Chapter 2: Canadian Justice is Harsh

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Go to previous instalment – Chapter 1. A pimp gets some

I didn’t start looking around for the second one until January, more than six months after the pimp. The despondency was back. Heavier than ever. I’d been on a slide since early fall. Christmas was bad. Two houses on our block were broken into the week before. The Shelbys, who lived across the street, had all their Christmas presents ripped off. I heard Helen telling Kate about it and it made me feel small inside.

Vulnerable. Depressed.

I was watching the six o’clock news when I made the decision. The lead item was about drug dealing in Pigeon Park, a down-and-out area about three or four miles further down Hastings from where we lived. The police had conducted an undercover operation and nabbed a bunch of low-level drug dealers who operated in the Downtown Eastside.

One of the scumbags caught in the net, a Hispanic from Central America, had been processed at the Main Street police station and released on bail. The television cameras caught him coming out and instead of shying away from the media attention he sauntered up to the camera with a macho swagger and gave the viewers a one-finger salute. A kind of “Fuck you, Canada!” that infuriated me.

I don’t know why I got so mad. I wasn’t particularly patriotic. It just pissed me off, the arrogance of it. I locked the office door, unscrewed the compartment and hefted the gun in my hand. I aimed it at the TV, at the smiling face of the news anchor.

“Fuck you, scumbag, you’re going to get some too.”

I started planning it then and the depression lifted, replaced by self-righteous fury that energized me. I knew it would be too difficult to get the guy on the newscast, so I resolved to get a drug dealer, any drug dealer, but preferably a foreigner. Someone who was taking advantage of Canadian hospitality. It didn’t matter who, so long as a message was delivered.

Pigeon Park was the obvious location, but it didn’t appeal to me. Too many people around. Too many cops in the area. Too many cameras. Too dangerous. A few months before, one of the women in the office had complained about a drug house operating on the corner near her place, on the East Side, off Broadway and Fraser. I took to driving past. The drug house wasn’t hard to spot. A big run-down old shack with an overgrown yard. People coming and going. I could see how it would upset the neighbourhood.

On my third swing past I noticed a guy, he looked Chinese or Vietnamese, standing in the shadow of a big tree on a side street around the corner from the drug house. I pulled the Explorer over and looked at the guy. He came over to the passenger window, but I waved him off and he went back to standing under the tree. Sullen. I drove away.

A few nights later, a Thursday, I came back about the same time, on my mountain bike. I didn’t want my vehicle recognized. Nobody was there so I circled the block, casual-like, just a guy out for an evening’s ride. I didn’t draw any attention to myself.

I went back on Saturday, earlier this time, around 7:30 p.m. There was an Asian guy standing in the same spot under the tree. I rode past down the sidewalk and glanced at the guy as I went. I couldn’t tell if it was the same guy. It didn’t matter. I knew what he was doing. I rode to the end of the block and turned at the corner. I stopped and looked up the street. A car had pulled to the curb and the Asian guy went over. A minute later the car left, and the Asian guy blended back into the shadows under the tree. “You’re it,” I said to myself, and pedaled off home.

I waited two weeks, until the time was right, a Saturday night. Kate was going to a baby shower for the receptionist in her office. I went shopping with her in the afternoon and helped her pick a gift, a blue knit jump suit with tiny little feet. Looking at the baby clothes made her melancholy.

We’d long ago agreed we didn’t want children, but she was acting a bit petulant, as if the decision had been forced on her. I was feeling conciliatory so rather than withdrawing, as I might have on another day, I said I’d put a bottle of wine in the fridge and we’d have it by candlelight when she came home.

“Just because we’re not going to make babies doesn’t mean we can’t go through the motions, honey.”

She smiled at that and before she left kissed me on the cheek at the front door. As soon as her car was out of sight I went to the office and unscrewed the floorboard. I’d handled the gun a lot in the past couple of weeks and it felt good in my hand. I put a full load in and spun the chamber. I made sure the safety was on then went into a crouch and aimed with both hands at my computer screen.


I’d been edgy the entire week, waking up in the night imagining a thousand scenarios that could go wrong. An innocent person out walking. Somebody driving past. The drug dealer pulling out a gun of his own. A drug accomplice emerging from the shadows firing. But now that it was time for action, I felt remarkably calm.

I dressed in the same navy-blue jogging suit and strapped the fanny pack around my waist, with the pack around front. I put the gun in and swung the pack to the side, like a holster. I sat down in my office chair and went over the plan, such as it was. I’d decided to park the Explorer on the other side of Broadway, a block down and about three blocks north of the killing ground, on a side street with a lot of two-story walk-ups. I’d been through the area several times and there were enough apartments around that a person coming or going wouldn’t be noticed. The night was wet, and I put on a plain black baseball cap without a crest.

I left the house at 7:10 p.m. and drove directly to the parking area through a light drizzle. I got there at 7:23, which surprised me because I thought it was a longer drive. I sat in the car for a moment, going over things, then walked to the opposite end of the block from the direction I’d be returning to the car.

The adrenalin rush I got stepping out of that vehicle was unlike anything I’d experienced. Even for the pimp killing. Objects in my immediate landscape got bigger, clearer, slower. A guy came out of a three-storey walk-up and turned the other way. He was 20 yards ahead of me on the sidewalk, but I was almost looking over his shoulder. My brain was processing at turbo warp speed. Movement. Colour. Vehicles. Cameras. People. Dogs. Anything that posed a threat. Anything out of place. All floating at the edge of conscious thought but not interfering with a sense of purpose focused into a pinpoint. The Buddhists have it right. Nothing exists away from the moment. Nothing mattered except my all-in move on life. A thrill to die for.

I walked to Broadway slowly, practising the pace I wanted to keep after the killing, my hand on the gun in the fanny pack. At the first break in traffic, I crossed and walked up two blocks to East 11th, a block past the kill site, and headed east towards Fraser Street. I wanted to approach the shadow of the tree from a direction opposite where the Explorer was parked.

A perfect rainforest night for killing. Soggy. With poor visibility. Except for me. I saw everything clear and sharp. Fraser Street was busy, but I wasn’t worried about being identified from a passing car. Drivers were straining to negotiate the wet streets through foggy windows. What worried me was somebody looking out a house window or walking a dog. If that happened, I would abort.

I paused at the corner of Fraser and 10th as if I was going to cross Fraser. I looked over at the big tree, but nobody was there. My body sagged and the letdown made me realize how keyed up I was. I had a wild impulse to kick the front door of the drug house and blast whoever opened it.

Instead, I turned to walk down 10th on the opposite side from the kill site, back to the Explorer. As I turned my head, I noticed a motion in the shadows and the figure of a man tight against the tree trunk. The silhouette of his head, caught in the microsecond of a moment, cost the drug dealer his life.

I crossed the street at a measured pace, so as not to alarm him. When I was close enough that he knew I could see him I said, “Hey bro, you got something for me.”

He said something in Chinese or some other far-away language. Three or four words. He moved his body off the tree trunk with a backward shove and reached into a coat pocket. I wasn’t nearly as calm as with Tremmie. I wanted to fire off a shot right then, but I was ten feet away and the gun was still in the fanny pack.

“What you got for me?” I asked again, moving closer.

He said something else, this time in heavily accented English, which I couldn’t make out. It seemed like he was talking money. I kept smiling and reached into my pocket with my free hand and pulled out some bills, a ten and a twenty. This time I understood him.

“No enough. No enough.”

I held the money out and moved closer. I glanced around quickly, as if looking out for a cop. We were alone on the street.

“How much do you want, then, a full load.”

He spread his thumb and fingers to indicate five, then formed a zero with his other hand.

“Fitty. Fitty.”

I was almost close enough to touch him when I pulled the gun out and pointed it at his stomach.

“Canadian justice is harsh, my foreign friend,” I said.

I squeezed the trigger, and nothing happened. The safety was on.  My adrenaline red-lined. The stupid little bastard stood there staring so I flicked the safety off and fired.

He dropped on his ass. A big red stain spread across his jacket front. He didn’t twitch or jerk he just sat there and moaned foreign shit. His crotch was wet with pee. I didn’t want to get any blood on me, so I gripped the gun with both hands and fired again from where I stood. The second shot hit him high in the chest, about six inches under his Adam’s apple. He stopped moaning.

The shots roared in my ears and I wanted to run full bore for the vehicle. Instead, I moved a few doors down into the shadow of another tree and hopped a short fence into a yard. For a horrifying second, I thought it might be the house of the woman from my office and that she would come running out to see what all the commotion was about.

I scanned the street and saw a guy on the other side of Fraser looking my way. “Fuck.” The front porch lights came on at two or three houses. I disappeared into the darkness at the side of the house and moved through the yard into the alley. I ran down the alley, stopping to compose myself for a second at the end of the block. I was surprised and alarmed to see the gun in my hand. I stuffed it back into the fanny back and morphed back to Buddha.

“Easy, easy, easy, easy.” I said it softly, like a mantra. “Easy, easy, easy, easy, easy.

Traffic was heavier and I had to wait to cross. I heard the siren before I reached the other side. Incredibly, the police had taken minutes to respond.

“Easy, easy, easy, easy, easy.”

I fought off the full flight urge while walking the two blocks to the Explorer, wondering sickly how long it would take them to seal off an area. When I got to the corner of the street where I’d parked, I broke into a slow jog. The inside lights were on. The driver’s door wasn’t completely closed.

I couldn’t remember if I’d locked the car, or even if I closed the door. I’d been gone less than 15 minutes so there was lots of juice left in the battery. But it was a stupid mistake. A lighted car is a noticed car.

“Easy, easy, easy, easy, easy.

I unstrapped the fanny pack and stuffed it under the seat. The Explorer smelled of gunpowder, or at least I imagined it did. The digital clock on the dash read 7:47 p.m.

I drove to Fraser, then north a block to Broadway. From the intersection I could see a crowd gathering on the next corner. Two police cars blocked the entrance to the street. Flashing red and blue light reflected off the houses and trees just in from the corner. Traffic was backing up in all directions and I was lucky to squeeze in a left hand turn on the orange. Broadway was clear on my side going away from the shooting and the empty road calmed me. I turned north at Knight and everything was back to normal. I pulled up in front of my house at 7:58.

The drug dealer killing had taken less than an hour. Killing doesn’t take a lot of time.

I went to the office, unloaded the gun, and wiped it down before placing it back in the floor, every sense in full alert. Reliving the moment. Incredibly alive. I can’t put it into words, except to say killing is a powerful drug.

It took longer to calm down after the drug dealer. I stared at the TV, then put a video in I’d watched half a dozen times—House of Games, starring Joe Montegna—but I shut it off after five minutes. The movie playing inside my head was more compelling.

Kate got back just before midnight. A girlfriend from work dropped her off and I could hear them laughing and talking on the quiet street. Kate wasn’t a drinker. I could tell by her pitch that she’d had a few glasses of wine. That was good.

Kate has an eye for detail. That’s why I’m so careful with the gun. She notices if things aren’t quite right. Better that her senses were slightly dulled.

Also, booze makes Kate horny. She loses a lot of inhibitions. I knew we were going to have sex the minute she walked through the door.

“You’re still up.”

She said it louder than normal, laughing at the sight of the open wine bottle in my hand.

“I’ve been waiting for you dear. I thought you might like a nightcap after all that baby talk.”

We didn’t get through the first glasses. We made love on the day bed in the TV room. Killing improved my sex drive. Kate fell asleep right after, and I covered her with a quilt. I sat in the living room in the dark for a long time. Going over everything; over and over. Nothing connected me, except the gun. I knew it had to go.

I slept late. Almost to 11.

“It’s not like you to sleep-in, honey. Are you feeling okay?” Kate sat on the edge of the bed and touched my shoulder. She was solicitous. The sex had reconnected us after months of drifting apart.

“I’m fine, dear. I couldn’t sleep so I read late.”

“What are you reading?”

“Oh, true crime, you know, somebody who thinks they can get away with murder.”

“Is the murderer a man or woman?”

“Some insurance salesman who puts out a $10,000 contract on his heavily insured wife, then kills the guy who does the murder.”

“What’s the title?”

Kate’s like that. It’s not that she’s suspicious. She’s interested in details. If you tell her about a dinner you had at a restaurant two weeks previous, she’ll ask about what vegetables were served; how they were cooked; what spices if any were used; the type of bread that accompanied the meal; whether the bread was served warm.

A Murderous Policy. Paper here yet?”

“Yes, it is, dear. Have some juice and I’ll bring it up.”

She put the glass on the side table, flicked on the lamp and opened the curtains. Rain pelted down on the greyest of days. I couldn’t wait to read the paper. The killing had happened in plenty of time to make the first edition. On a slow news day, it would get decent play. I found it on page 3 of the B section:




A landed immigrant who had been in the country less than three months was shot dead last night on an East Vancouver street.

Tran Hoc Do, a 22-year-old Vietnamese national, was dead before the ambulance arrived. Police said he was shot twice.

Police spokesman Cpl. Marjorie Hooley said police did not know if the killing was gang related. She said Do wasn’t known to police but that the corner where he was killed is a place where drugs are available.

Hooley said police are interviewing residents and motorists but would not confirm reports that a pedestrian witnessed the killing.

Do arrived in Canada in November. He was sponsored by an older brother, a restaurant worker in the city. His mother preceded him to Vancouver by a year, also sponsored by his brother.

The murder, which happened about 7:30 p.m., is the 7th homicide recorded this year, putting the city on pace to break the record of 78 murders set in 1987.

“Murder doesn’t fit into statistical patterns,” said Hooley. “We can have 10 killings in January and not have another until March. If it’s a drug turf thing, they tend to come in bunches.”


I reread the story several times. Seeing his life summed up in a few paragraphs bothered me. It took a little edge off my high. The story made it sound routine. A young guy who fell in with bad company and ended up a homicide statistic. Nobody could know how swiftly Canadian justice had been dispensed. I didn’t feel sorry for the kid. I knew he was selling drugs even if the police weren’t prepared to admit it. The penalty for selling drugs is death in southeast Asia. Why should Canada be different?

