On the Road Again 2011 #45

I think one of the reasons that it has taken me so long to get to this part of my  trip is that I have been anxious (in the sense of having some anxiety) about writing the next installment. Not because I can’t remember it or because it was so terrible I don’t want to remember it, but because I am worried about not being good enough to describe my next driver. I don’t know how many drivers I have had in the past 12 or so years, but John may have been the most amazing one of them all.

I have noticed these past few years that there is a certain rhythm to my travels. There are a handful of spots that no matter how well the rides are coming or how far each ride takes me, I usually end up standing at each year. The last stoplight on the east end of Medicine Hat is one of those spots. It is a busy location with two streams of traffic. There are those cars who appear to be passing straight through town and those that are turning onto the highway, coming out of the shopping malls. I have noted in other years that while it looks as if there are lots of cars heading east, in fact most of them are only going a few miles to the suburbs and therefore are not going to stop. There is a lot of room to stand on the side of the road. If I get bored I can watch the hundreds of grasshoppers play in the grass verge that separates the highway from the Holiday Inn and one of the many malls. If it gets dark, there is lots of room to sleep. I like being there but this time I don’t think I waited very long.

 John’s car was a reasonably new car that was surprisingly clean inside considering how much time he spent in it. He was a good driver, not as fast as some I have travelled with, but consistent in his speed. I certainly felt safe with him. Ah but I am stalling  again because I don’t know where to begin.

Some of John’s story I didn’t quite get. His English was not always clear, but I think he was coming back from a few days working with heavy machinery somewhere west of Medicine Hat. He was going as far as Brandon and that was just fine to me. I am also not too sure how old John was. I would guess he was somewhere in his early 30s. He had been in Canada for just over five years (I think) having immigrated from Kenya. But John had been born in the Sudan.

When he was around nine, some soldiers had come into his village and taken away his father and killed him. John joined the opposing army to fight those who had done this terrible and un-understandable deed.  While he recognized that it had been terribly wrong to be have been recruited to kill others, I don’t think he felt bad or abused about having been a child solider. As he said, “what would you have done if someone had taken your father away and killed him?” John clearly didn’t want to talk about those experiences and I while I was desperately curious, I couldn’t ask him to relive those days. After spending what remained of his limited childhood in this army he moved to Kenya. I think it was some time later that his mother along with his two brothers and a sister followed him. I can’t imagine the courage it would take to start off life as a nine year old in some ragged guerilla  army and then as an adolescent to wander to the next country and start life all over again without family or friends. I can’t imagine the moral fiber it would take to not be angry all of the time. But John wasn’t angry, as he told his story he smiled and laughed and was excited about his new life.

While in Kenya he started a business selling mango juice. Somehow he got a small press and a few cups and started to sell fresh mango juice to the people on the streets. One of the people who bought his juice was a little white girl, who with her friends, passed his little stall to and from the embassy school. But she frequently did not have any money so he kept a running tab. And this, if there can every be just one defining characteristic, was John’s. He is trusting and giving. He believes that people are good. Eventually the young girl’s father came by to find out why his daughter said she owed this stranger so much money. I suspect he assumed there was some sort of scam going on. When he heard the story he paid the bill.

Sometime later the father who was a Canadian working at the embassy suggested that he might want to think about immigrating to Canada. With his help, John made the application and was accepted as a refugee. If John had done nothing else in his life that was remarkable it would have been enough, but there is more.

John was presently working for a company in Medicine Hat working on large machines. He was supporting his mother and his youngest brother who was still in school in Kenya. He was also sending money to two other siblings who had somehow managed to get to Australia. He was also going to school so that he could get his grade 12. He needed high school diploma so that he could become an apprentice mechanic. I don’t know where he found the time, the energy or the commitment to do all of it. On top of the responsibilities he had assumed for his family he also acted as some sort of informal community facilitator for recent immigrants from the Sudan.

