British Columbians in favour of twinning the Kinder Morgan pipe line and 34% against. What happened to democracy?” I asked, playing the devil’s advocate, “are interest groups and stalling tactics through the courts the new way to determine our policies and actions?”

“Imagine, two NDP governments fighting each other like the Hatfields and McCoys, Camp said. “Makes for a mighty thirst, all this shouting and finger pointing,” he mused, holding up two fingers of his own for Vicky to see who was already on her way with two new pints.

“And did you know that on two days this past February it was actually warmer at the North Pole than it was in Zurich, Switzerland,” I said, trying to change the subject.”

“Yes, and the Gulf Stream is slowing down, the Greenland ice is receding, the oceans are rising and Kilauewa, like Trump, keeps belching lava and toxic gases. I’m not worried about the planet,” Camp said, “It will survive. I’m concerned about the 8 billion people trying to live on it.”

“On a lighter side, did you see the Royal Wedding?” I said, desperately trying to steer our stormy conversation into some calmer waters.

“No, but Muriel told me all about the hats or head sculptors which are called fascinators. Some looked like birds nests while others could have come off the Vatican’s Christmas tree.”

“Fascinating,” I said, while Vicky set down the refills. “Did you watch the Royal wedding?” I asked her.

“No but I wish them well. I wouldn’t want their lives of endless protocol and permanent smiles. Gives me a face cramp just thinking about it.”

“You know Maghan Markle was a waitress once,” I pointed out.

“You telling me I could be a princess?” Vicky laughed, “and maybe Camp here could be  Pope while you could be an astronaut, shooting for the stars with your flights of fancy.”

“Leave the running of the world to us,” Camp said, “and we would make a mighty scrambled mess of it.”

“Depends how many of these you had,” Vicky said, pointing at the two foamy golden pints in front of us.

 

Shopping

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“Camp, you’ve seen that T-shirt that says: ‘Shopping is my Happy Place’?” I asked my learned friend as soon as I sat down at our usual Thursday table in the pub by the sea.

“Well, not in my bookstore,” Campbell said.

“Over the past weekend Clare and I found ourselves with a few hours to kill and like two drifting boats washed into the Park Royal mall carried on a tide of eager shoppers. We were snared by the lure of enticing bargains displayed in glamorous, glittering settings.”

“Of course you ended up with clothes and stuff you didn’t know you needed,” Camp said with a knowing grin taking a sip of the ice cold draught.
“You know that I do most of the shopping for our small household while Clare still brings in a few shekels and takes care of nurturing me and the garden, not necessarily in that order,” I said with a wink.

“Yeah, so what’s this about? I only shop if absolutely necessary. Luckily I get to share most of my dinners these days with Muriel who seems to enjoy my company,” Camp said. “For lunch it’s a dash across the street for a sandwich while watching the front door of the store, which usually remains untouched.”

“I actually like shopping,” I said, somewhat defensively, “because I get to meet people in the store and usually end up chatting to at least one neighbour or acquaintance. Shopping is also a reliable source of local news and I’ve even received investment tips in the checkout line. Mind you those didn’t pan out as promised.”

“You mean it’s a place for gossip, not news, sort of like the town square. You do live an interesting life my friend,” Camp said, “if finding out about the latest discount offer or who just came back from a holiday is considered news.”

I ignored the snide remark and tried to explain, tongue in cheek. “I meet the guys in the meat department and run into women friends in the baking or detergent aisles but I’ve also had interesting chats in the fruit and vegetable department with both. ‘You’re not squeezing that avocado!’ or ‘look at the prices of the asparagus!’usually initiates a conversation. I even promoted your bookstore,” I pointed out. “I saw a guy who I play soccer with looking at a book in London Drugs. “Don’t buy a book in the drug store,” I said, “buy a book in the book store.”

“Thanks for that. I need all the help I can get.”

“And then there is seniors day. First Thursday of every month. Clare got pretty miffed when the cashier asked her if she was entitled to the discount.”

“I realize we’re a consumer society but shopping is definitely not my happy place,” Camp emphasized. “I target-shop or avoid it all together. In fact I wear the same shirt until it disintegrates.”

“I noticed,” I said, “we have a rule that I strictly enforce: something new in – something old out. We always have a bag full of clothes ready for the thrift store. It never fails to amaze me how much stuff we accumulate: clothes, shoes, gadgets,  electronics, paper, tools, souvenirs.”

“Don’t forget books and bills,” Camp said.

“And then there are the shopping channels on TV or racks of magazines dedicated to shopping. It makes the world go around as the saying goes but it can also be an addiction,” I said. There is probably a shoppers anonymous.”

“It’s a crazy economy that revolves around buying stuff that we don’t need, accessories that only decorate and shoes that we only wear once. I have one suit that serves for weddings and funerals,” Camp said, “and one tie for all occasions.”

“And what about those high-end fashion stores that offer thousand dollar handbags and handmade shoes for the price of a small compact car.”

“Don’t forget the sports brands,” Camp said.

“Or the fifty jeans makers and work clothes franchises.”

Just at that moment Vicky drifted by checking on thirsty customers like us.    “Vicky, where do you do your shopping?” I asked.

“Well now,” she said, cradling a tray of empties. “I eat here at work or at my boy friend’s but for clothes I prefer Sally Ann over the Thrift store.”

“We must have met shopping,” Camp said, “that’s where I buy my clothes.”

