Sport or Religion ?

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”Strange light,” I said to Camp as soon as I sat down, referring to the persistent shroud of smoke particles from the wildfires hanging over the south coast.

“Looks like Beijing,” Camp grumbled, “but we shouldn’t complain. Just then the TV above our heads showed the destructive path of hurricane Irma with Jose right behind. “Now that is bad weather,” I said, shaking my head. We both sat there, feeling awed and powerless. But Campbell, or Camp as the world around here knows him, had something else but the weather on his mind.

I ordered us a couple of pints from Vicky when Camp pointed an accusing finger at me. “You like to watch soccer or footie as the English call it or Football as it should properly be called, not to be confused with the game played with helmets and shoulder pads.”

“Sorry Camp, what was the question?”

“European football, you watch it don’t you?”

“Yeah , I love Barcelona, in fact the whole La Liga Espanol and I also follow the Whitecaps and some MLS games. It’s the beautiful game Camp. Artistry with a ball, accuracy, control, suspense. Hours of spontaneous, sometimes repetitive choreography interspersed with moments of pure brilliance.”

“You are talking about soccer aren’t you?”

“Camp, I detect an attitude of doubt and disapproval but you haven’t grown up with the game, haven’t played hours of football in back alleys against garage doors, in open fields and gravel parking lots.”

“It’s not the game I object to, although I don’t understand it. Most ball games are leisure activities, where the endless waiting is filled with drinking. Most of these games like golf, curling, bowling and crocket can be played by octogenarians and do not qualify as a sport in my view. Except baseball of course.”

“Hold on there my friend, you’re treading dangerous waters here. Football or soccer is a highly competitive sport demanding talent, focus, training, physical fitness. eye to mind to foot coordination and utmost alacrity. It’s the ultimate a human body can excel in. Nothing trite or trivial about it. It’s more popular than religion, have you know.”

“Well, you got me there. Actually I brought it up because of the insane amounts of money clubs spend on individual players. I just read that this Neuman guy from Barcelona was sold to a club in Paris for $ 450 million.”

“First of all the name is Neymar and Barcelona has sold him to Paris St.Germain for $ 263.- million. Yes, it’s a lot of money for a ball player,” I admitted.

“Some would call it obscene. $ 130 million per leg? It’s a quarter of a billion dollars my friend. You could build a nice size, modern and equipped hospital for that, or build 250 apartments or pay university tuition for 2500 students or any number of meaningful things. And it’s only one player on a roster of what? 20 players per team and how many teams? A hundred, a thousand? Or how about the half billion dollar payout on that recent Vegas boxing match? Hyped like it was the second coming. It’s insane! Some Sports teams have higher budgets then some countries and stadiums are today’s churches. The only difference is that sports teams don’t promise an after life but they demand and command just as fierce an allegiance and devotion from their fans.” Camp took an exhausted gulp from his beer while I tried hard to come up with a meaningful rebuttal.

“I happen to play soccer myself, “ I lamely said, “and I love it, always have. And I play for free. In fact it probably cost me plenty over the years, including reconstructive surgery on both knees, fees and equipment, travel and work missed due to injuries and not to mention all the rounds of beer after the games and tournaments.”

“You’re describing exactly what I said,” Camp pointed out, “even risking health and body parts. It’s a religion for all intents and purposes, with high priest like this Neymar guy and popes like the Russian oligarchs who own the teams, pandering to their predominantly male congregation of devoted fans. It’s bread and circuses, opium for the masses, distraction and entertainment. I guess we need that. And they’re hopped up on drugs and performance enhancers. Super humans they want to be like that Lance Armstrong and this Russian tennis player.”

“Sharapova,” I said. “I’m a bit ambivalent about drugs. Mind you the drugs I took as a young man were the performance reducers but Lance brought cycling to North America and he raised millions for cancer research and he did win the most gruelling race in the world seven times. Ok, he took drugs but apparently so did everybody else.

“Not sure why anybody follows those sports?” Camp said.

“It is all some people have, a team to stand behind and live and breathe every move, every pass, every goal. It’s the stuff of memories and stories, myth and truth, fact and fiction,” I enthused.

“Oh boy, I think I’ll need another drink.”

“Hey what’s that on the TV Camp, it’s called baseball I think.”

“Now there is a real sport !” Camp visibly livened up and sat up straight, eyes locked onto the screen over my head, forgotten was all his lament and griping.”

“Now there is talent and skill, not twenty guys running after a random ball. Here we have strategy, rules, precision timing, technique and talent and defined jobs and positions, umpires, catchers, outfielders and batters. Now that’s a ball game my boy.”

I thought it best to remain quiet. Let the man have his opium. I was going to mention cricket, probably the world’s most popular ball game after soccer but then I don’t have a clue what it’s all about. Or what about rugby, surely the most physical of all ball games with a devout fan base, almost like a brotherhood. Instead I quietly sipped my beer while Camp ignored me watching the baseball game. Comparing baseball to football. Unbelievable. Bananas to apples, both fruit but both so different.

Playing sports is healthy, watching it from the couch maybe less so. I’m glad we solved all that. I finished my beer and quietly took my leave. Camp, who was completely distracted. Just said: “Until next Thursday.”

 

 

Climate Woes

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“Did you hear about that rock slide in Bondo, Switzerland, I asked Campbell as soon as I sat down. “Three million tons of rock swept down the mountain.”

“I heard about it on the radio. They blamed climate change for it I think.,” Camp said.

“Yeah, melting of the permafrost and the resulting water pressure. Glaciers are receding at an alarming rate. Extreme weather and record breaking disaster statistics everywhere. Just look at Texas and hurricane Harvey, the mother of all hurricanes. Or close to home the 150 active forest fires in B.C. I think we’re doomed as a species,” I said glumly, depressed by the overwhelming evidence of our foolish, short-sighted mismanagement of our planet. “And Trump’s exit from the Paris Agreement is just symptomatic of our self-destructive behaviour,” I added.

Camp, one of five councillors for our small town, owner of ‘Coast Books’ which he calls a ‘public service enterprise’, and purveyor of all topics known to average people, gave me a worried look. “I think Clare is right, you carry the world’s problems on your small shoulders and neither you nor anybody else can carry all that weight alone. You need to lighten up, step back, observe from a safe distance.

You’re right, we’re doomed in the long run but not just yet. Even if the world spins off its axis, some life, maybe even some of us, might survive and adapt but we’re not helpless, we can still fight this self-destructive trend. We are the smartest carbon units we know about.”

“Too smart for out own self probably. What do you suggest? Control carbon emissions, replace fossil fuels with renewables and reduce our personal foot print,” I said, feeling a tad cynical.

“Well yes,” Camp said and embarked on one of his diatribes just as Vicky plunked down a couple of frosty pints in front of us. “The technology is here to switch to 100% renewable energy. Germany has already achieved several days of supplying all the country’s electricity needs with solar, wind and hydro. As of today, in southern countries from Chile to Abu Dhabi to India solar power costs less to produce than any other form of energy and in the US and Canada the costs for wind turbines are coming down. Electric cars are here to stay and coal needs to stay in the ground. Trump’s reactionary withdrawal from the Paris Agreement has galvanized cities, states and millions of people in the US who have vowed to uphold the agreed on targets. But the time for words or paper agreements is over. It is now time for action if we want to curtail the heating up to our fragile atmosphere, otherwise we’ll end up like planet Venus. We have the technology here but the political will is missing.”

“You’re talking radical behaviour change,” I said, taking a sip from my beer.

“Oppose all new pipe lines, stop oil exploration, prohibit fracking and withdraw all fossil fuel subsidies. You’re suggesting an energy revolution.”

“Well, as you pointed out, we don’t have much time to change our behaviour. We were able to stop acid rain, we eliminated fluorocarbon emissions, we conquered diseases, we split and fuse atoms and we figured out how to communicate instantly around the world, why the hell can’t we change our dependence on hydro carbons?”

“Maybe it’s the fossil fuel industry and lobby that still controls much of our economy and politics. I guess we should only elect politicians that are committed to radical change,” I suggested. “Good luck on that. 50 million people just elected a president that represents the exact opposite. He even promised to open up the coal mines again and calls climate change a Chinese hoax.”

“You have a point, but maybe he is the catalyst that we need to turn the fossil behemoth around,” Camp suggested.

“What about natural gas or LNG as has been touted by the previous government as the holy grail for British Columbia.”

“Two problems that spring to mind,” Camp said. “First off, all the new gas finds under American soil has to be fracked, meaning explode the subsurface geology resulting in all kinds of problems, particularly with aquifers and groundwater. Secondly the process of producing gas releases so much methane into the atmosphere that the net result of natural gas is equal to burning coal.”

“Which brings us back to renewables,” I said.

“Yes, use fossil carbons for plastics, bitumen, and for now, the airline industry, ocean liners and cargo ships which by the way burn bunker fuel or ‘navy special’, the crap that’s left over after the refining process. “

“Which leaves atomic energy,” I said.

“There are about 450 reactors worldwide with 60 new ones under construction. All together they provide about 10% of the worlds electricity. They are very efficient energy producers but the disposal of burned out fuel is a problem and so are the potential catastrophic consequences of a melt down.”

“You’re just a walking encyclopaedia Camp,” I said.

“Dr. Google and Wikipedia are my helpers,” Camp said “but common sense and responsible behaviour would solve most of the world’s problems. On a more positive note, we’re lucky here because we now have three breweries in this small town. We better step up to the plate and do our share.” Camp held up two fingers for Vicky to see and within the blink of an eye two new frosty brews arrived.