I wondered what his drug cohorts would think. Would it make them more cautious? Would they mistakenly exact revenge on some hapless fringe player in the drug trade? Perhaps the killing would start a turf war and the ripple effect would rid us of a few more pushers? The thought of it perked me up.

“Any plans today, Roger, or are you just going to lay in bed all day.”

Kate had showered. Her hair was still wet and her breasts, visible where her robe hung open in front, were tinged with pink from the hot water. I took her hand and pulled her down beside me.

“Why don’t we both stay in bed all day.”


The important things in life became clear in the weeks after the drug dealer. I realized how much Kate meant to me. So complex, yet so transparent. So stable.  Capable of so many emotions but so lacking in guile. My libido reactivated with a ferocity I hadn’t experienced, even as a teenager, and we made love often. We were close and connected. Work was going well, too. I was assigned to write the history of a large engineering firm for the company’s 100th anniversary.

It turned out to be an interesting story that required a lot of research and I spent days pouring over newspaper clippings at the library and old photos at the city archives. Some of the photos showed men on wilderness job sites, carbines in their hands or lying against a tree or stump nearby. I imagined what their lives must have been like and wondered if any of them had used one of those rifles to kill anybody. Not likely.

We went to dinner with the Carters a few times and even began to entertain at home, which we had done infrequently before, mostly because of my reluctance. I wanted to see people, to be around them, to interact in a way I’d never been accomplished at.

“So, Roger, what’s new in the technical writing world?”

I couldn’t stand Paul Carter, with his fifty-dollar realtor haircuts and manicured nails. He was too slick by half but I kept my fake face on for Kate’s sake.

“Words. I learn new words all the time.”

“My father faithfully read that section in Reader’s Digest to expand his vocabulary. The one where you learn a new word a day.”

The superior bastard was dumbing me down to his father’s level. Like I needed help with my vocabulary.

“He probably wouldn’t learn about adiabatic walls in Reader’s Digest.

It came out harsher than I intended but the old smoothie didn’t take noticeable offense.

“Adiabatic walls?”

“It’s a barrier through which heat energy can’t pass.”

“That might be useful in our office instead of baffles. A lot of hot air goes back and forth in real estate.”

He laughed. I did too. It was a good comeback.

I started riding my bike again and going for walks around the neighbourhood, in the opposite direction from the Franklin Stroll. I didn’t care what they were doing to each other down there anymore. It was as if the pimp killing had exorcised my resentment towards the human trash who habituated that street. I knew another pimp had taken Tremmie’s place, maybe even with the same two girls. There were more pimps than I had bullets.

About three months after the drug dealer killing, around the beginning of May, I became lethargic and lapsed into prolonged despondencies, deeper and darker than before, which became increasingly difficult to keep from the world. I’d wrapped up the engineering history a few weeks before and at first Kate attributed my mood swing to the project’s end. A kind of letdown I’d experienced in the past after completing large projects. We stopped making love and I became more distant. I’d taken to locking myself in the office again, handling the gun instead of doing the work I insisted needed my unfettered concentration. A couple of times I put the gun in my mouth. Cold and metallic. I could feel pressure building inside.


The third killing came out of a Vancouver story that lead off the National News. About the verdict in a murder trial, the longest and most costly in B.C. history, in which a half dozen Asian defendants were acquitted of murdering a rival drug dealer. The killing happened long before I’d executed my own drug dealer and I’d followed the story in the paper. Everybody knew the defendants were guilty, one of them had threatened the victim on TV. Two eyewitnesses pointed out the triggermen in court, adding to the prosecution’s substantive case.

The killers delved into their drug profits to hire a provincial version of O.J.’s dream team and the high-priced lawyers blatantly stole a page from Johnnie Cochrane’s legal pad by playing the race card. The defence, as trumpeted almost daily in the press for the final month of the trial, consisted of character assassination on investigating officers and witnesses.

In his summation, the team’s lead lawyer, Richard Cunningham, Q.C., accused police of participating in a conspiracy based on their hatred of Asians males, all of whom he said they suspected of having gang ties. Amazingly, the jury bought it. But what was most galling about the whole thing, was that halfway through the trial the defendants had claimed to be indigent, forcing the crown to pick up the dream team’s tab for the remaining three months when Cunningham and his team threatened to walk away from the trial.

I’d followed the O.J. trial and there were quite a few times when I sat staring at Johnnie Cochrane’s arrogant face, fantasizing about what his last words would be. I stayed home to watch the O.J. verdict, and became so furious when the foreman said not guilty, I had to pace around the house to calm myself.

When the National’s cameraman zeroed in on Cunningham on the courthouse steps after the trial, I immediately knew he was the one. He hadn’t bothered to remove his robes before conducting post-verdict interviews, no doubt hoping the legal attire added visual weight to his pontification.

“Justice has been served,” he told reporters. “If anybody is guilty of anything it’s the police officers who perpetrated this conspiracy against my clients. They should be purged from the force. We demand a full inquiry and will push for harsh penalties for those who breached the public trust. Fortunately, we have a justice system that places the fate of innocent defendants, not in the hands of the police or the state, but instead in the care of 12 fellow citizens. The jurors sat through six long months of arduous and at times acrimonious testimony. They heard 93 people testify. The verdict is a tribute to their diligence and common sense.”

He turned and walked down the steps, ignoring reporters’ questions, and ducked into a grey Mercedes parked at the curb. Cameramen trailed after the car as it pulled away, just like in the movies, but Richard Cunningham, QC, having gotten his point across and the last word, had no urgent need to tell the press more. He would save his best stuff for an in-depth interview conducted in a more comfortable setting, an interview he could spend days preparing for once the full impact of the verdict could be discerned. His tactics had not made him any friends on the police force, but the general public is more forgiving. He knew people respected slick lawyers even if they helped the guilty escape justice.

Not me. I hated Cunningham in the moments after that National broadcast with a fury that almost caused me to black out. I had to sit down to keep myself from falling over. The blood rushing to my head produced an intense pain behind my right eye. I thought it might be an aneurism. Cunningham represented every smooth talker who’d ever finessed or bullied his way around logic. “Greedy scum. Self-righteous cocksucker. Arrogant mercenary cunt.” The invectives leaked from my mouth like verbal poison, surprising even me by their intensity.

I knew Cunningham would be more difficult to kill than a pimp or street level drug dealer. His home and office would be monitored by electronic equipment. He would be hard to catch alone. Still, the thought of exacting the people’s justice on this pompous, smooth-talking mouthpiece lifted me out of despondency and I set out to research him as I would any story subject.

I went to the library and ran his name through the computer, careful to ensure there would be no way to connect me to the search. I found a three-year-old Vancouver Magazine profile entitled “He Always Gets His Man— Off” and it was there, buried deep in the article, I discovered his soft underbelly.

Cunningham possessed two traits that would serve me well. He was both a workaholic and a creature of habit. The profiler reported breathlessly that Cunningham fit into the A-type personality that needs little sleep.


“No matter what time he goes to bed, he rises at 5:30 a.m., performs a precision 20-minute workout in the gym off the master bedroom in his West Vancouver home, before crossing the Lions Gate Bridge to take his place, no later than 6:30 a.m., behind his massive mahogany desk on the 16th  floor of the Bentall Centre. There, with the city waking below, and the water and mountains as a backdrop, he puts in two hours of uninterrupted work before the rest of the office arrives.”


A few days after gleaning this information, I walked over to the Bentall Centre and took the elevator down to P3 of the parking garage. I’d purposefully worn a grey business suit to avoid drawing attention, and walked up five ramps from the bottom, putting me one-half level up from the street. The Cunningham, Hainsworth, Detweiller & Company parking stalls lined an entire wall, 20 in all. Over the stall in the prime location closest to the door, was the name Richard Cunningham, Q.C.

It was a typical parking garage with ramps at either end, to allow cars to proceed up and down in a circular fashion. Besides the elevator door, in the southwest corner, and the two ramps, there was a door marked stairs set in the middle of the concrete wall opposite the row of Cunningham & company stalls. I estimated the distance from the stairwell to Richard Cunningham’s parking stall at about 15 metres.

I walked to the door and went down the stairs into a hallway about 10 feet long leading to a door with one of those fire marshal push handles that opened onto Thurlow Street. At this end, in the financial district two blocks up from the water, Thurlow was relatively quiet, even around noon. There were no street level stores on the block, only a few businesses. Nothing, I hoped, that would attract pedestrians to the area before 7 a.m. I walked up the alley past the parking lot entrance. A sign in the window of the booth noted that the attendant came on duty at 7 a.m.

My plan was simple. Park the car where it wouldn’t be noticed, walk to the garage, enter through the car driveway, climb the flight of stairs and wait in the stairwell. If anyone noticed me on the street or in the stairwell, I would abort, have breakfast and continue to work. If everything went well, I’d do the job and head to the office. That’s how I was thinking about it, as a job. Planning the killing raised my spirits noticeably.

On May 17, a Wednesday, I got out of bed at 4 a.m. I’d spent the night in the guest room tossing and turning.  I told Kate I was sleeping there because I had to be downtown early in the morning to meet with a geologist who was taking an 8 a.m. flight to the Yukon.

The Cunningham killing had me on high anxiety alert. I couldn’t shut my brain off. It kept going over the plan. Over and over. Killing the pimp had been easy. I didn’t stew over it beforehand. I’d worried about the drug dealer but nothing like this time. The anxiety was almost unbearable and in the long sleepless hours, in the darkness of the guest room, my body moist from head to toe with the sweat of fear, I decided to stop the killing. To let Cunningham live.

But as soon as I’d made the decision, conceded to myself it was over, I slipped over the edge into the blackness. Deep into it. A coward staring into the abyss. The feeling of hopelessness and isolation was so intense I got up and went to my office in a rage.  I got the gun out, put in one bullet and spun the chamber. I put it to my head and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked. A loud metallic thunk. I spun the chamber again and pulled the trigger. Another thunk.

I didn’t think about Kate, or about what a selfish prick I was until the second thunk. About her world imploding when she found her husband’s brains splattered all over the office. Revulsion and self hatred coursed through me with so much force I was physically sick. I dropped to my knees and threw up on the hardwood office floor in one huge internal upheaval that spilled the contents of my stomach, kernels of corn clearly visible in the dim light of my desk lamp, yellowy-green liquid oozing into the cracks between the boards.

I knelt there dry heaving over the waste basket, violent shudders like the aftershock of an earthquake, the gun still in my hand. I leaned forward, dropping my head to the floor, my knees sliding along its smooth surface until I was prone. I lay there for a long time, maybe half an hour, my face pressed into the vomit, listening for Kate’s footsteps. Someone to save me. But she didn’t come. Kate was a sound sleeper.

Lying about the meeting had been a mistake. I hadn’t thought the geologist cover through. I hadn’t even checked to see if a flight was leaving for Whitehorse that morning. Kate had asked a bunch of questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. What was his name? What company did he work for? What kind of exploration was he doing? Why hadn’t I met with him before? Where did he live? She even asked if he was married. I winged it, but not convincingly, and she’d turned and walked away with a funny look on her face. As if to say, “Okay, but I don’t believe you.”

After I cleaned the vomit, using a full roll of toilet paper to mop it up, then getting rid of the soggy mess in the toilet with three flushes, I went back to bed and stared at the ceiling. The fear and anxiety were gone, expunged from my body, flushed into the city’s sewage system. I stared at the ceiling. Calm. Resolved to my duty.

Everything about the morning was surreal. The day was heavily overcast, unusual for that time of year, with dark grey streaks of cloud breaking away from the main formations, hanging behind and below, encircling the tops of the office towers like cumulous candy floss, waiting to stick to the tongue of anyone who might venture to the rooftops for a taste of life atop the financial world.

The self-hatred disappeared when I went back to the plan. Being the people’s executioner was my path to redemption. I had been anointed by the blackness, ordained by the greyness of life, an emissary of a power that operated above and beyond the mores of a society and a world gone mad. The revelation, an apparition really, came at the lights at Hastings and Main, a half a block from the old police station at the main crossroads of Skid Row.

I had no memory of driving to that spot, or of stopping for the light. I was in a kind of trance, I suppose, and when the light turned green, I remained stationary, staring at the cloud-shrouded building tops ahead. A light mist had formed on the windshield, not enough to use the wipers without smearing. I heard him before I saw him, looming in front of the car, distorted by a thousand tiny pin pricks of water on glass.

“Get going,” he said, slapping the hood with the flat of his hand. “Get the hell going and get on with whatever you have to do.”

The sudden intrusion into my reverie didn’t startle me the way it should have. I didn’t jump at the sound of his voice or at the slap of his hand on metal. The words came at me as if from out of the cloud cover, a divine confirmation of my mission. Maybe I was a violent Howard Beale, after all. People were mad as hell and they didn’t want to take it anymore. I was the guy who would wake them up.

It didn’t matter that the messenger was bedraggled, a derelict with a dirty face and matted hair. He stood in front of the van, kind of bent to one side from the waist up. I squirted windshield washer and flicked on the wipers to clear the window. His eyes were clear and piercing, the bluest blue. He looked directly into my eyes for a long moment, then walked on across the street. I drove through the amber light without looking back.

I parked the Explorer on the street two blocks from the parking lot and walked over. The attendant booth was empty, and I made my way up to the next level, walking up the car ramp. The Cunningham, Hainsworth, Detweiller & Company stalls were empty, too. I went to the exit door that opened on the stairs leading to the street and propped the door open a few inches with my foot. I had a perfect sightline to Richard Cunningham Q.C.’s parking spot. It was 6:15.

The grey concrete stairwell felt clammy and smelled of urine. Not a pleasant place to spend time. On the wall, halfway down the stairs that lead out to the street, someone had spray painted prophetic graffiti—”Death to the ruling classes.”—descending the wall in a red arc of words. I stood there in my navy-blue trench coat, one hand tucked inside like Napoleon, gripping the gun inside the fanny pack. I wasn’t nervous anymore.

Cunningham didn’t show at 6:30 a.m. and when he wasn’t there by 6:45 I knew he wouldn’t die on that day. I was neither disappointed nor relieved. For whatever reason, fate had intervened, giving each of us a reprieve. I exited the stairwell, walked calmly back to the Explorer on still-empty streets and drove to the parking lot next to my office. There would be time for breakfast before work.

