'I find that people who come to visit just want to go down to the beach,' said Dolores.
And down to the beach I go. It is sandy, and I take my time. I understand why the two clans are the ravens and the eagles - this is their playground. Severn, D Suzuki's daughter, has a Haida husband and two kids, with whom she has been heard by Dolores to speak Haida at the Co-op. They have a new house just a few houses away from Dolores' under construction. The bulldozer, doing rough grading, and the rock music that accompanies cut into the early morning air, otherwise full of eagle and raven sounds.
B, who I met from the festival at a table, has now moved into the other room here at Dolores' house. He has added another dimension to this week, and while Dolores and I cannot entirely sort out what to do with him, he seems ok, has done no harm, and seems to need a place to stay. He has been here in Haida Gwaii since June living chez a variety of people in return for help around the house, and here he is sifting Dolores' four garden boxes to rid them of stones.
B and I were at the library yesterday when he started chatting with A, who he met at a potluck. A invited us for tea this morning. He lives by the water in a house he built 8-ish years ago, one that I would consider beyond impossible, being free of a humming fridge and bathroom. He is also under the constant pressure of eviction. The light in the winter, he says, with the high water and low rays, bathes the deepest recesses of his one-room house with the dancing light of reflected waves. His first house of some 10 years, near the same site, was swept away by storm, and all but very little was saved. He tells me, as I roam through his space, he likes how I connect the dots of the things I see. We spend 3 hours chatting over tea from mint he gathered in the forest, as if we were the best of kindred spirits catching up from a long absence.
In the evening, Dolores, B, and I watch a remarkable and truly moving documentary about the repatriation in 2003 of about 150-160 Haida human remains from the Chicago Field Museum to Haida Gwaii. It is called Stolen Spirits. As we watched, Dolores kept saying that such-and-such in the film was her brother, her cousin, her niece, etc. To convey the depth of community effort and emotion in this process was a task that I am glad was well done. Everyone seemed to do the right thing. They learned how to make traditional bentwood boxes and how to design and paint Haida art on them. Elementary school kids sewed buttons onto the blankets that the remains would be nestled in. There were calls made to Air Canada, a full delegation sent to Field Museum, much dancing and chanting throughout, including at the O'Hare gate as they saw the remains enter the plane. And the anthropologists who hosted them at Field came and were welcomed to Haida Gwaii, and held a box, as part of the re-burial procession to the cemetary. A full circle complete.
Thursday, 13 August 2015
Wednesday, 12 August 2015
Haida-ing
'Haida dogs?' I ask Dolores, 'What's that all about?' 'I don't know, but they're probably big.'
Dolores has beautiful eyes, clear and bright. But they are problematic for her. Yesterday, the first thing she said was that she discovered a new black dot in her eye. She tells me she doesn't have bifocals on the left side of her glasses, because she can't see anything out if it. Every two months, she comes to the eye doctor in Vancouver for. It was on one of these trips that I met her on the Skytrain.
If it weren't for Dolores, I would be entirely blind here. She tells me about the bump in the road, and how pavement would crack after an earthquake. That the sign for Jungle Beach is actually just a bit away from the 'real' Jungle Beach. That before, there was no road to Massett from Skidegate, they took the boat from Port Clements, and that Skidegate is where the government rounded them up and put them all. That when she was young, she ate clams off a stick for snacking, and that there would be seaweed in her pocket for munching on too. That her father was a great fisherman from Tanu (taa-NOO) and her mother from Skedans.
She tells me how to make bubbly sounds from deep in my throat, as if to bring up a little fish from the depths of the sea. I practice the word for Skidegate. It starts with a TH from the throat, then a G, still down there, followed by an easy 'gildna', followed by the second word starting with a double LL from below, popping up to the surface with an -ungway. Cheena means fish, and we pass by a river whose name translates as fish water. Skit-q'un - salal berries - are not quite ripe yet here. Haida means 'people', and the word for those up in Masset are 'faraway Haida.' I recognize the 'thl' sound which is similar to a sound from my dad's village dialect.
On Saturday we will go to the Kay Heritage Centre, for the 30th anniversary of its opening. Kay (qaaey) - almost better spelt as arabic قاي - means sea lion. Kay scuna means 'you smell like a sea lion' because boy, they are first smelled before seen. She will be the Acting Matriarch there at the festivities, as her sister, the Matriach, is ill. We go by the Centre to look at the totem poles, and she tells me which ones which relative made. They have the two clans, the Ravens and the Eagles, which is passed down matrilinially, and inevitably there is a raven or an eagle on a pole. She describes how the raven has a long straight beak, and the eagle has a curved beak. The rings at the top signify the number of potlatches the family has had. The hole at the bottom is the pole, and I've always liked low doors - they sometimes signify submission upon entrance. The word for door is the same for clam, as they both hinge shut. Of the two clans, she is a Raven, known for its intelligence. Specifically she is a 'Raven and the Moon.' She shows me the blanket with these symbols, which she will wear on Saturday.
