My train was due to leave Halifax at 1pm. Some time after that it actually departed. I was escorted to my cabin by a helpful attendant. A little later the same attendant escorted me to another cabin with a working toilet. For that relief much thanks.
Our long metal beast slid out of Halifax in the grey of the afternoon. I made my way to the observation car and peered out at the gloom that was serving to conceal the countryside. A helpful guide cheerfully announced what we would be able to see if we could see anything. Somewhat more helpfully she also gave us wine and cheese. There was a professional singer on the train and he entertained passengers in the lounge car that evening. Fortunately I managed to avoid that.
We pounded down the tracks and into, then out of, Quebec City but I was asleep. If you ask me what the place looked like I would have to say “the inside of my eyelids” which seems a silly design for a city.
I had to change trains in Montreal. As we came in I saw my new conveyance sitting at the next platform. Grabbing my bags I trotted hopefully across but before I could board an elite team of Canadian train guards crash tackled me. This being Canada they managed to do it politely. One of them took his foot off my head and, after apologising for the scuff marks, informed me that I couldn’t just get on the train, oh dearie me no. I had to go upstairs, stand in a queue, display my ticket and wait for three quarters of an hour. Then and only then, if I was deemed worthy might I be permitted to proceed back down the stairs and cross the hallowed portals of my economy class carriage. Those travelling first class had to make a blood sacrifice and commit the soul of their first born to a life of servitude (seriously this is how Via Rail recruits it’s staff).
I saw a little of the Quebec countryside as we travelled, partly because it was now daylight and partly because it had stopped raining. There seemed to be rolling fields, cute villages and the occasional clump of forest. It was the countryside, what the hell do you expect me to say? Eventually we got to a massive lake which was a sign we were getting close. We made such good time that in order to maintain a reputation for tardiness the driver had to pull over for ten minutes to ensure we weren’t early.
The last time I left Cleveland I wanted to take the train but a late taxi driver coupled with the fact that he didn’t know where the Amtrak station was forced me to take a plane instead. This time I was taking no chances. I rose ridiculously early having ordered my cab for an equally early time and got to the station with forty five minutes to spare only to discover that in an attempt to be helpful Amtrak had contrived to make the train an hour late. Thanks guys but we really need to coordinate in future.
I had to change trains in Buffalo or rather Buffalo–Depew. The train doesn’t go all the way into Buffalo. Depew is a village that is part of the greater Buffalo. The train station is in what appears to be an industrial estate. It’s a fascinating place to spend six hours waiting for a connecting train to Toronto. Fortunately that one wasn’t late.
I definitely like rail border crossings though. We piled off the train, got sniffed by dogs asked a couple of mildly personal questions by the border guards and we were through. Niagara Falls railway station looks somewhat nicer by daylight but not so much that you’d be encouraged to spend any time there.
And that’s it, my trip is completed and all that’s left is to survive the flight home which is leaving in a few hours.
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
Sunday, September 30, 2018
Travelling Hopefully - Halifax Briefly
The weather was grey and rainy when I arrived in Halifax and remained that way my entire stay. Since “my entire stay” consisted of twenty four hours including the taxi ride from the airport you probably shouldn’t make any broad assumptions about the city’s prevailing weather patterns from that statement. Despite the rain the weather in Halifax still managed to be less fundamentally hostile to human existence than St Johns.
Halifax is where they brought survivors of the Titanic (random Halifax fact provided by Jasmyn Pearson) but I had no time for an iceberg heavy version of The Shipping News. The city seemed quite pleasant and attractive or at least the bit within two blocks of the railway station seemed to be. It’s entirely possible that the rest of Halifax is a gang ridden hell hole where mothers sell themselves for a crust of bread so they have a side dish when they cannibalise their offspring but I’m going to give Halifax the benefit of the doubt.