“Isn’t life a crazy thing?” I said, “We live like kings in paradise and yet we feel doomed. Is it better to know and feel helpless or is it better to be helpless and not know?”

“All I know is that we should not ignore the basic facts my friend. Cheers.”

Check out this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZDYhQ4UAnA

 

Foodstuff

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I was early and luckily a couple just freed up our usual table in the corner on the patio overlooking the harbour and the calm waters of Howe Sound. The view never tires me and there is always something to watch. I’ve seen seals popping up their whiskered heads for a look around; herons are a common sight waiting patiently at the end of the dock and once in a while an eagle cruises overhead, getting the best view of all. I was jolted out of my reverie by my friend who had just sat down.

“You’re early, “ he said, sounding kind of grumpy.

“Clare is in the city tonight, for a two day conference,” I explained to Campbell who is known as Camp, owner of Coast Books – a non-profit public service enterprise – as he calls it.

“Oh, does that mean you can have a few extra beers.”

“That is never an issue. Who stepped on your shadow today?” I asked, “you seem to be in an owly mood. Nothing to do with Muriel I hope.”

Camp gave me a shifty look from under his bushy eyebrows. “No, Muriel is fine. Mind you, I hardly see her these days what with summer break at the council and her daughter Sophie in town. It’s the Feds who are bugging me. I just found out that we need a federal permit for the harbour expansion and that could take months. It’s a snag I didn’t expect. “

“Oh,” I said, “but it’s just a formality right.”

“Let’s hope so but this is just more fodder for the opposition. With a dismissive wave of his hand Camp changed the subject. “Anyway, this beer tastes good and the view is spectacular.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said and added: “I might just have to eat here for a change since I don’t feel like cooking for one, maybe have one of those sixteen dollar burgers.”

“I don’t know about you but I can barely afford to drink here, never mind eat. A burger and a pint will add up to $ 30 with tips. I can buy food for the rest of the week for that amount.”

“Tell me about it.,” I said. “At least some greens, eggs and fruit are grown locally but at exorbitant prices. I try to buy locally but more often than not I end up buying the Mexican tomatoes and the Argentinian bananas. Or what about meat? Have you seen the prices lately? Pork is the only bargain in the meat department,” I lamented.

“Lucky for us infidels and gentiles. Almost forces one to become a vegetarian, Camp countered and then went on to expound: “Humans are omnivores, opportunistic feeders, meaning they can process both: vegetable and animal proteins. Vegans, and to some extent vegetarians, are lifestyle choices, some dictated by religious dogma, like the Jains and most Hindus and even Jews. Atheists and Christians have one thing in common: they love their bbq’s.”

“Thank God for that but I think you’re out on a limb here Camp. Food choices can be rather complex, dictated by health, affordability, availability and subject to information and food education. Remember when the Atkins diet was all the rage. The protein only diet. We called it the teamster diet. All those chubby drivers were in food heaven. Losing weight by eating only meat. It drove the caterers crazy.”

“Did it work?” Camp asked.

“For a short time until they were all so plugged up that they became very irritable. Nothing worse than a teamster full of shit.”

“Food is politics,” Camp said, shaking his head full of unruly grey curls. I was afraid he was embarking on one of his passionate soliloquies. “When I grew up we had to eat everything on our plate because the Africans were starving and meat was only served on Sundays and holidays.”

I stopped him right there and said: “Where I grew up we had to eat everything on our plate because it was hard to come by and meat was for holidays and special occasions only. The rest of the time we ate innards: Liver, tripe, kidney pie, blood pudding and even fried brain. I also remember having to sit and eat my porridge with raisins, forcing it down bite by bite until I was allowed to get up from the table. I hate porridge and raisins to this day.”

Camp laughed. “At least you were taught respect for the food on the table. I’m not so sure if that holds today. I doubt that many families even sit down for a meal together. It’s everybody for themselves, eat whenever you have the time, eat standing up in front of the fridge, and cooking is a senior’s hobby and for those parents who can find the time.”

“Three isles at every grocery store are freezers, full of pre-cooked, frozen dinners.” I said.

Not to be outdone Camp doubled down: “And one isle is for chips alone. Can you believe it? Chips or as the English call it: crisps and a whole other isle for pop.”

“When I grew up fast food was a buttered slice of bread dunked in Ovaltine, much to the chagrin of my mom.”

Camp laughed. “We did the same thing but with sugar.”

“Today, fast food is the mainstay of the American diet and pop, which is basically artificially flavoured sugar water, the most popular drink.”

“More popular than beer?” Camp asked, raising one of his shaggy eyebrows while at the same time raising his pint to illustrate the point.

“I read somewhere that Americans consume 20% of their food in the car. That means, burgers, pizza, fries and pop.”

“And then they toss the empty packaging out the window. Have you ever noticed that most of the roadside garbage is fast food containers.”

“And did you know that US schools class French Fries and Pizza as vegetables?”

“That is just wrong,” I said, “What does all this fast food do to the brain?”

“You are what you eat and drink,” Camp said while holding up two fingers for Vicky to see. This was going to be a thirsty Thursday. “On the other end of the spectrum are the health food fanatics. Food obsession is every bit as damaging as food negligence. Diets and fads, eat like a pig then starve like a fashion model,” he added.

“Everything in moderation, as Clare always maintains,” I said.

“Would you boys like to eat?” Vicky asked, plopping down a couple of menus. and then offered the coupe de grace: “Thursday is prime rib night; two for the price of one.”

“Come on Camp, my treat. I don’t want to eat alone. Let’s go for it.”

“What’s the vegetarian special?” he coyly asked Vicky who gave him a wary smile.
“You’re kidding me? Not on prime rib night!” I exclaimed.

“I got you, didn’t I. You thought I’d gone over to the other side.”

“I need another drink..”

“I’ll join you, Cheers.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moral Bankruptcy

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“It’s been a crazy few days; that is if you watch TV or read the papers. First it was the ludicrous spectre of nuclear conflict, promoted by the evil troll in Pyongyang and Darth Vader in the White House and now we have seen the worst of Trump in the aftermath of the Neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville.”

Campbell or Camp for short, had barely sat down at our usual table in the corner on the patio, under the TV, when I assaulted him with this barrage. He held up two fingers for Vicky, the waitress who was well versed in the pub’s universal sign language.

“As you know,” Camp said, “I don’t have a TV and only read the papers sporadically but I do get my news from my customers, if there are any, and from the all-knowing world-wide-web. The consensus is unanimously that the Nasty Leader in Washington has now shown his true self to the whole world, which should not come as a surprise to anybody. He’s always been a racist – remember the birther witch hunt – and he’s always been a bigot and a misogynist and as we all knew that he is basically a white supremacist. None of that is new, it’s just that he is now the president of the USA.”

“The president is supposed to be the moral compass of the nation, especially in times of domestic trouble,” I said. “Obama always stepped up and tried to heal the wounds inflicted by murder and terror.” Vicky dropped off a couple of pints, which remained uncharacteristically untouched since both of us were quite upset, as were most sane people.

“Remember, he has been elected by a majority of white people, two thirds of white males and over half of all white women voted for him. They supported a blatant racist and they should all take a hard look at themselves and ask: Is this really the man I wanted for my president?” Camp said.

“Do you really think that will happen? And what will the next three years look like? There doesn’t seem a week goes by without a dramatic and potentially dangerous wobble at the top of the pyramid which is the American government structure.”

“Maybe it’s more like a volcano, about to blow.”

On that note we both took a tentative sip from our beers, which were in danger of going flat. That in itself was a measure of our common distress.

It was Michelle Obama who said: Being president doesn’t change who you are, it reveals who you are, I said.

“And it’s Trump who said that there are some very nice people in the Nazi/ Alt Right rally in Charlottesville, shouting ‘blood and soil’, waving swastikas and yelling Trump heil’. Hard to believe,” I said.

“Anybody who was part of that march of hate is definitely not a nice person and anybody who supports and votes for a racist is also a racist. There is no ambiguity there,” Camp said “ and whoever does not recognize the pure evil and hatred in these ultra-right fanatics has no sense of history, justice and place,” he added, shaking his head full of grey bristles in dismay.

“There seems to be a lot of young, white males who are attracted to these noxious hate groups, influenced by a myriad of racist and conspiracy sites on the web, which speaks volumes about their collective void of moral guidance,” I said, feeling rather depressed and somewhat at a loss but I could not ignore all this theatre of the absurd and bizarre that is filling the airwaves and news print.

“Maybe you should not watch any more TV news if it distresses you like that, it’s not healthy and there is very little you can do about it,” Clare, always the wise voice, advised me.

“But I cannot ignore it and stick my head in the sand,” I protested.

“I’m not asking you to ignore it, just take a step back and don’t take it so personal. For example, Trump does not rule my garden and he is certainly not my moral compass gone haywire. I cannot give that charlatan the time of day and will instead concentrate on the good I can do in my little corner of the world.”

I sort of related that much to Camp who embarked on one of his diatribes.    “Clare of course has a point and maybe we should all just concentrate on our sphere of influence and make sure that the young people we come in touch with either as teachers, parents, politicians or shop keepers, like myself, know that they’re loved and respected. The antidote to hate and fear is compassion and nurture but of course our first instinct is punishment and retribution. A lot of these young Nazis are lost and abandoned by their parents, their leaders and elders and society as a whole. Tolerance, equality and understanding are virtues that need to be taught and led by example. Sadly, Trump is a despicable example and he is the enemy of decent, educated and compassionate people and he can only lead his flock into realms of fear and hatred.”