We drive back from Kagan Bay (q'ah-gun < a safe place). I go extra slow by the playground and the town centre - cop cars do ticket for speeding, and they might be haida-ing behind a bush. We banter a bit, and by the end of the long day I get pretty silly. She tells me that they'll have Haida games on Saturday. 'Like what?' I ask, 'Ring around the totem pole?'
Dolores has beautiful eyes, clear and bright. But they are problematic for her. Yesterday, the first thing she said was that she discovered a new black dot in her eye. She tells me she doesn't have bifocals on the left side of her glasses, because she can't see anything out if it. Every two months, she comes to the eye doctor in Vancouver for. It was on one of these trips that I met her on the Skytrain.
If it weren't for Dolores, I would be entirely blind here. She tells me about the bump in the road, and how pavement would crack after an earthquake. That the sign for Jungle Beach is actually just a bit away from the 'real' Jungle Beach. That before, there was no road to Massett from Skidegate, they took the boat from Port Clements, and that Skidegate is where the government rounded them up and put them all. That when she was young, she ate clams off a stick for snacking, and that there would be seaweed in her pocket for munching on too. That her father was a great fisherman from Tanu (taa-NOO) and her mother from Skedans.
She tells me how to make bubbly sounds from deep in my throat, as if to bring up a little fish from the depths of the sea. I practice the word for Skidegate. It starts with a TH from the throat, then a G, still down there, followed by an easy 'gildna', followed by the second word starting with a double LL from below, popping up to the surface with an -ungway. Cheena means fish, and we pass by a river whose name translates as fish water. Skit-q'un - salal berries - are not quite ripe yet here. Haida means 'people', and the word for those up in Masset are 'faraway Haida.' I recognize the 'thl' sound which is similar to a sound from my dad's village dialect.
On Saturday we will go to the Kay Heritage Centre, for the 30th anniversary of its opening. Kay (qaaey) - almost better spelt as arabic قاي - means sea lion. Kay scuna means 'you smell like a sea lion' because boy, they are first smelled before seen. She will be the Acting Matriarch there at the festivities, as her sister, the Matriach, is ill. We go by the Centre to look at the totem poles, and she tells me which ones which relative made. They have the two clans, the Ravens and the Eagles, which is passed down matrilinially, and inevitably there is a raven or an eagle on a pole. She describes how the raven has a long straight beak, and the eagle has a curved beak. The rings at the top signify the number of potlatches the family has had. The hole at the bottom is the pole, and I've always liked low doors - they sometimes signify submission upon entrance. The word for door is the same for clam, as they both hinge shut. Of the two clans, she is a Raven, known for its intelligence. Specifically she is a 'Raven and the Moon.' She shows me the blanket with these symbols, which she will wear on Saturday.
We drive back from Kagan Bay (q'ah-gun < a safe place). I go extra slow by the playground and the town centre - cop cars do ticket for speeding, and they might be haida-ing behind a bush. We banter a bit, and by the end of the long day I get pretty silly. She tells me that they'll have Haida games on Saturday. 'Like what?' I ask, 'Ring around the totem pole?'
Sunday, 9 August 2015
Tlell
'Good bye everyone,' says ruddy-faced Peter with the black hatbox, 'Welcome to Paradise!' He got the driver to honk at people walking along the road, and us to wave at them. He threatened a duel with the bus driver, who proposed to the 88-year old woman behind me, who I am sure blushed. We were all ready to leave the ferry landing, when I noticed a minivan intently aimed head-on at our bus. We started and turned to avoid a collision, against those who Peter suddenly noticed were friends who had decided to come to pick him up.
I meet Paul on the ferry (more like barge) from Alliford to Skidegate, who thought he'd chat with me as his son-in-law chatted with 'my man' (who?). From the best sounding name of a town in New Brunswick, and currently on the sliding slope of Fort Mac, they are here for three days, renting the other half of a duplex of the owner who will guide them to the seas.
The grapevine grows quick and runs deep here. We learn via Peter that the flight attendent's name is Julie (and _everyone_ liked her, having experienced the other sort countless times) and that she lived on the Island for a year when she was in Grade 1. She was the only attendent on the Dash 8-300. She, in good Air Canada form, duly spoke everything in English and French, the French portion having as foreign a taste to the situation as an Air France equivalent in English on an international flight. The woman I sat next to, an 18 year old veteran of the Island, helped her stock the cart with pop ('2 sprites, 2 tomato juices...') and then later navigated the novice bus driver around to the various drop off locations here. Having arrived at a street sign labelled 3rd Avenue, I thought it was my stop. But no, she says 3rd is long and different ways to get on it. Take signs with a grain of salt - they may only indicate themselves.
