It’s been a glorious week of sunny December weather, cold and bright and the reflection of the sun is sparkling off the waters of Howe Sound. The tops of the mountains are frosted and the only sounds are the screeching of the gulls and the crunch of the gravel under my feet. I hold on to moments like this but I know there is trouble in this vale of tears and laughter and my friend Campbell, Camp to all of us, didn’t disappoint.
“Black Friday, Cyber Monday, national shopping holidays next?” I said to Campbell as I sat down, shaking the rain from my hat.
“I take it shopping is not your happy place.”
“I know you run a bookstore Camp and you rely on people shopping for books but what kind of a world is this relentless consumer driven existence. We shop until we drop goes the clichée and unless we participate we perish,” I lamented.
November rain. But just at the edge there was the sun trying to push through the grey clouds. I stopped for a brief look and headed inside.
“Camp, did you hear the latest proposal by the pundits in Ottawa? This one is about Universal Basic Income, UBI for short.”
“Can’t say I have but this idea surfaces every now and then and it even has been tried in a few places and studied to death. How do they plan to pay for it this time?
“With online casinos and marijuana taxes. They figure the bill for a Canada wide UBI program would be $ 41 billion.”
“Being a Swiss of Viking and Celtic extraction I thought you have this innate, Teutonic compulsion for precisions and exactness,” Camp said, as I sat down. “It’s not like you to be late.”
“I’m not late Camp, you’re early, probably haven’t adjusted your inner clock to the daylight savings time. In case you haven’t noticed it’s now getting dark at five o’clock. I really don’t like walking in the dark. I think we’ll have to move up our cocktail hour to get in synch with the daylight.”
“I wish they would just abolish the whole thing. Drives everybody crazy adjusting all the clocks and it’s not my inner clock but the one in the store I forgot to adjust and here I am, an hour and two pints early all by myself. “
“First thing tomorrow, adjust that clock,” I said. It’s just typical of you Camp, the distracted, cerebral professor.”
“Now that we’re through Halloween, Hallows Eve and the Day of the Dead we can get on with life,” I said to Camp after Vicky delivered our first round of welcome beers.”
“My friend’s mom had 130 kids at her door,” Vicky said.
“Wow, that’s a lot of candy.”
“Yeah, guess what my nephew’s costume was.”
“Pirate, astronaut?”
“Nope, “serial” killer. He had three boxes of cereal with a knife through them strapped to his back.”
“That’s hilarious,” Camp guffawed, “myself, I’m reluctantly decorating for the next event, the biggest one for book stores.”
Despite the relentless rain this week I ventured outside and walked to town. I certainly didn’t want to drive and Clare was off in the city for work. The leaden water of Howe Sound and the drifting gun metal clouds draped across the coastal mountains presented a monochromatic palette, somewhat resembling my sombre mood on this blustery fall day.
“Camp, did you read those stats in The Washington Postwhich state that Trump told 3250 false statements and lies in his first 500 days. That was at the end of May, he has since added another 970 lies in June and July,” I said.
“The truth doesn’t matter in politics. It’s the message that counts and the messenger,” Camp said. “The crazy thing is that it doesn’t seem to damage his popularity at all, to the contrary, he has an 85% support amongst republicans. In fact he inspires other autocrats like Putin and Erdogan and the recently elected Bolsonaro in Brazil to follow his example. Lie, deny and call everybody else a liar, a cheat and a misfit.”
“Camp, what do you think of the argument that all these Airbnb’s should be permanent rentals, instead of temporary holiday rentals?”
Campbell, Camp to us all, took a long swig from his cold beer and sat back in his chair. This was going to be a long answer. “First of all you can’t force people to rent out their extra apartments or rooms to people who can’t find affordable housing elsewhere,” he pontificated. “You cannot roll off a communal and collective responsibility onto the shoulders of individuals. You can tax holiday rental income and put that money to work and you can limit the amount of Airbnb’s in specific communities and maybe even give out licenses but then you’ll have the big operators buying up all the licenses and leave the mom-and-pop operations out of the loop.”
“There were always B&B’s and holiday rentals and exchanges. I remember my parents renting somebody’s flat or farmhouse in the mountains for ski holidays. Cheap and affordable. Nothing new about all that except Airbnb have really cornered the market with their user friendly and peer reviewed platform. We use it all the time when we travel.”