When we were approaching Regina he asked if I minded if he stopped and saw a friend “just for a few minutes”. Of course I said no. I appreciated the courtesy but after all it was his car. We stopped at an apartment where his two friends were living. They were gracious gentlemen who offered me a seat and something to drink. It was one of the strangest experiences of my life to sit there for 20 minutes listening to John and his friends talk in a language completely foreign to my ears. I was clearly the outsider. I was uncomfortable but I don’t think they were. In fact they ignored me completely. John told me that he dropped in on them whenever he could to make sure that they were doing all right and that they had both enough money and access to the services that they needed.

As we got back into the car he told me that he also wanted to see his cousin while he was in town. When I tried to find out how they were related, I got the sense that his definition of a cousin was much broader than mine would be. His cousin and her five year old daughter were as charming as the first two guys; offering me a comfortable seat and something to drink and then ignoring me.  As they talked the little girl was getting her hair done in corn rows, ready for her first day at school. It was an interesting process to watch. I can’t imagine either of my kids or grandkids ever sitting down long enough for it to get done. I think the mother said that it would take four days to complete the whole process. Again virtually all of the conversation was in their native language and again I felt like the outsider.  We stayed for about 20 minutes. As we were leaving the little girl reached up to touch my beard. I don’t think she had ever seen one before.

It is not often that people of my age, my colour, my sex and my height feel like an outsider. I am a tall white educated male. I am part of the elite.  The people John visited that day did not intentionally isolate me or push me away. I certainly was not offended in any way. But it was a remarkable feeling to be in a room and know that not only did I not belong there, I was in almost every conceivable way superfluous to the situation.  

As we were walking back to the car, John said he was hungry. We talked about food and diet. I would have loved to try some of his ethnic food. There was a restaurant that had good food from the Sudan but it would take hours for them to prepare a meal. So we went to a Chinese buffet instead. I was happy mainly because it felt as if I had not eaten for days, but also because I wanted to buy John supper. It wasn’t a great restaurant but it did the trick. My belly was full again. But John would not let me pay for supper. He insisted that he do it. The man was just one of those folks who feel compulsed to give.

For the rest of the trip our conversation ranged over all of the standard things. School (how hard it was to juggle work life and school work), finding bosses (he had a good one who he liked), and relationships (he had wife who did not live with him but did call him on his cell phone as we were driving). But we also talked about the languages he spoke, his dreams for the future and the pressures of being responsible for all of these people. It was a lovely journey across the Prairies. As we got close to Brandon I was sad that it was going to end. He offered me a bed in his motel room where he stayed but it was a warm night and I wanted to sleep outside. There is a great spot to sleep at the edge of town, and I wanted to be outside one more night.  So we said good bye in the dark.

My life is enriched by all of my drivers. Almost without exception they share part of themselves with me through their stories and through their generosity. But John gave something else.  I don’t think I will ever be able to put into words how much I admire him, how much I respect his courage, his humanity, his sense of responsibility for others, his capacity to find joy and perhaps most of all his capacity to forgive and to move forward. He could teach us all a few lessons about how to live.

On the Road Again 2011 #44

I was not particularly hungry in spite of the fact that I last eaten a full meal on the ferry from Nanaimo to the mainland 48 hours ago, but I knew I should grab something as it could be a long day. So after getting off the bus at the east end of Calgary I dropped in at a McDonald’s and grabbed a mcmuffin. I ate it as I walked out to the highway. Not the best breakfast in the world but it would have to do.

They (the city of Calgary) have been doing road construction on the eastern outskirts of the city for at least the past four or five years. It is now finished and that has made my twenty or so minute walk to the edge of the city so much easier and safer. It is still tricky as there are lanes entering and exiting the highway that need to be crossed over. Many of the drivers appear to be confused when they see someone walking along the shoulder of the highway. I don’t think they see someone walking east out of town very often.  

