Newfoundland Part 2 - Where d'you belong?

All across Newfoundland we've been asked, "S'where you visiting from?" Here, as in Quebec, it's obvious at a glance that we are not from here. So when a man asked me a question that I couldn't decipher, it took a few tries to get beyond the accent and discover he had asked, "Where do you belong?"

It's just another way of saying "where are you from?" but the implications are different. Implied, obviously, is that I don't belong here, and by extension, he does. "Where do you belong" is a good question. I’ve been reading a book called, 'Leaving Newfoundland' that discusses the out-migration that is happening, and that has always happened, here in Newfoundland. The thesis of the book is that settling here has always brought with it the need to go 'Away' in order to make a living.

Ironically, for a population that has been so migratory and readily pulled Away for income, the people are more rooted to this place than anywhere else we’ve been in Canada. The word 'Away' in Newfoundland needs to be capitalized, since the notion of being away has become a place in itself. In Alaska, anywhere outside of Alaska is called, 'Outside.' In Newfoundland, anywhere outside of Newfoundland is 'Away.' Both indicate that there is a place to return, and that there is a home waiting for that return.

We are now in the town of Tilting on Fogo Island. It is a place with Irish roots. VERY Irish roots. I had first thought my eyes were tricking me when I saw the flags flying. The Newfoundland flag (republic of, not official provincial) is vertical stripes of green, white and pink. Here the flags were green, white and orange. Later, I learned this is the flag of Ireland.

Our timing was good since we lucked onto the Tilting Feile. This Feile is a weekend of workshops and celebration that has included bringing over people from Ireland and sending locals to Ireland. They have even set up a local radio station in the Church Hall for 5 days, and are encouraging the locals to come in and sing, read poetry or share stories. I'm sitting in the church hall now. It's warmer than the van, especially as the rain pelts down and the wind comes in off the ocean. It smells better too, as yeasty and chowdery smells float in from the kitchen.

I am listening to the rookie DJ read an email from a Newfoundlander who now resides in Florida. A part of the email reads, of course, “but Tilting will always be my home.”

So I am left asking myself, where do I belong? I belong here in Newfoundland for now. I belong in the van, such as it is. In the long term I believe I belong in Victoria, and definitely with Jack. But I was born in Virginia, grew up in Colorado, moved to Vancouver and then to Vancouver Island. Most of the people I know in Victoria are from somewhere else. I have a dual citizenship which implies my ambivalence about where I belong, and leaves open my choices of where I might live in the future. It even leaves open the idea that someday I might find myself living in Newfoundland.

Martin Foley - dries fish for the winter:

Bonavista Peninsula:

Tilting- sea on all sides:

The only mean Newfoundlander we've met:

Didn't the bears used to do this in Yellowstone?:

Newfoundland - the Friendly Province

A benefit from our car troubles upon entering Newfoundland was that we had immediate contact with local people who are not engaged in the tourism industry. The impression has been that uniformly, everywhere, people have been ridiculously good-natured, helpful and kind to us. "Whar ya fromme?" starts many a conversation. Now everywhere in Canada people have been good to us, but Newfoundland seems to take it to a different level. It's almost weird and takes some getting used to. It almost feels like we are in some kind of 'Truman Show' where someone is following us around and putting people in our path to show us around.

Last night, we arrived at a tourist information centre too late. We were standing in the parking lot looking lonely and lost for 15-20 seconds before a man got out of his car and announced, "You need information now do ya? I know everything there is ta know about dis place." (I'm sorry I can't type the combination Newfoundland & Irish accent) His name was Michael O'Riley and he told us the best outfit to take us whale-watching (O-Briens - alas, no whales), and where we could camp for the night. "Ya know about campin' in Newfoundland don'tcha? Ya don't pay for the campin' in Newfoundland." He first told us, then drove us to a good camping spot where, "the cops'll look after ya and make sure nobody hassles ya." Yes, the cops in Newfoundland will look after you if you are illegally camped somewhere and make sure no yahoos ruin your tranquil evening.

I had expressed concern that I hadn't had a shower for several days and was looking forward to one. Michael O'Riley just said, "Well there's the pond right there, you can just jump right on in no one will stop ya." Jack said something sarcastic about the ice forming around the edges, and Michael O'Riley responded quite seriously, "Oh no, the ice left long ago. It's got to be a good 4 to 5 degrees in there by now." And he was right. It did feel like about 4 to 5 degrees, but it was wonderful to have clean hair again. Jack stayed in the van playing with his i-phone. Then later he fixed dinner for me as I sat shivering in the back of the van with wet hair. (My desperate search for heat resulted in a new all-Canadian cocktail: Maple wine mixed with Crown Royal. Yum.)

These people for the most part have little reason to be upbeat. "When the cod left, that's when everything else went," we were told by a restaurant owner who was waiting her own tables. Yet everywhere we go people are quick to laugh and give some optimistic advice. They are cheerful and always joking around with each other.