It comes as a surprise to people on the bus that the place I am going to rents cars at all, and for the price I am paying. The overhead is perhaps low - I sit at a kitchen table to fill out the form - and the car might not have a single computer chip in it. The bare minimum exists for safe driving on a stick. The key opens the door and starts the ignition.
I drive directly out to Tlell, to the music festival where my friend D awaits at the door. The road is very smooth and hugs the ocean coast. I pass the Kay Centre, the Haida Heritage Centre - where the meeting of the Ravens and Eagles will be next week. Gwaii Haanas - Beautiful Land.
Nanai, grandmother in Haida, is what others call D. The woman on the bus tells me she is well-respected. She says it like it is, i.e. at the crepe she bought, 'Is this all I get for what I paid?' We sit at a table and meet B, who has been volunteering here in Haida Gwaii in art camp. We suffer through some acoustics, and I stay just to see who Sam Roberts is. We decide all three to go up to Masset on Monday, his next port of call.
Monday, 6 April 2015
Here Today, Gone Tomorrow
Drove eastward, the ocean at my back, shining in the rearview mirror. It was not quite the point of no return, but more like a self-initiated sunset, because at some point soon again I will return.
Spent the day up the coast. Very windy. The dharma birds simply float in the air, expending just enough energy to not go anywhere. I can't tell why. Do they not want to get ahead and go somewhere, find food, etc. like the rest of the rats below? Or do birds just enjoy floating and flying aimlessly? There was an info sign about a bird that migrates 64,000 km. Birds come in all sorts it seems.
The city is, for me, like a memory-thing. Something that helps you remember. Driving today through pasture was like the landscape in southeast Georgia, rolling, with a lone road cutting through. The coast, with rough winds, sandy beaches, and surfers reminded me of southwest Melbourne, by Torquay. Trees, bent by the incessant winds, like natural bonzai trees, are like those that line Beach Drive in Victoria. Grant St., at the gates of Chinatown, feels like it could be on the foothills of Montmartre. And yet the overall canvas is like another version of Vancouver - the bridge, the trolley busses, the coastline. What does one call the place that is not home, though it feels just like it, as if this version happened because of all the particular what-ifs that came to be. As if there was a recipe, and it turned out this way instead of that.
As I walk along the beach, I find that there are few landmarks to help gauge how far I am going. The surfers and gliders keep moving, the joggers go back and forth, cartwheeling kids ramble around. The wind covers the steps I take, as if they don't matter, as if I had never come. Wind, and/or windiness, is so Buddhist. There's nothing to it! Two windmills in the distance, but like the dharma birds, they curiously don't move.
Spent the day up the coast. Very windy. The dharma birds simply float in the air, expending just enough energy to not go anywhere. I can't tell why. Do they not want to get ahead and go somewhere, find food, etc. like the rest of the rats below? Or do birds just enjoy floating and flying aimlessly? There was an info sign about a bird that migrates 64,000 km. Birds come in all sorts it seems.
The city is, for me, like a memory-thing. Something that helps you remember. Driving today through pasture was like the landscape in southeast Georgia, rolling, with a lone road cutting through. The coast, with rough winds, sandy beaches, and surfers reminded me of southwest Melbourne, by Torquay. Trees, bent by the incessant winds, like natural bonzai trees, are like those that line Beach Drive in Victoria. Grant St., at the gates of Chinatown, feels like it could be on the foothills of Montmartre. And yet the overall canvas is like another version of Vancouver - the bridge, the trolley busses, the coastline. What does one call the place that is not home, though it feels just like it, as if this version happened because of all the particular what-ifs that came to be. As if there was a recipe, and it turned out this way instead of that.
As I walk along the beach, I find that there are few landmarks to help gauge how far I am going. The surfers and gliders keep moving, the joggers go back and forth, cartwheeling kids ramble around. The wind covers the steps I take, as if they don't matter, as if I had never come. Wind, and/or windiness, is so Buddhist. There's nothing to it! Two windmills in the distance, but like the dharma birds, they curiously don't move.
Saturday, 4 April 2015
North Beach Girl
Finished off a sacripantina (sacred bread? No, 'rogue')) and a good coffee at El Greco, which, like my Main St Bean, also has taken over the adjacent parking spots for coffeeing. Swedish has a verb for having a coffee (fika), high time we did too. Lots of streets here named after 'Gen Beat' writers. Again, we have a few, and we ought to start renaming our piece of the planet too. 'Interior Geographies' was the title of a book at City Lights, surely our crust could care less if we embossed it with value deserved of our artists, writers etc rather than others who barely touched (or, equally, touched by) our city streets?