I love Indian Summer. Balmy, sunny days, harvest festivals, pumpkin pie, a palette of red, gold and brown leaves lazily floating in the air, cool evenings and maybe a fire in the hearth and candles for dinner. The walk along the pebble beach to my weekly tète-a-tète with Campbell, Camp to all and sundry, is the most pleasant this time of year.
“Camp, do you know what day it was yesterday?”
“Wednesday. Oh you mean national Mary Jane day is what you’re referring to isn’t it. You know my take on all of that don’t you?”
“Yes, you did run it by me before but please let’s have it again. I know you’re not totally in favour with the whole process.”
“We would have been better off to decriminalize marijuana instead of legalizing it. Just take the crime out of growing, toking and eating it, throw the jails open and give every one with a criminal record for pot an amnesty and then treat it like all the other famous drugs which are legal now.”
“What famous drugs?” I asked.
“How about sugar, the world’s biggest drug which brought about slavery, rum running and made untold riches for the plantation owners, importers and refineries. Or coffee, which is making fortunes today for the likes of Starbuck’s and has everybody walking around with a non-disposable cup of the black liquid. Did I mention alcohol? Please don’t make me count the ways the drink makes the world go round, right to this table here at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ on the lovely Gibsons’ harbour.”
“Yeah, you’re right Camp and we all know prohibition doesn’t work but it’s quite an achievement for the federal government to legalize pot. I’m not sure if there are any other countries that have done that. I know there are about 26 states in the US and I think Portugal has legalized all drugs about ten years ago but it is quite a radical policy for a federal government of an industrialized nation, don’t you think.”
“Yes, I agree but all they want is control, like for alcohol, and get a bonanza in tax dollars. I’m afraid that giving out licenses will result in a few big corporate players to monopolize the market and leave small operators who have cultivated and produced some fine products over the years, out on the street and possibly on the wrong side of the law. This would take a huge chunk of commerce and money out of small communities like Gibsons and Nelson.”
“Yeah, the usual. Good for corporate share holders, bad for small time operators. Let’s wait and see what happens. It’s been promised by Trudeau’s dad, Pierre, 45 years ago. The world will be watching.”
“I’ve read that the first problem will be one of supply,” Camp said, “meaning that no government sanctioned pot is available as of yet and nobody is in charge of the store, meaning, no pricing, no standardization, no packaging, no labelling, no distribution and no grading. Maybe they’ll have somebody like that Parker guy who grades wines for weed?”
“You mean something like: This ‘Kubla Khan Purple Dagga’bud is 93 points and on special this week.”
“That’s not going to happen any time soon,” Camp laughed.
I still think it’s a day worth celebrating. In fact I’ll buy the next round.”
“I can live with that,” Camp said, quickly downing the rest of his pint.
“You two seem to be in a good mood today,” Rosie said as she brought us a fresh round.
“We’re celebrating legalization day,” I said, “don’t you think that’s worth a toast and a pint?”
“Next you two will want me to bring around a couple of reefers and a cup of ginseng tea instead of beers.”
“No fear of that Rosie,” Camp said, we’ll stick with the golden liquid but I know that Muriel will grow a couple of plants in the garden, just because she can.”
“I think they should make the 17th October a national holiday, it’s a historic event,” I said.
“And what would you call it?” Rosie chuckled, “Cannabis Day?”
“It has a certain ring to it,” Camp said.
“I’ll drink to that,” I said. “Here is to Cannabis Day!”
“Sue told me that her husband is very sick and has been in intensive care for a few weeks,” Clare said just before I left to walk down to the pub. “I know he’s Camp’s friend and I’m sure he’s aware of it. Be easy on him,” Clare said, “it’s not a good situation.”
“I guess we’re lucky to be healthy,” I said.
“Luck is arbitrary but we eat well thanks to your cooking,” she said, “and as the saying goes: Every day spend some time looking after your health otherwise you’ll spend a lot of time spending on your illness later in life.”
“Well, that’s a cliché,” I said. “Life’s a lottery.”
I walked along the quiet waterfront and tried to enjoy the beautiful fall weather, the changing colours, which were also indicative of the cyclic nature lo life. Nature takes its course but we don’t like it if it attacks us personally with nasty cell mutations and painful malfunctions.