I picked my hotel on the basis of proximity to the railway station and wound up five minutes away which indicates unusually good planning on my part. I also wound up just a couple of blocks from the Citadel so the next morning I trudged through the mist to see it. When the Americans tossed the British out of the more liveable third of the North American continent the Royal Navy was left without a naval base closer than Bermuda and suddenly Halifax and its harbour became very important indeed.
In what appears to have been a reflex habit the British grabbed the highest point they could find and fortified the crap out of it. You can see why, standing on the hill you have a clear field of fire to the strategically vital Scotiabank Centre below. I must admit when I heard the word Citadel my mind immediately conjured up visions of towering walls. I wasn’t entirely wrong but the British had been a bit more cunning than that. They had cut the top of the hill and dropped the citadel inside with the result that little is visible from the outside (and it’s therefore quite difficult to hit with cannon fire. Inside there are barracks, a parade ground and enough artillery to start a small war.
Actually the Citadel was out of date by the time it was built, rather like every military purchase Australia has ever made and the place is now run by the Canadian Park Service with employees dressed up like nineteenth century soldiers. According to one of these “soldiers” that I spoke to all of their rifles and at least some of the fort artillery still work. I don’t know how much ammunition they have but it might be a good idea if Halifax didn’t piss off the Park Service any time soon.
Halifax is where they brought survivors of the Titanic (random Halifax fact provided by Jasmyn Pearson) but I had no time for an iceberg heavy version of The Shipping News. The city seemed quite pleasant and attractive or at least the bit within two blocks of the railway station seemed to be. It’s entirely possible that the rest of Halifax is a gang ridden hell hole where mothers sell themselves for a crust of bread so they have a side dish when they cannibalise their offspring but I’m going to give Halifax the benefit of the doubt.
I picked my hotel on the basis of proximity to the railway station and wound up five minutes away which indicates unusually good planning on my part. I also wound up just a couple of blocks from the Citadel so the next morning I trudged through the mist to see it. When the Americans tossed the British out of the more liveable third of the North American continent the Royal Navy was left without a naval base closer than Bermuda and suddenly Halifax and its harbour became very important indeed.
In what appears to have been a reflex habit the British grabbed the highest point they could find and fortified the crap out of it. You can see why, standing on the hill you have a clear field of fire to the strategically vital Scotiabank Centre below. I must admit when I heard the word Citadel my mind immediately conjured up visions of towering walls. I wasn’t entirely wrong but the British had been a bit more cunning than that. They had cut the top of the hill and dropped the citadel inside with the result that little is visible from the outside (and it’s therefore quite difficult to hit with cannon fire. Inside there are barracks, a parade ground and enough artillery to start a small war.
Actually the Citadel was out of date by the time it was built, rather like every military purchase Australia has ever made and the place is now run by the Canadian Park Service with employees dressed up like nineteenth century soldiers. According to one of these “soldiers” that I spoke to all of their rifles and at least some of the fort artillery still work. I don’t know how much ammunition they have but it might be a good idea if Halifax didn’t piss off the Park Service any time soon.
Saturday, September 29, 2018
Travelling Hopefully - Historically Dubious Edition
Nova Scotia my next destination has a rich and proud history. At least I assume it does, pretty much every where has a rich and proud history if you ask the people who come from there. As an outsider with a total ignorance of Nova Scotia I find myself uniquely placed to provide insights into the province unencumbered by cultural bias or prejudicial facts.
The history of Nova Scotia dates back some nine thousand years to when the nomadic Scotia tribe followed the migratory maple syrup herds west and encountered the Bronze Age culture of the Novans who had settled in what is today Halifax because the harbour currents washed away their sewage. The Novans had a rich and complex system of cultural beliefs based on the passing of the stars, the turning of the seasons and the moving of the bowels. The Scotians had a fuckload of weapons and remarkably few scruples about using them.