I phoned Cunningham’s office later that morning from a pay phone. There were still some around then. The receptionist said he was out of town but would be back in the office Monday. It felt good knowing I was the only person in the world who knew he wasn’t going to make it that far.

The weekend went quickly. The weather had cleared and on Sunday Kate and I walked around the seawall in brilliant sunshine, stopping at English Bay for a lingering brunch in a second story restaurant with a view of the beach and water. Throngs of people were enjoying the city’s first taste of spring.

It felt good to be out among them. A fatalistic euphoria had replaced the anxiety. It was out of my hands now. Cunningham’s future, along with mine, was preordained. What would be would be. I cannot overstate how freeing it is to live outside accepted human norms. To know that you are out there, in that place in human history where the best men have always dwelled, beyond the control of the evil-doers  and bottom-liners.

“You’re not going in early again?” Kate was skeptical when I told her I had another early morning meeting. “Twice in one week. Are you sure this geologist isn’t a cute blonde? It’s not like you to put in extra time, Roger.”

“It’s a rush project, honey. The guy’s flying back this morning and I’m picking him up at the airport and taking him downtown for a breakfast meeting. He’s renting a car and leaving for Seattle right away.”

She didn’t press for details this time. We’d had sex when we got back from our walk, the first time in more than a month. It had been an emotional coupling and we’d both cried afterwards, holding each other tight and rocking gently in the bed. I told her I loved her, even though I wasn’t sure I meant it, and stroked her hair. She squeezed my free hand between hers and murmured her pet name for me over and over.

“Roger Rabbit. Roger Rabbit. Roger Rabbit.”

It felt so good.

The morning was clear and this time the drive downtown was uneventful. No apparitions. No messages delivered. I parked the Explorer in the same spot and followed the exact routine to the stairwell, arriving five minutes later than before. 6:20 a.m.

I heard the car coming at 6:28 and seconds later a grey Mercedes came into view through the propped-open door. Richard Cunningham was a punctual man. I waited until he parked before starting towards the car at an even pace. I was wearing the grey business suit. I had the gun in my hand, hidden by the trench coat draped over my right arm. The safety was off.

Cunningham got out of the car then leaned back in to get his briefcase. When he stood upright, he was much taller than he appeared on television. Well over six feet. He was wearing an expensive blue suit and a red tie with two grey diagonal stripes. Funny the things you remember in the moment.

“Mr. Cunningham?” I didn’t say anything until I was quite close, maybe ten feet away. He appeared upset by the sound of his name, like a man unaccustomed to having any deviation from his daily routine. He looked at me in a way that said he was running scenarios through his mind, assessing the unexpected interruption and calculating the time it would take to deal with it in a civilized but perfunctory way. He pushed the Mercedes door gently and it clicked shut with German precision.

“Yes. Do I know you?”

I felt no animosity toward Richard Cunningham in those last moments of his life. The hate that coursed through me during his post-trial television appearance had given way to the familiar tingly rush of warmth, the feeling of closeness to the doomed. The course he’d chosen in life, the things he’d done in the name of justice, were evil in the truest sense. They had drawn me to him, and it was time for him to pay. No amount of smooth talking could change that now.

“No, you don’t know me. I saw you on TV after the Bobby Singh murder trial. That was a nice piece of work. Getting those scumbags off.”

I kept my voice pleasant, but I could see the first inkling of alarm in Richard Cunningham.

“Look, if you’re interested in my services you’ll have to go through my secretary. I’m booked through the summer, but she might be able to fit you in.”

The smooth-talking lawyer’s veneer was slipping. He was just another frightened man. He was moving toward the door as he said it, so I let the trench coat slip away. The gun loomed between us.

“All those assholes who have you booked are going to have to look for another sharpie, Richard. Your litigating days are done.”

He stopped moving and stared at the gun. I took one step toward him and he held the expensive, shiny black leather briefcase up like a shield.

“On second thought, you might have one more case to plead, counsellor, but the judge sitting on it won’t be interested in hearing any of your bullshit. Judgement Day is at hand.”

I was holding the .357 with both hands, the trench coat draped over the gun arm. He lowered the brief case enough to get a look over the top and he didn’t like what he saw because he turned and ran back towards the car. He had quick feet for a guy in his fifties, but bullets are hard to outrun.

I squeezed off a shot and caught him high on the right side of his back, about six inches below the shoulder, putting a hole in the expensive suit. The impact carried him forward and he twisted onto his back on the hood of the car. He slid along it, leaving a bloody trail, and then disappeared into the space between the car and the concrete wall.

“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.” He said it without much force, the sound muffled by reverberations from the gun shot echoing around the level. Halfway between a curse and a prayer. The shot sounded loud and I knew I had to finish this business and be on my way. His feet were sticking out the front of the car, shiny black loafers with tassels, scuffling on the pavement in pain or consternation. His pant cuffs had hiked up to reveal skinny, hairless white legs above sheer, see-through silk socks. I closed the space between us and looked down over the hood of the car. He had the brief case covering his head and from behind it I could hear frenzied praying.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph…. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

“Look at me, Richard.” I said it sharply, but he didn’t respond. I wanted to look him straight in the eye as I did it, so I reached over and pulled on the briefcase, but he was holding on literally for his life. The resistance made me furious.

“You fucking lowlife, cocksucker. Drop that briefcase or I’ll blow your fucking nuts off.”

He clutched the briefcase even more tightly to his head so I put a round into his crotch.

“Owie, owie, owie… Jesus, Mary and Joseph…. owie, owie.

I fired one more shot into the left side of his chest. Richard Cunningham, Q.C., slick mouthpiece never at a loss for bafflegab, left this world without his manhood crying owie like a three-year-old child. I kid you not.

I turned, put on my trench coat and walked briskly to the exit, concealing the gun in the large inside pocket. Everything was quiet. As if the shots had sucked all other sound out of the air. Nobody was on the street when I left the parking lot and I turned and strode purposely in the direction of the Explorer, unnoticed. Another businessman on his way to work.

The news broke about 9:30 a.m. that morning. A prominent city lawyer had been shot in a downtown parkade.  The radio guy had that little extra edge in his voice when he doled out another tidbit of information each hour. Our receptionist, Marjie, kept a radio on at her desk and people stopped by for updates.

By noon, we knew “He worked for Cunningham, Hainsworth, Detweiller & Company, and was a senior partner. The killing had taken place in the parking garage of the Bentall Tower II, where the company’s office is located.”

It’s difficult to describe my feelings that morning in that I had never experienced anything like it. Ecstasy, with its implied imagery of frenzy and excitement, is not correct. I was excited but the excitement was contained within an inner calm, the way I imagine it must be for a great performing artist or an athlete after a flawless performance. I wasn’t worried I’d be connected. At noon I went out to the car, pretended to get something from the glove compartment and ran my fingers over the gun, wedged in its special place up under the driver’s seat. It felt smooth. Sexual.

Cruisin’… on sunny afternoons


The upside of going on a Panama Canal cruise to celebrate your 70th birthday is that you feel young compared to the other passengers. The downside is that you see the future and it isn’t pretty, in the most literal sense.

Before the politically correct among you suffer heart palpitations or sputter yourselves into apoplexy with incomprehensible rage mutterings about elder abuse, I will embrace the unassailable journalistic defamation defense. The truth is the truth.

We began our cruise holiday with a stop in Fort Lauderdale at a hotel convenient to the airport and a nearby cruise terminal. Convenience, as we learned while checking in amidst a throng of cruisers recently off-loaded from an arriving ship, is central to the travel philosophy of the geezer cruise crowd.

Ship to shuttle to hotel or attraction; hotel to shuttle to airport or attraction.

By happenstance, our brief Fort Lauderdale sojourn coincided with spring break, the annual migration of American college students to the beaches of Florida, where they refresh minds stressed by months of intellectual rigor by drowning millions of brain cells in alcohol while cavorting nearly naked in beachfront bars.

An afternoon stroll along the boardwalk reveals a shocking lack of visual self-awareness evident in the young and educated. Suffice to say, muscle shirts do not enhance every male physique and the thong was not invented with certain body types in mind. To follow flabby mottled cheeks jiggling down a public sidewalk on either side of an imbedded pink bum wiper is to instill images that could haunt a senior to his grave.

But our big take away from Fort Lauderdale came about during a boat tour of the city’s canals. Bernie Sanders is right. Too many people in the top one per cent have way too much money.


The perfect craft for a weekend cruise.

It’s not so much the opulent mansions that line the waterways, (second or third homes to the Trumps and Manaforts of the world) as it is the yachts parked out front for weekend outings. The annual upkeep alone on the floating trophies of capitalism gone awry would suck up the yearly salaries of 10 of the workers toiling for the captains of industry who brag about accumulating their wealth by knowing the value of a dollar well spent. The super rich fudge on their taxes and rail against raising the minimum wage while flaunting their wealth with conspicuous consumption that is breathtaking in its audacity.

But I digress.

We sailed on a mid-size Holland America ship called the Volendam, an upscale floating home for travelling seniors equipped with all the expected shipboard amenities—a promenade for strolling; lounge chairs for reading and contemplation; a piano bar for nightly name-that-tune-trivia games; lounges with happy hours for budget conscience geezers; buffets and fine dining restaurants; a hot tub and two pools (indoor with retractable roof and outdoor); a movie theatre; ping pong tables, a spa, a gym with the latest equipment and a ocean view; a library with classic books and tables for chess, scrabble and jig saw puzzles; a Las Vegas style showroom with a mixed bag of nightly entertainment ranging from a skinny German juggler to an electric harp player from Uruguay; a casino with slot machines and electronic poker; a medical centre; a quiet card room for bridge, canasta and euchre; glittery high-end jewelry and clothing shops; and a top deck pickle ball court enclosed with netting to keep the pickle from soaring into the sea.

The cruise lines have honed innumerable ways to separate captive codgers from their pension money. While soft drinks at $2.25 a can are within an acceptable range, the bottles of water beside them in your cabin will add six dollars to your cruise credit card. Laundry is $20 a small bag.

All alcoholic purchases are subject to a mandatory 15 per cent service charge, in addition to $15 dollars a day levied each passenger for gratuities for the crew. Wine stewards in the fine dining room are happy to recommend wine pairings that start at $40 a bottle and range sharply upwards into the hundreds. A domestic beer is $7.50 and the cheapest glass of wine is $9. The wi fi package offered pre-cruise came in at $30 dollars a day. Sales must have been slow because a few days out people were getting wi fi for the much-reduced rate of $8 per day.

Add 30 per cent to all prices for Canadian cruisers.



For the long languid days at sea the cruise lines offer distractions like art auctions, shore excursion sales pitches disguised as information sessions, massage packages, meditation at $12 a session and experts to brief you on the fantastic deals you get by booking your next cruise while at sea. You can wile away the hours shopping for over-priced clothing or a discounted Rolex or diamond earrings for that special someone on your 65th anniversary. They even offer specialty restaurants at extra cost, where the dinner experience is presumed to be a cut above the ship’s fine dining room, for those who prefer paying for their food to eating free with the hoi polloi.

You know going in that the real cost of cruising is all about the add-ons. To quibble about cruise line gouging is to defeat the purpose of the trip, which is to escape life’s aggravations while travelling from country to country in a five-star hotel with excellent personalized service without the unpacking and packing.

Did I mention the geezer cruising set like their conveniences?


The Volendam at anchor off Holland America’s private island Half Moon Cay in the Bahamas.



The first stop was an afternoon visit to Holland America’s private island in the Bahamas, a small piece of paradise with impossibly blue water and pristine beaches, a perfect place to slow the pace needed for cruising. You can ride a sea doo or a horse, paddle a kayak or frolic with stingrays, for a price. We opted for a walk and ate burgers under palm fronds at the ship-sponsored lunch.

Crossing the Caribbean to the Colombian port of Cartagena on the second night out caused a lot of geezers to reach for their motion sickness pills. Your bilious agent departed Happy Hour prematurely leaving a bucket of unopened beer behind. Luckily, the Dame, who hasn’t ridden a roller coast she didn’t love, had the foresight to pack the pricey beverages to our cabin for future disposal.


Built by the Spanish in the 1500’s, Castillo San Felipe in Cartagena was a bastion against foreign invaders. Trump supporters had wall envy.


View from the Popa monastery overlooking the city of Cartegena



We saw Cartagena through the windows of a tour bus which delivered its cargo of fresh-off-the-boat suck… ahem… seniors to a succession of tourist hot spots, where we were besieged by hawkers selling everything from genuine made-in-China-especially-for-Columbia hats to hand-made rosary beads and purses. We scooped up hats and several bottles of precious water at prices severely discounted from the ship.

The excursion included a mandatory stop at a ‘jade museum’ which is code for a jewelry store masquerading as a tourist attraction. A minor discord amongst the elderly sightseers surfaced when an oblivious codger couple kept 25 passengers waiting in the bus for 15 minutes while they bargained for jade earrings. For a moment I thought an enraged geezer was going to limp up the aisle and hit the late-comers with his cane.


Viewing the Panama Canal.




The start of the Canal. Our ship will have only a foot or so clearance on each side.

The Panama Canal lived up to its billing as one of the engineering marvels of the world. It took a full day to negotiate, with plenty of viewing opportunities to observe the ship being raised and lowered a hundred feet as the massive locks filled with water in about the time it takes to run a bath. The clearance on either side of the ship looks to be no more than a foot as it’s guided through the locks by rail cars attached on either side.

The Columbian hats proved to be a good $10 investment in the equatorial heat and the sunburnt old folks, having checked off another item on their bucket lists, appeared well-satisfied when they assembled for dinner.

Eating is central to shipboard life. Everything revolves around it. The day begins with breakfast at the Lido, where serving station attendants dole out everything from omelettes to eggs benny, from eggs sunny side up with sausages and bacon to French toast or pancakes, toasted bagels, hot oatmeal or cereal with remarkable efficiency and good cheer. Unhealthy temptation for a breakfast lover with gluttonous tendencies.