I was feeling pretty good. I had had two good sleeps in a row, I had managed to navigate my way through Calgary without a hitch and so far my body had been holding up just fine. I had a smile on my face as I stuck out my thumb. 

Forty minutes later I got a ride all the way to other side of Medicine Hat. My driver was a worker in the oil fields and had come home for a few days to visit his family. He had just bought a nearly brand new, top of the line Honda. It was luxurious, really comfortable and my driver was excited about having such a nice car to show off. In hindsight I don’t know why we didn’t talk much about his work life. Almost always when I get a drive with an oil field guy, they are younger and still full of ( or at least they talk as if they are) the excitement of making big money. But my driver was older and I wish I had asked him what it was like after being in that life for 20 years. But we didn’t talk about that sort of thing. We talked about life and its complexities. He was divorced from his wife and therefore was an absentee dad. But I think he worked hard at being a good dad and made the trip down as often as he could to spend time with his son.  It was difficult for him to always keep connected to that part of his life and to live in the present day. We both agreed that it was, on occasion, difficult to be tied to the past and at the same time to move forward. We also talked about girlfriends and what school was like for kids these days and no matter how much we like our jobs, some days (or some weeks) work was just not any fun. Just guy stuff. A pleasant ride that met (I hope) both of our needs. He got some company over a stretch of highway that he had driven a hundred times. I got to ride in a nice car and to hear some more stories.

Can life be better than that?

On the Road Again 2011 #43

There are times when I am traveling that a scene or an image appears that is so compelling or extraordinary, that I think I will remember it forever. I can see, in my mind, as clearly now as I did then that first image of the Rockies; of the woman who, along with her daughter, picked me up in their little Chevette loaded with groceries somewhere outside of Yale; of the fireworks that exploded into the sky from small Prairie towns as we travelled across that wide expanse sometime after dark on a July 1^st or the Northern Lights that danced above my head as I tried to sleep near an underpass just outside of Regina. These images sneak up on me at the strangest times, unbidden, unexpected and usually without any obvious connection to what I am currently musing about. These images, these vibrant flashbacks are always a joy. They catch my breath just as they did the first time I saw them. I hope they never leave me or become so buried in the cluttered filing cabinet of my mind that I can’t find them. This year I have a new image to file away, hopefully to be retrieved whenever I need to be reminded of the joy that is my life.

I had gotten up reasonably early after a satisfactory sleep. I was somewhat proud of myself that I didn’t need directions to find the bus stop a few blocks over from the motel or in fact need any help navigating Calgary’s transit system. A kind young man saw me looking at the map at the C train station and confirmed what I thought I already knew. It was nice to be offered help without asking for it. It was of course a workday and virtually everyone getting on or off the bus looked as if they were off to work. People were quiet, most of them moving as if they were barely awake. During these kinds of public transit rides I sometimes feel like an alien from another planet, as if I don’t belong not only on the bus, but anywhere. The lives of the other riders seem so foreign to me. I catch them staring at me, our eyes never really making contact and I wonder what they think of me with my long braid, my nearly all grey beard, my large pack, and my travel worn clothes. I wonder if they are envious of me or if they feel sorry for me?

The bus driver was a friendly sort of guy. I have noticed in the past few years that the drivers in Calgary generally seem to be nicer.  At some point along the road, much to my surprise, the bus stopped at one of the bus shelters. The driver turned off the bus off and got out. I initially assumed that either he was running early and had to kill a few minutes, that he was off duty and waiting for his replacement to take over or that he had to wait for a connector bus to arrive. But no – he had stopped to talk to an older black woman who was sitting in the shelter. She had a pen knife and was whittling on a long stick. The shelter floor was littered with shavings. I don’t think the woman was what some would call a “bag lady” but she certainly appeared as if she was living rather rough. She stood up; they talked for a few minutes in what appeared to be friendly and charming tones. He clearly was not lecturing her or complaining about anything, he touched her on the shoulder in an affectionate way, said good bye and got back on the bus. He gave a wave, she waved back and off we went. Why this less than middle aged white bus driver would stop and talk to this older black women is beyond me. I would have loved to have been closer so that I could hear what they talked about. But the image of these two people who on the surface appeared to come from such disparate lives holds me. They were friends. At least in my mind she and he were part of each other’s daily routine. When he saw her, he stopped what he was doing and took a few minutes to say hello. She was delighted to see him.