After some six and a half thousand years of continual warfare a truce was called and the leader of the Novans approached the Scotians and spoke them in these terms:
“Oh ye Scotians, know that we have great gifts of culture, art, agriculture, plumbing, medicine and the beginnings of a functional welfare system whereas you have weapons that we would really like you to stop hitting us with. Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement here.”
Tears sprang to the Scotian leader’s eyes at these words of wisdom and without hesitation he cracked open the Novan leader’s head and devoured his brains so that such wisdom and insight could also be passed on to his children. Thus the two peoples were united and the nation of Nova Scotia was born.
Approximately three weeks later they were approached by the British who asked them if they’d like to become a colony. The Nova Scotians politely declined. The British pointed out it was them or the French. At this the Nova Scotians embraced the Union Jack with an enthusiasm normally only seen at white supremacist rallies in Bristol.
Membership of the empire brought economic benefits and it wasn’t long before Halifax became a major trading centre and Nova Scotia was established as the worlds principal source of blueberry dung and seal genitalia.
When World War II was declared the Nova Scotians rallied to the motherland committing their entire armoured zeppelin contingent to the cause. Years of sacrifice and struggle followed but finally the Nova Scotians got their reward when the British snatched down their flag and abandoned their erstwhile subjects to the tender mercies of the new and predatory nation of Canada. The Nova Scotians tried to resist but with most of their armoured zeppelin force shot down in raids over Arkansas (there may have been some navigational issues) and Canada’s elite airborne caribou brigade leading the assault capitulation was was only a matter of time.
Now of course Nova Scotia is proud to be Canada’s 87th province and looks forward to a bright future under the maple leaf flag. Apart of course from the revolts in 1955, 1962, 1967-74, 1977-89, 1991-99, 2003-11 and the ongoing insurgency in the hinterland.
The history of Nova Scotia dates back some nine thousand years to when the nomadic Scotia tribe followed the migratory maple syrup herds west and encountered the Bronze Age culture of the Novans who had settled in what is today Halifax because the harbour currents washed away their sewage. The Novans had a rich and complex system of cultural beliefs based on the passing of the stars, the turning of the seasons and the moving of the bowels. The Scotians had a fuckload of weapons and remarkably few scruples about using them.
After some six and a half thousand years of continual warfare a truce was called and the leader of the Novans approached the Scotians and spoke them in these terms:
“Oh ye Scotians, know that we have great gifts of culture, art, agriculture, plumbing, medicine and the beginnings of a functional welfare system whereas you have weapons that we would really like you to stop hitting us with. Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement here.”
Tears sprang to the Scotian leader’s eyes at these words of wisdom and without hesitation he cracked open the Novan leader’s head and devoured his brains so that such wisdom and insight could also be passed on to his children. Thus the two peoples were united and the nation of Nova Scotia was born.
Approximately three weeks later they were approached by the British who asked them if they’d like to become a colony. The Nova Scotians politely declined. The British pointed out it was them or the French. At this the Nova Scotians embraced the Union Jack with an enthusiasm normally only seen at white supremacist rallies in Bristol.
Membership of the empire brought economic benefits and it wasn’t long before Halifax became a major trading centre and Nova Scotia was established as the worlds principal source of blueberry dung and seal genitalia.
When World War II was declared the Nova Scotians rallied to the motherland committing their entire armoured zeppelin contingent to the cause. Years of sacrifice and struggle followed but finally the Nova Scotians got their reward when the British snatched down their flag and abandoned their erstwhile subjects to the tender mercies of the new and predatory nation of Canada. The Nova Scotians tried to resist but with most of their armoured zeppelin force shot down in raids over Arkansas (there may have been some navigational issues) and Canada’s elite airborne caribou brigade leading the assault capitulation was was only a matter of time.
Now of course Nova Scotia is proud to be Canada’s 87th province and looks forward to a bright future under the maple leaf flag. Apart of course from the revolts in 1955, 1962, 1967-74, 1977-89, 1991-99, 2003-11 and the ongoing insurgency in the hinterland.
