Learning is Where You Find It

Blogger Gordon has been "Gone Fishing" for a few months. Nota bene, not gone phishing! Now with the catch in hand to tide us through the winter, it's time to dip the quill in the inkpot and inscribe a few lines. A few thoughts on learning. Not all of it "school learning" either. Not that the contributions of the institutions are to be denied, but there are other sources. Many!

One of these came early to this now ancient of days. It was a book of photographs by Edward Steichen whose perceptive eyes penetrated the blinding fog of racism, colour, social class, wealth, and all the stereotypes so common in the 1950s. And exist today, albeit in more sophisticated manner, I should add.

A book-club-of-the-month choice, THE FAMILY OF MAN spoke volumes to naive and sequestered souls who believed in the superiority of race, wealth, "class", religion or "breed". Apologies to the talented Kipling with his remarks about those of "lesser breed"!

Out of the pages tumbled imagery of the human need and condition. Set in different countries, climates, and regimes, they spoke of the commonality that transcends language, colour, and ethnicity. Perhaps we may be able to cope better with our global family more than half a century later, Perhaps not. Despite it's limits in photo reproduction of the times, Steichen's book remains inspiring.

Steichen, explorer, photographer, and teacher. Thank you.

Anomalies

Rumour has it that Voltaire was with Louis XV at the time of the fall of New France, and in an effort to console the monarch dismissed the lost territory as “quelques arpents de neiges”. Indeed the winters of New France consisted of not just acres, but thousands of square miles of snow-covered landscape. And Voltaire’s opinions on the subject are truly documented, in both Candide and other writings. So it continues to surprise me when this "barren wilderness" produces such extraordinary products.

Forget maple syrup, if you can. And if you know it intimately on your pancakes, you can’t. Dismiss Bombardier, presently the third largest aircraft maker in the world. But the strawberries! How could anyone forget those savoury red berries which outmatch anything of the same name that the year-round produce market deems suitable for shipping more than a few kilometres from source.

And the wonder of it in this climate depends to a large extent on a kind of anomaly. L'isle d'Orléans. Originally named Ile de Bacchus by Jacques Cartier, it’s position in the St. Lawrence River gives it an extraordinarily favourable climate.

Over three months ago we bought our first local berries. This evening I brought home two pints heaped high. Tomorrow morning, pancakes with maple syrup and strawberries. Anomalies can be wonderful!

Distractions

It might be easier to deal with if it were a straightforward medical problem. Or attributable to genetics. Not that I would wish on myself all-out attention deficit disorder, popping Ritalin to keep me in line. But being easily distracted has its challenges. Very early this morning I received an email from a friend in Hong Kong. It made my day, but destroyed all my earnest plans for those Sisyphus-like activities laid out before me.

I was asked a simple question. “When will Though I am Gone be screened at the imminent Vancouver Film Festival.?” Like Alice, I tumbled into a cyber hole that lead me into another world. Not that the question was complex. I expect to discover the answer tomorrow when film festival offices are open for business.

Ever-curious I wanted to know the name of the filmmaker. Which led me to a wonderful interview which Shen Rui conducted with compassionate historian and film director Hu Jie (胡杰). He yearns to know the real and recent history of his country, China. He is a searcher after the truth, and a compassionate visual chronicler. In many ways apolitical, his films are more of a scourage to the establishment than those of a confrontational sort.

So today has been all about Hu Jie. I was willingly hijacked from the role of Hercules, and left King Augeas’ litter a-lying about me while I immersed myself in the fresh air of Hu’s story, so ably translated by Ms. Shen. And found his film on Youtube, albeit in ten segments. Now, later in the day, some seem to have disappeared. And all are blocked in China apparently.

Christopher Columbus is quoted as saying By prevailing over all obstacles and distractions, one may unfailingly arrive at his chosen goal or destination. Look where that got him! And me? Well my distraction may get me into even more uncharted waters. Time will tell.

Pedal for Hope

They arrived in the neighbourhood the same year that we did. Muslim Harji was tall and genial, and his wife whom we always called “Mrs. Harji” was warm and spontaneous. They had fled Uganda when Idi Amin’s regime threatened. Now they were a very busy couple setting up a small food shop on Avenue du Parc, in the midst of a heterogeneous community. Hassidim, Italian and Greek Canadians, Quebecois(e) and Anglos such as ourselves.

Then a daughter, Ayesha, was born to them, and a son two years later. The little store thrived as a family enterprise. Sadly, they retired after some thirty years of hard work. We picked up on their story at the library a few days ago, when Muslim, after warmly embracing us, recounted the Cairo to Cape bicycle journey which he and his daughter made last year. It was part of a fund-raising effort by the Aga Khan Foundation. Muslim didn’t have enough time to tell about the whole 12,000km trip, so he focused on Sudan. This was the Sudan you never hear about. Ayesha’s blog reveals the no strings attached kindness they encountered amidst the material poverty.

One day, in the small town of Karima, we were invited into the home of a man we didn't know, who didn't speak any English at all. Being the cautious traveller, I was worried that this was going to be some sort of scam with a request for payment at the end, but we went in and sat down on the floor of a thatched little open-air hut surrounded by palm trees.

