– Canada – the missing chapter

When Maureen was writing TREAD SOFTLY BECAUSE YOU TREAD ON MY DREAMS, she intended to do a chapter on our time in British Columbia, because we went hoping to find a way to live there permanently. In the end her editor thought it might distract from the rest of the story. A couple of weeks ago a friend sent me some things we had given them over the years, including a letter from when we were in Canada, and I knew immediately this had to be published. It’s only a fragment, but gives a really good idea of how our life was then. I’m hoping there are more of these letters out there, and that the recipients will send them on too, so I can publish them. So here is the first instalment. Enjoy!

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We have arrived! Seems like forever, even though it’s only been a little under two weeks since we were living out our old life in Odemira (south-west Portugal), and hoping the man in Monchique selling his land would come to our rescue. While at the same time that the electricity company would have a change of mind about the proposed route for their new pylons. Then we left it all behind and flew to Canada. To give you some idea how different that is, I’m writing this and literally just outside the window is a beach, we’re also surrounded by a vast ancient forest, and there are huge eagles nesting in trees that would take several people to encompass. A hundred metres out into the water there are some large rocks, on which there are sea lions and seals basking, we’ve even seen dolphins and whales close to as well. In the distance is Vancouver Island, with its mountains covered in snow and glaciers. How we ended up here has to be the strangest most exciting and scariest thing we’ve done yet.

On Wednesday the 5th of December (2007) we watched all our things go off into storage, to be shipped on later by sea. Leaving us to rattle around in an utterly empty house. Given that we weren’t due to fly until Friday, this seemed a daunting amount of time to get through. We’d not even got anything left to cook on, as we’d packed that too. Then quite unexpectedly, a friend popped round to ask if we’d like to go and stay with her and her partner. An invitation which also included Snowy (the last of our ten feral cats to find a new home), saved at the very last moment from having to fend for himself. They both knew what it feels like to be moving (she had come to Portugal from Argentina, him from Holland), and they ensured our last few days were as they should be, wonderful. Without them I don’t know how we would have managed. It was they who found a buyer for our van, and lent us their car in the interim, then drove us to the railway station on Thursday to catch a train for Lisboa.

Our flight was leaving too early the next morning to get there from Odemira, so we had arranged with a friend-of-a-friend who lived in the city, to sleep on her sofa. This was just one of the many details that had to be sorted, and it was also one which didn’t go quite as planned. For even though we had spoken to her on the phone the night before and confirmed we’d be at her apartment at 6:00 pm, we forgot that 24 hours in the life of the Portuguese is a very long time and things can change in the meantime. So when we eventually found her building, located in a very run-down part of the docks, there was no one at home. Two and a half hours later, with still no sign of our host and no answer from her phone, we were not only getting very cold but were tired and hungry. Finding some vegan food, and even an alternative place to stay, in a city we had never been to before, was not something we had the slightest idea how to solve. So in the end the only logical place to head for seemed to be the airport, where at least we should be able to find some benches to sleep on.

On any other day this would have been fine, but that weekend Lisboa was hosting an international summit and not only was the airport swarming with armed police, but all the spare accommodation was booked. The only place we could find with a room was a hostel for migrant workers, right back where we’d just come from. This was thanks to a taxi driver, who literally took us there on two wheels, as he weaved around traffic at speeds reaching 110 kms an hour. Us, and our luggage. Which comprised of one huge and very conspicuous orange suitcase, which Maureen had found on special offer (convinced it must be a sign), into which everything and anything had been stuffed into. Not realising what being attached to this thing would be like. No doubt in the shop (and empty) it had felt light and effortless, on its wheels, but fully loaded and out in the real world, one which was not smooth and flat but full of cobbles and steps, it had very quickly become a burden. More so because I couldn’t take a turn at dragging it, because the wound from my recent hernia operation was still fresh and oozing. Lugging that up three floors of the hostel (no lift at this level of accommodation) was the last straw. After a hot shower we both collapsed into bed and fell fast asleep.