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
Travelling Hopefully - Up and Down a Hill
My last full day in St Johns dawned bright and sunny so I decided to walk up to signal hill which overlooks the city. I popped in for breakfast along the way and when I came out it was cold and overcast. It would appear I’ve got to stop having breakfast.
Signal Hill dominates one side of St Johns harbour. There is a squat tower at the top of it and one can imagine gun positions there controlling access to the port beyond. Unfortunately it isn’t true. The tower was actually built in the late nineteenth century for Queen Victora’s Golden Jubilee. They did, however, build a fort and a gun battery about halfway up the hill for the same purpose.
When the French captured St Johns they approached the position from the landward side and when the British recaptured the place they did the same thing. That the British, a maritime power, would be obsessed with attack by sea makes sense. I’m not sure what the French were thinking. As a general rule you don’t send an army by sea if they can practicably walk to their destination.
After a long and proud history of failing to defend St Johns from attack the hill gained a new claim to fame when Guglielmo Marconi climbed to the top of the hill and received the first transatlantic radio communication from a transmitter in Cornwall. This brought Marconi rapturous applause from the political leadership in Canada and a letter from the Anglo American Cable Company threatening to sue him if he didn’t get his arse out Newfoundland right sharpish.
Now the hill poses for postcard shots and serves as a centre for a series of walking trails in the surrounding nature reserve (the area being too rough and hilly to build on). I puffed up the road leading to the tower, to be more accurate I puffed, wheezed, retched and vomited up the road to the tower. Along the way I paused to photograph some remarkably relaxed ducks at the charmingly named Deadmans Pool part way up.
Once at the top I paused briefly to catch my breath and vital signs before enjoying a spectacular view over the city and harbour. There was also a man walking what appeared to be a black bear on a leash but which turned out to be one of the largest dogs I’ve ever seen. His name was Chief and he was a sea rescue dog. He comfortably outweighed me and I couldn’t help thinking that in an earlier age it was entirely possible he could get harpooned by accident while out on the job.
Having escaped Chief’s somewhat slobbery attentions I set out on my journey back to the city. I had walked up the road but would be taking a hiking trail that ran along the cliff side on the way down. The trail was noted as being of “medium to difficult” grade. I have news for them, if I can make it without a problem (and I did) then it isn’t difficult, it probably isn’t even medium.
Still the view was impressive whatever the difficulty and I was able to get a very good understanding of why the British figured guns on Signal Hill would be a good way of defending the town.
Signal Hill dominates one side of St Johns harbour. There is a squat tower at the top of it and one can imagine gun positions there controlling access to the port beyond. Unfortunately it isn’t true. The tower was actually built in the late nineteenth century for Queen Victora’s Golden Jubilee. They did, however, build a fort and a gun battery about halfway up the hill for the same purpose.
When the French captured St Johns they approached the position from the landward side and when the British recaptured the place they did the same thing. That the British, a maritime power, would be obsessed with attack by sea makes sense. I’m not sure what the French were thinking. As a general rule you don’t send an army by sea if they can practicably walk to their destination.
After a long and proud history of failing to defend St Johns from attack the hill gained a new claim to fame when Guglielmo Marconi climbed to the top of the hill and received the first transatlantic radio communication from a transmitter in Cornwall. This brought Marconi rapturous applause from the political leadership in Canada and a letter from the Anglo American Cable Company threatening to sue him if he didn’t get his arse out Newfoundland right sharpish.
Now the hill poses for postcard shots and serves as a centre for a series of walking trails in the surrounding nature reserve (the area being too rough and hilly to build on). I puffed up the road leading to the tower, to be more accurate I puffed, wheezed, retched and vomited up the road to the tower. Along the way I paused to photograph some remarkably relaxed ducks at the charmingly named Deadmans Pool part way up.