A female, and Japanese theme emerging in this trip. Under my phone, on which I am tapping tapping tapping, is a used book I picked up, a novel on the brides coming from Japan to be married to Japanese men here in California. It seems that covering one's mouth when giggling is the thing to do. I really can't imagine doing that; surely the last natural thing to do for me. But them were the days. Maybe their teeth were bad? In any case I saw big cuffs in front of mouths, this foreign, other-timely age of feminine shyness, depicted in a geisha exhibit yesterday. Is it seductive to be shy? Probably. But shy architects won't get too far in the love of their life.
In the Beat Museum, there's a healthy section of Playboy magazines, the covers of which were pretty tame as tabbies before the 70s. Market demand (changed since?) or Beat Gen liberation leading towards more of the right kind of flesh on covers? There's a couple of panels on women in the Beat Gen. Women were otherwise burnt at the stake if they were, well, like a Beat poet.
Who knows what it's like to be authentically feminine and Beat. We're 'tired and have had it with' ... gosh where to begin. In the geisha exhibit, there is a video of a man acting as a geisha, in 'The Wisteria [something]', doing the most feminine body moves, with an expressionless, dead-log face. I walk around town like the protagonist in DR/SVT 'Broen', a no-nonsense stride - a strategy for accessing the city, particularly in the dicey areas. For what to do, when asked 'Hey, weren't you on tv the other night?' but simply walk on? Beat women seemed to simply serve as the necessary accessories of complex and/or open relationships.
Certainly the Beat walking tour I was on could have benefited from putting ideas into practice. Let me not know where they lived, and wrote, and played. Give me two hours of feeling what it was like to feel painfully, daringly liberated, like they did, from, say, the constraints of a two-hour set walking tour that I booked and prepaid days ago.
Enjoy the full moon tonight, in libra, in liberation of inbalance.
A female, and Japanese theme emerging in this trip. Under my phone, on which I am tapping tapping tapping, is a used book I picked up, a novel on the brides coming from Japan to be married to Japanese men here in California. It seems that covering one's mouth when giggling is the thing to do. I really can't imagine doing that; surely the last natural thing to do for me. But them were the days. Maybe their teeth were bad? In any case I saw big cuffs in front of mouths, this foreign, other-timely age of feminine shyness, depicted in a geisha exhibit yesterday. Is it seductive to be shy? Probably. But shy architects won't get too far in the love of their life.
In the Beat Museum, there's a healthy section of Playboy magazines, the covers of which were pretty tame as tabbies before the 70s. Market demand (changed since?) or Beat Gen liberation leading towards more of the right kind of flesh on covers? There's a couple of panels on women in the Beat Gen. Women were otherwise burnt at the stake if they were, well, like a Beat poet.
Who knows what it's like to be authentically feminine and Beat. We're 'tired and have had it with' ... gosh where to begin. In the geisha exhibit, there is a video of a man acting as a geisha, in 'The Wisteria [something]', doing the most feminine body moves, with an expressionless, dead-log face. I walk around town like the protagonist in DR/SVT 'Broen', a no-nonsense stride - a strategy for accessing the city, particularly in the dicey areas. For what to do, when asked 'Hey, weren't you on tv the other night?' but simply walk on? Beat women seemed to simply serve as the necessary accessories of complex and/or open relationships.
Certainly the Beat walking tour I was on could have benefited from putting ideas into practice. Let me not know where they lived, and wrote, and played. Give me two hours of feeling what it was like to feel painfully, daringly liberated, like they did, from, say, the constraints of a two-hour set walking tour that I booked and prepaid days ago.
Enjoy the full moon tonight, in libra, in liberation of inbalance.
Friday, 3 April 2015
Hello, SFO
Received a personal in-room welcome by a hotel staff member, having lunch in the room. Well, I've checked in early. And it is perhaps a good sign, that she chose to be in 'my' room. Quiet and sunfilled now at noon, a perfect room with cheery yellow walls, candy cane striped drapes, and turquoise fleur de lis carpet. And how nice it is to see a bed freshly made.
First things first. Off for some yemeni nosh.
First things first. Off for some yemeni nosh.
Wednesday, 7 January 2015
It's all about the journey
Pretty lovely to be home and waking up at 2am, enjoying a world of silence. And breathing. My lungs are a bit battered by 2 weeks of sand, smoke, and pollution, but this is nothing new to them. A mini version of Damascus. I had been blogging off my phone as well, and typing is a good thing. Did you know there is no Academie-Française version of 'smartphone'? Heard the term on the planes when they ask you to turn them off.
Here is the original return flight route, which would have taken 24 hours door-to-door. It was long enough, as it started with a red-eye flight on Saturday:
Dakar - Brussels - Frankfurt - Vancouver
I had been ruminating in bed before leaving, rehearsing how the final act of my time on the Dakar stage would be delivered - the words I would use, the attitude I would have to negotiate a fair price for the 7-minute taxi ride. S+J had said 3000 fcfa. However, on the night that I talked to the taxi driver for A when he left, they wouldn't do it for less than 4000 fcfa ($8 CAD), citing luggage. Normally, 3000 fcfa gets you downtown, a 25 minute ride, and if it weren't for the fact that it's an airport, 1000 cfca should do. This whole thing is also a matter of pride for the traveller subgroup that I am a part of, which still takes it as an affront to be charged more as a tourist.