The next day we felt a lot better, and fortified by a big breakfast headed back to the airport. By the time we were airborne all the pent-up frustration of the last five years started to disappear. Even arriving at our stopover, in London, was rather special too, as we descended right over the roof of my parent’s house, which was the first time I’d seen it in 20 years. After that there was plenty of time to relax, as our connecting flight to Vancouver wasn’t due to leave until 5 pm. Then we finally headed for Canada. Which was the bit I had been dreading. It seemed inconceivable that I could endure sitting in one position for so long, being so tall and with both a bad back and sore stomach. But it was fine. We were literally packed-in like sardines, but to compensate had our own small TV screen, with headphones, and could wile away the hours accessing hundreds of films/ tv programmes/ radio stations/ and music. There was even a moving map charting our progress across the globe. Plus an endless supply of snacks and meals, all of which were really tasty, thanks to having chosen the vegan menu, which was obviously a lot tastier than what everyone else was getting. Also the cabin lights were dimmed throughout, so we could nap in-between. By the time we landed, about 2:30 am in the morning (6:30 pm in Canada), we felt fine. Which was just as well, because then there was immigration to get through, something I was totally unprepared for. I thought we had done all that with the searches at Lisboa & Heathrow (where they even make you take your shoes off now to be x-rayed). But no. For even though we were travelling as British citizens and technically could stay six months without a visa, we still had to convince the humourless official that we weren’t planning to try and use this to stay permanently. It was a really nasty and aggressive experience that left me very shaken (a couple of days earlier they had tasered a fellow traveller, who had not been able to stay so calm under their pressure, and subsequently died). There was no doubt that if we hadn’t been able to convince them we were just tourists they would have sent us straight back (at our expense). Very scary. It had also taken nearly three hours. So by the time we finally emerged from the airport onto true Canadian soil, we were exhausted and totally unprepared for what we were about to encounter. When we left Lisboa it had been a bright blue sunny day, and the temperature was 33C. Here it was pitch black, there was thick snow mounded up several feet high, and the temperature was -3 C.

And this is where our adventure starts to get truly weird. We knew beforehand that our flight wouldn’t arrive in Vancouver until the early evening, so had put out a request for overnight accommodation with a like-minded person. There was only one response, from a man who had something to promoting growing food in the city. We’d given him our time of arrival and he’d said he’d meet us at the nearest station to his house. What he didn’t say, was just how far away that was, and that to get there we would have to travel at a very dodgy time of the night through some of the worst parts of the city. A journey that involved finding two buses, travelling on a monorail, and then, because we were so late, a half-hour walk through a vast grid of frozen streets. All lugging the giant suitcase. Neither of us had ever felt quite so cold or tired before. Thankfully, by the time we found the right road things didn’t seem quite so bad. All the houses on this particular housing estate had their Christmas lights on, and with all the snow it felt kind of homey. Except for his house, which was dark and appeared as if it had been in a bad fire recently. Added to that there were piles of what looked like old carpet and rubbish mounded up everywhere, and the door to the garage looked as if it had been broken into and boarded up several times.

It was obvious he’d given us the wrong address, and nobody was living there. But having no other option we still knocked, and surprisingly, after a while it was answered, by a person who appeared to either have no idea who we were or wasn’t in the mood to offer any help. All very embarrassing. So what now? We had now been travelling for over a day, were frozen and exhausted, and all our instincts were telling us to at least get into the warm and sort this out there, so that is what we did. Not that this proved to be an improvement, inside the house was actually a lot worse, adding to our impression that nobody really did live here. Which should have been the moment to make our apologies and leave. But we didn’t. Instead we explained how the lengthy immigration process had made us late getting to the place we had agreed to meet, for which we were very sorry, and could totally understand he wouldn’t want to hang around in this weather. All of which seemed to soften his attitude, though it was hard to tell because he still had hardly spoken, but instead he nodded at our shoes, indicating we should take them off, despite the truly disgusting state of the floor, and headed off up the stairs, me following and Maureen bringing up the rear with the suitcase. Our room was right at the top. All its walls sloped. There were no windows and no furniture, except for an old stained mattress on the floor. No sheets, no blankets, no pillows. He then left us, without any further discussion, presumably to get some sleep in what was left of the night.