Once at the top I paused briefly to catch my breath and vital signs before enjoying a spectacular view over the city and harbour. There was also a man walking what appeared to be a black bear on a leash but which turned out to be one of the largest dogs I’ve ever seen. His name was Chief and he was a sea rescue dog. He comfortably outweighed me and I couldn’t help thinking that in an earlier age it was entirely possible he could get harpooned by accident while out on the job.
Having escaped Chief’s somewhat slobbery attentions I set out on my journey back to the city. I had walked up the road but would be taking a hiking trail that ran along the cliff side on the way down. The trail was noted as being of “medium to difficult” grade. I have news for them, if I can make it without a problem (and I did) then it isn’t difficult, it probably isn’t even medium.
Still the view was impressive whatever the difficulty and I was able to get a very good understanding of why the British figured guns on Signal Hill would be a good way of defending the town.
Travelling Hopefully - Disturbing Puffin Fetish Edition
I touched down in St Johns with a feeling of déjà vu. This all seemed terribly familiar. The security staff greeted me by name and demanded to know when I would pay them the money I owed them after an ill judged poker session in the arrivals lounge. But I was a man in a hurry and I raced through the airport leaving a cloud of curses and insincere promises in my wake. I had a date with puffins.
After hurling my bags at the jet lagged unfortunate who would be hosting me tonight I dashed downtown, nothing would interfere with my viewing of puffins. Arriving in plenty of time I paused for breakfast, I was lingering over coffee when I got a call from the tour operator; where the hell was I? Those puffins weren’t going to pester themselves, at least not without being paid considerably more than I was prepared to offer (if you’re interested there is a subscription only website www.puffinfap.com which will cater to your requirements. I think it’s run by some guys in Belarus).
Snatching my belongings and snorting coffee out my nose I dashed up the street and managed to grab hold of the minivans bumper as it sped off, destination puffin. After a few kilometres they pulled over and let me get inside.
“Most of the puffins have already left,” were the words that greeted me as I picked gravel out of my face. You see the puffins don’t actually live here, they are creatures of the open ocean. The only time they come ashore at all is to breed (experiments with floating eggs having so far proved unsuccessful). Once the ensuing baby is old enough (or has been eaten by predators) there’s no reason for them to hang around.
I howled and raged inwardly, at least I think it was inwardly although I did notice that the other passengers were cowering at the other end of the van. Surely I wasn’t going to miss out on puffins too? I was in a fine state of nervous tension by the time I got on the boat and I ground my teeth while the guide droned on about the interesting rock formations we would see. Eventually he got onto the puffins, there were about a dozen still here yesterday, if we were lucky a couple might still be here.
The boat ploughed through fortunately not very rough seas while our guide babbled on about rock formations and the fact that Newfoundland comes from Morocco or some such. As we approached the island where all the puffins had been until recently the frustrated geologist with the microphone told us to keep a sharp eye out for puffins. He then literally ended that speech with, “oh there’s one.” Everybody oohed and aahed except me, naturally I had managed to miss it. The problem was that while I had a pretty accurate idea of what a puffin looked like I was completely off when it came to scale. Puffins are actually quite small and I had to mentally adjust what my eyes were looking for. Also I expected to see them on the island and we actually saw them everywhere but. Because, yes, the puffins did come out to play. I saw puffins on the water and I saw them flying past. One of them flew so close I was able to pick out it’s features as it went by. I’m probably biased but to me no puffin ever looked more puffin like. This puffin could have been the centrefold for the September issue of Puffin Monthly (a wholly owned subsidiary of www.puffinfap.com). So yes I saw puffins and I’m ridiculously pleased by the whole event. We also saw bald eagles. There was one standing proudly on a cliff in its best e pluribus unum pose and another took flight directly above our boat allowing us to see it in full wing extension.
I have no idea what I did for the rest of the day but when I woke up the next morning there was a stuffed puffin on the pillow next to me.
DISCLAIMER: This blog does not recommend visiting www.puffinfap.com and accepts no responsibility for any malware, spyware or viruses downloaded as a result nor for the attention of any law enforcement agency.
