Meeting people

The most valuable aspect of traveling is meeting with people, sometimes in unexpected places. On the long transatlantic flight, during the two day train trip through the Rockies, in remote towns where we were not expected, in Indian reservations, during hikes, everywhere I encountered kind people who shared part of their life stories with me. Countries might stun us with their natural beauty, the vastness of the skies, with awe that settlers have had the courage to try and cultivate very unpromising lands. I can be jealous of their surroundings, their freedom, of the beauty around them. As a mere tourist this might be my first reaction. But when talking to people it is clear that they too suffer from despair, illness, loneliness, autism, family tragedies and poverty like any human being. Beauty is no guarantee for happiness. Glimpsing the different ways people live their lives, may help us to be more content with our own lives. Or give us an impulse to change the way we live, the routine we are used to. Or at least question that routine. And it might make us more compassionate and tolerant.

The house of the spirits

Among the memorable encounters is the meeting with a few Indians in a reservation, one of them claiming he had sired 69 children, which made us wonder if apart from their own language they might have their own arithmetic system.

We were on our way to see an Indian burial ground, the “house of the spirits”. The unusual white roofs low on the ground built over the graves lured us into the village. We knew we had to make our intentions clear if we met any body. At first we did not see them, as they were hidden in the shade of a tree. An old sofa, something which looked like an old car seat, a tree trunk, those made up the outdoor furniture. How many there were I do not really remember. Five or eight maybe, and just one woman among them. They were at leisure, talking, drinking beer, and just passing time. Not till one of them raised his hand in greeting I noticed them. We walked down and asked if we could see the “house of the spirits” and how to get there. They pointed us in the right direction. We had not expected them to follow us, but two of them did. Perhaps they did not trust us, perhaps they just wanted to be guides. Whatever, they told us quite a few stories about the people buried in that graveyard. They all seemed to be related: a twin brother who died at the age of two, a father, a mother, aunts and uncles. It was only a small village, but apparently housed one large family group. We were allowed to take pictures, not so much of them as of the graves which seemed unusual to us. Afterwards we walked back to the big tree where they sat down again and started to tell even more stories. The man who claimed to have 69 children was quite proud of his success in that field. And who wouldn’t, as long as you do not have to support all of them? It seemed unlikely anyway, given the size of the village.

This was not the only burial ground we came across in that part of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. A sad one was the lonely grave of a little girl, just the one grave near a creek, all on its own in the vast wilderness.

Ponteix

Ponteix. The old grain elevators have not been replaced by modern ones yet fortunately.

Another memorable meeting was that with the couple in a remote prairie town, Ponteix, who proudly showed us round their church, a church the size and shape of a cathedral, a small Chartres, the spires visible from a great distance, next to the two old grain elevators. Their lives seemed filled with happiness, till the wife told me about the cancer of her youngest grandson, still a baby.

The story of the church was a remarkable one, and of the French nuns who started all this and came quite unprepared to these remote lands, where they found very primitive living conditions and were shocked by the undrinkable water. The water is still bad, as it comes from what they call sloughs, shallow pools which have a high content of salt. The little sloughs in the prairies are often surrounded by thick rims of blindingly white salt, and the taste of the water is bitter. Most people now have purifiers in their homes for their drinking water.

It is sad to see the decline of a once thriving town, built partly by the efforts of the nuns who established excellent schools. Apart from the buildings, not much is left. The church is still there, but it is hard to keep it open and in good shape now that the Roman Catholic population is diminishing and the whole town is not as thriving and important as it once was. But at least the church is still standing and people care.

And there were many other encounters.

It began on my flight from Amsterdam to Vancouver.

I sat sardined between two women who were traveling alone. Nine hours is a long time to keep silent, so somehow or other we started talking. The woman on my right was the first to turn to me and to make an attempt at conversation. She was Irish, newly divorced from her Dutch husband of many years and lived and worked in the town I grew up in and which is not very far from where I have lived since leaving for university. Quite a coincidence on a full plane. The conversation somehow turned to Irish authors and she was surprised I knew anything about them, not knowing literature and English literature is my subject. Every year she played the part of Molly Bloom, a main character in Joyce’s Ulysses, in the town which for me still feels like home. And she looked the part: generous and generously endowed with her full figure and long, blond curls. She was going to Vancouver for a surprise party organized by the wife of a rich man who was celebrating his 60^th. Apparently he lived in a large house in an expensive part of the Vancouver area.  “Molly” had flown in for the weekend celebrations and would fly back three days later. Just for one weekend of parties she had taken two big suitcases with her.   

“Well, you know, I want my shoes to match every outfit, so I took many pairs – and many outfits,” she confessed, a bit embarrassed about it all. I love that woman! What bliss to find a fellow sufferer of the Imelda Marcos syndrome, a woman who knows her priorities. 

The woman in the window seat was on her way back from Finland. She was married to a Canadian, and lived on a farm in a beautiful part of the Rockies, between Kamloops and Golden, on a lake. Now that her children had left home, she was homesick for Finland and wanted to retire there as she still owned a farm in her home country. But her husband, also of Finnish descent, did not want to leave Canada. Traveling through that stunning part of Canada, I thought: Who would not want to live here? Perhaps she didn't like mountains. It is hard to understand why some emigrants are always homesick, and some adept wonderfully to their new lives and surroundings. She was an extremely good guide for me. It was a clear day and she offered me her seat once we were flying over the Rockies. To my delight I recognized places and the confluence of the Thomson and Fraser rivers which I had seen on a road trip two years earlier. She pointed out the landmarks to me and explained where we were. It was like a Google map unfolding below me, the satellite version.

Before the plane landed we exchanged email addresses. Whether we will ever use them or meet again, I do not know. “Molly Bloom” might be my best bet. Perhaps one day I may even see her playing the part of Molly.

Vancouver