Fortunately I don't have a lot of luggage. The family of 4 that occupied A's room had at least 12 bags. The terrain between the taxi stand and the door of the guesthouse is sand for about the length of a block, some 100 m. Free sleds for the use of tourists were nowhere to be found, but luckily, there are loads of young boys (40% of Senegal being under 15, so 1 in 5 a young boy) around for those in need.
The beautiful thing is that a taxi angel appears at the 50 m mark, dropping off some travellers. One part of the beauty is that I don't have to lug the luggage for another 50 m. The real beauty is that I get to avoid the taxi stand pimp tax. By now I discovered that he is the real reason why taxis are 1000 fcfa more. He sits on the bench, says that yes, that's his taxi, when in fact the driver is snoozing away.
I say "L'Aeroport." Taxi Angel says, "2000 francs." Then some young taxi-pimp-in-training says "3000 francs." I am a non-violent person, so say something like, "He said 2000 francs." Good thing Taxi Angel is helping the other travellers with their luggage, so he doesn't really hear. Taxi Angel is, however, not a really good driver - maybe he is still testing his wings. He very nearly hit a person and another car on the 7-minute drive. But one cannot be a back-seat driver to angels, they have their ways: the grounded are poor judges of the elevated.
It is Saturday 8 pm. We arrive quickly and unscathed at the airport. I give him a normal looking 2000 fcfa note, and then a crisp new 500 fcfa note on top: "And this is because it is the Prophet's Birthday today." To this, his eyes opened wide and he produced an enormous smile. A happy taxi ride is how all journeys should end.
Or start!
The experience at the Léopold Sédar Senghor Airport was quick and efficient. I divest myself of local currency (they need all my small notes, I had amassed a wealth), bat the mosquitos, wait and board. I arrive in Brussels at Gate B38 on Brussels Airlines, on a nice new Airbus A330-300. This airline was poorly replaced by Blue Panorama on the inbound flight. Brussels Airlines is like Lufthansa, whereas Blue Panorama ... well, there was vigorous clapping at the end, as if there was some doubt. The population on this flight is characterized by middle-class white European families who were finishing holidays, probably at a beach resort. However, too much service is not right. Between 10:35 pm and 5:35 am local times, they served both dinner and breakfast. An appropriate service level would be to ramp down to the weight-watcher Air Canada service levels, and not serve anything gratis.
After the 6 hour flight, we arrive early Sunday morning. I hold a boarding pass for Brussels-Frankfurt that says Gate 43. I hear it is cancelled, but I go there as the service desk is nearby. This is a 30 minute walk and includes passport check and baggage security. The service desk tells me that the flight is cancelled because the plane did not come in last night from Frankfurt (weather?) so there is no aircraft. After being on the phone for a half hour, she presents me with a route to home. It would take an extra 10 hours, so 32 hours door-to-door in total:
Dakar - Brussels - Newark - Vancouver
The Gate? Why, B38, right where I came from. So I retrace my steps, again through passport and baggage check. It leaves at 10:15 am. Just adjacent on the departures board is another 10:15 am to Toronto, which I look at longingly. I use my 8€ ($11) meal voucher for what it is worth. Food prices are quite marked-up, or I'm in Europe, and I manage to get a juice and a croissant.
The airline? Jet Airways, or you could call it Bollywood Air. It was coming in from Mumbai. The service level is somewhere between Blue Panorama and Brussels Airlines. Generally I felt like I was in the 90s (it felt like the 80's with BP). The plane itself (Airbus A330-300) felt like a re-purposed Air Canada plane - and it could have been, given the airline started in 1993. I am in a mid-seat in the centre with an expressive and re-bounding under-2-year-old behind me. Note I am already tired from the red-eye.
I arrive at Newark Sunday at 12:55 pm. Given that it is North America, I pick up my luggage. In this case, it is nice to know that my luggage has followed me all the way. And I am again greeted with the information that my next flight leg has been cancelled. Air Canada ticketing was already dealing with cancelled flights to Montreal; a flight to Vancouver was also cancelled that morning due to mist and fog. I am told that I could either stay in Newark until a space opened up (planes are full to Vancouver for days), or they could put me on stand-by to Toronto, where they would put me in a hotel and then find a flight for me from there.