After hurling my bags at the jet lagged unfortunate who would be hosting me tonight I dashed downtown, nothing would interfere with my viewing of puffins. Arriving in plenty of time I paused for breakfast, I was lingering over coffee when I got a call from the tour operator; where the hell was I? Those puffins weren’t going to pester themselves, at least not without being paid considerably more than I was prepared to offer (if you’re interested there is a subscription only website www.puffinfap.com which will cater to your requirements. I think it’s run by some guys in Belarus).
Snatching my belongings and snorting coffee out my nose I dashed up the street and managed to grab hold of the minivans bumper as it sped off, destination puffin. After a few kilometres they pulled over and let me get inside.
“Most of the puffins have already left,” were the words that greeted me as I picked gravel out of my face. You see the puffins don’t actually live here, they are creatures of the open ocean. The only time they come ashore at all is to breed (experiments with floating eggs having so far proved unsuccessful). Once the ensuing baby is old enough (or has been eaten by predators) there’s no reason for them to hang around.
I howled and raged inwardly, at least I think it was inwardly although I did notice that the other passengers were cowering at the other end of the van. Surely I wasn’t going to miss out on puffins too? I was in a fine state of nervous tension by the time I got on the boat and I ground my teeth while the guide droned on about the interesting rock formations we would see. Eventually he got onto the puffins, there were about a dozen still here yesterday, if we were lucky a couple might still be here.
The boat ploughed through fortunately not very rough seas while our guide babbled on about rock formations and the fact that Newfoundland comes from Morocco or some such. As we approached the island where all the puffins had been until recently the frustrated geologist with the microphone told us to keep a sharp eye out for puffins. He then literally ended that speech with, “oh there’s one.” Everybody oohed and aahed except me, naturally I had managed to miss it. The problem was that while I had a pretty accurate idea of what a puffin looked like I was completely off when it came to scale. Puffins are actually quite small and I had to mentally adjust what my eyes were looking for. Also I expected to see them on the island and we actually saw them everywhere but. Because, yes, the puffins did come out to play. I saw puffins on the water and I saw them flying past. One of them flew so close I was able to pick out it’s features as it went by. I’m probably biased but to me no puffin ever looked more puffin like. This puffin could have been the centrefold for the September issue of Puffin Monthly (a wholly owned subsidiary of www.puffinfap.com). So yes I saw puffins and I’m ridiculously pleased by the whole event. We also saw bald eagles. There was one standing proudly on a cliff in its best e pluribus unum pose and another took flight directly above our boat allowing us to see it in full wing extension.
I have no idea what I did for the rest of the day but when I woke up the next morning there was a stuffed puffin on the pillow next to me.
DISCLAIMER: This blog does not recommend visiting www.puffinfap.com and accepts no responsibility for any malware, spyware or viruses downloaded as a result nor for the attention of any law enforcement agency.
Travelling Hopefully - Round and Round
I met Steve in the cold and dark for my tour of the island. He brought croissants which turned out to be a godsend for reasons which will become obvious later. There are six thousand people living on St Pierre and I think we went by each one of their houses. The island isn’t that large and most of the population lives in the town or in a couple of what I would call suburbs if the term didn’t seem a little ridiculous when applied to a town of six thousand.
Once out of town I was in territory familiar to me from Quirpon and St Anthony, pond riddled peat with occasional hills breaking through. We passed by the cemetery on the way out of town and from the looks of the occupancy level it might be good if the population of St Pierre stopped dying quite soon.
Seals! I saw seals! We were driving along the coast as the sun was rising and there were seal heads (presumably with seal bodies attached) bobbing about just offshore. I scrambled out into the freezing cold to get a closer look and they obliged me by coming closer to get a look at me. I guess they realised they weren’t in any danger as long as they stayed in the water so we stared at each other until the cold drove one of us back to the car. Steve was very surprised to be driving a seal around for the rest of the trip.