I think the secret is that they don't take themselves too seriously. How can you paint all the rocks in your landscape in 64 crayola colours, or install plastic flowers in the garden without having a tongue firmly in cheek? Or the red plastic roosters mounted on each and every fencepost around a 2 acre property. Or the entire miniature village complete with miniature clothes-lines with miniature laundry drying in the wind.






Or the plywood cutouts of dogs, cats, cowboys, moose. Or the whirligigs of old-men rowing in the wind, of Canada Geese flying, of characters waving, of anything that you can imagine whirling, well, whirling. Although at a small graveyard we did see a grave that caused me to pause. It was for two brothers who had died in a boating accident in full view of their brother on shore. A tragedy for the family and for the small community. The gravestone was sober, but the entire area was covered in Astroturf, had two fanciful wooden boats and a solar powered miniature lighthouse. Whoever did that had to be able to see through their own tragedy to the sense of humour of the deceased.

If you have had an unfriendly encounter with a Newfoundlander, I don't believe it, and if Michael O'Riley was laughing with his friends about the BC hippies out on highway 10 swimming in the pond, well I don't want to know about that either.

But if I were a Newfoundlander, I think my inner curmudgeon would eventually come out. I think I'd start complaining about the weather and saying, "My tomatoes won't ripen, and I wish the hell that the tourists would stop taking pictures of the damn laundry."

When Clean is Just Another Shade of Filthy...Westfalia Living

Sorry that (other than this pig) there's no illustrative photos for this blog, but until your computer has scratch and sniff capability, photos wouldn't do it justice anyway. I'm just going to find some pretty pictures and stick them in randomly.




We are now in Newfoundland and yes, there actually is bologna on the menu, but I thought it was time to talk about Westfalia living. Rosalita has had a few quirks from the outset, but upon arrival in Newfoundland we had no headlights, no ability to open the windows and no windshield wipers. We've spent the first 24 hours here within a few miles of the ferry terminal and closer still to Matt's Auto here in Placentia Newfoundland.




But life in Rosalita is more than how well she is or isn't running. It means living in close quarters to each other and getting used to the realities of having no real electrical or water infrastructure. This means we have a sink, but no water or sewer lines unless we are at an RV park (never). This in turn means that we are very water efficient and even more soap efficient. I think we have actually given up on soap for the most part.

Take for instance my stainless steel "wineglass." Each evening I enjoy a glass or two, and in the beginning, I would use a little soap and water to clean it up and dry with a tea towel. Then later I would just turn it upside down on a picnic table so that it could dry overnight. Then later still, I would get lazy and go to bed and do this in the morning (nothing dries overnight anyway). Then I decided it was just wine so it really didn't need soap. This morning I just put some water in it to slosh it around and dissolve the old wine, drank the water, and put the glass away wet. I suspect Jack of licking off the spoons and putting them away, but I'm not sure.

Now imagine all of our dishes in somewhat similar fashion.

A few weeks ago, we opened the side door after a hike, and the smell was more than just a little revolting. It was sort of an ode du dirty wet socks, rotting fruit and something molding. In the van there is a piece of carpet laid over the VW carpet, and both layers were wet and mildewing. Besides that, the refrigerator does not really keep anything cold. It can sort of keep things cool, but it barely slows the decay as compared to keeping something in the glove compartment. We took out the rugs and dried them as best we could, got the really ugly stuff out of the fridge and today, finally, we're doing the laundry. We're even washing the tea towel for the first time in 8 weeks.

Parks doesn't have the budget for horses...

I haven't had a shower in 3 days and that seems normal too. But when I do get one, I'm sure I'll feel so smug.

Single Windturbine Blade in NB:

Becoming Higher Caliber People

We have come across so many ironies in our travels, that I am considering just making a list of them all. Maybe that will be a future blog. The one that’s been on my mind for a while is about food.

We have just spent a delightful few days with friends at their “cottage” in the Laurentians in Quebec. They are foodies and the experience was delicious. Crêpes, Montreal bagels and baguettes, cheeses to die for (including one called “Anglo Saxon” - I don't even want to know why), local wine, beer and cider, espresso, homemade gazpacho, and throughout it all, glorious fresh fruits and vegetables. We had a similar experience with friends in Toronto and again in Ottawa. Actually in Ottawa, as I gazed up agape at the chalkboard menu of a funky organic restaurant, my friend Lisa said I looked like I was seeing a DaVinci painting for the first time.

This was because we have spent a lot of time in small rural Canadian towns, and here comes the irony. In small farming communities, you won’t be served fresh fruits or vegetables. There will be lot’s of fried options, there will be both kinds of bread (“white or brown?”) there will be Coca Cola, but the only thing vaguely green will be a pale piece of iceberg lettuce. I finally realized that places that advertise themselves as serving “homestyle cooking” don’t bear any resemblance to what my friends or I would cook at home.