“When we were young, a lot of lost souls were gathered in by fake gurus and brainwashers but mostly under the guise of love and control, usually to further their own material wellbeing in this world in exchange for lofty rewards in the next one. Skinheads and punks were the antidote to these movements.”

“But they were only the lunatic fringe, never embraced by a racist president and 60 million people who voted for him. That is the difference. One can only hope that this is a watershed moment that makes people take another look at themselves, their neighbours, and the dubious leaders they elected.”

““Let’s drink to the common good people and to a bright future full of peace and love,” I suggested, trying to rally some positive energy.

“Always the optimist,” Camp said, raising his glass.

“A pessimist with a positive outlook,” I countered.

“Cheers.”

 

Fire and Smoke

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We could hardly see Keats Island from our usual table at the pub, even though it’s only one kilometer from the Gibsons shore.

“Clare remarked yesterday that they’ve taken the mountains away,” I said, referring to the bad visibility due to the shroud of smoke hanging over the whole province as a result of over 120 active wild fires.

“Like China,” Campbell or Camp to everybody but his mother remarked, shaking his large messy head of grey locks in dismay.

“There are over 3500 firefighters battling the flames, many of them from Mexico, Australia and the US and apparently one third of the fires are human caused,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, I believe it. Idiots throwing cigarette butts out the window. By the way, have you noticed the sunrises and sunsets lately?” Camp asked.

“Can’s say I’ve seen any sunrises but you’re right about the sunsets and all day long the sun has a pink glow to it. One bonus is that this silky dome of smoke has kept the heat down. You can actually sit outside without shade and not be bothered by the sun. It’s a boon for outdoor patios and beer gardens.”

“I guess we should be thankful for that,” Camp smiled “and the beer stays cool a bit longer, mind you mine never has a chance to warm up. Oh, here is Vicky, I think we might as well have another, what you say?”

Never one to turn down a beer I simply held up two fingers to our waitress Vicky, the universal code for two more beers please.

“What do you think of the fierce rhetoric and sabre rattling going on between Kim Jong-un and Trump as of late?” I asked Camp, who is much more informed and politically savvy than I, even though he does not have a TV and doesn’t read the local papers. Still he is always well versed in present day politics, locally and globally.

“Seems we’re stuck with two psychopaths and egomaniacs trying to outdo each other. We’re used to threats from Kim and the bluster from the Donald but the response from him this week about answering North Korea with ‘fire and fury as the world has never seen it’ is very unsettling. It’s a game of chicken nobody can win and all the cooler heads in the room are biting their nails or checking their smart phones. Nobody laughed.”

“Do you think Kim and his generals would attack Guam with atomic missiles? It’s what he promised to do. Apparently they were able to miniaturize their nukes; make them small enough to stick them on a missile,” I said.

“Kim knows that he cannot win a war with the mighty USA”, Camp said, “all he wants is respect and ensure the survival of his regime and of course he also wants to annex South Korea, the ultimate goal of both his father and grandfather but today more unlikely to happen than ever. And let’s not forget the Japanese who have since last year the right to retaliate if any of their allies – Guam for example – are attacked. It is an escalating and worrying situation, hopefully all smoke and no fire but one that calls for more beer I think.”

“A nuclear war initiated by a tweet, that is really worrying me. What time is it on the doomsday clock today?” I asked,

“It was at ten minutes before midnight 20 years ago, today it stood at 3 minutes to the midnight hour at the beginning of the year and no doubt it has advanced in the last few day to within 30 seconds. Just ask yourself this: Is Trump the kind of guy who would pull the trigger just to show the world that he is a man of real power? Sadly this isn’t just a wildwest story, it is today’s scariest reality show.”

“Not a lot of good news I’m afraid,” I said, “and nothing you and I can do about it either Camp. On the positive side, Clare is picking blackberries today with our neighbour. It’s a bumper year for berries.”

“Is there any improvement in the weather forecast,” Camp asked, squinting toward the water as if trying to penetrate the fog like atmosphere.

“No wind, no rain and no more beer today,” I said, finishing my pint. “I better head back and keep the home fires burning.”

Tattoos or not

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“Vicky, what’s with the new tattoo ?” Camp asked our waitress at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ when she set a cool pint of Golden Pale Ale in front of him. The tattoo depicted a mermaid holding a glass of what looked like champagne.

“Don’t you love it ! It’s my birthday present to myself.”

“It is kind of cute but what does it mean?”

“When I was a little girl I always wanted to be a mermaid and now I am one, meaning I can be whatever I want to be. Enjoy your beers fellows.”

“That’s what you get for asking, I said to Camp.

“Tattoos used to be the provenance of sailors and bikers. An anchor, a skull and crossbones, maybe a tall-ship or a snake around the bicep, or ritual tattoos like the Polynesian swirls, but today everybody has to have them. There isn’t a professional soccer player that hasn’t got the full sleeve at least on one arm, most of them have both arms, the neck and god knows what else covered in ink. When the flames come out of the shirt collar that’s it for me.”

“I know,“ I said, “and not every tattoo artist is a good one. What puzzles me is that so many girls are into this body painting. Do they realize that tattoos are forever ? Can you see all these grannies in fifty years with their tattoos of fairy princesses, Celtic knots and mermaids?”

“Not a pretty sight I have to admit.”

“What about all the tattoos gone wrong, the spelling mistakes.”

“I guess there is a market loophole there. If somebody can figure out how to disappear tattoos, they’ll have it made,” Camp said, taking a sip of his beer.

“I think there are over the counter skin bleaching concoctions,” I said “and I know a former actress who opened a tattoo removal business. I think it’s called ‘Inkoff’.

“Tattoo removal creams are like hair growing ointments. It’s all snake oil. I have a tattoo,” Camp said, “from when I was a teenager. It’s home made and we did it ourselves, with ink and needles. Sort of like a hazing ritual. We were young and stupid.”

“No kidding, let’s see it,” I said.

Camp reluctantly rolled up his sleeve and displayed a round, faded blob that looked more like a birthmark than a tattoo.”

“It’s supposed to be a ‘ying and yang’ sign,” Camp said defensively.

“Maybe you can have it made into a smiley face, like an emoji,” I offered, or how about a full moon.”

“You’re a lot of help you know,” Camp said, rolling down his sleeve. “By the way where is that ‘Inkoff’ business of your friend?”

“I’ll get you the details,” I promised. “By the way have you heard of those two business grads who took on the multi-billion dollar shaving industry with their own razor. I’s called Harry and quite the success story,” I said

“I also used to invent stuff,” Camp said, but nothing quite as successful. “I invented a floating platform with wheel wells and an outboard motor that you could drive any size RV onto and voilà, there is your houseboat.”

“Oh, that’s a cool idea. What happened?
“Nobody had any money to invest and then there were suddenly a plethora of marine regulations I didn’t think of. I guess that’s why the amphibian car died.”

“What else did you invent Camp.”

“Oh, a tie with a permanent knot but I think somebody else invented the same thing. Lately I’m thinking of those in-house lap-pools with the adjustable pumps so you can swim in place. I’m thinking of building on that and introduce kayaks, and water boards to it with a half surround screen so you could paddle down the Amazon or among Caribbean palm islands. All before lunch of course and in your own home.”

“That’s a crazy idea,” I said, shaking my head. “Who would buy into that?”

“That’s what they said about snowboards or the self drive car for that matter. Anyway I’ll better stick to books. Somebody else writes them, somebody else binds them and I just sell them.”

I offered a toast: “Here is to the simple things in life, tattoo removal and the Amazon in your home gym.”

“Are you guys ready for another one,” Vicky asked.

“Yes, please,” we both answered in stereo.

 

 

 

 

Nomadic Tempest 2017 by the Caravan Stage Company

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An operatic 90 minute show performed behind a gigantic scrim draped off the 100 foot tall sailing ship, the ‘Amara Zee’, with multimedia interface between video, sound and trapeze acrobats. The projected video intercepts featured a wise woman/fairy godmother extoling the evils of fossil fuels responsible for the human extinction to an audience of wide-eyed pre-teens. A philosophical smorgasbord, somewhere between Cahil Gibran and Mad Max, interwoven with Greek and Coast Salish Mythology, repeated over and over in Spanish, Arabic and Mandarin with cryptic English subtitles. Clever use of the ship’s masts and rigging, illuminated and professionally. A permanently oscillating pumpjack kept bobbing up and down at top left of the rig while two gas jockeys brandishing nozzles like guns were dancing at center top, while backlit dancers gyrated to the music at deck level. All of which made for good visuals. But the whole spectacle lacked in story and was basically a naïve, hippyish construct of mankind’s fossil fuel addiction making us all fossil slaves and junkies and thereby destroying life on earth. What the play lacked in plot and linear story, it compensated with mesmerizing acrobatic performers repelling from 100’ long red flags, a phantasmagorical set, talented singers and an overall spectacle for the senses. The frequent and repetitive video projections were a preachy play on guilt and our fossil fuel dependence, eulogizing the demise of mankind, and extolling the rise of a fossil free peace loving future through the awestruck eyes and faces of the young teens. An apocalyptic vision survived only by a lone orca and some monarch butterflies. If anything survives this Armageddon it would be cockroaches and sharks, nowhere near as picturesque. I squirmed a few times but it might have been the cool breeze coming off the water and I had to stifle a yawn or two but it might have been the late hour. A couple of young kids behind us kept asking their parents: ‘”is it over soon Dad?” a sentiment I shared with them.