Some time later there was a knock at the door, and before we could answer it a man appeared. Someone else, who seemed to feel the need to introduce himself, even though naked except for a pair of boxer shorts, then disappear, apparently en-route to the bathroom. Which was apparently next-door, and where he returned frequently, obviously not requiring any sleep, as his tv remained blaring until dawn.

Eventually, Maureen also needed the bathroom. Which turned out to be as devoid of signs that anyone lived here as the rest of the house. No personal things, no toilet paper, no soap, no towels, not even a toothbrush. Just eight vintage cut-throat razors, all lined-up in a straight line on the sink. Exactly the kind of thing you read about. From then on we forced ourselves to stay awake, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door.

Nothing did happen. But as soon as we thought it might be getting light outside we started our escape, creeping as quietly as possible (with a giant suitcase) down the stairs. Unfortunately, at the bottom, it was obvious our host didn’t need sleep either (vampires?) as the door to his room was open and a huge tv was still on, along with the largest array of computer equipment I’ve ever seen. We were spotted instantly. So quickly made our excuses, thanked him for the hospitality, and asked if he could call us a cab to get us back to the station, as the suitcase was far too heavy to lug all the way back in this cold. The response was totally unexpected. He actually offered to take us there himself, and by the time we had our shoes back on was dressed and leading the way to where we assumed his car was parked. But not on the road, because he then disappeared into the boarded-up garage. Emerging a few moments late with a bicycle and trailer, scooping up the suitcase and heading off through the undergrowth along a track we hadn’t seen the night before. Amazingly, all this had by now begun to feel perfectly normal. Three people walking through a snow packed neighbourhood, everyone else still asleep, pushing a bike loaded with luggage. And bit-by-bit even our host opened up, proving to actually be an okay kind of person, just a bit shy and not used to being around other people. He even suggested some places we might like to visit while we were in the city. So by the time we reached the station we were beginning to feel a lot more positive about the whole adventure. Even the weather had changed, it was going to be a bright sunny day.

This was Saturday morning, and now we had until 4 pm to explore before heading about 100 miles up the coast to where we had our only other promise of somewhere to stay, once again from the internet. Maureen had made this contact, so as I was now certain they would also turn out to be slightly unhinged, made her telephone first to confirm we were here and would arrive later, but more importantly to see if she could tell from the voice what kind of person she was. Apparently all was well. She was quiet, but definitely looking forward to meeting us, and had provided detailed directions to tell the bus driver where to drop us off. Despite the reassurances I was still not convinced.

The railway in Vancouver is a monorail. There is no driver or guard, which had made it a very scary experience the previous night, and it speeds along a concrete rail perched high above everything else. This morning however the journey felt very different, the train wasn’t empty for a start, but packed with families. We were also able to see the city and in the distance the ocean on one side, with masses of tiny islands, and on the other side the snow-capped mountains. Everything in-between being a bit like a frontier town from a Western. Thrown-up wooden buildings (apart from the new business district), and streets laid out in a giant grid.

Arriving at the Main Street station, where later our bus would leave, we found a left-luggage locker and tried to stuff the suitcase inside. It wouldn’t fit, so half the contents had to come out in order to get it in, then stuffed in around it. After that we finally had our freedom back, and it was definitely time for breakfast, which we found right there, a proper espresso and hot Canadian muffins. Not bad at all. And the setting was very nice too. Unlike old English railway stations, this one had been cherished and become very popular as a meeting place for those headed to the shops or ski slopes. It all felt very happy and friendly. So much so we didn’t feel at all nervous asking a group of teenagers on the next table if they could give us some suggestions as to how we could best spend the rest of the day. They were wonderful. Quizzed us on what kinds of stuff we liked and wanted to see, and when we said second-hand books, vintage clothing and handmade things, without hesitation suggested Main Street, which handily was just outside up the hill. A long straight road about a mile long, where every shop turned out to be just heavenly.