People in funny hats prepare an endless array of food.

Lunch begins at 11:30, giving late risers a short window to walk off excess breakfast calories before digging into roast lamb, beef brisket, caramelized carrots and roasted potatoes smothered in gravy, the excesses of which are sopped up with bread baked daily. To be fair, there are healthy alternatives at the custom salad station but it takes a stronger person than your agent to eat lettuce with beef brisket on offer.

Ship activity tends to slow down in the afternoon as the glutted geezers hobble and wheeze off to their deck chairs to slumber with open mouths and books on their laps. The more energetic rouse themselves to attend afternoon tea in the dining room, where they munch cucumber sandwiches without crusts and sip from dainty cups to prepare aged digestive tracts for the nightly food onslaught.

Not surprisingly for a restaurant that caters to a clientele averaging in age in the mid-to-high 70s, the fine dining room opens at 5:15, which conveniently for the budget conscience is right on the heels of Happy Hour. A quick jaunt to the cabin to change from shorts into the long pants required for fine dining does not significantly reduce the glow of cut-price alcohol.


Some cruise lines offer a course in towel animal origami, ours, fortunately, did not.

It is essential to be in good spirits for the repartee at evening dining, which may find you at a table with six or eight retirees from various countries, a disproportionate number of them American preachers or members of obscure evangelical flocks. Bringing up the subject of Donald Trump, hopped up on Happy Hour drinks, resulted in a sharp kick in the ankle from the Dame and muted response from our dinner companions. We discovered that non-deplorable Americans were vocal in their condemnation of the Conman-in-Chief while supporters fidgeted with their eating implements or stared intently at their lobster tail hoping to avoid a political discussion.

At one such seating our dining companions included a well-spoken couple from California. The old gentleman, a former pastor who went into real estate when he retired from the ministry at age 65, sat before us as breathing testament for clean living. His real estate career peaked at age 80, when he had a six-figure year. At 98, he still retained his realtor credentials and had recently been issued a five-year driver’s licence which would take him to his 103rd birthday. He needed the licence for his volunteer work driving the needy to hospital appointments. His travelling companion, whom he met at the senior’s residence before both their spouses died, would admit only to being in her eighties and was careful to note that while they shared a cabin the sleeping arrangements were purely platonic. To the Dame’s great relief, I did not query them about Donald Trump.

Leaving the Panama Canal is like cruising into maritime rush hour. Dozens of cargo ships of varying sizes, some of questionable sea worthiness from visual inspection, are anchored in the Pacific near the entrance waiting for their precise entry times. Teddy Roosevelt’s tireless drive to link the oceans is paying huge dividends to someone with a mansion somewhere and a huge boat docked out front.


Maritime gridlock exiting the Panama Canal

On the way up the West Coast of Central America we stopped at Puntarenas, a gritty Costa Rican port that is a stepping off point for worldly backpackers who ferry across the inlet to a jungle peninsula for cheap living off the grid. The entire town can be walked in an hour or so and doesn’t have much to offer beyond miles of deserted beaches too hot to lay on under the equatorial sun.


An official tree billboard in Puntarenas, Costa Rica


A gentle reminder of where they are for confused elderly tourists.

The stopover that interested us most was the tiny Nicaraguan port of Corinta, not much more than a village and remarkably untouched by the digital world despite the cruise ships that dock regularly. We were squired around town in a pedicab (a bicycle with a primitive two-seat trailer welded to its frame) by a man who spoke remarkably good English that he claimed to have learned by watching movies and TV. His stated rate was $5 for an hour’s pedaling, including his unique insight into the everyday lives of Donald Trump’s feared foreign invaders.


Our intrepid guide in Corinta, Nicaragua


A mango windfall for this hard-working Corinta resident.


Traffic jam in Corinta


The Nicaraguan people welcome the ship with traditional dance and costumes.

He lived with his grandmother, his girlfriend and young daughter and was their primary source of income. His mother was up north, somewhere in Mexico, where she had secured employment as a housekeeper. He rented the bike from a local entrepreneur who established his pedicab empire with help from family in the U.S. who sent him start-up cash. Our guide hoped to buy his own pedicab but money is tight and the political situation dicey. He took us down a rutted street called Hollywood because its modest houses were in better repair. He attributed its inhabitants’ relative prosperity to money sent home from the U.S.

He did not have good things to say about strongman Daniel Ortega, who dispersed heavily armed soldiers to Corinta to guard his port holdings during a recent period of political unrest that shut the cruise ship terminal for months, cutting off the locals’ main source of income. He spoke softly during the ride and looked straight ahead when we passed military men. We gave him $25 bucks at the ride’s end and at five times the rate quoted considered it money well spent.


Smoke and ash can be seen at the top of Volcano Fuego, which erupted in 2018 destroying a village below.



Living under a hot lava fountain.


Birthday boy acting his age.

In Antigua, an hour by bus from the ship into the Guatemalan hills, we discovered that a sure way to spoil the ambience of an idyllic Spanish colonial town is to slap a World Heritage Site designation on it. The town, with its cobbled streets, colonial architecture, street arches and busy markets is teeming with tourist traps like the Chocolate Factory that offers genuine Guatemalan cocoa bean chocolate bars for $7 U.S.

Our stop in Huatulco, Mexico, was like arriving back in western civilization from the third world. The beautiful bay was rife with small tour boats loaded with revellers and lined with condos and apartments owned by expat Canadians and Americans who prefer the climate to Northern winters. It has a long, treed boulevard, grocery stores, movie theatres and a lot of Pemex gas stations controlled by the richest man in the world, who no doubt has a waterfront mansion in Palm Beach and a humongous yacht docked out front.


Our arrival in Huatalco, where snowbirds abound in sun-burned glory.


The essentials of life in Huatalco, Mexico.


Images of Mexican artist Frida Kahlo are everywhere.

Our last stop before two days at sea cruising to San Diego was Puerto Vallarta, familiar to many West Coasters in search of the cheap Mexican getaway for a week’s respite from the rain and snow. It is a one-time fishing village turned into a large commercial city with a great climate and a beautiful seaside promenade, a long way from the extreme poverty of Corinta.


Death-heads are big sellers down south, apparently even the NFL is in on it


A warm Mexican greeting for Trump’s deplorables.


Not sure if these belong in Puerto Vallarta or Area 51.

To sum up, cruising is a bit like going to a senior’s home in a remote paradise in that even with all the activities aboard ship it takes several days to gear down to life without cell phones and the distractions that intrude on land. It is a fantasy world with a well-trained crew happy to serve your every need, a place where the cabin stewards greet you by your first name prefaced with a Mr. or Miss. The Happy Hour waiter knows your drinking companions and watches to steer them to your table. There is no crime or cable TV to spoil the mood and nothing more pressing to do than stroll the promenade with its endless ocean horizons.


Lee, the erstwhile leader of the nightly music trivia sing-along


Early dinner completed, geezers flock to the theatre for front row seats, sleeping through the performance is not encouraged but often observed.


Happy cruisers.

It should be said that the mostly Filipino crew was a highlight of our cruise. They were unfailingly good humored, even with the aggravations of dealing with crotchety confused old people while working 11-hour days seven days a week away from their families for nine months of the year. Well worth the 15 dollar daily gratuity grouched about earlier.

I’ll leave the lovely southern California city of San Diego for another blog, as its charms for the traveller deserve a separate accounting.


Until next time………….








Dexter a.k.a. The Dood—-June 2008-April 2019


The Dude and the Dex, love at first sight

The first time we laid eyes on The Dood, he was running around a farmyard with 11 of his siblings, fuzzy balls of fur with fat round stomachs and surplus puppy energy, oblivious to the aggravation their antics presented their harried Mom.

Both parents were Golden Doodles, crosses between Golden Retrievers and Standard Poodles. Eight weeks after giving birth, Mom was low-slung and suffering the indignities of a dozen hungry mouths pulling on her teats but Dad was showing no ill affects from the responsibilities of fatherhood.

He was an impressive animal, about 85 pounds with long legs and a tawny coat of curls that feathered out to give him a regal look. I walked Dad out to the back of the property to check The Dood’s lineage. He pulled hard on the leash but settled into my pace when I yanked it back  harder.

We picked The Dood out of the impossibly cute puppy rumble mostly because of his sex. We wanted a male.

After a stop at the Vet for shots and deworming (his tummy was fat for a reason) we dropped him at a dog training facility to learn proper toilet etiquette before we picked him up a week later to start our new life in the South Okanagan. The training stuck. For the remainder of his life he would not walk out a door before a human or poop in the yard or on a trail or path. We called him Dexter, not after tv’s serial killer but because it was a name the Dame had always liked for a pet.

Dexter took to his new home like a prince to his kingdom. We moved to a cul de sac at the lake with dog-friendly neighbours, no traffic and a field next door. He had the run of the place, rough-housing with the Boxer across the street, dragging shoes home from porches (did I mention our neighbourhood is dog friendly) and prancing proudly up the driveway with a deer hoof clamped in his teeth.

He had so much energy the older Boxer would tire of wrestling and send him on his way with a snap and a guttural doggie rebuke. Dexter didn’t take offense. He simply came back home, his face covered in Boxer spittle, and ran around the yard like a demented doodle.

He grew into the image of his Dad, only leaner with tighter curls and a lighter coat. A chick magnet of the first order.

Dexter became the star attraction everywhere he went. Women and young girls fawned over him at every public outing; men appreciated the effect he had on women and the fact he was a dog’s dog, not some yappy little runt with an attitude. Walking through the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday morning was like taking a stroll with a furry four-legged George Clooney.  His love of exercise never waned, even in the foulest weather.

The Dood was not a haughty dog. He accepted attention with enthusiasm, leaning into the legs of strangers as if they were lifelong friends. He never met a person he didn’t like. All visitors to our home were greeted with boundless enthusiasm. He barked with reticence, a single sharp signal to let us know he wanted out or that his water dish was empty. Any increase in tempo alerted us to company.

Above all, Dexter possessed a constancy of disposition.

From the high energy of puppyhood to the infirmity of old age, we never once saw him display bad temper or aggression towards another being. When our first cat Nigel clipped him on the nose with a sharp jab delivered from his fortress under the kitchen chair, The Dood took his lumps with equanimity. When a mother deer decided he was too close to her fawn, The Dood took the hint and turned tail for home without so much as a growl. When visiting dogs decided his food bowl was a community affair, The Dood stepped back and let them eat their fill. Later in life, when a crotchety response would have been forgiven, he demurred to the new cat Molly when she began to hog his bed. The Dood simply rousted himself and moved to a nearby rug.

dex and molly2

If you want the bed I can move..


Before you tune out, tired of the maudlin ramblings of a grieving owner who envisions his departed best friend as the canine Mother Theresa, I should say that The Dood displayed the same annoying behaviours that have infuriated dog owners since the first wolf was domesticated.

He could hear the word ‘cookie’ whispered from 50 yards away but if it suited was deaf to his own name hollered from 10 paces. Later in life, after falling in with a bad companion, a pitbull cross with a wanderlust who moved in next door, he began to roam away from the cul de sac and could not be trusted to return from his nightly pee outings without going on lengthy and worrisome nocturnal walkabouts. On garbage day, he’d slink away from the yard at the first sign of inattention and rummage through neighbourhood garbage cans, the soggy contents of which would have to be bagged and put back, even in dog friendly neighbourhoods. He was like walking Velcro and tracked dirt and sand into the house constantly. He tore up stuffed animals, dug holes in the yard and trashed the lawn. He smelled bad after swimming in the lake. He required constant attention and ran up large bills at the vet.

Dexter ‘The Dood’ left this world just short of his 11th birthday, the gentlest of god’s creatures, taking with him a big piece of our hearts.

Twin shores campground PEI 111

Our handsome boy…forever loved



The Wisdom of Ted the Barber


Contrary to what readers of this space might infer from my frequent scathing criticisms of the current U.S. administration and the people that put it in place, I am not a rabid anti-American.

Some may recall the piece I wrote at the end of a five-month road trip through America. It began by paraphrasing Charles Dickens–It is the best of countries; it is the worst of countries–and went on to note its fascinating cultural diversity, geographic splendour and the many contributions its citizens have made to the world’s betterment, from music to literature, from science to technology, from championing religious freedom to advocating for democracy.

The Dame and I recently travelled to the small Arizona town of Florence for a sunny break from the frequently gloomy skies of November in the South Okanagan. It was the first time we’ve been in the U.S. since the ascendancy of the Conman in Chief and like many Canadians we were hesitant about giving the tacit support of our tourism dollars to a country that would elevate such a repellent person to the nation’s highest office.

I rationalized that it would combine a holiday with firsthand research in a state Trump won by four percentage points.

Florence is a dusty desert town set along the Gila River amidst stands of saguaro cactus and sagebrush halfway between Phoenix and Tucson. To say it has seen better days would be kind. Sprinkled along its historic main street are boarded up businesses, a burnt-out bar and ramshackle buildings of limited aesthetic value. It does not have a grocery store and its main industry is incarceration.

florence 2

Nearby, the Del Webb resort community of Anthem at Merrill Ranch stands out in sharp contrast. Littered with snow geezers and the more prosperous of the local population, it has a mini-shopping mall, an 18-hole golf course and a modern recreation/fitness facility and pool.

Back in Florence, near the end of the main street, an old school barber shop seemed a logical place to scope out rural Arizona in the era of Trump while getting my ears lowered.

The shop is a comfortable place, roomy, with two barber chairs, an assortment of seating for waiting customers and a pool table covered over, either out of disuse or to keep the falling follicles from fouling the felt.

A young boy is getting clipped in one of the chairs, while his mom, dad and brother supervise from the sidelines. They are Canadians, I am soon to learn from the affable proprietor, who rises to greet me and usher me to the empty chair.

Ted the barber is a voluble man with an encyclopedic knowledge of all things Florence. He looks to be in his mid-fifties and has lived here since his family moved from Oregon when he was a child. He wears a blue barber smock and moves gingerly with his back tilted forward from the waist at an odd angle.