 

Changes and Choices

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I arrived at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ early and read the paper in order to kill the time until Camp arrived. I have stopped reading the local papers a couple of years ago because I could watch the news on the computer and I also couldn’t stand all the advertising throughout the print media. The news of the day was all about the change in the provincial government, a tenuous mandate at best with just one vote majority for the New Democrats thanks to a coalition with the three Green Party members. Campbell or Camp as the world here knows him showed up right on time and I noticed a bit of a swagger to his step.

“Hey Camp, you look like you had a good day at the store or does it have something to do with Muriel? Muriel Bisset is the Quebecois counsellor on the local town council and as of lately a rather close associate of Camp who is in complete denial about his true feelings for her, which are apparent to everybody, including Vicky the waitress. “Hi Camp, how is Muriel?” she asked him while setting a pint in front of him. “Eh, just fine, thank you,” he mumbled.

When I raised a questioning eyebrow he elaborated: “In fact she decided to support my proposal for the yacht club expansion. With a few tons of rock we can build a new breakwater and double the capacity of floats and boat slips which is a cheap and efficient way to boost the local economy,” Camp said. “No expensive buildings, no land use, just a water use permit from the feds and we’re in business. Mooring capacity for pleasure boats is at a premium all over the lower mainland and we have the space, the place and now we have the means to address that.”

“Congratulations. I guess you two will celebrate your political victory.”

“Well, yes, she has invited me to dinner tomorrow, but you know her daughter Sophie will also be there.”

I didn’t say anything, just winked at him and took a swallow of my beer.

To change the subject I asked Camp what he thought of the latest power swap in Victoria. “I guess a change in government is a good thing but I don’t like the fact that no matter who governs here in BC, or Canada and the US for that matter, only represents half of the populations. The other half is left out of the process altogether and can only vote again in four years.”

“What would you prefer Camp? A monarchy, a military dictatorship? Democracy is still the best form of government or as Winston Churchill said: Democracy is the worst form of government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.”

“I like the Swiss government,” I pointed out, “seven Councillors elected by their peers, representing the major parties of which there are at least five as well as the choice to have a plebiscite on any issue. All the Swiss citizens have to do is collect a certain amount of signatures and the issue will have to be voted on by the people .”

“Yes, I like it too, “ Camp nodded, “except that those parties with the most money can outspend everybody else with propaganda and one could say manipulation.”

“It’s not perfect, but it’s better than being powerless and a mere spectator of the political charade played out in our houses of parliament for the next four years.”

“At least in Switzerland the people have a choice. Here, once the party with the most elected members – not necessarily the most votes – rules the roost, the other members or parliament who represent the other half of the population has no recourse, no power and no choices. They can howl at the moon all they want and nobody listens and all their howling and posturing has no consequences.”

Camp was right of course and I said that much. “It’s our system that is in need of an overhaul. You only have to look south to see what’s happening in the mighty USA where none of the people seem to be represented by the politicians, never mind only half.”

“The US is a plutocracy, not a democracy,” Camp said. “Only millionaires and celebrities have the clout and the money to get elected there. And if only half the eligible voters cast a ballot, then a mere quarter of the population is represented by the ones in power, not counting all of those millions of people who are excluded from the voting process for one reason or another. No wonder people stay away from the polls in droves, especially when the choice is between the ‘wicked witch of the West or Darth Vader.”

“And then the newly elected party spends most of their time cancelling policies and laws the party before them enacted. What a waste of time.”

“Let’s just hope that our present new government does what they’ve promised,” Camp said.

“What’s that?” I asked

“Listen to the people.”

“That’s almost as refreshing as this cold beer here Camp. Imagine: Power to the people.”

We raised our glasses to that. Cheers !

Expect the Unexpected

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It’s definitely summer time because we couldn’t get our usual table and ended up sitting inside on two high-top chairs. Camp grumbled about the tourists crowding his space even though he lived off them with his bookstore. “A lot more tourists than last year. It’s partly because of the fires raging in the interior which are redirecting a lot of holiday makers to the coast and the island,” Campbell, or Camp as the world knows him, said.

Camp was right. Over 140 fires are burning up the province and have displaced 40,000 people, most of whom are anxiously waiting to return home in make shift camps in Kamloops and Prince George.

“Business must be pretty good these days. I watched the traffic from across the street this afternoon,” I said and Camp gave me a shifty look.

“You could have come in and said hi.”
“We didn’t want to disrupt the flow and we also didn’t want to drip ice cream all over the store.”

“Well, most of the traffic was for the bathroom. At the next counsel meeting I will bring up this issue of more public washrooms or better signage pointing them to those at the end of Winegarden Park. I don’t have the heart to say no to a person in need, but it is a nuisance nevertheless. I also expected the store to do better but we’re in direct competition with the ferry, which uses ferry workers to sell books. It’s not fair competition.”

“That’s just it Camp. We expect things to happen and if they don’t we’re disappointed. Best not to expect anything and then maybe we get surprised,” I said.

“You have a point,” Camp nodded, “I have a poster in my store proclaiming just that. It’s actually the three sources of all upsets. A good friend pointed those out to me many moons ago and I decided to write them down and have them displayed at eye level so I can remind myself of them.”

“Oh yeah, what are those words of wisdom?” I asked.

“The first one is undelivered communication. It’s the most common source of upsets. People always assume but forget to tell each other what it is they assume or they get misunderstood or taken out of context. Or they think they told each other but actually haven’t. I see it all the time, even at council meetings. That’s why we have minutes so one can actually look it up if so-and-so said this-and-that or not. “

“Ok, I get it. Undelivered communications. What’s the second reason for peoples upsets?”

“Thwarted intentions. It’s when we wish to take action and for some reason cannot do so, usually due to a lack of skills or knowledge, or money or time. Like I wanted to go a sunny place last winter but had neither the money, nor the time. So I was pissed off, mostly at myself of course.”

“And the third one. Let me guess. Unfulfilled dreams.”

“Close, it’s unfulfilled expectations. Like my expectations at the store never match reality. Sometimes of course the outcome exceeds the expectations as in this new local beer. The Irish stout is actually better than I expected. There you have it. All our upsets and disappointments fit into one or two of these three sources. Unfailingly.”

“I’ll ask Clare and if she agrees than I’ll better make a copy of your poster and hang it in the bathroom. That way I get to see it everyday.”

“How is Muriel by the way,” I changed the subject.

“I expect she is well,” Camp answered. “Her daughter is arriving next week and Muriel wants me to meet her. Apparently she is an aspiring writer and loves book stores.”

“Well, that’s perfect isn’t it. You two seem to get along just fine.”

“We’re friends. Nothing more. Friends and colleagues.”

“Sure,” I said. “Talk about friends. We’ve been to two weddings in the past six weeks, both of them unions between couples who have lived together for 15 years. In one case it was the 12 year old girl who suggested to their parents to get married. Both occasions were gatherings of the tribes. Nothing like a good wedding to bring people together, including ex-husbands, new girl or boyfriends, as well as wedding crashers who drive around looking for a free party.”

“I don’t really believe in the institution of marriage. Most of them end in divorce and acrimony,” Camp, always the positive thinker, said. “You’re looking at a case in point,” he added.

“Why did you and Maureen get married, was it an expression of pure love or for tax reasons.”

“Neither,” said Camp, I lost a bet. Maureen challenged my love, which was basically pure lust and taunted me with visions of eternal ecstasy. Remember, I was a convinced bachelor, in my fifties when I met Maureen who was in her thirties. The Germans have a good word that describes the state I was in. ‘Torschlusspanik’, meaning panic of the door closing. We got married; the ecstasy never matched the expected fantasy and then reality set in. I missed my freedom, Maureen wanted me to be somebody else and that was the beginning of the end.”

“But you stayed together for a dozen years,” I said, shaking my head.

“Yes, we co-habited. She upstairs, me downstairs. If we wouldn’t have been married we would have probably drifted apart after a few months. Such are the ties that bind. Goldie Hawn credits the fact that she never married Curt Russell for the longevity of their love affair,” Camp added.

“I guess your expectations were unfulfilled, your intentions thwarted and you sure as hell didn’t communicate very well.”

“Live and learn,” Camp said. “I wish we could still be friends but the lawyers ruined that.”

“Here is to friendship,” I said. We drank to that.

Organic or Not

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I could tell that Camp was in a tizzy about something. He was fidgeting with his new smart phone that apparently didn’t do what he wanted it to. Campbell or Camp as the denizens of the Coast know him, has finally broken down and signed up for a basic phone plan. “I told them I would only sign up if it’s under $ 50, which means my brilliant phone has no roaming ability, is dependent on wi-fi and has only 100 free min per month. Entering wi-fi passwords I usually delegate to somebody at least half my age. Vicky did it for me here at the pub.” Camp was busily checking something very important since he was mumbling curses to himself. It could only be three things. Affairs of the heart, the stomach or politics. Either Muriel, our Quebecois alderwomen had stood him up or he ate something that didn’t agree with him or Trump scored another own goal.

“Imagine, Trump wants to team up with the Russians on cyber security. Isn’t that like sticking your hand through the bars of the lion’s cage with a steak or jumping head first into an empty swimming pool?”

“I think he has now retracted that brilliant idea,” I said, shaking my head. “Is that what you’re doing with your new smart phone, checking the news?”

“No, I’m trying to change the ring tone to something soothing, like Tibetean cymbals.”