It was like being transported back to the Portobello Road and Camden Lock of the 1970s. Full of lovely places selling wholefood, antiques, music, crafts, and masses of great looking cafes where folk were either meeting-up, sending emails, or just reading the weekend papers. Everyone looked good too, no chain-store fashion here, this was the home of thrift store style. There was even a shop which was filled with (clean) industrial waste, bins of shiny foil/ paper scraps/, odd shaped bits of card/ cellophane bags/ tangles of brightly coloured raffia/ beads/ buttons/ and absolutely everything else imaginable for making things. And in every shop people want to chat with us, something we hadn’t been able to do for at least 7 years. Real conversation, with folk who had the same interests as us and could describe lovely things using more words than just Bonita! We went in every shop, as well as numerous coffee bars, overwhelmed by the sheer choice, having spent so long with nothing remotely like it. Until eventually running out of steam at lunchtime, in need of some substantial refuelling, and came across Slickity Jim’s Chat-n-Chew cafe. A small place on the outside, but like the Tardis inside, packed full of ephemera, mismatched tables, seats taken from buses, cool music playing, and the most interesting people imaginable. It was perfect. As was their (vegan) food. Like reliving our past, but this time with the hindsight and confidence to really enjoy everything. All we could think of was, what’s in the next shop? There was even a place that sold rubber stamps. Where else in the world would you find something like that (apart from Blade Runner in Neal’s Yard)? I’ve made hundreds of these over the years, we still use them for nearly everything we do. Here it was mainstream. They also had a sideline in handmade self-published books, again just what we were interested in. I could go on and on about the shops and food in Main Street, but there’s more to our tale. Oh yes, we’ve not even begun the adventure yet!

We left Main Street in the late afternoon and made our way back down the hill to the railway station, where the bus (or as it is more well-known, the Malaspina Express), a circa 1950s classic coach, would take us out of the city and north into the great rural wilderness. A trip that would take five hours and include two ferry crossings.

It was great. Despite its age, the bus was really comfortable, including fully reclining seats. We sat back and watched the scenery rolling by, as it got bigger and more vast. On the two ferry crossings Vancouver Island and many other inhabited islands were clearly visible. It was only as it begun to get dark and we got closer to our destination, that I began to start worrying that the driver might have forgotten we wanted to be dropped off at a specific place. Totally unnecessary, as by then we were almost the only passengers left. The stop, literally on the side of the road, turned out to be in the middle of a forest and there was not a light to be seen anywhere, especially when the bus disappeared. But we didn’t have to wait long in the total blackness before a torch appeared, coming towards us through the trees.

Our new hosts were lovely, and their wooden house set deep in the forest was everything our previous night wasn’t, warm, cosy and welcoming. They had also been looking forward to meeting us, having only recently arrived in Canada themselves, from Serbia. They hardly knew anyone, let alone people like themselves, so we had much to talk about, despite it being very late by now. We sat around their gigantic wood stove, eating a sumptuous meal, and it was almost dawn by the time we all headed off to bed.

We had got in touch through an internet forum called Raw Vancouver, for people interested in eating only raw food. It wasn’t something we knew anything about, but were eager to learn more. Especially how you could survive on this kind of diet in a place which I (wrongly) assumed was covered for six months of the year in snow (BC actually has a climate much like Cornwall). The food was fabulous. Raw, obviously, but with the help of a dehydrator can produce all sorts of meals that are familiar (like felafel/ vegan sausage/ and even cornbread), without the need to be cooked.

The room they gave us was sumptuous too, with its own double bed and bathroom, plus endless amounts of hot water. Compared to what we’d been used to since leaving Yorkshire it was like a five-star hotel. There was also limitless internet, something we had never had before. Plus their big grey cat Cobalt, who was eager to keep us company. We were also welcome to stay as long as we wanted.

Next morning (Sunday), after checking our emails we found yet another response to our post, a message from someone who actually lived in the nearby town of Powell River, and wanted to meet us. How likely is that? Until a couple of days ago we’d not only never heard of the place, but had no idea where we were headed. This person was a friend of someone who had been in touch a couple of weeks earlier, who after reading about our planned trip to British Columbia had followed the link to the Monkey & Sofia website, loved what we made so much decided to buy one of everything. Which we had duly shipped off to her in Los Angeles just a couple of days before we left. Since then she had told a friend about us, who just happened to have a place near here, and would like to meet us later today.