The Canadian family, he informs me upon learning of my nationality, has moved to the Florence area for a business opportunity and will be staying five years. Preoccupied with the boys, the parents take no notice or offense at Ted telling a stranger their business.

After carefully determining the precise lowering of the ears desired, Ted sets to removing hair at a leisurely pace. The counter below the mirror is cluttered with the usual assortment of barbering tools and the mirror itself is framed with photos from Ted’s life.

Ted seems perfectly suited to the intimacy of his chosen profession. Loquacious without being overbearing he answers his curious customer’s questions with the authority and detail gleaned from a lifetime of living in Florence.

The town’s main employers are the 12 prison complexes scattered on the town’s perimeter that house by his estimate 39,000 law breakers, from juveniles in “training” camps to murderers awaiting their fate on death row in the super max penitentiary. He says the guards and personnel at the lower paying state prisons tend to live in Coolidge, a slightly larger down-at-the heels town about 10 miles up the road. The better compensated federal prison workers commute the 50 miles from Tucson and the suburbs of Phoenix with a smattering mingling with the snow geezers in the manicured Del Webb development.

There is a disproportionate number of courtrooms in town to deal with legal matters that inevitably arise from the plethora of prisoners who are officially considered citizens but cannot vote. The town receives a set annual amount for each prisoner housed in its jurisdiction. He says most of the lawyers and judges who preside over the courts commute or live in Anthem.

Having been cautioned about talking politics, I guardedly remark that Arizona has a new Democratic Senator for the first time in a while. Ted says, only slightly scornfully, the new Senator owes her election to the wave of liberal Californians who have moved to Arizona in recent years to escape the crowds and high taxes of California living. He says he cringes each time Donald Trump opens his mouth but notes that he has been good for the economy. I suspect he is one of the deplorables and so steer the conversation to more friendly ground.

One of the photos framing the mirror is of a local sports team. It is signed and inscribed with best wishes for Ted’s speedy recovery. Ted catches my eye settling on the photo and explains he had a little accident some years back. When asked if it involved cars he laughs and says somewhat sheepishly that his misfortune occurred at a family gathering.

Two teenage boys were causing mayhem pushing a small wooden merry-go-round at a speed that upset some of the smaller children. Ted went over to comfort one of the girls and inadvertently put a foot on the platform just as the youths resumed pushing. The resultant momentum propelled Ted onto the adjoining concrete where he broke his neck in four places. It put him in the hospital and he was bedridden and unable to walk for four years.

At the time of the accident Ted was a successful businessman in Coolidge, operating a number of cash-oriented retail businesses that fell on hard times with the boss unable to watch over them. He was eventually forced to sell the businesses at less than favourable terms.

During his long recovery, which he termed as near miraculous given the doctors’ original prognosis, he held no animosity toward the boys who pushed the merry-go-round. They visited him frequently and expressed great remorse.

“Accidents happen,” he says, matter-of-factly, with no discernible rancour or self-pity.

After relearning to walk and with his businesses now gone, Ted took up barbering and has been at it for six years. When asked about the physical rigours of being on his feet cutting hair, he says he owes his ability to work on the massive doses of morphine he takes daily. He says the furor over America’s opioid crisis caused his doctor to cut his prescription in half with another cut on the horizon. He’s not sure how he will get by when his current supply runs out and asks if I know anything about the marijuana derivative CBD oil used for pain and inflammation.

Ted lives in a large house on 10 acres a few miles from town. He’d like to sell the property and get something more manageable. One of his regular duties is removing the rattle snakes that sun themselves in his driveway and slither into crevices around the property. He scoops them with a shovel and sets them down away from the house. He used to kill them until the rat population ballooned. He and his wife kept a lot of outdoor cats that helped with the snakes and rats but lately the owls and coyotes have taken their toll and they are down to about four. They have a couple of small house dogs.

Ted is proud of his daughter who is entering pre-med school. There is a graduation picture of a teenage girl stuck on one side of his mirror and I suspect she is one of the girls in the sports team photo.

Ted does not seem beaten down, as one might expect, from all he has endured. He comes across as a proud, if slightly bent over American, determined to face the vagaries of life with the courage and resiliency that made the United States the envy of the world. He is a man of true grit, the kind of person the silver spoon rich guy Donald Trump could never be.

There can be no doubt the U.S. ranks high on any list of the world’s great countries and it is because of decent Americans like Ted, who persevere and make do with what life has given them.

Ted is a good and thorough barber. He lathers and shaves the back of my neck with a straight razor then places a soothing hot towel over my head while administering a brief scalp massage. He whisks away loose cuttings before sending his Canadian customer away with a broader understanding of the constituency that put Donald Trump in office.

The charge for the haircut is 10 dollars. The information and inspiration are free.

Reflections of an idle meandering mind

Pics for Micks Europe blog


The last time I undertook a trip of this scope and duration was back in the fall of 1970 when I left Edmonton in the day coach of an eastbound train with an intrepid travelling companion who shall remain anonymous except for the sobriquet “Intrepid”.

Which he surely was.

Then, as now, we headed ever eastward, departing Halifax on a cheap flight to Glasgow, crossing the Channel to Ostende and hitchhiking across France and southern Germany to attend the world’s preeminent celebration of our mutually shared life passion. My memories of that event are hazy, not so much from the mists of time as the salubrious nature of the celebration.

Those who have attended Munich’s Octoberfest will recall a collection of huge tents populated by a wild, guzzling, mélange of beer drinkers from around the world. Amidst the chaos of celebratory shouting in multiple languages, buxomy frauleins clutching fistfuls of liter mugs drip froth in their wake as they slake the great thirsts of the multitudes gathered under the big top.

In the centre of each tent, musicians in lederhosen blast out traditional German beer drinking music with a pause at the top of each hour to allow the band leader to exhort the crowd of guzzlers into near frenzy by quaffing a litre mug to the beat of the oom-pa-pa band, with the clear implication the guzzlers follow suit. Keeping up with the band leaders, who change every couple of hours, is a fool’s errand I was happy to undertake.

As the day progressed into darkness, both literally and figuratively, I morphed from a youthful, unilingual Anglophone bumpkin from Edmonton into a seasoned man of the world able to communicate in multiple languages while dancing on a table top. A misstep followed by a tumble that resulted in the ass of my pants being ripped open failed to curb my lusty mood and it was not until late in the celebrations that I realized I no longer remembered the name of the gasthouse we had checked into earlier in the day. With Intrepid no longer in sight, I found myself homeless and gowed to the gunnels in a foreign city with my buttocks exposed to the frigid fall weather. I rolled myself under a car in a nearby ‘auto’ sales lot and slumbered away the night’s remainder.

Waking up with the tailpipe of a Mercedes looming above my vastly expanded head left me with undiagnosed (the condition had not yet been invented) PTSD, which will surface later in the trip to my detriment and befuddle my thought processes for important decisions. After locating my gasthouse in the light of day, I hooked back up with Intrepid, who slept in a gasthouse bed and appeared none the worse for wear and anxious to conduct our important business.

We had come to Munich, not to make ourselves insensible with drink, but instead to purchase a reliable German car, which we planned to drive across Asia in our forever eastward quest to reach Australia overland. What we ended up with was a well-broken-in blue Volkswagen bug. Not the wisest choice for what we’d been told was a journey that required a four-wheel-drive jeep loaded with extra tires and jerry cans of gas.

Nonetheless, we motored through Yugoslavia and Greece like lords of the road, exulting in our newfound mobility, before pulling into Istanbul, the historic Turkish crossroads city where east has merged with west since before Genghis Khan was a marauding cowboy.

mick weemee      Turkey, a meeting place for pudding lovers…..

One of our first stops was The Pudding Shop, a place famous along the hippie trail, not for its pudding, but as a place where backpackers might purchase certain smoke-able products, notwithstanding an official notice on the wall advising possession of marijuana, hashish or keef as punishable by a three-year prison term. If you’ve seen the movie Midnight Express you get the drift of the serious implications for those caught toking.

We posted a note on the Pudding Shop bulletin board, adjacent to the ‘three-year’ notice, seeking two females willing to share close quarters and gas expenses through the rocky barrens of Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and beyond with two Canadian men of good intention. A bit of a stretch, you may be thinking, a long shot that is nothing more than the naive fantasy of two hopeful Alberta rubes barely out of their teens. Not so, pudding breath.

A reply was posted within a couple of days, and after a brief get-to-know-each-other meeting surrounded by the bleary-eye habitués of the Pudding Shop, we hooked up with two hippie girls, one from Florida, the other from Denmark, international school students who were vegetarians travelling to India to study yoga. The more prescient among you, by that I mean the women, are probably sensing conflict en-route and wondering at the lack of caution on the parts of all parties involved.

Through the multi-coloured prism of youth in the sixties, it seemed a no-brainer. After all, what could possibly go wrong when you cram two hippie girls from an international school into a well-worn Volkswagen Beetle with two meat-eating, beer-drinking bumpkins, and all our combined luggage, on a trip of several thousand kilometres through mostly barren desert?

The first note of discord was sounded in Ankara, eastern Turkey, where we took a cheap hotel frequented by multi-national budget travelers. While we bumpkins were supping in a nearby cafe, eating meat and quaffing glasses of retsina from a bottomless bottle, the hippie girls were socializing with fellow European travelers in their room, partaking of those aforementioned risky products.

By meal’s end I was speaking fluent Turkish with a group of locals at an adjoining table, our retsina-lubricated conversation flowing in direct relation to the drink consumed. Back at the hotel with a snoot-full of retsina working its way through my system, my undiagnosed PTSD kicked in again, and despite Intrepid’s misgivings, I felt an urgent need to bang on the girls’ door while shouting “Police Controle” in my best Turkish accent.

The bang and shout were followed by silence from within, and then a lot of shuffling sounds before the door opened to reveal one of the hippy girls emerge from the smoke with an angelic expression on her face that quickly turned rancorous when she recognized her sodden late-night callers. There were six or seven people in the room, all of them long-haired, white-faced, tense and non-communicative. Our stay in the room was shorter than I had hoped and I detected a first note of coolness from the hippie girls the next morning when we loaded into the Blue Bug for the run through Iran.

mick weemee  Iran, before the Ayatollahs took the fun away

Driving through the Iranian desert presented few challenges beyond dodging the odd 18-wheeler bearing down in the centre of the narrow road and/or ascertaining whether the Bug was actually on a recognized road and not on a side track that might veer us off course and into Syria.

The monotony of the desert was broken only by stops in tiny villages for gas, which we found to be readily available despite the dire, pre-trip warnings about the need for Jerry cans. A typical stop attracted a crowd of swarthy men who would surround the Blue Bug three-deep, their noses against the windows, and stare blankly at the infidel bumpkins and their brazen harlots. While Intrepid and the hippie girls didn’t seem to mind the attention, I found it a tad unnerving being so closely scrutinized by eyes that seemed to indicate there was little activity going on behind them.

Back on the road, with the bug eating up the empty landscape in small bites, there was ample time for chat. Unfortunately, my as-yet-unheard-of PTSD kicked in again and instead of playing it cool I felt compelled to add a distinct chill to the already cool atmosphere by discoursing on the benefits of eating meat. It must be said at this point that Intrepid, while nodding in agreement from time to time as he drove, took no active part in the vegetarian put-down. When I steered the conversation to yoga and questioned the usefulness of studying what amounted to bending and stretching exercises that we Albertans learned in grade school phys-ed, Intrepid checked the rear view mirror for impending violence.

The vibe, if I can use an era-appropriate word, coming from beneath the luggage in the cramped back seat was enough to keep the Blue Bug’s interior frosty despite the searing desert heat. Alas, the atmosphere was not cold enough to keep the air-cooled engine of the overloaded Bug from emitting a loud bang as a piston pushed through a cylinder wall bringing us to an immediate stop.

After days of driving through wasteland, we had ‘thrown a rod’ on the outskirts of the Iranian resort town of Babul-Sar on the Caspian Sea, less than a camel-droppings throw from an automobile repair shop. Praise to Allah. The sight of four westerners in distress, two of them blonde females, hit home for a passing Iranian businessman who pulled his Mercedes over and arranged for the Blue Bug to be pushed into the aforementioned mechanic’s shop.

Though he spoke little English and seemed to believe we had driven to Babul-Sar from Canada, the geographically challenged Iranian was affable enough to secure hotel rooms (women and men separate, of course) and even took us for lunch at the town’s famed White Casino, which gleamed decadently in the desert sun in those pre-Ayatollah days of the Shah. By the time we left town a few days later, our engine completely rebuilt for the equivalent of 40 Canadian dollars, our Iranian benefactor had proposed marriage to the hippie girl from Florida. Her polite refusal did not deter him from wishing us luck on our journey.

Eastward, ever eastward.

mick weemee   Afghanistan,  flute music in a haze of black hash

We entered Afghanistan from the southwest, arriving at the unlikely oasis town of Herat, a small city of little note, apart from the ready availability of black hashish, which we purchased in a large lump and fired up in our room at our first opportunity. Smoking hash in Afghanistan is not fraught with the same risks as in Turkey. Beneath our room, in an Afghan version of a beer parlour, respectable men with long beards puffed from hookah pipes, no doubt chatting lasciviously about the infidels who arrived in the Blue Bug and were–all four, men and women–sleeping on mats in one room.

If our lack of respect for local customs bothered them they didn’t let on, nor did the hotel’s proprietor who accepted our cash while cautioning against bringing alcohol into the hotel. In this, the post Alexander the Great, post-British, pre-Russian, pre-Taliban, pre-American/Taliban, local warlord era, we sensed no outward hostility. We did not fear losing our heads, other than to the chunk of potent black hash, and the possibility of being kidnapped and held for ransom seemed remote.

At least until the paranoia kicked in.

I can’t speak for Intrepid, who as I recall slumped onto his mat after exuding a huge plume of smoke and remained motionless, possibly unconscious, for the rest of the night. Or for the hippie girls, who chatted amicably between themselves before seeming to drift off. But I laid on my mat, staring at the visions playing on the ceiling of our sparsely furnished room, the imaginings of a drug-fueled young mind a long way from home, which included, among other sinister possibilities, the hookah smokers creeping up the stairs to deflower us one and all.