Camp was sitting at our table, intent on his smartphone, which he swiftly pocketed when he saw me approach.
Without my prompting he broached the subject of his sick friend. “I visited a good friend today, who has been in the hospital for the past 3 months and it doesn’t look like he’s coming out any time soon,” he said as I sat down at our usual table overlooking the harbour and Keats Island in the near distance.
“Clare mentioned him to me. What’s wrong with him? Not the c-word I hope?”
“No, it’s not cancer. Fact is he is deathly ill, hooked up to a multiple of beeping, flashing, dripping and ticking machines. It has a definite Frankenstein feeling.”
“It’s sounds miserable,” I said.
“Miserable is an understatement. If it was me I would be furious, like they’ve cheated me out of dying. Instead of a medical miracle I would feel more like a human catastrophe. ‘Death by instalments’. ”
Go easy on Camp, Clare said. What does that mean? “Maybe I should go talk to my doctor and make sure that wouldn’t happen to me,” I said, “maybe put something in writing. We plan everything from buying a car to vacations, why not plan how we would like to die?”
“It’s not something people want to talk about, not when they’re healthy. Death is still a taboo, sort of right next to erectile dysfunction, or a bad case of flatulence, or the plunging stock market. Not exactly welcome conversation topics around the water cooler or dinner table,” Camp said, “but you’re right, it would be smart to have a plan in place, just in case.”
We both looked out at the sparkling waters of Howe Sound, each with our own thoughts. Vicky appeared at the table and took one long look at us. “Somebody die?” she asked, intuitive as she is.
“Not yet,” Camp said, sighing and shaking his head.
I just remembered what I was going to show Camp and dug my cell phone out against our unspoken rule. “I just got this video from my nephew about their four months old baby girl. What a delight and joy this young life is bringing to her parents and all those who meet her,” I said. “In a way it’s the complete opposite of your friend’s condition.”
Vicky put two fresh pints down and squealed with delight at the baby pictures. “That’s why you two guys need to enjoy every day, every moment and every beer,” she said.
“Tell that to my friend,” Camp said, trying not to sound too cynical. “To him life as he knew it is over while for this little girl it’s just the beginning, while you and I my friend,” pointing his finger at me, “are just two spectators, passing through this vale of tears and laughter and enjoying the movie of life.”
“So much for this week’s episode of ‘One Life, two beers’,” I said, trying to maintain a modicum of humour. “We never even touched the week’s politics.”
“What a relief!” Camp said, raising his glass. “To life.”
Fall is here and summer is just 8 months away. Kind of depressing unless you like rainy, cold weather and five o’clock twilight. Clare diagnosed me with s.a.d., seasonal-asshole-disorder and I tend to agree. Nevertheless I put on my sunglasses and head out into the rain towards the village, the pub and a couple of frosty pints.
“Camp do all of us go back to our childhood days to figure out why we are the people we are today, afraid of commitments or driven to succeed, maybe resentful and bitter or over protective of our space, even depressed and unable to hold down relationships and jobs or even addicted to a smorgasbord of vices and delusions?”
Looks like we have a spell of Indian Summer after two weeks of November like weather. Our new rain barrels are overflowing and gone are the drought worries, relegated to next year. I could see Campbell, Camp for all who knew him, was already in his customary seat, facing the water and Keats Island in the near distance. Must have been a slow day at Coast Books, his ‘non-profit’ bookstore. Vicky, our clairvoyant waitress, who had been elevated to bar tender, already had two pints of lager at the ready and Rosie brought them to the table.
“You look like you got something on your mind,” Camp said after we both toasted the sunny weather. He was right. I wondered what his take would be to my query. “We’re always hearing about ‘the base’, as in ‘Trump appealing once again to his base with his latest tweet’, blah, blah, blah or ‘Doug Ford counting on his ‘base’ to push through his conservative agenda. Who is that ‘base’? that’s what I want to know,” I said.
Camp leaned back in his chair, took a sip and commenced his soliloquy: “The base is that core group that supports their man or woman through thick and thin; in Trump’s case even if he shot someone on 5th Avenue. It makes up about a quarter of the people who actually voted for him. They are not swayed by any of his lies, false claims or insults and oppose all and everything that does not agree with them. Also they are predominantly white and male. I personally think they are ‘a basket of deplorables’ to quote Hillary in one of her more unfortunate assertions.”