“Isn’t that rather loud and grating?” I said.

“Only to the uninitiated.” Camp retorted.

“Anyway, have you seen the size of the strawberries at the store?” I asked, not really expecting a answer. “There the size of a small potato. It’s not natural. Next, they’ll breed oranges the size of melons and raspberries like tea cosies or tuques or hundred pound cabbages Where is the gene manipulating and designer food going to stop? “

“Whenever people are not buying it,” Camp said, “like the green Ketchup. Remember Findhorn, the town on the Scottish coast where they grew gigantic vegetables even forty years ago.”

“Clare always buys from the organic section but we’ve had disagreements about that. If the whole world would only eats organic crops, we would be running out of arable land. Half the work, half the yield but twice the land. Isn’t that the basic formula? But since we’re living in the privileged corner of the world we have the choice to buy organic. It’s because we can. The only item I usually look for is meat without antibiotics. That I think is a good idea.”

“It’s all a marketing ploy,” Camp said. “Just last week I came across an article citing organic wine growers in Mendocino County whose organic crops were actually cheaper to produce than conventional. The savings in pesticides and herbicides and the infrastructure to deliver (spray) them outweighed the loss in quantity. But instead of passing the savings on to the consumer, they upped the price because people are willing to pay more for the organic label.”

“That’s just it,” I said. “The marketing is as much manipulated as the genes in our food. Did you know that the corn the Mayan’s ate was about the size of a pickle, nothing like today’s cream and peaches ears of corn. It’s not even the same plant anymore.”

“And what about those dozens of Germans who died last year after eating organic bean sprouts which harboured toxic e-coli bacteria passed on via animal manure added to the crop. This use of manure vs. synthetic fertilisers is celebrated by organic proponents. Natural doesn’t automatically equal more safe, definitely not in this case,” Camp said.

“The worst are the name brands. Companies with names like ‘Organic Fruit’ or ‘Bio-Foods’ don’t necessarily sell what their name suggests. It’s just a name, much like ‘Lite Beer’ or ‘Natural’.

“How about our locally brewed beverage ?” Camp asked.

“They grow their own hops and have a ‘farm-to-barrel’ approach. Not sure if it’s all organic ingredients but it definitely makes more sense to drink locally rather then the imports from Holland or Ireland. I for one support locally produced food and drink, not because it’s better or cheaper, it just makes more sense to support local growers. “

“By the way how are you and Muriel getting along lately ?” I changed the subject, hoping for some enticing news.

“Muriel has a daughter in Montreal,” Camp said and took a healthy swallow of his drink.

“Oh, that’s eh… ok, isn’t it. From a previous marriage ?”

“She never said anything about that, just that her daughter studies at McGill and is coming to visit for the summer. “

“At least she is sharing personal info with you Camp, that is a good sign,”

I said with a mischievous grin.

“A good sign for what ? Oh, I see what you’re getting at. You are completely out of the ball park. We’re merely colleagues.”

“And sure enough, speaking of the devil, here she is,” I said.

Muriel was making straight for our table and Camp hastily pulled up an extra chair for her. She gave Camp a friendly peck on the cheek which made him turn red like one of those super strawberries and then she politely extended her hand, “I’m Muriel Bisset,” she said in that adorable French accent, “Campbell’s friend.”

“I know,” I blurted out, “I’ve heard a lot about you. Can I order you a beer?”

“Merci, but I prefer a glass of white wine.”

Camp ordered a glass of Bonterra Chardonnay for his ‘colleague’ from Vicky, the waitress, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s organic,” he said, with a wink in my direction.

“Santé !” Muriel toasted us, raising her glass.

Just at that moment Camp’s phone sounded with the first bars of AC/DC’s ‘Hells Bells’. He scrambled to shut it down but couldn’t find the right button. Muriel gallantly took the phone from him and silenced the heavy rock intro.

“Sorry, I guess I chose the wrong bells,” Camp lamely stuttered.

Muriel looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Tibetan bells,” I said lamely, quickly lifting the beer to my lips to avoid any further explanation.

 

 

 

Fools and Wise Men

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Finally the sun is out for more than a day and the ocean reflects the blue sky above, framed by the snow capped coastal mountains rising straight up from the waters edge. There is no more dramatic scenery, no better awe inspiring vista than this spectacular view from ‘Grandma’s Pub’ over the rim of a pint of Persephone’s Golden Goddess. Camp and I drank a toast to the glorious summer ahead.

Campbell was in an expansive mood having just been able to swing a tied vote in council his way, about the expansion of the yacht club. “We need more mooring to accommodate a waiting list which is as long as my arm. The breakwater was always in the wrong place and should have been out by the cliff which is what we now propose to do.”

“How did you sway Muriel, plied her with wine and promises?”

Camp actually turned a shade of red, which was not like him at all, always stoic and in control of his demeanor except for his wild and unruly shock of curly gray hair.

“I see, the intricate twists and turns and wily power shuffles of local politics,” I said, enjoying his obvious discomfort.

“It’s not what you think?” Camp said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I simply convinced her that a vote for the breakwater is a vote for a better future of the harbor, the yacht club and the town as a whole.”

“Congrats Camp, here is to more yachts and boats. You do know what BOAT stands for?” Camp raised an expectant eyebrow. “Bring On Another Thousand.”

We drank to that and then Camp wanted to get something off his chest.

“There are a lot more fools then wise man on this earth. The fools are usually found in a crowd while the wise man sits by himself enjoying the big joke. You want to know what the big joke is? It’s the difference between what we think we are and what we are or as Albert Einstein pointed out, planet earth is really the insane asylum of the universe.”

“Yes and the patients are running the shop and nobody is in charge.”

“Considering this planet contains upward of six billion people, half of whom are simply too preoccupied with food and shelter to care about anything else, it is a miracle that as a species we have made it this far. Most of the time we scramble through life blindly, from day to day, from one thought to another, from memories to ideas, from dreams to action, not necessarily in that order. If life turns out OK we say we’re lucky and if things go wrong then it’s never our fault and is just plain bad luck. We pay lip service to the ‘live and learn from your mistakes’ theory but do we actually practice it?”

“Some of us try, Camp. Not everybody can be a success, especially measured in material wealth. There have to be failures, otherwise how do we measure success? Better to be a failure who tried his or her best then be a success due to the place of birth, which is totally arbitrary, life’s great lottery.”

“Not sure about that,” Camp mused. “I’m happy to be born in Canada and I try to do something worthwhile with that privilege. Anyway, my point is that fools stumble along, following the herd over the cliff and thus never find out what their potential could have been,” Camp paused, staring into his empty glass. “I’ve been a fool most of my life but luckily the herd I was running with didn’t actually go over the cliff, they just sort of dispersed in the wilderness and left me wandering in the wild. I finally found my own way.”

“I guess what saved me from myself is my better half Clare,” I said, “she always points the way to worthwhile goals on the horizon, to a positive outlook, to better self-esteem. I never really see anything that far ahead, maybe to the next pint and possibly the one after that.  I’m usually still trying to figure out what I’m doing at the moment.”

As Vicky the waitress set another couple of cool pints in front of us I added: “As a loyal fool and self-respecting member or the working class I limit myself to a philosophy of simplicity, which is just another euphemism for laziness.” I looked out at the breathtaking view, not really seeing the beauty, being pre-occupied with our beer-philosophical musings. “Instead of following the herd I took some chances Camp, and rather then follow my dreams I chose the easy route and opted for the job that paid the most money,” I admitted.

“You’re not alone buddy,” Camp said, not showing too much sympathy, “you’re lucky to have Clare as your compass in life.”

The fear of failure always loomed larger then the vision of success and I wasn’t about to tell anybody about my hidden fantasy life because it kept changing.

“Don’t I know it,” I said. “Clare is wiser than a tree full of owls. She doesn’t question reality, she lives it. She has no illusions about herself and accepts the person she is, the body she inhabits and the people she encounters. Whatever made her fall in love with me is one of the great, unsolved mysteries of life.”

“Love is a great mystery,” Camp said, nodding his wild unruly head of hair.

“You always know where you’re at with her. And honesty and compassion aren’t cultivated virtues, she’s born with them,” I said.

“Honesty is one of those ambiguous qualities in politics,” Camp said, “sometimes the truth hides in silence and honesty is admitting fault.”

We sipped our beers, enjoying the sunny vista and blue sky.

“Do you remember Clare’s old aunt Dorothy?”

“She had that old gnarly walking stick and always wore gloves, even in the summer.”

“Yeah, that was her. She had eczema on her hands. She was an avid reader and could quote history books and she regularly read her newspaper, didn’t trust the TV but on the other hand she was unable to look after herself. All her life Dorothy was dependent on her former husband to cook, to pay the bills and to manage. Widowed for the last ten years, she just went on living as if nothing had changed and ended up in a complete mess, physically, emotionally and environmentally. She didn’t pay her hydro or phone bill but instead gave away her money to charities of every description. When we saw the list of her benefactors at the bank we were flabbergasted.”

“She was swindled out of her money by telemarketers and cyber criminals masquerading as charities,” Camp said. “It’s a massive industry, stealing from the elderly. Depraved lowlifes and bottom feeders, the dregs of humanity.”