We were not in Kansas anymore.

In the early days of our time in-country, Intrepid managed to make contact with a young Afghan who spoke English and wanted to buy the Blue Bug. The plan had always been to sell the Bug at an opportune time and recoup a not inconsiderable investment on Intrepid’s part. The problem being, Intrepid had the car stamped on his visa. Like in Canada, Afghan customs officials expect visitors who drive into the country to drive out in the same car.

“No problem,” advised our new friend, confiding that he learned English while smuggling hash into Europe and returning with coveted German cars, which he sold on the black market at a premium.

“I have a brother who works in customs,” he reassured us, with enough confidence to get Intrepid’s attention.

(It should be noted that it was Intrepid, having more cash at the time, who actually paid for the Bug, and thus had the most concern about its sale.)

When the young Afghan offered as much as he paid many rough desert miles ago, Intrepid took the deal, passport stamp be damned.

The exchange of money and car took place in Kabul, where we secured accommodation in a walled compound in the foreign embassy neighbourhood. The room rate fit our budget—15 cents a night for a mat on the floor, 25 cents for a bed. We splurged and took the beds. The hippie girls took a separate room.

We learned of the compound somewhere along the hippie trail. The rooms were Spartan but clean; hard-boiled eggs could be purchased for pennies and the courtyard garden got full sun. Life in the compound was highlighted by the musical accompaniment of a bearded French flautist wearing a long native dress, who serenaded his French girlfriend daily in the garden, while sitting cross-legged with his genitals exposed to the sun and other courtyard visitors. The scene was not as disconcerting as it may sound in print and we co-habitated amicably in a hashish haze with the hotel’s other foreign denizens while waiting to finalize the car deal.
We learned that doing business in Afghanistan, even selling a used car under questionable circumstances, was subject to a cordiality Canadians would do well to adopt. To finalize the deal, the young Afghan insisted we come to his family home for dinner, and that we bring along the hippie girls, who being foreigners of questionable morals, would be allowed to eat with men. In the interest of international commerce, Intrepid dismissed my hashish-induced paranoiac musings about the possibility of treachery on the young Afghan’s part and accepted the invite. There is a single sacrosanct rule of travel, one that we frequently broke and got away with, that states ‘never willingly put yourself in a dicey situation.’ Having dinner with a self-admitted smuggler and sometime Afghan car-curber seemed dicey to me. But I couldn’t let him go with only the two hippie girls for protection so I reluctantly tagged along.

The home was a typical low-slung adobe-like structure with a solid wood door and a long hallway leading into a room with no furniture but an array of rugs. The Afghan explained that his father had three wives and that the large group of men assembled in the room were his brothers, one of whom we presumed worked in customs. We smiled amiably and the brothers, who ranged in age from teenagers to mid-30s, smiled back as the young Afghan made the introductions before we all sat down on the rugs in a kind of circle.

The evening proceeded with uninhibited singing and dancing by our male hosts, punctuated by the occasional giggle from the direction of several ‘tents with eyes’ peaking around a corner from the kitchen. It’s worth mentioning here that I’ve always been a picky eater. I hated macaroni as a child because it looked like worms and eating rice seemed a lot like chomping down on maggots. I almost gagged at the table once when my dad, scoffing at my fussiness, announced that it all looked the same when it came out the other end.

Hence my extreme discomfort when servers put plates in front of us but no utensils to extract or eat the food from the large bowls placed in the centre of the circle. Everyone dug in with the appropriate hand, whether left or right I can no longer recall, given my tense state of mind and the dessert that was to follow.

At some point after the food was consumed, the family patriarch made his appearance, accepting the respect and deference of all present as his due. Shortly after, a loud knock called one of the brothers to the door and he returned with an aged man with ubiquitous beard and turban but unusually blood shot eyes. In short order a huge hookah pipe was produced, into the bowl of which the wizened man with blood shot eyes began crumbling a chunk of black hash as big as a fist. He huffed on the pipe while applying flame to the bowl until a cloud of grey smoke enveloped the room. Content the hookah was properly lit, he took his leave. No explanation was provided and none asked for as the hookah hose passed around the circle.

Despite my apprehension, the Blue Bug deal, which now included a free meal with entertainment and party favours, went down without a hitch. The only hurdle remaining was getting Intrepid across the border into Pakistan with a passport bearing a vehicle stamp. Our now downwardly mobile foursome travelled to the frontier over the Khyber Pass by bus, at which time we were told to disembark and cross into Pakistan on foot. Not to worry, the young Afghan smuggler/businessman had advised, Intrepid merely had to cover his head and shoulders with a cloth and mingle with the locals as they walk across.

It must be noted here that Intrepid alone shouldered the risk of being caught out as an infidel car smuggler. With his head and shoulders shrouded in cloth, looking as much like an Afghan as an Alberta bumpkin wearing a cape over a sport shirt and jeans could, he joined the crowd and passed the slack Afghan surveillance with aplomb. A lesser man might have given himself away with a show of nerves. Perhaps drawing attention with a trickle of pee sprinkling the dust below his pant leg. As I explained at the beginning of this narrative, it’s not for nothing he’s called Intrepid.

Pakistan, where men are men, women are women and never shall they mix.

Having accomplished the car deal according to plan, we took in the mountainous scenery, feeling not like bumpkins but instead like Men Who Would Be Kings. Seating being tight, we scattered throughout the bus with the hippie girl from Florida occupying a seat next to a Pakistani businessman, who was aboard because his flight had been grounded. Like the Iranian Samaritan before him, he took a liking to her and before leaving the bus at a pre-planned stop for a faster conveyance, promised to pick us all up at the Lahore station.

We left the still considerable chunk of black hash behind in Afghanistan, none of us willing to test the tolerance of this strange new country.( I would discover, on a later train trip, this tolerance did not include men and women sleeping side-by-side, fully clad, on the floor between the seats in a jam-packed coach. The cultural faux pas resulted in a shower of shoes landing upon us, followed by tense negotiations, which involved us sitting upright and, of course, returning the shoes.)

With remnants of the Afghan hash orgy lingering like smoky drapes, I viewed the Pakistan businessman’s appearance at the station as at best unlikely, and at worst fraught with hazard. In the event, he turned up with a car, secured reasonable hotel rooms and invited us over for dinner with his wife and family. The evening passed pleasantly, we ate with utensils, along with female members of his household, at a table. I cannot recall any of the conversation but it puzzles me still why a wealthy businessman would invite four scruffy strangers to his home. The only mar on the evening happened on a Lahore street while the polite, remarkably affable businessman was directing us to our hotel. When a beggar approached his demeanor changed in an instant, as he kicked at the man shouting curses in an indecipherable tongue.

mick weemee   India, land of coolies, monkeys, and a train ride to hell

We took a train to New Delhi, home of the famous Red Fort and the city where monkeys rule the street-side tree-tops, swinging above the throngs like lords of the urban jungle ready to snatch a samosa from any unsuspecting passerby. It was apparent to all that the hippie girls, who were no longer speaking to each other and talking to Intrepid and I only out of necessity, had no further need of car-less Alberta bumpkins. We left them at a New Delhi hotel without saying goodbye and took a rare sight-seeing trip to the Taj Mahal, after which we boarded a train, third-class-student-reduction, for the long trip to Calcutta.

Back in the day, train travel in India was an adventure onto itself. The fun started on the train station’s jam-packed platform. Men wearing turbans and dirty red jackets upon which are pinned shiny badges proclaiming them to be Licensed Coolies, wander the crowd in search of customers, zeroing in on bumpkins like a Delhi monkey to a tourist holding a banana.

With Intrepid and I scanning their badges with a mixture of amusement and trepidation, they explain with gesticulations accompanied by a few key English words, that for a rupee they will shoulder our packs and fight their way through the third-class-student-reduction throng to secure us seats for the journey. We calculate the cost at about 12 cents and thrust a rupee each into outstretched hands.

When the train pulls up to the platform the awaiting throng moves as one, women clutching babies, children and men clutching the family’s belongings, a surging mass of humanity intent on one thing, a coveted seat. Into this fray plunge the Licensed Coolies, our packs upon their backs, motioning us to follow as they barge their way through the crowd pushing and shouting at their irate countrymen. We get facing seats at the end of the car and spend the trip avoiding the dark stares of our less fortunate standing-room-only fellow passengers, including the women and doleful children crunched into the centre aisle of the car.

But even the dust-filled train ride, with its frequent stops at which chai peddlers proffer their products through open windows, hasn’t prepared us for Calcutta. We arrive after dark at an immense covered area that resembles Paddington Station, no doubt a throwback to colonial days. The vast platform beside the tracks dwarfs the platform of our departure, and the luckless human horde assembled upon it seem not to be going anywhere but instead taking advantage of the roof’s shelter and proximity to water.

Unnerved by the squalor, I follow Intrepid out to the street, where brown men wearing turbans sit on horse-drawn stagecoaches, surreal in the faded street lights, and beckon us to hop aboard. The smell is what hits you first, the rancid, putrefaction produced by too many humans occupying too little space, in a climate that is too hot, without a pot to piss or poop in.

Long before Mother Theresa brought the city’s poor to the world’s attention, and long afterwards I suspect, Calcutta has been synonymous with human misery. When we arrived, Calcutta was said to have a street population in excess of one million. Nobody knew within a hundred thousand or so.

People literally lived and died on the street, while marginally more successful residents stepped around or over them on their daily business. When we inquire about a child’s odd deformity, we’re told children’s legs are broken at birth at symmetrical angles so they can flap their feet on the pavement to elicit sympathy from passersby. A man with no lower body whizzes past at knee level, propelling what looks like a garbage can lid on wheels with calloused hands. People squat on the sidewalk, brushing their teeth and washing their faces from taps on the sides of buildings, getting haircuts, or giving them, eating and, yes, relieving themselves.
Did I already say we weren’t in Kansas anymore?

At the time, Calcutta was known to be a dangerous place for backpackers. A city where life was not only cheap but ultimately worthless. A white-skinned bumpkin might as well be walking around with a sign on his back saying ‘I am rich, soft and far from home.” Accordingly, we decided to bunk at a place whose name we could trust—The Salvation Army hostel.

Not long after checking into the Sally Ann, Intrepid was summoned to the front desk by a mysterious phone call. The caller, in a heavily accented Indian voice, indicated that he was a friend of a friend from Edmonton, and that we should all get together at a Calcutta night club later that night. By now you all know Intrepid as a man of his name but that is not to say he was born the day before yesterday. He informed the caller we’d both meet him at the Sally Ann’s barred gate. The caller never showed and we were left to ponder our missed opportunity for a night of clubbing in Calcutta.
Brimming with the confidence of savvy travellers who had avoided the clutches of a shady Calcutta charlatan, we broke that sacrosanct ‘dicey spot’ rule of travel once again. Being normal red-neck… er… red-blooded young men who had long been denied the satisfaction of certain basic needs despite our close quarters with the hippie girls, we thought it a good idea to seek out female companionship.

We did what any bumpkin would do in a strange city and hailed a rickshaw. How poor is Calcutta? It’s the only place I’d ever been where the rickshaw drivers’ couldn’t afford bikes. That’s right. They ran through the hot, dirty city streets, often barefoot, pulling you in their wake for pennies. We bargained hard with the guy, and got him down to a couple of rupees to pull both of us a several miles to the red light district. I know what you’re thinking, curry breath. But you have to negotiate to earn the locals’ respect. Besides, a rupee saved is a rupee earned.

At any rate, he seemed happy with the arrangement and we set off in search of two-dollar hookers who possessed what we hoped were under-priced charms. About 15 minutes into the trip through a maze of narrow streets that all looked the same, Intrepid shifted in his seat throwing the gaunt rickshaw runner slightly off-balance.
“Seen any white faces in the last while?” he asked solemnly, without betraying any of the fear forming in the pit of my stomach.

“Not for a while,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Know where we are?” he inquired. The calmness in his voice only amplified my misgivings.

“Somewhere in Calcutta,” I answered weakly.

As if sensing our discomfort, the rickshaw runner turned off the narrow street into an even narrower alley, and pulled us to a stop behind a grungy three-storey building. He motioned us to wait while he went in and selected two suitable ladies. We sat on the rickshaw uneasily, worrying about the rickshaw man’s taste, or possible treachery, and eyeing the decay around us, me experiencing black hash paranoid flashbacks about being deflowered and Intrepid occasionally glancing at his watch.
After what seemed an inordinately long time, the rickshaw runner returned proudly with two shopworn Indian ladies of ill-repute who did not appear overly enthusiastic about the opportunity to couple with two shaggy foreigners for two bucks each. Although no doubt worth every penny, the ladies looked less than alluring to our western eyes, so much so that our libidinous yearnings had fallen to a level of flaccidity that made a transaction impossible. I’d like to think we paid the ladies a buck each for the humiliation of subjecting themselves for appraisal but I can’t recall for sure.

Safely back at the Sally Ann we were reminded again of Calcutta’s grinding poverty. On a given day each week, people lined up outside its walls around the block for a free midday meal of rice and a mystery green topping that might have been curry, served out of a large boiling cauldron. Having neither plate nor bowl to receive this dubious culinary offering, the hungry extended newspapers upon which the rice and mystery concoction were ladled under the menacing eye of a guard holding a bullwhip to discourage anyone from trying for seconds. Seeing the young children scurrying to scoop spillage from the pavement is a sight seared into my memory.

mick weemee   Burma, the land time forgot…..

The time had come to turn our attention east, to the insular country of Burma, now called Myanmar. The former British colony was being run by a military junta that didn’t take to bumpkins wandering about and so was not a regular stop on the hippie trail. Nonetheless, with Canadian passports we were able to secure 24-hour visas and after oconsulting with savvy fellow travellers, we stocked up on whiskey and American cigarettes in the duty free shop.

The short flight from Calcutta to Rangoon was a journey back in time. We cleared customs clutching our brown paper bags of booze and smokes to discover we were on a movie set from the forties. Or so it seemed. After the chaos of Calcutta, Rangoon appeared placid, with wide streets, old cars and wooden hotels with wide verandas. The pace hearkened back to the days of the British Raj and rubber plantations.