It felt odd having to ask our hosts, people we’d only just met, if they would drive us there, but it wasn’t a problem, they were just as keen as us to meet new people. So after lunch we all headed off to the River City cafe. Which just like the coffee shops in Main Street Vancouver, was also very quirky and original. A warehouse kind of building, close to the waterfront, decorated in an industrial theme, high ceiling, lots of huge pieces of wood, huge sofas and odd chairs/ tables. It also was a roastery, so smelt divine too. Not surprisingly very popular as well, and because of that I was worried we’d not be able to recognise this person when they arrived. Totally unnecessary as it turned out, because he was unmistakable. If there is such a thing as a stereotypical LA person, then he is it. Same age as us, tanned (even though it was December), waist-long blond hair in a pony tail, and dressed in faded denim as if this was still the 1960s, and he’d come in a matching classic Ford 4×4 pickup.

At River City cafe you can have any kind of drink you want, including vegan, so Maureen and I plumped for a huge soy milk hot chocolate with vegan cream, plus a lovely cake to accompany it. Fortuitous, because little did we know that was all the sustenance we were going to get for the next five hours.

Mr California introduced himself, and from the outset it was clear he needed to be the centre of attention. The four of us hardly got a chance to say anything after that, while he regaled us with tales of what he’d done, who he knew, what he owned and where he’d been. It was impossible to turn him off. Luckily our hosts didn’t have any other pressing engagements, so we let him do his thing. Apparently he’s a self-made millionaire, lives in Los Angeles for most of the year and was here at the moment because he’d bought this vast tract of ancient forest on the nearby island of Texada, and set it up as a charity to preserve the unique ecology. By which time I was beginning to tire, wondering what this was all in aid of, not helped by a lack of sleep and now acute hunger. Maureen could sense I was losing it and kept giving me one of her looks, but I’m afraid all that did was make me more antagonistic. He however, was totally impervious. Anyway, eventually he got down to the real reason why he wanted to meet us. He was leaving soon and worried about his investment, needed someone to keep an eye on it. Would we be interested? No salary, but we’d get free accommodation, in any of three log cabins, the use of his pickup, free firewood for the wood burning stoves, a new Apple computer, and free phone calls/ internet. It needed people who could survive out there, and keep the forestry tracks clear, maybe have some ideas for the garden. Initially for two months, while he’s back in California, but maybe for longer. I was so staggered I actually said we would need some time to consider.

A couple of days later and here we are. Living in a forest, hundreds of years old, and with trees bigger and higher than I’ve ever seen. On an island, where our nearest neighbour is 1.5 kms away along a forestry track. Living in a wooden cabin that cantilevers over the ocean. We came on a ferry, were given a quick tour of everything, then drove our host to the small airstrip on the island and he took off en-route back to Los Angeles. There are no keys, not to the houses or the pickup. At night it is pitch-black, except for the lights over the strait on Vancouver Island. The forest is full of wildlife – deer, racoons, beavers, eagles, owls, you name it. Our water supply is the river. If a tree comes down across the track we are expected to saw it up (for firewood) with the chainsaw that lives permanently in the pickup. Yet it all this seems totally natural, not at all daunting. The only downside is we still haven’t got any further with finding a way to stay permanently in Canada, not unless we move on to somewhere even more remote and live as illegal immigrants until the next amnesty comes along and grants us residency. Our host likes to give the impression he has a lot of influence locally in these matters, so we will have to see, or we might meet someone else with another scheme. Who knows? The number of coincidences already have been huge, maybe there will be more.

We’ve already met our neighbours. Both are our age. He’s from Brooklyn, and she’s from Croatia. They have a massive log house, an even bigger vegetable garden, a Jersey cow that roams free and provides them with the most amazing milk, two pigs, masses of ducks and hens, and they seem to spend all their time cooking and eating the most wonderful food.

Early days. We hope to meet more people soon, and also find ways to develop Monkey & Sofia locally.