It is a small image amongst the thousands and thousands pictures my mind collected this trip, And yet somehow it is the defining one. I don’t know why. I only know that whenever it pops unbidden to the surface, I smile. That is a good enough reason for me.

On the Road Again 2011 #42

The bright purple cab was pulling matching tanker-like cars, only he was not hauling a liquid, my friendly truck driver was hauling sand! Rather fine sand I suspect as it was being delivered to a factory in the states that made roofing shingles. His load weighed 65,000 pounds. That is a lot of sand!

My driver was 72 years old but looked much younger. Truck driving was all that he had ever done and he was a wealth of information about his craft. He had covered the route to Calgary a thousand times and there was not a turn or a hill that did not have a story attached to it. He had carried explosives when they were blasting out parts of the mountain to improve the road and he showed me spots where he had dropped his load. He explained how the road was built and where the changes had been made. I had forgotten what the old route had looked like and it was fascinating to reminded. It was good that he had so many stories to tell. It was a very long ride. His truck engine was powerful but those long slow uphill climbs from Revelstock to the Roger's Pass tested his engines. On the downhill stretches he had to be equally as careful as he could not afford to have the train he towed behind him get out of control. He was a great driver, careful, aware and almost gentle with his truck. He was delight to watch. He was polite, kind hearted, a man who appeared to be comfortable with who and what he was. I don’t have to like all of my drivers but it sure makes it nice when I get to enjoy them.

Because of his age and his experience he made his own rules. He drove when he wanted to and got to his location when he got there. He only carried sand and I suppose it didn’t matter if he was an hour or so late. He, unlike so many of the truck drivers who pick me up and who think they are their own bosses, actual was his own boss. That is why he picked me up. He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he also knew that the company that he drove for would never say anything. He had job security for as long as he wanted. 

I could never quite figure out where he lived or with whom he lived with. He lived, I think, in some sort of retirement community where he did some sort of maintenance when he was home. He had a bag of rabbit feed in the front seat that he had bought along the way so that he could feed the rabbits that were chewing up the lawns. He figured it was better to feed them food away from the houses than to have them ruin the grass. I was never sure if he did this work to make extra money or if he just did it to keep busy. I think he had a partner, I think he had only one but sometimes he referred to her as his wife and other times he used other labels. But I am almost positive it was always about the same person but as I think back I am no always sure. I know he didn’t have any kids.

In spite of the fact that it was a slow trip, the time did not drag. He had picked me up because he wanted company and conversation and that is what he got. We didn’t talk non-stop but there was an easy flow to the conversation. I know enough about trucks and the drivers that I can ask the kinds of questions that allow the trucker to feel as if they have something worthwhile to say or to teach. There are times when I am travelling where it feels as if the conversation is forced, that I am acting out a part because it is my job to keep the trucker awake. But not this ride. It was a pleasure all of the way through.

It was relaxing in part because I knew I would be in Calgary that night and so any pressure was off. As we neared Calgary he asked me where I wanted to get out. I suppose I could have gone a bit further the other side Calgary before he turned south, but I did not want to be stuck at midnight in the middle of nowhere. Other than that bowl of noodle soup in the motel room I had not eaten since breakfast on the ferry. I felt as if I was ready for a decent meal. It would have been nice to get a drive right through Calgary but all of the cheap motels appear to be on the west side of the city so I asked to be let out somewhere just after we entered the city. Many truck drivers are not particularly flexible (and understandably so) about where they stop. They are driving large vehicles and maneuvering in the city can be tricky. But this driver had no problems at all stopping right in front to the motel where I had stayed a year or so before. When I mentioned that it was unusual, his comment was “I am so big I can stop wherever I want to!”