“Well yes, the so called ‘base’ is made up of mostly rural folks, without higher education, most likely religious and predominantly male, older and white. Not the kind of people that frequent book stores either,” Camp said dryly, emptying his first pint of the evening.
“And driven by cheap, unsubstantiated misinformation, masquerading as news,” I added.
“The key word there is cheap, because fake news are easily made up, therefore cheap, while reliable news are researched, back checked and well written, therefore more expensive to produce. I don’t understand why people buy expensive clothes, cars and accessories, demand quality in food and services but then gobble up cheap, fake news like candy. Quality is more expensive then trash, the same goes for news.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, “but ‘the base’ isn’t going to change its allegiance by being dazzled and showered with facts.”
“No they aren’t,” Camp agreed, “you need to convince them with a better story; a narrative they can understand and identify with. You have to show them that the environment, nuclear war and migration are global problems that cannot be solved by retreating into nationalistic fortresses and prayer and you have to make them understand through education and examples that empathy, compassion, understanding and altruism are human traits more beneficial to the community then hate, revenge and blame. It will take years and is a never ending job”
Camp was punctuating his arguments with palm down slaps of the table, making the empty glasses jump. He was on a roll, preaching to the choir.
“You boys solving the world’s problems once again? Ready for another one,” Rosie asked and quickly added: “sorry that was a dumb question like: is the pope Catholic?”
“Do you know who invented beer Rosie?” Camp asked.
“The Irish?” she answered with a wink in my direction.
“Not exactly,” Camp said with a chuckle, “it was the Sumerians about 7000 years ago in Mesopotamia in what today is Iraq. A 6000 year old tablet shows people drinking beer with reed straws from a communal bowl and a 3900 year old poem contains the oldest beer recipe.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” Rosie asked, shaking her head.
“Well, last Sunday I attended a play reading at the Heritage Playhouse, written by a friend of mine, called: Relax Gilgamesh, a modern interpretation of the ancient poem. Gilgamesh, a Sumerian king abdicated his throne in order to become a god and was helped by Siduri, the goddess of wisdom and beer. Very funny and enlightening,” Camp said.
“Drinking beer with straws from a bowl ought to do the trick,” she said. “Relax indeed.”
“Here is to the Sumerians, who if not invented the wheel were at least the first to record it, like the chariot, writing, the plough, the sailboat, the division of time into sixty units, math, maps, astrology and to top it all off: beer,” Camp said.
“That is surely the empirical evidence that civilisation could not exist without beer,” I said.
“And you two are the living proof of that theory,” Rosie said, plunking down two ice cold fresh draughts.
We’ve had a lot of rain in the last week but nothing like in Wilmington or Manila. For once that rain got us out of the dog house again as far as water restrictions go but we, that is the local politicians, need to deal with it, once and for all. Clare and I installed two 300 L water barrels, which are full now. Water cisterns in the rain forest is a bit oxymoronic but hey, Clare and I feel we did our small part.
Campbell, Camp to us all, just raised his bushy eyebrow when I told him about our water conversation effort. “Good on you,” he said, “maybe you should write a letter to the paper as well. If everybody had a cistern, we wouldn’t need a water distribution system.”
“Are you being a cynic now, living water-worry-free on your most excellent Gibsons aquifer.”
“It was voted the best water in the world in 2005,” Camp dryly remarked, “and we never had any restrictions.”
“Lucky you,” I said, taking a draught from my pint.
“By the way our neighbours turned me on to a couple of pod casts and I thoroughly enjoy them. One is called ‘Desert Island’, it’s British, BBC, and features interviews with well known persons. If you now somebody famous, they’ve done it. The premise is they have to pick 8 pieces of music, one book and one luxury to take on a desert island. I’ve listened to Keith Richards segment. He’s 75 years old now and still having a lot of fun. Actually a lot smarter than you might think.”
“Must be nice to be retired and listen to other people go on about themselves. What’s so different from reading the tabloids or watching day time soap operas,” Camp said.
“Come on Camp, you can’t be serious, it’s not only educational, it’s highly entertaining. What pieces of music or songs would you take on a desert island? Let’s have it then,” I said.