“Probably from garments Clare and I donated,” I said. Vicky’s white, sleeveless blouse looked suspiciously familiar.

“You two fashinistas talk shopping?  I think you need another beer to calm you down.”

Clean Air

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“Camp,” I said, as soon as I sat down at our usual corner table on the patio, “I’ve just had a lovely walk along the shore and it occurred to me that we’re very fortunate to breathe such clean and fresh air here on the coast. I’ve come across an article this week on the dirtiest cities on earth and it staggers the mind how nasty those places are to breathe and live in.”

“Yes, I’ve seen some stats from the WHO as well, which are rather depressing. According to their latest study, nine out of ten people breathe in polluted air and seven million people die yearly due to their poisoned atmosphere.”

“Of course, once again the worst places are in the poorest countries,” I said “like India and Africa.”

“Yes, the worst air quality measurements come from Varanasi, the holy city along the Ganges which attracts millions of pilgrims each and every year. In fact India has the dubious honour of the six filthiest air metropolises in the world. Next to India are China and Pakistan, Nigeria and even Haiti.”

“What about Europe and North America?”

“Well, we have Mexico City and there are some very polluted European cities, worst amongst them Milano and Ankara but they only measure a quarter of the nasty particles in compare to places like New Delhi or Cairo. Worldwide over three billion people, or 40% of the earth’s population, have no access to clean air technology.”

“I just talked to a friend who’s just returned from Egypt. He said that Cairo was just a cesspool of garbage, humanity and pollution. Not a place fit to live in and yet 20 million people crowd into a place with infrastructure for 3 million.”

“I remember being in Nanjing some twenty years ago and I couldn’t even make out the building across the street from our hotel, just a fogy silhouette and everybody was wearing face masks,” I said. “Probably because, then as now, most of the people still cook and produce light from kerosene, coal or wood.” I took a sip from my beer trying to wash some of the bad taste away. “Considering that the earth atmosphere is like an onion skin around the planet and rather thin.”

“Yeah, about 500 km but most of the atmosphere is contained closest to earth and gets thinner as it moves up. A tenuous separation between us and outer space,” Camp said.

“I heard outer space,” Vicky, who was just floating by, said, “anything I should know about?”

“We’re just talking about the abundant and lovely fresh air here in Gibsons,” I said, “and how we take it for granted.”

“Yes, and it’s even better since pubs are smoke free environments,” she said.

“I remember when bars were smoky dens with overflowing ash trays on every table,” Camp said, shaking his head at the memory.

“And being able to smoke on flights. Smokers at the back of the plane,” I said.

“Like a peeing section in a swimming pool,” Camp quipped, “or a smoking corner in a restaurant.”

We both took a deep, refreshing breath. “We should be contemplating the natural beauty of the scenery right out front of our lair here instead of being weighed down by the universe at large,” I said.

“Apropos the universe. Stephen Hawkins last publication before his death claims it is a lot simpler then he previously assumed,” Camp said.

“And 18 republicans nominated Trump for the Nobel peace prize.”

“What on earth for?” Camp said and then emptied his mug in one long draught.

“I almost feel guilty living in our little paradise by the sea,” I said.

“Just feel lucky, not guilty. Lucky because of where we’re born and live, not because we rolled the dice and came up winners or losers.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

 

 

Pizza Bbq

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         Who doesn’t like pizza ? Nobody. It’s the ultimate universal meal or snack and ranks in popularity right next to bread and chocolate.

         Here is an easy recipe for home made pizza which tastes so much better then anything you order in a restaurant or that comes in a cardboard box. And it’s soo easy to make and so adaptable to your personal tastes and likes. Just look in the fridge.

         If there is some left over spaghetti sauce or salsa, maybe half a jar of pesto, some mozzarella or marble cheese, tomatoes and onions you already have all it takes to build a basic pizza. Add any other ingredients you have, like olives, mushrooms, garlic, any kind of peppers, spices and if you like a meaty pizza add ham, salami, pepperoni or my favorite, prosciutto.

         Of course there is no pizza without the base and here is how you can really impress yourself (and your guests). Make your own dough! Do you have flower in the house? How about some salt and maybe a packet of east? That’s it. Just add water and a bit of olive oil.

         Of course the real secret to the perfect pizza is where and how you cook it. Nothing is easier and soo perfect. Not everybody has a pizza oven but almost everybody owns a bbq ! It helps if you have a round pizza stone on which to bake your pizza. I’ve used 12” tiles from the building supply (clay or granite, some tiles will crack from the heat) and they worked just fine.

 Here is how you make the dough for one large  delicious pizza:

3 cups (450 gr, 1lb) flower (unbleached white or whole wheat)

1 tsp  yeast (you can skip the yeast if you want a really thin crust)

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp olive oil

add some rosemary

1 cup (2.5 dl) warm water

mix and knead by hand, form into a ball , cover it with a tea towel and let sit at room temp for a couple of hours

roll it out into the size and shape you like

sprinkle some corn meal on the stone (helps to prevent sticking) and lay out the dough, curling up the edges.*

Spread the sauce, salsa or pesto. Next comes the grated cheese, be generous and cover the whole dough, then add whatever else you want over top of the cheese

Heat the bbq tp to 500° (hot !) and slide in the pizza.

Have a look after 12-15 min. It’s ready when the edges go brown and the dough is stiff. Check it by lifting it with a spatula. Watch you don’t burn it.

Oh, so delicious !

Merlot (from the Okanagan) will go great with any pizza !