I thanked him, got out, walked fifteen feet to the motel entrance and got a room. Unfortunately by this time it was after 11:00 and all the restaurants including a sub shop were closed. So I bought a packet of nuts at a gas station and went to bed.

Another successful day.

intermission - cleaning the house

One of the truly great joys of living alone is that the house can be a messy as one wants and no one else ever complains or cares.

For the past two weeks I have been busy finishing a number of weaving projects that have laid unfinished for months. The shawls, bags and rugs have been off the loom but all needed little bits and pieces either woven (e.g. straps for bags) or buttons sewn on or finished in some other way.  The kitchen stove has red and blue dye hidden under the rings, the floors are covered with pieces of fluff or woven wool and the dining room table is buried under finished product and all of the cards that need to be attached to each item with the price on it. The bathroom constantly smells of wet wool as I wash the last of the fleeces. I have in fact been a bit consumed by it all.

But today I am cleaning up! It is so satisfying to see the small piles of wool and cotton warp being combined into one rather impressive pile. Makes me wonder why I don’t clean more often.Of course one of the down parts of living alone is that there is no one else to clean it up…..

p.s. I am doing all of this work as I am having a sale this weekend.

On the Road Again 2011 #41

While walking through the road construction east of Revelstoke was more pleasant than hanging around road construction in the pouring rain outside of Vancouver, it was still dangerous. Traffic patterns in construction zones are disrupted, the shoulders (a sometime rather rare resource in the mountains) disappear completely and no one thinks of looking out for someone who is walking. The drivers of ordinary cars, transport trucks, large dump trucks, back hoes and diggers are all intent on not hitting each other. The flag people are focused on making the chaos manageable for those who are driving.  No one cared about me and I was left to dodge the traffic as best I could. About three quarters of the way up the hill there is a pleasant little spot that I sometimes stand at for awhile, in part because it is a likely spot for cars to stop, but mainly because I am usually out of breath by this time and I need a break. I couldn’t stop this time because there were all kinds of construction vehicles taking up the space. I jokingly said to the flag person that they were taking my spot. She somewhat harshly replied “you are not allowed to hitchhike in a construction zone, please cross the road so that you can walk facing traffic.” I complied of course, but I was not happy having to walk on the other side where the shoulder was loose gravel and steeply slanted downwards towards the ditch.

After walking for another ten or so minutes I was out of the construction zone. At the top of the hill there is one of the best spots to hitch in the Rockies. It is in the shade, there is a lot of room for cars to pull over and while the sight lines are not perfect, they are pretty good. The only thing wrong with this spot is that it is at the top of a very long hill. That means that if cars get stuck behind a slow transport truck climbing the long hill, this is the first spot since Revelstock that they are able to pass the truck. Some drivers, frustrated with the slow climb, don’t even look at me as they zip by the trucks. Trucks of course never stop here. They have just had a torturous downshifting climb up a long hill (it may be one of the longest hills heading east. To make it worse there is a stop light at the bottom of it), they have just started to shift into the higher gears and the last thing the driver wants to do is to stop. I was more surprised than usual when a trucker hauling a “B train” stopped. They never stop for anyone!

A “B train” is two trailers attached together and pulled by a regular looking transport truck. It means that the trucks can haul almost twice as much stuff as can a regular transport truck. It also means that it is almost twice as long as most trucks. I have always assumed that it would take a lot more skill to drive one of these long trucks, that the trucks are all owned by large companies (and therefore are less likely to be allowed to pick up a passenger) and that they, if they had a choice, didn’t stop for anything.  I was so surprised that such a truck had stopped to offer me a ride that that I didn’t move for a minute, but when the driver tooted his horn and I grabbed my pack and ran.