I opt for the Toronto stand-by option, with the promise of a hotel and a possible flight sometime soon to Vancouver. It looks like this:
Dakar - Brussels - Newark - Toronto - Vancouver
Sunday presented a painful day of unrest for me at EWR. By now it is 3pm, and the flight is scheduled to leave at 9pm. I call Days Inn and they said that it would be $70 for a room - I decide not to go for a 4 hour stay. Had I known my flight would be delayed as it became, I would have gone. I try to hunt down a lounge as maybe I could pay for 4 hours ("It's after security ma'am") but find nothing; security check here is drawn-out process I'd rather not repeat. Terminal A in Newark is designed to divide and herd: very few services. As stand-by, I also wasn't sure what to do with my luggage which I would have otherwise checked in. So I took it with me through the gate. Another reason why I was reluctant to move around too much. And I'm tired, and focus my energy on finding a place to snooze.
The flight is delayed. After some 12 hours in none-too-cheery EWR, listening to the announcements of other flights delayed (getting none too much rest), it is finally announced that we depart at 12:30 am. There is a bit of confusion as to which of the two AC gates is our gate. The announcement says A12, but the plane is obviously at A11. The herd gravitates toward the one with the plane. We arrive in Toronto at 2:12 am - I remember the "Deux heures douze" from the announcement.
After customs and baggage, I head for Departures level Air Canada Aisle 13. I'm obviously not the only one suffering from delayed or cancelled flights, but most seem to be domestically delayed. We are not given hotel vouchers but are asked our last name, and are herded to the bus, and wait an hour before it leaves. At this point, I am fairly cheery and delirious. I comment to the hotel bus driver after he fished out a person's bag correctly from below ("Because you're a professional!" He beams.). At the Four Points Sheraton hotel in Missasauga - by now it is 4:30 am - I overhear people who are asking themselves out loud why they are checking into a hotel when they need to be back at the airport at 6:30 am.
I take a bath. This is a wondrous sensation. The place I stayed at in Dakar offered a bucket and water bottles. I make a tea in the hotel coffee pot. I snooze for an hour and call Air Canada at 6:30 am. Nothing. I decide to offer myself uninterrupted sleep until 9 am.
I call AC again. After some time, I connect with Agent No. 1. He offers me noon or 2 pm. I take 2 pm. He then said he was just going to figure out how this was going to work, as I have a Lufthansa ticket. On hold. Then we disconnect. Agent No. 2 tells me that Agent No. 1 put me on 6 pm, so that's that. She asks me for my e-mail address, but I never receive an e-mail confirmation, and I would have to head to the airport based on something I heard with my ears.
I have a $7 breakfast voucher, which buys a coffee and pastry. I opt instead for a fuller breakfast, and chat with a couple of men off to Istanbul. Passing the ketchup and jam across tables can open worlds.
I ask for a late check-out of 2pm, and luxuriate in 3 more hours of sleep. I head down to the restaurant just before 2, with my $10 lunch voucher (soup and bread?), but am told that lunch service ended at noon. ?
But Taxi Angel No. 2 was right there waiting, and he takes me to the airport. Another 7 minute ride, but this shuttle service costs $55. He tells me to send the receipt to Air Canada.
Of course, the AC boarding pass machines don't work for me, so I am in a line-up for an hour. AC agents are also justice administrators: "Sir, there will be a riot if you do not go to the back of the line. Some of these people have been waiting for quite some time." The computer system is down. However, once I finally made it to a counter, it was a breeze. The agent, like all, tried to figure what was going on with my flights. He tells me, "You've really been on a trip!"
I have a great pre-Air-Canada-flight meal - panini and soup - near the Gate, and buy a book I can barely read: The Art of Travel, which "...helpfully suggests how we might be happier on our journeys.'
The flight to Vancouver was on-time, and was complete with a very uptight flight attendant announcer who would never have made the cut for WestJet (I recall a comedy stage show for the seatbelts lecture). He repeated some 5 times that we must make our schedule and head directly to our seats. However, we did leave at 6 pm and arrive on time at 8:45 pm.
By 10 pm on Monday I was home, some 58 hours after I started. I crumble into bed.
Here is the original return flight route, which would have taken 24 hours door-to-door. It was long enough, as it started with a red-eye flight on Saturday:
Dakar - Brussels - Frankfurt - Vancouver
I had been ruminating in bed before leaving, rehearsing how the final act of my time on the Dakar stage would be delivered - the words I would use, the attitude I would have to negotiate a fair price for the 7-minute taxi ride. S+J had said 3000 fcfa. However, on the night that I talked to the taxi driver for A when he left, they wouldn't do it for less than 4000 fcfa ($8 CAD), citing luggage. Normally, 3000 fcfa gets you downtown, a 25 minute ride, and if it weren't for the fact that it's an airport, 1000 cfca should do. This whole thing is also a matter of pride for the traveller subgroup that I am a part of, which still takes it as an affront to be charged more as a tourist.