Our first order of business involved yet again breaking the sacrosanct rule of travel by seeking out a buyer for our contraband. Naturally, we hailed a rickshaw driver (in Rangoon they had motorized bikes), and while being propelled from the airport laid out our proposition. We would sell our precious commodities for five times what we paid, but only if we were reimbursed in American dollars, which we could then sell on the black market for Burmese currency at seven times the bank rate.

Confident that we had the goods, so to speak, we allowed ourselves to be haggled down to three times what we paid and then made the black market money exchange, American dollars for Burmese currency at seven times the official rate. Only after we’ done the deals did we discover that the Burmese government would not change the money back to dollars at the time of our departure, less than 20 hours hence.

Though Intrepid went on to become a successful money manager we had outsmarted ourselves. Our cunning had left us with a huge schwack of Burmese money that was worthless outside the country and only hours to spend it.

Looking back, I can’t understand why we didn’t take the money to a high class brothel and blow it all, no pun intended, on the best looking hookers in Burma. Instead, we hired an English-speaking guide off the street, a well-dressed guy in his forties, and sauntered about town like Men Who Would Be Kings. For the first time in our lives we had more money that we could spend.

Rather than laying in the arms of Burmese beauties beneath swaying palm fronds, we opted for Rangoon’s best drinking establishment, which provided ties for those gauche enough to arrive without. We slipped the ties over our soiled shirts and wiled away the remainder of our 24 hours drinking cold beer delivered by waiters with white linen draped over one arm. We gave the Burmese money we had left to the guide, who was happy to interrupt whatever business he was about when we met him to drink the day away with foreigners.

mick weemee   Thailand, where Starlight shines its powerful allure

At this point in the narrative you’re probably asking yourself, “When is this guy going to get to something interesting? Isn’t this the sixties? What about all the sex and drugs”

To this I have a simple musical reply, and it goes like this: “One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble. Not much between despair and ecstac-c-c-y-y.’
That’s right, Pad Thai breath. We flew from Rangoon to Bangkok, Thailand, and immediately departed the airport for the Starlight Hotel, a high-rise establishment known along the hippie trail for its reasonable prices and the plethora of lithesome Thai women who play volleyball in the courtyard while waiting to hook up with a suitable foreigner for the duration of their stay.

The Starlight was not a brothel in that it took no part in the negotiations between its guests and the girls. Rather, it seemed to view them as an added amenity, a little something extra for its colourful clientele’s enjoyment. With his libido recovered from our flaccidness-inducing Calcutta encounter, Intrepid immediately hooked up with a woman who was neatly and modestly attired and displayed none of the attitude one might expect. He would provide her with a spot on his bed, all meals and daily small presents with a lump sum payment at the end, according to his enjoyment of their time together.

I’m proud to say I didn’t take part in such a crass commercial enterprise, though I surely would have if I hadn’t been laid low by a bug I’d picked up somewhere along the way. What I needed most at the Starlight was a bed to rest in and a toilet very nearby. Not one to lay about all day listening to my ass explode, the ever enterprising Intrepid, showing a flash of the money manager he would become later in life, decided to earn a few baht while seeing the countryside.

Apart from being a place where Thai women congregated, the Starlight was a magnet for all kinds of schemers and scammers. The Vietnam war was raging and Bangkok’s proximity to the jungle fighting made it an ideal spot for US troops to enjoy a week’s R&R. Many a young marine succumbed to Bangkok’s allure, deserting what they viewed as a stupid war for the bright lights and fast times of the city ‘with more canals than Venice.’ They made their way by charging things at military-run stores on their no longer valid PX cards, or dabbled in drug smuggling and other nefarious activities while avoiding both the Thai police and the MP’s. The scammer Intrepid hooked up with was neither a deserter nor American but instead a Chinese businessman who made his living selling bogus medicine to gullible villagers.
The scam was a Thai version of the snake oil salesman with Intrepid slotted into the role of snake. The Chinese recruited white westerners to travel by van to the villages, where the Chinese man would slide its doors open to display an array of cure-all tinctures, oils and coloured water. Intrepid’s job was to talk into a bull horn while rubbing his stomach or other ailing area, which hopefully did not extend to his revived libidinous region, while mouthing signs of satisfaction for the gathered crowd. It seems the villagers put inordinate faith in a white endorser. Who knew? For his labour, Intrepid received meals, five dollars a day and a complementary visit to the brothel in whatever village they stopped in for the night. Having sated his lust in Bangkok, Intrepid denied taking advantage of this generous offer.

The circuit took four or five days, leaving me alone in the Starlight to get my mojo back. The guy in the room next to ours was an Englishman named Howard, a grocery clerk who had come to Thailand on holiday and overstayed his visa, effectively trapping him in-country until he was willing to the pay the piper at his departure. His passport photo showed a proper young Brit, clean-shaven in shirt and tie, staring benignly at the camera. I had to look at it several times to be sure it was him.

By the time of our arrival, Howard had gone native. He’d been in Bangkok long enough to eschew western dress in favour of a purple wrap-around sarong. He lived with a lady from the courtyard and lounged away his days, sarong-clad and shirtless, sucking on a huge bong, drinking coke and eating Thai food as visitors came and went. He was a jolly sort and the only time I noted any despair at his plight is when he took his daily dose of VD pills. A dose of the clap had not been in his holiday plans.

One night in Howard’s room, a mysterious American with a southern drawl materialized with an exotic drug procured somewhere in the country’s northern region. He called it Red Rock heroin and laid out lines for those present to sample. Howard took a huge snort and slumped back on his propped pillows, bong in hand, too comfortable to lift it to his lips. Before I could take my turn, a loud commotion erupted in the hallway, with shouted reports that American MP’s were in the building doing a sweep for deserters and other military malcontents.

Before you could say 20 years in Leavenworth, the mysterious American scooped his product from under my nose and dashed down the hallway, where he exited the Starlight from a second-floor window, apparently dropping to the ground unhurt as I heard no later reports of an injured American on the premises. The MP’s did sweep through, knocking on doors and rousting any unfortunate deserter caught slumbering or with his pants down in flagrante delicto. Having no jurisdiction over a Brit or Canadian or Howard’s Thai girlfriend, they left us to reflect on the mysterious American’s close call.

Not wanting to succumb to Bangkok’s charm as Howard had, we departed the Starlight and the city without having spent much time in its many bars and strip clubs. Staying in the Starlight precluded any need we might have otherwise felt to mingle in depravity with wild-eyed American service men fresh from the jungle.

“Oh well,” reasoned Intrepid in his reassuring way. “We’ll have something to do on our next visit.”

Go south, young man. Go south.

mick weemee   Malaysia, murky memories of culinary curiosities

We left Bangkok by train, headed for Singapore by way of an overnight stop in Kuala Lumpur, the Malaysian city adjacent to Penang, a so-called free port where goods could be bought and sold without the added annoyance of paying duty. I don’t remember much about Kuala Lumpur, apart from an all-night market which sold live chickens and all manner of foodstuffs, from whole fish with accusing dead eyes, to cats and rats and elephants (as sure as you’re born) but no unicorns. I blame my memory lapse on Howard and his ever-present bong.

 mick weemee   Singapore, Mr. Clean country

Singapore, our last stop in Asia before flying to Darwin on Aussie’s north coast, was as prim and proper as we’d been told. Walking on the street with long hair was to risk arrest and an immediate trip to the barber. Even chewing gum was frowned upon, lest you leave the sticky residue on the city’s pristine streets. After the constant travel and squalor of the previous months, we ate a lot of Chinese food and welcomed the respite while arranging our flight.

   mick weemee  Australia–a lonely Yule with stinging jelly fish, schooners  of beer, a first romance

I landed in Darwin with 50 bucks in my pocket and the realization I would have to find work immediately to sustain myself back in the western world. Intrepid, always a better money manager, had enough left to pay for a bus ride to Melbourne, on the south coast, a couple thousand miles away. He might have felt a break was needed to ensure our friendship would endure and taken the graceful path. I could not argue the point.

When you conjure an image of Darwin, think Inuvik, with sand instead of snow, water instead of ice and searing temperatures instead of killing cold. In those days, before a typhoon or some such tropical storm removed its houses from their stilts, Darwin was a frontier town, isolated from the rest of Australia by endless miles of desert stretching in every direction but north, where the ocean lapped its shore and the deadly stinging jellyfish floated in wait of prey.

I secured accommodation in a place called Arfura Hostel, which was a huge spread-out collection of buildings much like one might picture in a prisoner of war camp. Think Hogan’s Heroes in short pants and Blundstone boots. No barb wire here, though. Its willing inmates, a collection of tough southern European men with a smattering of ‘fair dinkum’ Aussies in the mix, sported tattoos on their legs as well as their arms. The type of men who would be horrified to see today’s yuppies running around with ink fashion statements. Not for them the ubiquitous blue barbed wire and pithy sayings in a foreign language. They were all about skull and crossbones, inscribed hearts and naked women.

Alone in a strange place for the first time in a long while, still a callow youth of 21, I secured a job my first day, laboring on a drilling rig burrowing into the earth for I know not what. On my first shift, a powerful air hose inserted down the hole snaked out and smacked me above the knee. No compo for me though, instead a quick limping return to the ranks of the unemployed. Luckily I had already paid the Arfura for a week’s room and board.

Darwin is hot year-round but in December it’s scorching, searing hot. How hot is it? Hot enough that newcomers are cautioned to lay in a large supply of salt pills to prevent unseemly fainting spells. Hot enough that men will attack each other in the food line-up with metal trays and eating utensils for any perceived slight. Hot enough that pool games end with the swinging of cues and throwing of balls at heads. The tension is further aggravated by the nearness of the cooling but unapproachable ocean afloat with the aforementioned deadly stinging jelly fish. Locals call it ‘going troppo.’

I got a job in a dairy, where I worked the 4 a.m. Christmas Day shift and walked back to the Arfura in 100 degree heat at noon. I spent the afternoon playing euchre with a hapless Englishman named Frank who was missing his top denture and had been bitten by a poisonous snake the minute he stepped off the plane in a remote camp wearing flip flops to start his new job. He couldn’t win at euchre either.

I decided to leave Darwin after stopping in a local bar to sup a schooner or two. Before I could down my first swallow, a donnybrook broke out in the ladies washroom, eventually extending to the main bar where the hair-pulling, scratching, biting Aboriginal combatants flattened a bamboo partition, knocking my table over and spilling the live-giving cold suds. Enough, I decided on the spot, was enough.
The bus to Sydney ate up the desert miles in considerably bigger bites than the Blue Bug managed, rolling past red anthills towering 30 feet above the scrub and dirt that stretched endlessly on each side. I imagined kangaroos hopping in the vastness, over lizards and around poisonous snakes, chased by packs of dingoes. But nothing moved.

The drivers changed at Mount Ida, a mining town in north central Australia that makes Flin Flon look like a metropolis. Stepping off the air-conditioned bus into the 110-degree dry sauna that Is Ida, I was staggered by the 40-degree temperature change and almost fell into a swoon in front of the tough-looking locals gathered about, seemingly oblivious to the heat, checking out the newcomers, no doubt laughing inwardly at those who might be unlucky enough to be staying.

I re-hydrated myself with as many schooners as I could get down during the stopover before falling into a slobbering slumber back on the bus. When I awakened with an urgent need to pee, the landscape had turned to green. We were near the coast but still a long way from Sydney.

On a world map, Aussie looks like an impressive-sized Island. Crossing it from north to south by bus, leaves the indelible impression of a continent. A large continent. The bus rolled 24/7 for two nights and a day, with only brief stops at far-flung towns, before delivering its bleary-eyed cargo to Sydney, the city that sprawls along the shores of the South Pacific sheltered by one of the world’s best harbours. Its very existence stands as testimony to what a bunch of convicts can accomplish when forced into hard labour, with an ocean in front and a desert at their backs. (Take note, miscreant readers. You know who you are.)

I made my way to Bondi Beach, a surfie neighbourhood that might have been Aussie’s answer to Kitsilano, if it didn’t out-date Lotusland by a hundred years. The sandy beach and roiling waves held no interest for a non-swimming Albertan. The net stretched out at its headlands to prevent sharks from devouring the unsuspecting did nothing to assuage my fear of things that roamed beneath the ocean’s surface. I contented myself with sitting on a bench and marveling at the health and robustness of Aussie women.

On first impression, Sydney appeared a bricklayer’s wet dream, its houses and buildings testimony to the importance of that labour-intensive profession to the former colony. Despite Aussie’s often asserted independence from the ‘pommie bastards’ who treated their malcontent ancestors so harshly, the city’s architecture brings Britain to mind. I took a room in a brick boarding house and hooked up with some wayward Brits who had a shared taste for the drink.

This being a memoir/travelogue, and a blog, not a report on Facebook or twitter, I’ll refrain from inflicting the daily minutiae of an ex-pat Canuck’s life in Sydney, with its frequent visits to men-only drinking establishments, on those readers who’ve stuck it out this far. Instead, I’ll stick to the high points.

I hooked up again with Intrepid, whose stolid presence had been sorely missed, and who true to his name, gave up his mail delivery job in Melbourne for an uncertain future in Sydney. Joined by the wayward Brits, we took up residence in a rambling house in Balgowlah, above Manley Beach on Sydney’s north shore, a ferry ride away from the temptation that lurked across the water in the debauched decadence of King’s Cross.

How we qualified for a house looking over the harbor and through its famous Heads to the ocean beyond I can no longer recall. We took jobs, Intrepid and I, on the assembly line of a Cheezie factory, sweeping up the multi-flavoured spillage under the stern eye of an Irish matron, who came to the door of the coffee room and tapped her watch face if we over-stayed our break by a minute. One hungover morning not long into our Cheezie apprenticeship, we arrived at work unable to face another day of pushing toxic puffballs around the floor.

Our executive decision to quit on the spot was immediately rewarded when I got a higher paying job labouring on a construction site on the walk home. In those golden years of assisted passage from Europe for those who agreed to stay and work for two years, Aussie had a zero unemployment rate. Intrepid secured government work shortly after and we lived bucolically in the house overlooking the Heads while filling its garage with empty cans of Fosters delivered full to our door daily from the nearest bottle shop.