“Well, Clare put me in charge of her aunt’s finances since Dorothy would only listen to a man but not to a woman, no matter how wise. But I was put in charge of figuring things out after they happened which meant that I was basically like the Dutch boy with the finger in the dyke, unable to stop the outflow of her money until it was all but gone. Dorothy would never believe that she’d been taken for a ride. She didn’t want to acknowledge that there was a seedy side of life and firmly believed in the good of humanity and her donations, even if she was blatantly ripped off. She led a good life, mostly inconsequential, average, but dignified and I just couldn’t take that away from her and so refrained from telling her the ugly truth. After all it’s dignity that is the most important human quality, for fools and wise men alike.”

“You’re right there,” Camp acknowledged. “You could have saved her some money but she would have lost not only her dignity but her faith in humanity and that in itself was priceless.”

We drank to that. “Now, having myself arrived at certain mature age I consider myself to be a combination of both: a dignified fool.”

“That, I suppose, makes you a wise guy,” Camp said, toasting me with his empty mug and a wink. “Until next week.”

The Retirement Conundrum

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I sat down across from Camp who was already halfway through his pint. Not that I was late but he was unusually early. Nine out of ten times I was the early one, since I did not have a job or a schedule to follow and had time at my disposal, something I’m trying to take advantage of. We’ve been meeting at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ on the Gibsons Harbour most Thursdays but especially ever since I’ve been officially retired. Camp of course doesn’t just frequent the pub on Thursdays. It’s part of his daily routine since ‘Coast Books’ – a non-profit business as he calls it – is only a few steps from the pub. “The advantages of owning a book store are threefold,” he told me once. “First off: stellar working hours, from ten til four; secondly: literate and usually intelligent customers and thirdly: books don’t go bad. If I only could add: and it makes money.”

I felt today was as good as any to broach a subject close to the top of my mind. “Camp, you’re a man in his prime with a business and political career, single again and healthy. Now, I know that you always sneer at retirement like it was some sort of disease people succumb to,” I said. “That’s ok if you have a passion for your work or a proper ascending career but people who toil for wages and rent out their bodies and minds for somebody else’s scheme or project, have a different view. I’m one of those who couldn’t wait to stop working for the man, even if the man happened to be the film industry.”

“I’m happy to lend you my ear,” Campbell or Camp as even Vicky, the waitress addressed him, said. “But first off: What is the definition of retirement?”

I figured this was a rhetorical question and we both paused while Vicky set two cool pints in front of us.

“To be able to do what you like, and have enough money to do it, is my take on the whole issue. Not to have to worry about money and spend your days doing the things you love, that is surely the prescription for a happy, fulfilled existence,” Camp said, “except it is never as you planned and different from what you expect but retirement is not for everybody.”

I couldn’t agree more and I knew where Camp was going with this. “I get it, people like you and for that matter, Clare, love their jobs and see no reason to quit because your work is also your passion or even calling. For the rest of us minions who are working for the weekend, as one old pop song pointed out, and the never-ending stream of bills to pay, have a different view. I couldn’t wait to say no to the next job, until every day was the weekend.”

Camp took a healthy draught and then said: “Retirement is a trap for many people who first off can’t afford to quit working and secondly, have no idea what to do with their long days ahead. Just being put out to pasture like an old nag who has no practical use anymore is not a future one looks forward too. Retirement is only desirable for those who can afford it. Lucky for me, I can’t neither afford it nor do I desire it.”

Camp had a point. To be old and poor is not an enviable option and to be of no use to society except as a statistic is definitely not cool. I feel very fortunate to be part of a generation, the boomers, which is the richest generation ever and which enables many of us to look forward to a designer lifestyle at an age where we’re still active, healthy and engaged.

“Here is what a retirement counsellor pointed out to Clare and me at a seminar we attended last year: There are three stages, of retirement, each stage roughly ten years in duration, which correlate directly to how you should invest and use your money.”

“If you have any,” Camp said dryly.

“Well, yes. Anyway. First come the go-go years. That’s when you travel, help out your grand kids, visit friends and family, finally purchase that season ticket for the ski hill or your favourite sports team. In other words: it’s when you spend. Then come the slow-go years, 75-85, when you stay home a lot more, read those books on your bed side table, a page at a time before you nod off, walk and talk slower and drink and eat less. Then you enter the exalted stage of the no-go years. No need to elaborate here.”

“Go-go, slow-go, no-go. I like that,” Camp said.” I’ll drink to that.”

 

 

 

Beer Rules

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We were seated at our usual table on the covered deck, in the corner under the TV, just above the pebble beach overlooking the scenic harbour and a couple of paddle boarders fighting the choppy water. One of them had a dog in front of him.

“Silly sport,” Camp said.

“I don’t think it’s a sport. Poor dog,” I said and then asked Camp: “Did you go to the Jazzfest last weekend?”

“No, I tried to be busy at the store,” he said. “Being the owner of the town’s one and only bookstore has its drawbacks, like having to be open on weekends when the rest of the world is enjoying a festival or a day off.”

“Well, you missed some outstanding music and a perfect setting right by the sea. There was only one problem. I got busted,” I said, ordering us a couple of locally brewed pints from Vicky, the waitress. The Irish Stout has grown on me.

“That should be a good story. Whatever for? Disorderly behaviour?”

“No, drinking in public.”

“At the Jazzfest?”

“Yep, I was enjoying a cold one, sitting on the grassy knoll above the beer garden, apparently outside of the allowed area.”

“You’re kidding,” Camp said, shaking his unruly head of grey curls.

“I wish I was. I was dressed down like a schoolboy in front of quite a few people that know me. Now they will remember me even better. I thought those antiquated liquor laws were a thing of the past. Apparently not. The consumption of beer was only allowed inside a cramped space surrounded by that attractive orange plastic mesh fence like a cattle pen.”

“That is so undignified.”

“You’re telling me. I had a bunch of kids stare at me like I was the town criminal.”

“What did you do?”

“I downed my beer, instead of pouring it out, and left with my head held high before I said something stupid.”

“Wise move,” Camp nodded. “Best to shut up in a situation like that.”

“I was reading my Swiss Newspaper the other day and they just passed a law allowing gas stations and highway overpass restaurants to sell alcohol. Guess what their rational was?”

“Sell more booze for more taxes?”

“Wrong. There are no booze taxes in Switzerland. You can buy a good bottle of Italian table wine for five bucks. No, the government said that it was not their mandate to legislate morality and behaviour. Adults know their limits and responsibilities and they are entitled to buy beer or wine or a bottle of vodka anywhere and anytime they please.”

“Wow, that doesn’t sound like government policy,” Camp said impressed. “Here it’s all about rules and if you don’t follow them you get busted.”

“There you have it. Reminds me of the time when my dad first came to Canada to help us build our house. He got off the plane around noon with a mighty craving for a cold beer. Something we both can understand. Clare worked near Main and Broadway and we were going to pick her up but we had about an hour to spare. I drove down Main wracking my brain for a place to have a brew and there it was, the old Cobalt Inn with flashing neon signs advertising Girls, Girls, Girls. This surely couldn’t refer to the lunch hour. In we went, momentarily blinded by the sudden darkness of the musty interior, smelling of smoke and perfume. We picked a table close to the stage where there was more light and away from the pool table where a couple of bikers were chasing the balls. The stale beer arrived but after the first sip my dad sputtered and almost choked when suddenly the lights started flashing in time with the heavy bass beat of a disco song and the scantily clad noon time dancer started gyrating on the small stage right next to us. My Dad forgot all about the beer and sat there open mouthed, probably wondering if this was hell or heaven. I felt like such a dolt Camp but it was too late to run away. After the show we paid and without a word stepped into the bright, blinding sunlight. We picked Clare up and when she asked my Dad how the flight was he looked at her and said in his awkward English: “The beer was naked.” Clare gave me a quizzical look and I confessed the misadventure. She just shook her head in disbelieve. My Dad stayed a month and left convinced that in Canada you either had to watch strippers or eat a sandwich in order to have a beer. Such were the rules then.”

“They are not much better these days,” Camp said amused by my little vignette, “but at least you don’t have to have a dummy sandwich behind the bar in order to have a beer.”

“Yes, but we still have drinking rules which are only stricter in the Arab countries, not like in Europe or in Latin America where you can enjoy a glass of wine or a beer anywhere, anytime: from the train station to the beach, from the side walk cafés to the rooftop bars.”

“There used to be separate entrances for men and women with escorts only,”

Camp pointed out. “Women could vote but not go to a bar alone.”

I guess, I’m just one of those irresponsible adults who didn’t follow the rules. Clare got a good laugh out of it. So much for drink thy beer with joy, she said.”

Dear Leader

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“The world has always been awash with ignorant, belligerent, narcissist leaders and heads of state. Today we have Kim Jong-un, Maduro, Mugabe, Asad, Putin and now our latest Dear Leader: Trump. Did you see how his cabinet appointees fawned over him like he was the second coming.” I ranted, much to Camp’s amusement who had just sat down, seemingly in a bit of a state or maybe it was just his wild hair, sticking out like grey spring ferns. Campbell or Camp as we all call him is the owner of Gibsons’ one and only bookstore – a non profit venture as he refers to it – and he is also one of five elected town counsellors.

“I don’t have a TV. Probably a good thing, ” he said while holding up  two fingers for Vicky the waitress. Two beers at once. This looked serious.

“I forgot, you’re not in the media loop Camp. It’s harder every day to separate fact from fiction. I think we should coin a new word: Faction for the masses,” I continued my tirade.

“You should try to not take all that stuff you see on TV so personal. It could affect your digestion or cause anything from a minor headache to a full blown migraine. Best to avoid stress, especially the kind induced by world news flashes.”