Picture Perfect Montreal Lunch

I’ve read that a low income is a strong indicator for an unhealthy weight. And while I have found that restaurant prices may be slightly higher in high rent areas, the difference really hasn’t been significant. That may be because the deveggified restaurant food tends to come in huge portions. The rural restaurant portion sizes assume that I will be spending my afternoon tossing around 50 pound bales of hay or pulling a plow through rocky prairie soil. The result of this kind of eating, along with all the sitting involved with driving across the country, is a couple of British Columbians who are having more difficulty fitting into their trousers.

Do vertical photos make my butt look fat?

But it’s not just us. As we have travelled across the country, the experience has been quite similar everywhere. There are a lot of fat people in the country and a lot of slim people in the cities. Part may be fashion consciousness, but as I witness people using their ATV to get down their driveway to empty their mailbox, I can’t but come to the conclusion that the whole rural work-hard ethic doesn’t really result in getting physical activity. It’s just too easy to jump into the car. And in the cities, it’s a pain in the ass to jump in the car. Just try to find parking, and when you do it’s expensive.


Toronto - I counted 16 lanes







A Toronto dirt-filled sedan – a use for cars in the future?














an Ottawa artist gets his exercise balancing heavy rocks

Or is all this just my own snobbishness? Is expecting greenery beyond coleslaw at a meal just another form of elitism? A woman told me she was a “coffee snob too” when I asked if espresso was available anywhere in town.


We've just headed into a more rural Quebec, so I'll be able to see if the theory holds. After all, everything sounds better in French.

Islands of Misfit Toys

In his book, “Beauty Tips From Moose Jaw,” Will Ferguson’s thesis is that Canada is not a country, but a clump of otherwise unrelated outposts. Yes, I just put Will Ferguson and the word “thesis” in the same sentence. It makes it seem important. In any case, our last series of encounters with various groups of Canadians, have brought me to a similar realization. We all imagine that we are somehow different or unique within our little communities.

If you're a Mennonite: is it a sin to be proud of your bull?

We visited the Doukabours, who moved here from Russia to continue their culture unimperilled by the Tsar’s Army. As previously mentioned, we spent some time with cowboys, who would prefer to continue their lifestyle unimpeded by government, oil prices, enviros, and god-damned vegetarians. We spent some time with the Métis, who developed a unique blend of French voyageur and first nations culture, but who are now a culture of their own. (How can you not like people who can fiddle and jig, make bannock, hit a target with an axe, make beautiful functional things, and survive on boiled muskrat?) And we visited the Mennonites, who imported a European culture to Canada, again to avoid persecution and harassment.

Bison Skull painted by Metis Artist Neil Fehr:

Hitting a quarter at 20 paces:

Caution: Objects in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear

Then there are the fervently non-Canadian “Northwest Angle” inhabitants. Not familiar with the Northwest Angle? Go to the most southerly portion of Manitoba’s eastern boundary. Surrounded by the Lake of the Woods, there is a peninsula off of Manitoba, not part of Ontario, that is actually part of Minnesota. It’s the most northerly point of the contiguous United States. Here in a weirdly American way, these people have developed their own lives, unimpeded by, well, anybody.

Jim's Corner: Shack and Telephone

Aside: The border crossing into the Northwest Angle is bizarre. For one thing you need to go down about 100 km of dirt road to get there. Then you see the sign, "Welcome to the United States." Further down, the next sign, " YOU MUST CHECK IN WITH THE US AUTHORITIES TO ENTER THE US". Further down, the next sign, "US IMMIGRATION AND CONTROL AT JIM'S CORNER." Then, "JIM'S CORNER 8 KM." so you're basically an illegal entry for 8 more km. Then you get to Jim's Corner, which is, a corner, a crossroads of 2 dirt roads and a little white shack. In the shack is a telephone. Press the left button to call USA authorities. Press the right button to call Canadian Authorities as you leave. Homeland Security is hard to take seriously in these circumstances. We brought our passports for this?

Back to the most important subculture of all: the lonely Westfalian’s who, after several dry provinces finally in Ontario see another couple driving a Westfalia and go crazy waving and honking.

I was beginning to think that each of these groups was good at seeing how others had impacted their lives, typically negatively, but had a blind spot regarding their impact on everyone else. The cultural museums that we visited showed each group's struggles to survive in a harsh landscape and showed their beautiful crafts and ingenuity. But a lot of these groups were living within the same territories and I wondered how did the (fill in the blank) feel about these newcomers who settled these lands.

How baby Kleenex are made:

Then our entry into Ontario greeted us with an endless series of “trading posts” which sell large quantities of tacky plastic things, chocolate fudge, dead animal pelts, indian crafts, and large wooden carvings of “Indians” with less than intelligent facial expressions. All of which may appeal to you if you happen to be an undereducated fat white guy toting a gun but unsuccessful at hunting. Otherwise it’s all a bit alienating. I had the feeling that these places were ignoring everyone. But then again, maybe they thought of themselves as pioneers starting up their own businesses etc.

Just a thought.

Wolfskin and 50 Fox tails reduced to tacky souvenirs