Stage Six - Alert Bay

Morning sunshine caught us off guard as it was supposed to rain today, and we drank tea on our little deck watching a flat calm sea and listening to crows, ravens, eagles and even a wood pigeon!  I haven't heard a wood pigeon since I was in England.  How the heck did one of those get all the way up here? 

After breakfast we went off to explore the island.  I have never seen anything of this place except the waterfront, and the native longhouse.  I was here for its opening ceremony, and erection of the tallest totem pole in the world. Dozens of natives in button blankets heaved on wires to tilt it up into place.  That was many summers ago, and I think the record for the tallest pole has been broken since.

When you only see one strip of a place you imagine it going all the way back for miles.  But there's really only a few streets here.  Among them are Hill Street, which was the flattest road on the island, and Road Street, which was the first time I'd ever seen a road named after itself. Never make the mistake of thinking Kwakiutl natives don't have a sense of humour!

We passed the school

and the airport

and the longhouse, which looked a bit grubby and unused.

We also visited both the Anglican gravesite and the Native gravesite.  We weren't allowed to enter the Native gravesite with its formal poles and clipped grass, but the little Anglican one was full of names from Alert Bay's history of the last century or so, all crammed into a field that dipped and curved with rocks and wild grass. It seemed like the two sites were in bizarro land, taking over the physical characteristics I would have thought the other held. I recognized some names, and their faces were the vanguard of a flood of memories, the best of which was picking red and white raspberries in the garden of Mrs. Kenmuir, who was born a Cook and had gone to school with my grandfather.  She later became the agent for Queen Charlotte airways (now defunct many times over)  and who often had to direct planes by radio, acting as an air trafiic controller from the window of her kitchen.

Yours truly upper left

Mrs. Kenmuir back row left, Grandpa Fred back row middle

We walked in the sun, and ate fresh salmon berries off the bush, their furry sockeye coloured bodies like pale raspberries, mildly sweet. 

Back at the dock we saw a little shop selling coffee.  Well, I think it was coffee.  The people in the place were very nice, and it was lovely to sit outside, but it was probably the worst coffee I've had in a long time. 

Trying to smile past coffee that tasted like dishwater

The waterfront has a whole lot of boats.  I always like looking at boats.  Especially work boats.  

native canoe

cute and functional - I want one!

Our lazy goal was the old residential school, a tall brick square at the far end, and at odds with its surroundings,.  It is now used as the Indian band's offices.  



Mission school built in 1878

I know the whole issue of residential schools has been controversial for years now, with many stories of abuse.  For many it was also a separation from their families, from their traditional lifestyle and from their language.  There's no question that this was done without care or thought, and in some cases without oversight into physical and emotional abuse.  Monetary compensation is of small consequence to those who were taken advantage of and who had no power to stop it.  However, I also know that there are some, from this particular area, who credit the schools with providing them an education and opportunities they would never have had otherwise.  The silver lining perhaps.  The pendulum will swing back a bit to reveal the good stories in time I'm sure.

As we approached the school, we saw some signage and small clumps of people milling around.  Without knowing it, we found we aree here for National Aboriginal Day and there is to be a parade in half an hour!  We filled the time by looking into a little heritage centre, new since my day, and nicely planned, except for the fact that there had a been a robbery last night with the entire jewellery section stolen.  And it wasn't the first time.  Such a shame - who would do that, stealing from themselves ultimately?  Outside there were two or three men quietly working on a new cedar pole, its creamy barkless colour glowing in the warm June sunlight.

We continued to wait long past the half hour, which is absolutely no surprise.  Tracking time never was part of the native way of living.  The paraders wandered slowly by in time; several old fossils in full dress, drummers and singers, and a collection of children and dogs.

The new pole was blessed and a Charlie James pole in the heritage centre, repatriated from the museum in Victoria, was officially welcomed.  Then everyone went outside for baked salmon, smoked salmon and two kinds of salmon spread as well a bannock and a big bottle of Rogers golden syrup, presumably for the bannock.

We took our plate down to the beach where kids were splashing around in the water.  I don't think I've ever seen people in this neck of country swim, as the water is generally frigid. I was always told that if you fell into the 'chuck' you would have about 10 mintues before hypothermia set in. There was only one beach that one would ever even contemplate accessing from Telegraph Cove, and that was at Bauza Cove, a wide cove with a shallow seafloor and open sunshine.  One a rare day like this, cloudless and hot, after hiking through forest trails, and if the tide was coming in over the hot sand, it was possible to take off shoes and socks and wade for a while until your toes froze.  So to see children and adults alike, fully clothed, splashing in the water on this sparkling, hot summer day, I felt like I was somewhere else, Southeast Asia perhaps, but not here on Cormorant Island!

A small mound of wood was now ablaze and weiners on sticks were being cooked.  Watermelon and juice were on friendly offer. It struck me that there was no one was drinking beer, there was no alcohol at all.  Everyone drank juice or bottled water.  That thankfully was another change for the better.  It was always such a sad sight seeing individuals lolling about drunk, any day of the week, perhaps every day of the week, taking abuse, hurling abuse, isolated and alone and yet part of a collection of sad drunk people.  Everyone here was talking and laughing.  And we were included as naturally as if we lived there,withjokes made about my uneven fireside cooking skills, with one side of my hot dog scorched black.  What an extraordinary day to spend here - such a gift!

We saw the ferry leave Port McNeil and so wandered a little reluctantly back into town, but curiosity drove us into into an open house for sale at what seemed to me a ridiculously high sum.  Another Antipodean (why are there so many in this tiny place?) was selling up after 12 odd years and many failed businesses.  Everything was for sale, and a weird collection of things it was. Crutches, bits of clothing, native carvings, brass lamps, a tangle of electronic cords and cables, jewelry, and a full sizes diving helmet made of copper and brass. I bought a silver pendant in a sun shape by Frank Nelson, and then ran out to our car as the ferry readied to leave.



How do you get to the shops? 

ferry on its way