“But Camp, what happens in Washington or Damascus affects us all. Remember the butterfly effect.”

“I think the outcomes are more linear. When they got rid Saddam and Gadhafi they paved the road for the rise of the jihadist, the latest death cult. Totally predictable. And the recent election of Dear Leader in Washington is a direct response from those who feel most left out and marginalized. Elect a crazy guy who promises the impossible. That’s the American way. The rise of the ignorant.”

“It’s a crazy world Camp. “

“Yep, drives me to drink.”

Just on cue Vicky arrived with two full pints, which she set down square in front of Camp. He instantly proceeded to quench his mighty thirst.

“Two pints at once ?” What’s the trouble Camp? Something to do with Muriel? She reversed her vote on the break water expansion or she stood you up for tea?”

Camp gave me a lopsided grin. “If it was only as simple as that. No, I turned 60 last week.”

It was my turn to be surprised. “Congratulations Camp. I didn’t know. I didn’t think you counted the years.”

“I don’t really but the government does. They sent me letter telling me how much CCP I’m entitled too if I collect now. Rather depressing I have to tell you. Since I’ve been self employed most of my life I’ve never paid myself enough wages and usually neglected to send anything to the taxman.”

I didn’t know how to console him. “The taxman can be a mean spirited, unsympathetic bugger.”

Camp gave me wry smile. “Too little to live on and too much to die for.”

“Well look at the bright said. You’re still in business, you’re active in civic politics, you’re healthy and if I trust my senses, you’re newly in love.”

For a moment I thought Camp was going to choke on his mug.. He sputtered and snorted as if poked by a sharp stick.

“In love ! Are you crazy ! I may be old but I’m not a fool.”

I let that one go. To me the signs were clear. Lately he wore nicer clothes. Sometimes he even combed his wild, wiry head of hair and he now shaved at least ever second day and had his nose and ear hairs trimmed recently. A clear case of newfound vigour and it didn’t come from the government.

“Happy belated birthday Camp. I think you’re entitled to a free pint.”

“I know, that’s why I ordered two. Sort of like happy hour.“

“I think I’ll join you. Cheers.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ferry Tales

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Ferry Tales

The ferry to and from Horseshoe Bay is the pet peeve of us coasters and everybody has a handful of Ferry Tales. It’s like that Leonard Cohen song: ‘Everybody knows’ the ferry is never on time

usually overloaded when it finally shows, everybody knows.

I made it to ‘Grandma’s’ Pub just in time and Campbell, Camp as we all know him, was already seated and armed with a brew.

“I thought you might be late since you had to go into town today.”

“Strangely enough it was on time today but still I had an encounter of the ferry kind. Boy am I thirsty, that beer looks good.”

“The usual,” I said to Vicky, the waitress.

“We were standing in line at the terminal behind a group of obvious seniors. Grey haired, one gal with a walking stick, the other linking arms with her friend, the two old boys a bit confused and not in charge. They all were trying to follow what the pony tailed, gum chewing teller in her bulletproof cubicle wanted from them.

“Senior’s cards please,” she demanded, speaking into the amplified speaker, even though she was just a foot away from them.

The four customers she was addressing – two couples – had together lived well over 300 years, none of them a day under 80 or I’ll eat my ferry ticket.

Thrown into a woolly tither the men groped for wallets in their tweed coats with shaky hands while the two ladies dug deep into purses and one of them, the one with the walking stick, dropped hers on the ground, spilling pill bottles, glasses and stuff. Since none of them could easily bend down I quickly helped out and earned a thankful nod from the poor woman.

Meanwhile the teller chick impatiently drummed her fingers on the counter while checking her cellphone or was it her mirror image.

Finally after much clutching, searching and groping some ID was presented. The leader of the group of four, a bespectacled man with wispy white hair and large liver spotted hands counted only three tickets.

“There are only three tickets.” he pleaded in an agitated, shaky voice pointing out the discrepancy by waving the tickets at the teller.

“I only saw three senior cards,” came the snappy reply.

Well, that sent them all into a tizzy once more.

Who didn’t show their card? They all thought they did and the fumbling, and digging in purses and pockets started all over, this time at twice the frenzy.

Meanwhile the line-up was growing and so was my and Clare’s indignation and impatience. None of us could believe this embarrassing scene.

“Can’t she tell that the four people belong together,” Clare said with a nasty bite to her voice, not at all her usual calm self. I tell you Camp, this teller thought of herself as the omnipotent ferry police and was promoting some unusually high blood pressure in the growing lineup.”

Camp just shook his head, which didn’t do much to improve his Einstein hairdo. “What happened? Did you tell her how it is?”

“No, not me. After one of the ladies couldn’t find her seniors card and forked over the full fair Clare’s mood seriously escalated. “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see that the four people belong together and not one of them is under seventy?”

“Follow the blue line,” the sourly teller said to the four seniors and then yelled: “next”, staring straight ahead into her computer screen, completely ignoring Clare. For once it was me who had to peel her off the ceiling before she caused a serious incident. This was not the Clare we know but there are two kinds of people that can cause her to snap: Bad, aggressive drivers and people hiding behind uniforms or minor positions of power. ‘I’m just doing my job’, is one of her red alert buttons.”

“Now I know why those tellers are in their bombproof cubicles,” Camp said, and sagely advised me: “That should teach you to stay on the coast and not go into the city.”

“Do we have time for another pint?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question.

“On the other hand,” I said, “the daily delays are not always the ferry’s fault. Last week two Asian women who didn’t speak a work of English lost their car on the ferry which prompted the captain to initiate a terror alert, assuming the abandoned car was packed with explosives. The alert was aborted at the last minute when a deck hand found the two confused women wandering around on the top deck. This incident caused a half hour delay for the rest of the day.”

“Yeah, no wonder the terminals are fenced in with razor wire like a gulag and it’s now a federal offence to disobey the ferry personnel’s orders.”

“It’s supposed to make us feel more secure.”

“As if fences, walls and uniformed guards ever made anybody feel more secure.”

“Security means to be able to drink a few pints in a public house and be left in peace.”

“Cheers.”

 

Bad Choices

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Grandma’s Pub was packed and noisy on this Thirsty Thursday but luckily Camp was able to get our usual table, which is under the TV on the glassed in porch, overlooking the harbour.

“Hi Camp, you’re looking glum today,” I said as loud as I could without yelling. “What happened ? Did Muriel refuse your intellectual advances?” Muriel Bisset, transplanted all the way from Montreal, is the councilwoman who abstained from the controversial vote about the yacht club expansion and the new break water that Camp champions.

“No, today, a politician who can shake a much bigger stick than Muriel or I, has announced a policy reversal that is seen as a complete abdication of global responsibility,” Camp yelled back.

“Oh yeah, the scuttling of the Paris Climate Agreement, which got cobbled together by the US and the Chinese a couple of years ago.”

“Yes, that one,” Camp nodded.

“I read today that only two countries, Syria and Nicaragua didn’t sign the accord and Nicaragua opposed it because it wasn’t tough enough.”

“You read it, it must be true. All I know is that this US president is now the official Grand Poobah of the flat earth society.”

“I don’t think Trump knows how many jobs are jeopardized by his uninformed, mean spirited decision, playing to a small, radical power base. Many thousands of jobs from alternative power production to electric cars to tree planting could be impacted. All those jobs which try to mitigate human impact on our environment,” Camp said, “but then again I don’t know how much Trump knows about anything. He seems like such an elephant in a porcelain shop.”

“More like a bully in a school yard who hates the teachers and anybody with better academic credits.”

“He likes the cheer leaders.”

“Yeah and he’s the first white billionaire to move into public housing vacated by a black family.”

“That’s pretty funny. A bumpersticker?”

The ambient noise settled down to a constant roar.

“I didn’t know you’re such a tree hugger, Camp,” I said, leaning over the table so he could hear me.

“I’m not,” he said, projecting his voice like an auctioneer, “and I’m the first to acknowledge that climate change is a constant with our planet but 8 billion humans surely have an adverse effect on the global environment. How can they not? If you invite twenty people to a party and fifty show up, there isn’t enough food and drink to go around and you have a much bigger mess to clean up, don’t you? It’s also obvious, that renewable resources have a better longevity than a finite resource. It’s simply common sense.”

“You’re preaching to the choir Camp. Don’t I wish I had a growler of beer in the fridge that always renews itself overnight. Mind you, that would put many a pub out of business and pubs are the nodes where humans intersect and which hold our whole social system together.”

“More important than houses of worship or city halls?” Camp shouted.

“As important as temples and circuses,” I countered.

“Well, I’ll drink to that,” he shouted, hoisting his glass.

“Jokes aside, the daily onslaught of depressing news, mixed in with fake reality shows made me cancel my TV but I still support a few newspapers since I’m in the print business myself,” Camp said, referring to his ‘non-profit’ book store, ‘Coast Books’.

“Well you can be sure, books will be written about this controversial decision today which will in turn benefit you,” I said, trying to find a silver lining.

“Did you know that if planet earth were an onion, the atmosphere would be the outer skin. That’s it.”

“And while we’re playing ‘Trivial Pursuit’ did you know Camp that a beer without hops is called grut or gruit?”

“No, but grut doesn’t sound like anything I would be attracted to.”

“The moral is, don’t fix it if it works and don’t change a good thing into a bad thing to get even.”

“That’s pretty cryptic. You mean, leave the hops in the beer and don’t mess up mother nature.”

“Yeah, something like that. Cheers.”