Fortunately I don't have a lot of luggage. The family of 4 that occupied A's room had at least 12 bags. The terrain between the taxi stand and the door of the guesthouse is sand for about the length of a block, some 100 m. Free sleds for the use of tourists were nowhere to be found, but luckily, there are loads of young boys (40% of Senegal being under 15, so 1 in 5 a young boy) around for those in need.
The beautiful thing is that a taxi angel appears at the 50 m mark, dropping off some travellers. One part of the beauty is that I don't have to lug the luggage for another 50 m. The real beauty is that I get to avoid the taxi stand pimp tax. By now I discovered that he is the real reason why taxis are 1000 fcfa more. He sits on the bench, says that yes, that's his taxi, when in fact the driver is snoozing away.
I say "L'Aeroport." Taxi Angel says, "2000 francs." Then some young taxi-pimp-in-training says "3000 francs." I am a non-violent person, so say something like, "He said 2000 francs." Good thing Taxi Angel is helping the other travellers with their luggage, so he doesn't really hear. Taxi Angel is, however, not a really good driver - maybe he is still testing his wings. He very nearly hit a person and another car on the 7-minute drive. But one cannot be a back-seat driver to angels, they have their ways: the grounded are poor judges of the elevated.
It is Saturday 8 pm. We arrive quickly and unscathed at the airport. I give him a normal looking 2000 fcfa note, and then a crisp new 500 fcfa note on top: "And this is because it is the Prophet's Birthday today." To this, his eyes opened wide and he produced an enormous smile. A happy taxi ride is how all journeys should end.
Or start!
The experience at the Léopold Sédar Senghor Airport was quick and efficient. I divest myself of local currency (they need all my small notes, I had amassed a wealth), bat the mosquitos, wait and board. I arrive in Brussels at Gate B38 on Brussels Airlines, on a nice new Airbus A330-300. This airline was poorly replaced by Blue Panorama on the inbound flight. Brussels Airlines is like Lufthansa, whereas Blue Panorama ... well, there was vigorous clapping at the end, as if there was some doubt. The population on this flight is characterized by middle-class white European families who were finishing holidays, probably at a beach resort. However, too much service is not right. Between 10:35 pm and 5:35 am local times, they served both dinner and breakfast. An appropriate service level would be to ramp down to the weight-watcher Air Canada service levels, and not serve anything gratis.
After the 6 hour flight, we arrive early Sunday morning. I hold a boarding pass for Brussels-Frankfurt that says Gate 43. I hear it is cancelled, but I go there as the service desk is nearby. This is a 30 minute walk and includes passport check and baggage security. The service desk tells me that the flight is cancelled because the plane did not come in last night from Frankfurt (weather?) so there is no aircraft. After being on the phone for a half hour, she presents me with a route to home. It would take an extra 10 hours, so 32 hours door-to-door in total:
Dakar - Brussels - Newark - Vancouver
The Gate? Why, B38, right where I came from. So I retrace my steps, again through passport and baggage check. It leaves at 10:15 am. Just adjacent on the departures board is another 10:15 am to Toronto, which I look at longingly. I use my 8€ ($11) meal voucher for what it is worth. Food prices are quite marked-up, or I'm in Europe, and I manage to get a juice and a croissant.
The airline? Jet Airways, or you could call it Bollywood Air. It was coming in from Mumbai. The service level is somewhere between Blue Panorama and Brussels Airlines. Generally I felt like I was in the 90s (it felt like the 80's with BP). The plane itself (Airbus A330-300) felt like a re-purposed Air Canada plane - and it could have been, given the airline started in 1993. I am in a mid-seat in the centre with an expressive and re-bounding under-2-year-old behind me. Note I am already tired from the red-eye.
I arrive at Newark Sunday at 12:55 pm. Given that it is North America, I pick up my luggage. In this case, it is nice to know that my luggage has followed me all the way. And I am again greeted with the information that my next flight leg has been cancelled. Air Canada ticketing was already dealing with cancelled flights to Montreal; a flight to Vancouver was also cancelled that morning due to mist and fog. I am told that I could either stay in Newark until a space opened up (planes are full to Vancouver for days), or they could put me on stand-by to Toronto, where they would put me in a hotel and then find a flight for me from there.
I opt for the Toronto stand-by option, with the promise of a hotel and a possible flight sometime soon to Vancouver. It looks like this:
Dakar - Brussels - Newark - Toronto - Vancouver
Sunday presented a painful day of unrest for me at EWR. By now it is 3pm, and the flight is scheduled to leave at 9pm. I call Days Inn and they said that it would be $70 for a room - I decide not to go for a 4 hour stay. Had I known my flight would be delayed as it became, I would have gone. I try to hunt down a lounge as maybe I could pay for 4 hours ("It's after security ma'am") but find nothing; security check here is drawn-out process I'd rather not repeat. Terminal A in Newark is designed to divide and herd: very few services. As stand-by, I also wasn't sure what to do with my luggage which I would have otherwise checked in. So I took it with me through the gate. Another reason why I was reluctant to move around too much. And I'm tired, and focus my energy on finding a place to snooze.