After that we drank some celebratory liqueur (it was at least eight in the morning so it isn’t like I have a problem or anything) and we continued on our trip around the island. Along the way Steve provided me with interesting facts about the island such as school kids are taught how to handle a small boat as part of the curriculum and virtually everyone on the island smokes weed. The gendarmes tend to turn a blind eye. The marijuana is imported from Canada thus allowing the Canadians to partially offset their bootleg alcohol created imbalance of trade with the islands. Now if we can only get the regular economy working that efficiently.
Back in St Pierre with our tour completed Steve asked me if there was anything else I was interested in. I asked for a cup of coffee and for the first time I saw a look of uncertainty in his eyes. We cruised around looking for open cafes without success. Steve eventually popped into the St Pierre tourist office and begged me a coffee in a styrofoam cup. And this was my problem. On a Monday outside the regular tourist season St Pierre was essentially closed. I roamed the streets taking random photos, along the way I bought an apple, a baguette and a wedge of cheese, that’s all I ate for the remainder of the day.
I actually liked St Pierre quite a lot but I have a fondness for small, out of the way places. After all I’m going to be leaving soon back to my home in Australia’s largest city. I’ll let Steve have the last word on St Pierre. He likened it to an open air prison. The island lacks for nothing in modern amenities but there is nowhere you can go without, after quite a short period of time, winding up back where you started from.
Once out of town I was in territory familiar to me from Quirpon and St Anthony, pond riddled peat with occasional hills breaking through. We passed by the cemetery on the way out of town and from the looks of the occupancy level it might be good if the population of St Pierre stopped dying quite soon.
Seals! I saw seals! We were driving along the coast as the sun was rising and there were seal heads (presumably with seal bodies attached) bobbing about just offshore. I scrambled out into the freezing cold to get a closer look and they obliged me by coming closer to get a look at me. I guess they realised they weren’t in any danger as long as they stayed in the water so we stared at each other until the cold drove one of us back to the car. Steve was very surprised to be driving a seal around for the rest of the trip.
After that we drank some celebratory liqueur (it was at least eight in the morning so it isn’t like I have a problem or anything) and we continued on our trip around the island. Along the way Steve provided me with interesting facts about the island such as school kids are taught how to handle a small boat as part of the curriculum and virtually everyone on the island smokes weed. The gendarmes tend to turn a blind eye. The marijuana is imported from Canada thus allowing the Canadians to partially offset their bootleg alcohol created imbalance of trade with the islands. Now if we can only get the regular economy working that efficiently.
Back in St Pierre with our tour completed Steve asked me if there was anything else I was interested in. I asked for a cup of coffee and for the first time I saw a look of uncertainty in his eyes. We cruised around looking for open cafes without success. Steve eventually popped into the St Pierre tourist office and begged me a coffee in a styrofoam cup. And this was my problem. On a Monday outside the regular tourist season St Pierre was essentially closed. I roamed the streets taking random photos, along the way I bought an apple, a baguette and a wedge of cheese, that’s all I ate for the remainder of the day.
I actually liked St Pierre quite a lot but I have a fondness for small, out of the way places. After all I’m going to be leaving soon back to my home in Australia’s largest city. I’ll let Steve have the last word on St Pierre. He likened it to an open air prison. The island lacks for nothing in modern amenities but there is nowhere you can go without, after quite a short period of time, winding up back where you started from.
Monday, September 24, 2018
Travelling Hopefully - French Language Edition
The next day in St Johns was glorious. The sky was clear, the sun was shining and even the wind had taken some time off. Unfortunately I was leaving to go to St Pierre but I waved to the nice weather on my way to the airport. Once there I got into a very small, rather cute plane and flew to France. Specifically I flew to St Pierre which is about forty five minutes flying time from St Johns. To emphasise the non Englishness of our destination the safety briefing was given solely in French. If the plane went down I was going to have to become bilingual in a hurry.