I met the mother of my daughter at a subsequent job in the stores division of a Hanimex camera factory. Tiny, at under five feet, and exotic with striking auburn hair curling down her back, she caught my eye in the after-work crowd’s exodus to the pub. I asked her out and to my great surprise she accepted. Our first date proved difficult as she lived in Avalon Beach, 17 miles from the Balgowlah manse. Having no car, I hitch-hiked to the substantial house where she lived with her separated Dutch-born mother and siblings, including a sister one-year younger who would later take up with Intrepid.

We took the bus back to a party at the manse on that first date, where she showed remarkable tolerance for the antics of the assembled sodden foreigners. She would return to the manse nearly every Friday evening of subsequent weekends with her sister in tow for moral support, returning home by cab on Sunday nights. That her sister took a liking to Intrepid, seemed to cement our relationship and we remained a foursome for the remainder of our stay. The girls’ mother, being of the liberal Dutch persuasion, did not mind her teenage daughters cavorting with hairy young foreigners and always seemed cordial when answering the phone.

Lest you get the impression we spent our entire time in Aussie drinking up the suds and not the sights, I’ll mention our mid-stay expedition up the coast to Brisbane and the sugar cane town of Cairns in a beat-up Holden with right hand drive. A couple of the wayward Brits came along for the ride, which included salubrious stops at Surfers Paradise, the Gold Coast and the Great Barrier Reef. We took a day job along the way in a meat packing plant to pay for gas, sleeping off our night on the town at the plant’s gate to ensure we’d be first in line for work. My job involved manning an assembly line of hanging cow carcasses whose hides were peeled off as they progressed along the line. Not an ideal placement for my woozy condition but I made it through a shift.

We originally planned to get jobs cutting cane in Cairns, but that prospect proved as unattractive as the meat plant, in that it required back-breaking work that ripped even gloved hands to bits. We hung about for a few days downing schooners before retreating back to Balgowlah.

mick weemee    Cruising to Hong Kong with the hard men

Some months into our stay in Aussie, with Intrepid away from Sydney on a government work trip, an itinerant Brit sailed into the port of Brisbane on a Norwegian freighter called the Martin Bakke. An acquaintance Intrepid had met somewhere in his pre overland travels, the sailor made me an offer I couldn’t refuse—paid passage back to Canada as a deck hand on the ship. His first choice, Intrepid, was away on government business. The catch being the ship’s location in Brisbane a day’s bus ride away and its departure three days hence.

There being no time to dither, I caught the bus to Brisbane the next day after a tearful farewell at the bus terminal with my Aussie girlfriend, my first girlfriend of any consequence, who took the news as well as could be expected under the suddenness of the circumstances, and skipped work to see me off. I left Sydney sobbing. (Our daughter would be born a few years later in Canada, but that’s a story for another time.)

To say I viewed the coming sea journey with trepidation would be understatement. A lifelong landlubber who got sick in a car passenger seat, my previous experience on water was limited to a row boat at Alberta Beach. Once in Brisbane, I took a physical before being introduced to the English-speaking Norwegian captain who needed one more crew member to fill his complement. I was assigned the job of deck hand, lowest on the ship’s mast pole, which would involve a lot of painting and scraping. I bunked in with the itinerant trumpet-playing Englishman, who apart from the ship’s officers, was the only other English-speaker aboard.

There’s an old sailor’s joke that goes like this: “What’s the difference between being at sea and being in jail?” Answer: “You can’t drown in jail.”

The most concise way of explaining my sea voyage is for you to imagine being confined for months in close quarters with a bunch of foreign-speaking tattooed bikers, hard men who spent their shore time whoring and fighting and had no time for sea-going dilettantes.

The Martin Bakke was a dry ship, meaning no booze could be consumed at sea, which likely explained the booze-up taking place in one of the motor men’s cabins, down the hall from mine, in the crew-only quarters at the rear of the ship the night before our departure. The motor men, who had stocked up on litre-size glass bottles of Aussie beer for the going away party, did not invite bumpkins to their celebrations. Instead, they welcomed me aboard by throwing the empty beer bottles down the hallway to smash on my cabin door. Although I badly needed rest for the coming travails, I did not think it wise to request quiet.

The journey from Brisbane to Hong Kong went swimmingly, through glass-like seas, past idyllic South Seas islands with the wind generated by the movement of the freighter providing a cooling breeze in the 100-degree temperatures. My shift was noon to four p.m. and from midnight to 4 a.m., four hours on, eight hours off for the duration of our time at sea. The day hours were spent painting and scraping rust, the night hours standing outside the bridge watching for lights in the darkness.

mick weemee  Of Hong Kong hookers, American sailors and handmade boots

When we sailed into Hong Kong, taking several hours to reach the inner harbor from the open sea, I noticed a squadron of sampans making their way to the ship. We anchored in open water and lowered the gangway, up which scampered a collection of hookers, watch salesmen, cobblers and tailors ready to measure you up on the spot and deliver a tailor-made suit within two days. I opted for hand-made boots, the most comfortable pair I ever owned, but eschewed the salacious offers of the scarlet ladies.

As it happened, the American fleet was in from Vietnam, one aircraft carrier alone crewed by thousands of sailors looking to blow off the strain of war and extended confinement. The port-side bars crawled with men in uniform, and with baton-wielding MPS, their white helmets bobbing through the drunken chaos, ready to act as violent arbitrators in case of trouble. I stuck close to my new Norwegian friends, though not close enough to become embroiled in a brawl if the hard men should get into it with the Americans.

Not to worry, the hard men were content with drinking themselves insensible, with which as you know I had some familiarity, before staggering into the night with bar girls of their choosing. They had to work in the morning. Contrary to what most landlubbers believe, merchant seamen do not get a free pass to cause havoc during their time in port. Between their onshore frolics, they work on board, supervising the loading and unloading of cargo, making sure all is sea worthy for the coming voyage.
I spent the night before our departure on shore, drinking with the hard men in a last attempt to get some sailor cred before the long trip across the Pacific. In the late hours of the evening I was persuaded by a silver-tongued mama-san (read madam) that putting out to sea without first seeing to certain male needs would be folly. Her pitch made perfect sense at the time, and I departed with the bar girl she presented, embarking on a cab ride through the streets of Hong Kong to a high-rise apartment.
We took the elevator up several floors and walked down a long hallway to her apartment door, (Okay, beer breath, she walked and I staggered alongside, my libidinous yearnings readily apparent in profile.) She opened the door, not to a sexy boudoir with a bed covered by red silk sheets, but instead to a living room littered with children’s toys. The older Asian couple on the couch watching TV took little notice of our entrance and we went down another hallway to her room, which was equipped with a table and chairs, a bed, a beer fridge and hot plate.

As the bar girl spoke no English, and I no Chinese, I received no explanation as to the living arrangements in the apartment. Suffice to say, the flag pole of my hallway profile was lowered to half-mast and after a bowl of rice and several more beers, we retired to the narrow bed for an unsatisfactory business-like coupling. When I awoke at daybreak, the bar girl was sleeping on the floor and I roused her to provide me with a note in Chinese that would tell a cab driver I wanted to go to the Port.

Go east, young man. Go east.

mick weemee   Crossing the Pacific, woozy and wobbly, but unbowed…

The weather turned during my regretful hours in the high-rise and the stiff breeze helped clear my head as I exited the water taxi and walked up the gangway, feeling less than good about my last night in Hong Kong. I slumped into my bunk, bilious and remorseful, for a few hours’ sleep before my noon shift, only to be awakened by one of the hard men banging on the door. We were heading into rough seas, and despite the language difficulties, there was no mistaking his meaning. All hands were required on deck to further secure the large containers stacked three-high.

Once clear of the harbour, my hope for a smooth passage across the Pacific evaporated into the briny air as the ship ploughed through the rough sea into gale force winds. Intense fear of being tossed overboard and/or the ship’s imminent sinking was all that saved me from depositing my late night rice bowl on the boots of one of the hard men working diligently at tightening cables securing the cargo. Later, on my midnight shift on the bridge, I stood on an outside deck watching the front of the ship disappear into the water before rising at an angle that revealed no water but only the stars overhead. The only experience I can equate it to is standing in an elevator in which an unseen operator directs the car to the top, then to the bottom in rapid succession, back to the top and so on. I stood alone in the gale cursing the trumpet-playing itinerant Brit sailor through teeth clenched, not from the cold, but instead from the effort of trying to prevent green bile from seeping out.

And so it went. Sea sickness, no matter how debilitating, was not an ailment that qualified its green-tinged sufferer from time off his sea duties. “Eat potatoes,” the hard men said by way of sympathy. At one point in the voyage, with land a distant memory, I stood at the ship’s railing, watching schools of flying fish cavort in the ships wake, wishing I could join them and rid myself of my wretchedness.

If memory serves, the crossing lasted 18 queasy days, and by its mid-point I had acclimated myself sufficiently to venture from the to-and-fro of my bunk between shifts for brief periods of comradery with the hard men in the crew lounge in the stern.

On one occasion, while playing chess with a short but bull-like sailor whose attitude toward a sea-going dilettante had somewhat softened when he learned I played the game, rumours surfaced that the beer bottle-throwing motormen of my first night aboard had brewed up a potent concoction and were consuming it with gusto in their below deck quarters. Shortly thereafter, several of them appeared in the lounge ready for some shipboard fun. One of particularly large stature staggered over to our chess match with evil intent and after a few mocking comments in his Norwegian tongue, swept the pieces from the board with a massive grease-stained hand. Before I could say, ‘Excuse me, but we’re playing a serious game here.’ my bull-like chess opponent was on his feet charging the surprised motorman, who was no agile, caped matador, driving him into a wall. No actual punches were thrown, the combatants seemingly content with throwing each other over tables and couches until sober sailors pulled them apart. They blustered, red-faced, at each other before the motorman departed for his below deck debauchery and the bull-like sailor sat back down to start a new game. Never a dull moment aboard ship, only dull hours and days between minutes of intense action.

A day’s sail from the coast of America, I learned a plot was afoot to pilfer the cargo, in what I learned is a rite of ocean-going passage for the hard-working underpaid crew. Lead by the bosun (read foreman), who throughout the voyage had seemed a pillar of this salty community, we slipped below deck and broke into a couple of sealed containers, one filled with electronic equipment, the other with cheesy gold-striped ski jackets and polyester pants. The officers, who unofficially turned a blind eye to this practice as long as things didn’t get out of hand, couldn’t countenance the loss of the expensive electronics and an edict was issued by the captain that the purloined walkie talkies and the other more costly goods be placed on a table in the mess by morning or there would be a cabin search with severe repercussions. An officer came by the mess and collected the items, no questions asked. No mention was made of the ski jackets and polyester pants.

mick weemee   Home at last, by the long way….

We picked up American radio signals long before we could say land-ho, my introduction to Carlos Santana’s Black Magic Woman, a tune forever intertwined with my sea-faring days. After a brief stop in Longview, Washington, to unload cargo, the Martin Bakke sailed into the port of Vancouver, where it docked in close proximity to that city’s infamous Downtown Eastside. When the hard men disembarked for a night of fighting and frivolity in the notorious drinking establishments of East Hastings, most notably the appropriately named Club Fort Boogie, no official notice was taken of the disproportionate number of them wearing cheesy gold-striped ski jackets and polyester pants.

By now a seasoned deck hand with low-brow drinking and ocean-crossing cred, I respectfully declined an offer from the captain to paint and scrape my way back across the Pacific with the hard men, to Japan and points beyond. Instead I continued my ever eastward journey, hitchhiking through the Rockies to Edmonton, ending my circumnavigation of the globe with a mundane taxi ride from the south side of that city to the safety and tranquility of Mom and Dad’s front door.

Intrepid, as stalwart a travelling companion as any bumpkin could hope for, returned from his Aussie work trip to the Balgowlah manse and its garage full of empty Foster’s cans, to learn of my abrupt departure for home, leaving him behind with the younger sister and wayward Brits. If he felt a sense of abandonment, he never let on, returning to Edmonton some months later by way of the Indian Ocean and Britain, a story that is his alone to tell. He remains my oldest friend and frequent golfing partner. Our homes in the South Okanagan desert are a long way in time and place from the barren crossings of our youthful adventure. But the 40-minute drive between them, leaves us ample opportunity in our golden years to enjoy our lifelong passion for the golden amber.

A beerHere’s to you Intrepid!

Bad beats, running good, running back to Saskatoon

Dapper Dan was a gamblin’ man
A slick card dealer out of Birmingham
He got into trouble and went on the run
To Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
–author unknown

I defy anyone from  my era to take the Yellowhead Highway west from Edmonton to Saskatoon without the voice of Burton Cummings, mile after straight-and-flat-mile, reverberating  through their head off the great prairie, like a bad acid flashback, singing the iconic Guess Who song.

Until now you’ve read about the Meandering Maloneys great adventure from the Dame’s point of view– convivial, upbeat– but lacking the grounding of a male perspective. The Dude,who most of you know is a glass-half-empty-guy, notes that the wild rose is off the bloom in Alberta’s oil city. Old time Edmontonians are laughing off the declining  price of oil with been-there-done-that-shrugs while the newbies giggle nervously at any suggestion the boom is over.

The boom is still on at the Yellowhead Casino poker room. The 2-5 no limit Hold ’em game starts in the afternoon and goes all night. The Dame, who is not a fan of all-night poker games, tapped the Dude on the shoulder at about nine-o’clock indicating it was time to head home to the Grey Ghost. The Dude coolly negotiated three more hands to play his button and promptly hit the ignorant end of the Bad Beat, which unfortunately is capped in Alberta. Still, a nice to start the trip with some Alberta money in the jeans.

Highway 16 East cuts through the prairie like an asphalt anaconda, its head always out of sight over the distant horizon. Weird whistling aside,,the Mean Towing  Machine has performed admirably, pulling the Grey Ghost with a belligerent diesel snarl. Riding the snake. Running smooth all the way to Saskatoon.

House of Cards