The flight is delayed. After some 12 hours in none-too-cheery EWR, listening to the announcements of other flights delayed (getting none too much rest), it is finally announced that we depart at 12:30 am. There is a bit of confusion as to which of the two AC gates is our gate. The announcement says A12, but the plane is obviously at A11. The herd gravitates toward the one with the plane. We arrive in Toronto at 2:12 am - I remember the "Deux heures douze" from the announcement.
After customs and baggage, I head for Departures level Air Canada Aisle 13. I'm obviously not the only one suffering from delayed or cancelled flights, but most seem to be domestically delayed. We are not given hotel vouchers but are asked our last name, and are herded to the bus, and wait an hour before it leaves. At this point, I am fairly cheery and delirious. I comment to the hotel bus driver after he fished out a person's bag correctly from below ("Because you're a professional!" He beams.). At the Four Points Sheraton hotel in Missasauga - by now it is 4:30 am - I overhear people who are asking themselves out loud why they are checking into a hotel when they need to be back at the airport at 6:30 am.
I take a bath. This is a wondrous sensation. The place I stayed at in Dakar offered a bucket and water bottles. I make a tea in the hotel coffee pot. I snooze for an hour and call Air Canada at 6:30 am. Nothing. I decide to offer myself uninterrupted sleep until 9 am.
I call AC again. After some time, I connect with Agent No. 1. He offers me noon or 2 pm. I take 2 pm. He then said he was just going to figure out how this was going to work, as I have a Lufthansa ticket. On hold. Then we disconnect. Agent No. 2 tells me that Agent No. 1 put me on 6 pm, so that's that. She asks me for my e-mail address, but I never receive an e-mail confirmation, and I would have to head to the airport based on something I heard with my ears.
I have a $7 breakfast voucher, which buys a coffee and pastry. I opt instead for a fuller breakfast, and chat with a couple of men off to Istanbul. Passing the ketchup and jam across tables can open worlds.
I ask for a late check-out of 2pm, and luxuriate in 3 more hours of sleep. I head down to the restaurant just before 2, with my $10 lunch voucher (soup and bread?), but am told that lunch service ended at noon. ?
But Taxi Angel No. 2 was right there waiting, and he takes me to the airport. Another 7 minute ride, but this shuttle service costs $55. He tells me to send the receipt to Air Canada.
Of course, the AC boarding pass machines don't work for me, so I am in a line-up for an hour. AC agents are also justice administrators: "Sir, there will be a riot if you do not go to the back of the line. Some of these people have been waiting for quite some time." The computer system is down. However, once I finally made it to a counter, it was a breeze. The agent, like all, tried to figure what was going on with my flights. He tells me, "You've really been on a trip!"
I have a great pre-Air-Canada-flight meal - panini and soup - near the Gate, and buy a book I can barely read: The Art of Travel, which "...helpfully suggests how we might be happier on our journeys.'
The flight to Vancouver was on-time, and was complete with a very uptight flight attendant announcer who would never have made the cut for WestJet (I recall a comedy stage show for the seatbelts lecture). He repeated some 5 times that we must make our schedule and head directly to our seats. However, we did leave at 6 pm and arrive on time at 8:45 pm.
By 10 pm on Monday I was home, some 58 hours after I started. I crumble into bed.
Monday, 5 January 2015
The 58 hour journey home
Almost back. Spent the night at a hotel in Toronto, and now have ticket, am at gate, and the flight is not cancelled or delayed ... yet! Home this evening.
A strange and cold city
Local time is 4:30am and I've made it to the hotel in Toronto courtesy of Air Canada. No flight to YVR yet!
Sunday, 4 January 2015
Rererouted
In the near future I will write more fun stuff. At the moment I'm trying to get to YVR.
My first flight departed Saturday at 10:30pm and arrived 5:30 am at Brussels. At which point they said that my flight to Frankfurt at 10am is cancelled. However, they put me on a flight that leaves at about 10am, arriving 1:30pm in Newark, and then a 6:30 pm flight onwards to Vancouver.
Here at Newark I'm told that my Vancouver flight's been cancelled. So I'm on standby to Toronto at 9pm. Either way I'm in a hotel somewhere tonight.
All for now!
My first flight departed Saturday at 10:30pm and arrived 5:30 am at Brussels. At which point they said that my flight to Frankfurt at 10am is cancelled. However, they put me on a flight that leaves at about 10am, arriving 1:30pm in Newark, and then a 6:30 pm flight onwards to Vancouver.
Here at Newark I'm told that my Vancouver flight's been cancelled. So I'm on standby to Toronto at 9pm. Either way I'm in a hotel somewhere tonight.
All for now!
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