Getting through customs took all of a minute and soon I was in a car driven by Steve who I had hired to conduct me around the island. He promptly attempted to sell me most of it but proved very useful nonetheless. Dining options are limited in St Pierre on a Sunday and I wound up eating at a burger place, sort of like McDonalds but good.
So first the history; St Pierre and Miquelon have been bouncing back between France and Britain like a cold, windswept ping pong ball for most of its existence. Which is to say since European settlement and people started writing things down. For St Pierre mostly what they’ve been writing down is a score sheet to see who’s in charge. The rest of St Pierre’s history is basically fishing, bootlegging, and more fishing with occasional pauses while either the French or the British raze the whole place to the ground depending on who currently has possession.
At present the French are in charge and the question is why do they bother? St Pierre needs financial support from the French government to survive. The fishing industry has crashed (ran out of fish) and the bootlegging industry can’t support everyone. Yes, there is still bootlegging, not to the United States but rather to Canada. As part of Europe (politically) the inhabitants of St Pierre are ideally placed to take advantage of the high tariffs Canada places on imported spirits. Specifically they take advantage of them by loading anything alcoholic into a speedboat and sneaking it across to Newfoundland when the Coastguard isn’t watching. Bootleg alcohol is about the only thing St Pierre exports (apart from sea cucumbers) and it imports virtually everything. Steve took me down to the dock where a ship from Halifax turns up once a week and unloads an islands worth of virtually everything.
For the rest, the money from France is spent on roads, maintenance and generally keeping the island looking nice. Incidentally the answer to the question “why do the French bother?” is simple. Location, location, location. St Pierre is sitting on top of what was once one of the great fishing grounds of the world and may be again if we stop killing them long enough to let them breed. And underneath those fish deprived waters are unexploited reserves of oil and natural gas. The are very good reasons for keeping the Tricolour flying over a portion of this region. Conversely there are also good reasons for another sacking by the British. It’s been a couple of centuries so they’re due.
Getting through customs took all of a minute and soon I was in a car driven by Steve who I had hired to conduct me around the island. He promptly attempted to sell me most of it but proved very useful nonetheless. Dining options are limited in St Pierre on a Sunday and I wound up eating at a burger place, sort of like McDonalds but good.
So first the history; St Pierre and Miquelon have been bouncing back between France and Britain like a cold, windswept ping pong ball for most of its existence. Which is to say since European settlement and people started writing things down. For St Pierre mostly what they’ve been writing down is a score sheet to see who’s in charge. The rest of St Pierre’s history is basically fishing, bootlegging, and more fishing with occasional pauses while either the French or the British raze the whole place to the ground depending on who currently has possession.
At present the French are in charge and the question is why do they bother? St Pierre needs financial support from the French government to survive. The fishing industry has crashed (ran out of fish) and the bootlegging industry can’t support everyone. Yes, there is still bootlegging, not to the United States but rather to Canada. As part of Europe (politically) the inhabitants of St Pierre are ideally placed to take advantage of the high tariffs Canada places on imported spirits. Specifically they take advantage of them by loading anything alcoholic into a speedboat and sneaking it across to Newfoundland when the Coastguard isn’t watching. Bootleg alcohol is about the only thing St Pierre exports (apart from sea cucumbers) and it imports virtually everything. Steve took me down to the dock where a ship from Halifax turns up once a week and unloads an islands worth of virtually everything.
For the rest, the money from France is spent on roads, maintenance and generally keeping the island looking nice. Incidentally the answer to the question “why do the French bother?” is simple. Location, location, location. St Pierre is sitting on top of what was once one of the great fishing grounds of the world and may be again if we stop killing them long enough to let them breed. And underneath those fish deprived waters are unexploited reserves of oil and natural gas. The are very good reasons for keeping the Tricolour flying over a portion of this region. Conversely there are also good reasons for another sacking by the British. It’s been a couple of centuries so they’re due.
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