“Ok, how about something from Vivaldi’s four seasons. Let’s pick Summer. Puccini’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ by Andrea Boccelli has always impressed me as quintessential Italian passion. Maybe an early Leonard Cohen song-poem like ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’, and how about ‘Desolation Road’ by Dylan; definitely something by Nina Simone like ‘Wild is the Wind’. How many we got so far.”
“Five.” I said.
“Ok, ‘La Promesa’ by Lila Downs, floors me every time I listen to this simple but powerful song. Redemption Song by Bob Marley would be a must. That makes seven. One more: How about ‘Dock of the Bay’ by Otis Redding. I can always listen to that song.”
“Alright, what about a book?”
“I’d take the brothers Grimm’s collection of fairy-tales. Archetypical to all stories and infinitely entertaining.”
“You can take a luxury item. What’s it gonna be?”
“Luxury, I’m not much of a luxury guy. Maybe sunglasses because it would be bright on a desert island.”
“Well Camp you get the gist now. You should give this pod-cast a listen. The other pod-cast is called: ‘The Daily’, current affairs interviews by the New York Times. I just listened to Bob Woodward talking about his new book ‘Fear’ dealing with the Trump administration. Very interesting and revealing. Add to that my daily Swiss newspaper and the odd soccer game and the days are always packed.”
“If we all could just have modest desires like you we’d live in a much kinder and simpler world,” Camp said with a sprinkle of sarcasm.
“Who needs more?” I asked, “a game, a beer, a chat, some news and a good story, the love of a good woman, health and some spare change.”
“You sound like you’re selling something,” Rosie quipped on her way with two refills.
“I’m not selling, I’m giving it away,” I said.
“Who is lining up?” Rosie said, “to make your well rounded beer philosophy a bit more alluring, you need some spice in there. A bit of mystery, some laughs, a measure of suspense. Life is not a happy gold fish bowl but an adventure and a caravan ride of dreams, goals and desires.”
“Hear, hear,” Camp said, “our wise friend Rosie here has the full measure of life. What would you take onto a desert island?”
“A hat, some sunscreen, a kayak and a fishing rod.”
“What about music?” Camp laughed.
“I have a head full of Irish shanties. That should do me for a while.”
We’ve had a few days of welcome rain but it does feel like summer is already over. No point to complain about the weather though, especially not to Campbell, my friend and sparring partner over our weekly pints.
“The rain here is welcome relief,” Camp said, but do the names Olivia, Mangkhut and Florence mean anything to you?”
I had to confess my ignorance.
“Mangkhut is a typhoon, presently bearing down on the Philippines; Olivia is a massive tropical storm that made landfall on Hawaii’s island of Maui yesterday morning and Florence is that monster storm that’s about to slam into North Carolina’s coast as we speak. Epic and devastating is what this hurricane is; like never seen before. Over a million people displaced, a foot and a half of rain, supposedly to continue for days.”
I shook my head in dismay at the tragedy such a storm creates for the people in its path. Nothing Camp or I could do about it. I changed the subject to something we could both get involved in, even if it was just on an argumentative and opinionated level.
Camp, did you ever hear about a Russian news service called Rossija Segodnja (RT)? It’s an umbrella organisation that owns TV stations and the online news platform ‘Sputnik’. They’re financed and controlled by the Kremlin and their aim is to undermine western institutions and at the same time promote the authoritarian Russian system.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Camp said. “Putin needs all the help to distract from the catastrophic financial situation in Moscow. Only a desperate government is cutting pensions. Russia doesn’t have the economic and military might of the west therefore they use disinformation and propaganda to compensate their weakness.”
“Apparently RT has a large and diversified audience. They claim over 600 million hits. They produce U-tube and Facebook segments in many languages including Arabic, Spanish and of course English. According to Dimitri Kisseljw, RT’s boss, they produced over 70’000 videos in the past two years. They’re called trolls.”
“Another reason why I’m happy not to subscribe to any social media platform. I can get all the misinformation from the mainstream media and I see trolls in my sleep.”
“It’s more like information overload,” I said, “which leads to information fatigue and cynicism if not outright lethargy. The interviewer asked Dimitri if they really were able to influence the USA elections. He said that what they were able to do was use the already deep divide in the American society and pour gasoline on the fires like abortion and gun ownership, therefore increase mutual distrust between people and therefore weakening their societies.”
“Russia considers world politics a zero-sum game. The more they can weaken the west, the stronger Russia appears in the international system,” Camp said, echoing Dimitri’s opinion.