After some small talk where, with some difficulty, we explained to them that we were on a bicycle expedition (only to get the same incredulous response), a young boy came forward with an enormous tray that he put down on the floor. He uncovered four bowls of food - salad, a delicious curry-type dish similar to what my mom makes at home, beans (called foul, pronounced "fool") and a sweet vermicelli dish (like sev for all you Indians out there). Around the four bowls were round pieces of bread and we all sat there on the floor and ate together. The man also gave us a tour of his compound (including his home, a wheat-grinder, a kitchen and a women's section - there were a lot of them, don't know how many wives this guy has, but anyway) and also gave us fresh figs right off a tree.

After all this, they just led us back into the street, we all said our goodbyes and they pointed us back in the direction from whence we came. No money, no payment, no nothing. It was just plain and simple hospitality, and he disappeared back into his home like this was nothing out of the ordinary. Everywhere along the road, many members of our group have experienced similar displays of openness and good will from the people in this country.

"Leave well enough, alone"

This is an old saying from my childhood. To be told this by my mother was a polite way of her saying “Shut up, you’ve already said too much!” Delightfully burdened with only fond memories of her presence, I feel free to indulge. It was the recent furniture store visit which set me to thinking. I won't leave well enough alone. Thinking about how people leave their mark.

My feelings on the robber barons, past and present, who leave such “gifts” as Carnegie Hall, are mixed.

The amenity is often appreciated, but the naming.... Why aren’t they named after some of the workers who died to make the amassed fortunes? My hero and companion in this line of thought, since schooldays, has always been Shelley, and the way he celebrated the once noble Ozymandias.

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies.........

Enough. Back to the furniture store and sofas. The latter word apparently coming from Turkish into English almost 300 years ago. But what about ottoman, and chesterfield? And to a lesser degree, davenport? The world's population lolling about comfortably on them with the Sunday paper. Wouldn’t this be a fine way to have one’s name remembered.?

schlimmbesserungen

We set out to explore the bargains at an SAQ Dépôt. I picked up a bottle of Metaxa Seven Star as well as a French blend, a plonk which I recommend. Then I continued on with my good friends who are searching for suitable furnishings for their home-to-be. They are still at the exploratory stage, measuring tape in hand, and eyeing various combinations for purchase at a later stage.

The spacious and elegant showroom was designed primarily for the eye. Vast sweeps of white with pools of dark-finish table tops and subdued displays of colour. Pseudo-artistic creations at exorbitant prices. “Gimmicks galore for home décor” could easily have been the store’s slogan. I was particularly intrigued by all-in-one sofas cum chaise-longues which seemed to be the “in thing”. Cursory tests of either the comfort or practicality of these articles seemed to be the last thing on the minds of potential buyers. These were not your customary IKEA shoppers.

Which leads me to another article by Mark Kingwell. Bear with him. His thoughts outpace his expressive abilities. Unless your German’s up to par, you’ll have to read it to understand the heading of this piece! In the meantime open a bottle and enjoy the fruits of this 12^th century Languedoc Château!

The Reconciliation of John and Gordon

It was February in Prague, just a month after the former Czechoslovakia had been split into two separate countries, the Czech and the Slovak Republics. A sad event for me as I had already made many friends on both sides of the border. And I favour inclusiveness over separatism. But it was a beautiful evening all the same.

Powder snow swirled and glistened under the century-old lamps as we wound our way through the narrow streets of the old city, heading to the Staroměstské subway station. Another time I might be humming Good King Wenceslas as I held my head low against the wintry blast. But not tonight. Christmas was six weeks past. Besides, I only hum when I’m alone.

John, Jana and I had spent an evening in her cozy apartment overlooking the Vltava. After a simple dinner we did our best to empty a bottle of Becharovka. As it closed in on eleven, I headed to catch the last train to the hostel which was home. John insisted on accompanying me to the station. A Czech by birth, he was now a Canadian who had returned to his native land and was organizing volunteers to teach English to an eager populace. I was playing a part in this venture.

A retired career army officer, he wrote The Disarming of Canada, a critique of Canada’s military policy as a peace-keeping force. There was a chapter in it criticizing a peace education project which I had initiated. But over three years of collaboration a lot of trust had developed between us, seasoned with good humour and Pilsener.

The streets were empty so it was a surprise to come upon an unsteady figure in tattered clothing. As we approached, this Robinson Crusoe apparition stumbled again, his bleeding hands pierced by nails protruding from a packing case he dragged behind him. John rushed to his rescue and we proceeded, supporting him, to a nearby apartment. Despite the doorkeeper’s protests we took him to his room, cleaned him up, and John left him with a five hundred crown note. Apparently the wretched one had spent his rent money at a local bar, something that newfound capitalism couldn’t tolerate.

In the process I missed the train. The taxi was much more expensive. But well worth the cementing of our bond. It was the last time I saw John. He was drawn to the smell of conflict and became a war correspondent in Bosnia. He died there when his car ran over a land mine.