Quinoa Chocolate Cake

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Here is a recipe from our friend Ruth that will challenge your taste buds as well as your incredulity because you will not believe that this delicious cake with the yummy chocolate icing is not made with wheat flour. In other words it’s a gluten free, super tasty chocolate cake.

2/3 c. (150 ml) white or golden quinoa

1 ⅓ c. (340 ml) water

⅓ c. (90 ml) milk

4 large eggs

1 tsp. (5 ml) pure vanilla extract

3/4 c. (170 g) butter, melted and cooled

1 ½ c. (375 ml) white or cane sugar

1 c. (250 ml) unsweetened cocoa powder

1 ½ tsp. (7.5 ml) baking powder

½ tsp. (2.5 ml) baking soda

½tsp. (2.5 ml) salt

Preparation:

Bring the quinoa and water to a boil in a medium saucepan. Cover, reduce to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes. Turn off the heat and leave the covered saucepan on the burner for another 10 minutes. Fluff with a fork and allow the quinoa to cool.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Lightly grease two 8-inch (20-cm) round or square cake pans. Line the bottoms with parchment paper.

Combine the milk, eggs and vanilla in a blender or food processor.

Add 2 cups (500 ml) of cooked quinoa and the butter and blend until smooth.

Whisk together the sugar, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a medium bowl. Add the contents of the blender and mix well.

Divide the batter evenly between the 2 pans and bake on the center oven rack for 40 to 45 minutes or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.

Remove the cake from the oven and cool in the pan before serving. Frost if desired. Store in a sealed container in the refrigerator for up to 1 week or freeze up to 1 month. Serves 8 to 16

Chocolate Avocado Icing:

2 large ripe avocados, room temperature

1 c. agave

3/4 c. coconut oil

1 ½ cup dark unsweetened cocoa powder

1 tsp. vanilla extract

⅓ – ½ c. warm water (I used coffee)

Blend avocados, agave, and coconut oil together in the food processor until smooth. Slowly pour in warm water.

Add cocoa power and vanilla and blend slowly. Process until smooth.

Now that’s a cake that you can eat for breakfast, lunch and desert.

Beggars Brew

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I arrived at ‘Grandma’s Pub’ and realized that I forgot my wallet somewhere, hopefully at home. I sat down and since Camp wasn’t there yet I took a chance on him and ordered a pint anyway. I was sure he’d show up eventually and take care of me. Halfway through my deliciously cold drink I looked up and there he was, shaking his head. He sat down heavy like he was carrying a sack full of worries.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened today,” he said and then paused, followed by another shake of his head, which was in dire need of some maintenance. Hair like Einstein, grey wiry bits sticking out in all direction. He combed a hand full of fingers through it making it even worse.

“Well, let’s hear it, what happen today that put you in such a dishevelled state. Hopefully nothing that a nice cold beer wouldn’t be able to relieve.”

“Well she did it now, the turncoat. Out of nowhere she suddenly turned 180 degrees.”

I thought he was talking about Maureen, his ex, and mumbled something noncommittal into my beer, fearing a soliloquy about matrimony and it’s inevitable downfall but instead Camp slapped his hand flat on the table and make the beers jump. “She promised me that she’d vote for the marina expansion and a new breakwater but something or someone must have got to her and she turned on me and voted to abstain. Now, it’s a tie vote and you can guess how Marshall will vote in order to break the tie.” Hank Marshall is the town’s major, real estate developer and Head Shriner.

“But isn’t he for development, for expansion of all kinds?” I asked, not understanding the intricacies of local politics.

Camp looked at me with pity. “He’s for development alright, but only if it’s private investment, not public spending, that might force him to ask for higher taxes.”

I was relieved that this was not about Maureen, but Council woman Muriel Bisset, who moved to the Sunshine Coast a few years ago from Montreal and is a big promoter of everything French.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I quoted a silly proverb. “You need to talk to Muriel, maybe ask her advice about carrying some French books in your store.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe take her out for some French fries and Camembert. I know she likes to eat.”

“Maybe some French wine with a little Edith Piaf in the background.”

“We both grinned at the picture that this evoked.

“Talking about beggars,” Camp said, “we seem to have a whole new batch of panhandlers and freeloaders in front of the mall. I understand that there are not a lot of jobs here on the Coast. It makes me hark back to the days when we had multiple government make-work programs that put young people to work building walking trails, cutting brush, cleaning up the beaches etc., I think they were called LIP grants, (Low Income Pools). They took a lot of youngsters off the streets.”

“Well today we’re looking at the people who have fallen through our altruistic safety net into a cesspool of misery where they are foraging their way through homelessness, drugs, mental health and any number of social and economic issues. No easy fixes I’m afraid.”

We both ordered another round and contemplated the universe, looking wistfully out at the open water and the boats bobbing up and down at the dock.

“This altruistic safety net used to have a much tighter weave,” Camp said, lifting his glass, ready for a nip.

“Did I ever tell you about John Vater the 3rd ?”

Camp looked at me with a raised bushy eyebrow pausing his glass halfway between the table and his thirst.” John who? the 3rd?”

“That was his name, Vater like father in German and the 3rd because he was named after his dad who was named after his granddad.”

“Crazy custom that, naming the kids after their dads. You never know who is being called or talked too.”

“Anyway, John travelled along with us in India – we’re back in the 70’ies now – and we often walked together through the maze of alleys and streets of New Delhi, between Connaught Place and Madame Colasso’s rooming house. We always passed a whole range of beggars, some with missing or twisted limbs, skinny, half naked kids with large eyes and many women no bigger then a child, their teeth missing or rotten from a life of chewing betel leaves. One such woman, who seemed younger than some others, was always squatted at the same corner of the alley leading out to the insane traffic mayhem surrounding the large square, which was more like a crowded park.”

“Beats me why large traffic circles are called squares,” Camp said, anyway carry on.”

I took a beat and a swallow, gathering my thread again. “I can still see her, sitting motionless on her haunches, holding a clay cup between her hands like in supplication, an old faded sari draped over her head, never looking up at us, as if not wanting to intrude. We were mere kids then, except John who had already done a tour in Vietnam and had seen a large part of the world. I would always drop a few coins into the woman’s clay cup and I carried a pouch full of coins just for beggars but John chose to ignore these human wrecks and never gave them anything. Then one day, just before we were leaving on a train to Lucknow en route to Kathmandu, John Vater III stopped in front of the tiny beggar woman who squatted in the same spot with her clay bowl and he got down on his haunches so he could be level with her. He gestured for her to look at him, which she did reluctantly. Did I mention, that John was one of those American giants, over six feet tall, which made the diminutive woman even smaller ? John then handed the woman two large rupee bills. I don’t remember what they were. He then put his hands together forming a customary small tent and bowed in front of her. She just stared at the large giant benefactor as if he was Lord Vishnu himself. I observed all this from a few paces away, mystified by this sudden act of generosity. When I asked John about it later he said: “Instead of giving a hundred people some worthless coins I decided to make a difference in one person’s life. She looks like she is smart enough to figure something out and I want to give her a chance.”

“That’s a different approach, I’d say,” Camp acknowledged.

“There is a follow up to this story,” I continued. “We parted ways with John Vater III in Kathmandu and when I came back through New Delhi a few weeks later I had forgotten all about this incident until I walked by the corner at the end of the alley by Mdm. Colassos and there sat the former beggar woman on a small stool, dressed in a clean yellow sari with a wooden box in front of her piled high with a bundle of News Papers which she was selling to the passers by. I never forgot the profound awe I felt.”

“Wow, she had her own little business now. That’s a great story, should be in economics 101,” Camp said. “I take it there is a moral to this tale ?”

“I suppose it is that to make a difference in one persons life beats giving meaningless pennies to many. I never like giving my coins to the panhandlers and beggars I pass on the street but I haven’t found my beggar women yet,” I said, casting my mind back all those decades for that gem of a memory.

“I don’t mind supporting them if they at least make an effort, play an instrument, juggle balls or sit motionless dressed like Napoleon or the Virgin Mary.”

“I can’t stand it when they lounge on the sidewalk with their dogs or cats. I feel sorry for the dogs. I even passed one the other day with a ferret on his shoulder.”

“And yet they’re our fellow brothers and sisters,” Camp said.

“Some crazy family, us humans.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to be a human. Every day takes an effort, if you’re rich or poor, old or young.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Oh, that reminds me Camp, I forgot my wallet, could you…?”

“Glad to help out a fellow homo sapiens.”

 

Shots in Paradise

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This story took place in the seventies, long before smart phones with cameras or mandatory child seats in cars.

Travelling with a kid had its drawbacks, but it also had a lot of

advantages. The native people loved children; it was their only God given wealth, and they always helped us gladly and reverently stroked Red’s hair in open adulation, which drove him nuts. The country was poor in materials, wealthy in population. Most of the people struggled to get some food into their bellies. The rich landscape contrasted starkly with the naked poverty of the populace. But then the land didn’t belong to the people that worked it with their bare hands and primitive tools.

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Charley

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We just spent some time on a small tropical island in the Caribbean, which is home to about 10’000 people, the size of a good size village. Pristine beaches on leeward side, rough reefs and panoramic views on the windward side. One main street, several rum shops, a couple of grocery stores, a hard ware store, the jetty where all the activity is concentrated twice a day: when the ferry docks and again a couple of hours later when it departs. The town features one football field with a track surrounding it. It gets used for sports, civic celebrations, carnival and any other official activity that requires a large space. That about sums it up.

On the first day I noticed this young man

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