“It seems to work,” I said “and the secret of the Soviet propaganda and disinformation lies in the fact that it is very entertaining, sort of like intercontinental gossip.”
“Not much different from the tabloids you can buy at the super market checkout. Even if you don’t believe their content, the message is subliminal and the Russians aren’t the only ones to use trolls and misinformation to influence opinions. Just look at Cambridge Analytica, a British company that does exactly the same with Facebook and Instagram and they have been implicated in the US elections and the Brexit vote.”
“Watch out for trolls,” I said, taking a refreshing swig.
“We’ve recently come across a bundle of letters, handwritten, between Clare and myself,” I said. “Dozens of them which we wrote over a period of eight months during which time we were separated. I remember waiting impatiently for days for a reply to my latest missive and agonizing over a turn of phrase or something I shouldn’t have written.”
“Yes, the written word is a powerful tool,” Camp said. “I should know, being in business to sell the stuff.”
“You two boys enjoying the cooler weather?” Vicky asked while serving us our refills.
“Not as much as I enjoy this new beer, Life Lager is it?”
“Yes, very refreshing with a hint of citrus I’m told.”
“You don’t drink beer?” I asked.
“No, I don’t drink alcohol,” Vicky said. “I’m into sparkling water and vegetable juices. You should try my beet and carrot juice some day.”
“I’ll stick with barley and hops thank you,” Camp said, “but only after 4 PM. It helps me to transition into the evening.”
“Transitioning,” Vicky said, shaking her ponytail. “You two never fail to amuse me.”
Camp was already seated at our usual table, looking out at the tranquil harbour. “You’re here early, “ said.
“It’s the transition to fall, “Campbell said, “one of those in-between times in the retail business, especially book stores. The only traffic is people trying to return their unread summer reads.”
“School is back and apparently there is a lack of teachers in many places, especially up north and in rural communities. A combination of a vast number of boomer-retirees and not many millennials interested in teaching,” I said.
“It’s a shame, because teaching is a rewarding job, it’s a an important part of shaping the future. We all know that education leads to knowledge, which in turn leads to proper decision-making. Not something that is evident in the White House these days. “
“Yeah, but the more the wolf is cornered the more he lashes out,” I said. “Take that latest anonymous op-ed in the New York Times or the interview at Bloomberg’s. We have a lunatic in the most powerful office on the planet and his gold plated yacht is floundering on the shoals of truth, freedom and dignity,” I pontificated, raising my glass in a mock toast.
“You’re right,” Camp said, “but Woodward’s book and this anonymous letter will only further incite the bully in the White House and make him more defiant, reckless and dangerous, to quote David Frum,” Camp said. “And anonymous accusers are cowardly. Afraid to lose their positions and reputations.”
“Which doesn’t mean the allegations are not true,” I said. “Even here in Canada whistle blowers have no protections despite legislations to the contrary,” Camp pointed out. A Vancouver women who was an EI fraud investigatorhad to find half a million in annual savings by denying people EI claims and when she blew the whistle she was fired for breaching the government’s communications policy.”
“Well, if you blow the whistle on your boss or employer you might as well look for another job. Kind of a no-brainer, Camp said, ”and we all know Trump is not the lodestar or the sharpest knife in drawer.”
“The stupid don’t know they’re stupid, that’s because they’re stupid,” I said.
“That’s pretty funny,” Rosie said, putting a plate of crostinies on the table. “From the management to our regular customers. It’s a new menu item and we would like your opinion.”
“Are they free?” Camp asked, “because in that case I love them already.”
“How about on a scale from one to ten.” Rosie said.
We both concentrated on the free treats, feeling rather special. “I love free stuff, “ I said, savouring the complimentary appy.
“We take our freedoms with too much complacency,” Camp said, always the cynic while guiding the last crostini home, “and before we know it they will be gone. We’re already seeing an erosion of our basic liberties like the freedom of free speech, mutating as hate speak, or ‘unlawful assembly’ as in demonstrations and protests, or the denial of choice to women to control their own bodies.”
“I guess freedom comes with responsibilities,” I said
“And respect, honesty, tolerance and a modicum of compassion for others, less fortunate,” Camp added.
“Like sympathy for your poor waitress,” Vicky said, setting down a couple of frosty pints, “who has to toil every night for minimum wages and be dependent on your tips. I’d rather make a proper wage.”
