Terry Fox in Havana

So, here are some shots taken from the Terry Fox Run in Havana.

It's the largest Terry Fox outside of Canada with about 2.3 million people participating.

Like all things Cuban, it's unique in it's own way. Unlike the goal of the Terry Fox Foundation in Canada to raise money for cancer research (and that seems to be the sole goal of the Foundation), the Cuban approach to Terry Fox is to build awareness of cancer, and participation in the movement.

They adore the story of Terry Fox, and as you can see, just about everyone gets involved in the run.


Somehow I got running with a group of "retired atheletes." These old buggers were in better shape than me, I'll give you that much.

I mean, if this isn't a powerfully appropriate image for the spirit of the race, then I don't know what is.

And in the true to form Cuban approach, no one gets excluded!

De-icing in Newfoundland

Seriously, you just can't make this up!!

Bilingual, eh?

So, living in Québec has been a great experience. Fewer bullets to dodge than Ecuador and fewer power outages than Cuba. It’s been more than ten years since this province nearly broke away from the country. Only by some text-book definition of a miracle under the sleepy federal leadership of Jean Chrétien, did Québec manage to stay in Canada. Yet, in 2007 language is still a major divider.

Montréal is a city of cities. There are English parts where French cannot be found, and French parts where English is as alien as Swahili, and yet there are Swahili parts where passable French and English are a bit rare.

Coming here to a Francophone university to master the language (or at least bring it up to newspaper readable speed) garners piles of respect. Many Francophone graduate students realize that at some point they will likely have to familiarize themselves with English in order to survive in academia or policy circles. But few Anglophones really need to master French to get through the whole of their lives. Translation services in Ottawa abound for both parliamentarians and the civil service. Anglos still have it pretty easy.

So, I’ve been wondering what the hell bilingualism really is. Is it a draconian policy to shove two languages down the throats of every kid in Canada, where the result, through public education, is generations of students leaving school with piss poor understanding of the other language? Is it something that is reserved for Ottawa? Is it something that can never be achieved, considering that many pure laine Francophones look on in disdain when any Anglo square-head fumbles on French grammar and misses Québec slang?

A good fracnophone pal of mine and I discussed what the hell bilingualism is. We were having fondue and wine in Québec City with a few toasts of caribou thrown in. We figured that the vast majority of Canadians can get through their lives without need of the other language. Just as in Switzerland those from Geneva never have a pressing need to master Swiss German. Sure. But those who might be in positions of leadership, and in positions to influence leadership, should certainly bring themselves to understand the language. Only we figured that the real issue is not to just understand the language, but to understand the ideas going on within its culture. The language divide between Québec and Anglo-Canada is a big thing, but the ideas embedded and separated between them is even bigger.

Reading a French and English newspaper, everyday, I’ve come to realize that our biggest challenge with bilingualism is the lack of translation of ideas and attitudes between the Anglo and Franco worlds. French media and English media in this country might as well be covering the happenings of the opposite sides of the moon. Seriously, what counts for news in English Canada gets a full miss in Québec, and vise versa. Sure a few pundits cross over, and sure, we all take notice of big issues, but the day to day happenings are really lost in translation.

So, my friend and I have come to conclude that bilingualism is really more about transferring those happenings between the two solitudes to realize that we really have more in common than we think.

In the 1995 referendum Québec really had no idea what Anglo Canada was thinking, and Anglo Canada really didn’t see the heart of the matter as to why young radical Québécois were taking to the streets chanting out “screw the world.” It was a dangerous time, and we nearly tore ourselves apart because while we may have taken notice to what the other side was saying, we didn’t understand what they were really thinking.

This is the goal of bilingualism, as I see it. To ensure that ideas, desires and hopes are expressed openly, in whatever way possible. The mechanics of how and Francophone and Anglophone communicate with each other, are just mechanics. The idea of bilingualism being forced action to help build resumes is far too pedestrian. And if we keep up that attitude, rest assured, it will come back to haunt us once again. But if we see bilingualism as a vehicle to share and communicate our ideas, I mean at street level, not just in politics, and then we may stand a fighting chance.

Salut de Montreal

Alright, as you all know there comes a time to take a break from the active front lines of revolution and to sit back and draw up battle plans for future endevours.

For now, I'm laying low in Quebec. There may be the odd commentary or photo extraveganza to appear on the site, but don't expect too too much until the Canadian government gives me back my passport.

Till then, check out some added and updated photos from the Equator episode.

Hasta Pronto!
Viva!

Christ! I just got tear-gassed!!!

Oh man, welcome back to Ecuador. I'm not in this country for two hours and I get pelted with the tear gas.

I checked into the hotel and went up to an old favourite internet cafe to catch up with the world. When I get there the main street has no cars. There are cars everywhere in Latin America, so a street without them is a sign of trouble.

The municipal bus drivers went on strike, and the police responded with tear gas. I landed myself in the middle of this by complete accident. "Oh listen to that! Fireworks." Nope. Gas canisters.

Fortunately I didn't get in the direct line of fire, but the wind picked up the gas and sent it my way.

That stuff burns like you wouldn't imagine. Man. The guy next to me said, "cover your face, it will help." Sure enough I take my black hooded sweater and wrap it around my head. It did help a little, but not much, and then I looked more like a damn villian than a lost gringo. So at that point I hi-tail it before any billy clubs show up.

Good grief. What a welcome back to this country.

Feliz cumpleanos, commandante

Back in Havana. I hear all of these stories about dumps of snow in Vancouver and Toronto, and I have to sympathize. You know it's getting cold here too. I mean with 19'C at night you almost have to close the windows.

Fidel's belated birthday party is tomorrow. The old guy, is...an old guy.

From his hospital bed he has assured the nation that he still makes decisions and has a say. No one really buys it.

Last night there was a Happy Birthday concert for the old guy, and musicians from all over the Americas showed up to play.

Good times it was. Sure there is some hoopla about the old man's birthday. The Slogan is Viva Fidel, and his first eighty years. First eighty.

That's fitting really. Because now Cuba's great leader has officially moved from a position of governance and symbolism to just symbolism. The man can't actually do much from his hospital bed. But now he has become the simulacra, a mythical pressence of values, beliefs and thinking that is meant to transend governance and popular culture.

Like Jose Marti himself, this is the role of the man with the beard.

True Cuba scholars have known this for some time. Some of the most important and at times radical decisions regard foriegn and economic policy took place with Fidel's hands well off the wheel.

But now, with the 80 years celebration, the leader has become nothing more than legend.

Folks in Miami will continue to bark about the change that will come after he passes. Morbid bastards all of them. The man's death, when it comes, won't change a bloody thing. The system here is on its own legs. Giving the guize that one man in a green suit runs the show, the sacred truth is that it really runs itself.

There are many aperatures in Cuba these days. Ones to travel, to continue education, to gain hard currency through purely capitalist means (from selling gum to important blue Jeans from Venezuela). And like all complex societies, Cuba's does not live and die with one character.

But that character, now a myth more than a man, still plays an important role.

The more you know

Turns out that if your bumper is just a smidge over the no-parking sign, while you're in the bank for 10 minutes you get a $45 ticket.

Turns out that the banks aren't into giving temporary cheques anymore. Turns out that's pretty inconvienent for some.

Turns out that you can really shock people by walking into a bank and asking for 4,500 pennies.

Turns out that 4,500 pennies is really heavy.

Turns out that City Hall in Vancouver will accept 4,500 pennies to pay for a parking ticket.

Turns out that half of the people in the line behind me were impressed, the other half were a bit annoyed at the fact that the teller had to disappear for a while to count change.

So nice to be back.