“Yes, tips are not an effective incentive for performance in servers,” Camp agreed. “A mandatory service charge built into the item price would be fairer to all, the server, the customer and the establishment.”
“How were the crostinies?” Rosie asked. “I see you’ve demolished them.”
“I give them a ten because of the great value and price point,” Camp said.
“I have to be honest,” I said, “a dribble of Balsamico would make the difference. I give them an 8.”
“An honest 8 and a compromised 10.”
“Just like the two of us,” Camp laughed.
Last evening felt like fall was just around the corner. We can see the mountains and islands once more and the smoke has moved on. Leaves are floating to the ground and the blackberries are done. It’s harvest time, a time of abundance. Farmers’ markets up and down the coast, apples and berries by the buckets and everybody, including Clare and I, are swapping canning and drying recipes with our neighbours and friends. Camp and I even exchanged blackberry jelly Clare made for peaches Muriel canned. At our local beer farm we can also swap hops picking for beer. How lucky we are.
“We still need the rain,” Camp said as Vicky served us our first round.
“This year is the worst wild fire season on record in BC, over 2000 fires and 13’000 square km burned and no rain on the horizon.”
“I can’t believe we don’t have better water management here on the coast. Our sports fields look like parking lots and water restrictions are the norm at this time of year,” I said.
“I should know,” Camp said. “We’re always talking water supply improvements, reviews and proposals, anything from new wells to lowering the intake on Chapman Lake.”
“How about raising the dam instead of lowering the intake?” I ventured.
“You should attend some of the town’s or district meetings. It’s not about doing the work, it’s all about process, regulations, agreements, approvals and more consultation,” Camp said.
“Yeah, it’s all about consultation, dialogue, interest groups, stake holders, levels of governments etc. Just look at the Appeal Court’s thumbs down on the Kinder Morgan pipeline. Apparently not enough of the above has been done.”
“It’s called the ‘rule of law’ and democracy,” Camp said.
“I call it too much bureaucracy,” I countered. “This decision, framed as Trudeau’s failure, will be exploited by the conservatives but transporting bitumen by rail leaves a bigger energy footprint and is less safe than a pipeline. And not all First Nations are against it. Not in my backyardseems to be the main argument.”
“We’re addicted to oil, we do need water and there is fire all around us. Sounds like a Shakespearean drama,” Camp said, taking a much needed swallow of beer. I did the same.
“Let me get back to the local water issue,” I said. “ The talk is all about drinking water supply and management but there are other sources of the precious liquid we could harness besides lakes and aquifers, like rainwater for example.”
“Exactly, Brother’s Park, the one and only sports field for the town of Gibsons, sits right beside the new recreation center and ice rink. We could and should collect the rain water from its large metal roof into a cistern which could then be used to water the sports fields.”
“You’re preaching to the choir Camp. My neighbour installed a 1000 gallon water tank to do just that. Collecting the rainwater from his roof to be used for outdoor watering. It’s done all over the world.”
“You’re right,” Camp said, “I’m going to adopt this concept for my upcoming election platform, along with the harbour expansion and a controversial proposal to move the town hall to upper Gibsons. There is no need for the old municipal buildings to straddle the best view property in the lower village.”
“Oh, and what should be in it’s place? Another hotel development? a park? or how about a seniors residence? I would like to have that lovely view when I’m old and immobile,” I said. “Almost as good as the view from here.”
“Good luck with that,” Camp said, “in order to finance a new town hall we would have to sell that property. I doubt if a developer would build a seniors residence,” Camp said.
“Unless of course it was part of the deal,” I countered. “I would like to point out that seniors are a large part of our local economy and they deserve a room with a view.”
Camp shook his head of untamed grey curls, which he hasn’t maintained for several months. When I asked him if his unruly head of hair was a deliberate look that he promoted for his upcoming re-election, he replied kind of tartly: “Muriel likes it. ‘Makes you look like Einstain’she said, ‘smart and distinguished’.”
“How about wild and crazy?” I laughed.
“I like it,” Rosie said as she brought us a refill. “We have enough guys in suits and buzz cuts telling us how it is.”
“There you go,” Camp said smugly, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. “I’ll drink to that.”
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.
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!”
“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.”
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.”
Bruno's point of view 