| July 1, 2005 Red Alert by Soren Wuerth My wife and I entered Canada in a small, gray fuel-efficient car, driving to the border from Skagway. We passed a high alpine pass named after some White guy, meadows dotted with black and pistachio-green pools that I looked at fondly from the cracked window of our sweltering car. But, ah Canada, what a difference! The customs clerk was a young woman, who mildly asked us questions of little concern: “Do you have alcohol? Do you have guns? OK, move on.” The Canadians do not have the scrutinizing mindset of the American border patrol. It is well-known among cross-border travelers that while you can be at ease passing through the line-less Canadian border, be prepared for a search at the U.S. checkpoint if you have long hair, a bumper sticker that questions nuclear insanity, or something pierced. After all, why should the Canadians care too much? Unlike in the U.S., marijuana does not rank with terrorism as a national scourge and does not result in a long prison sentence (a teacher just told me her African American grandson was given 15 years for driving across Montana with pot in his car). No, Canada, at least so far as the Yukon and Northern B.C. go, is just a cooler place than America. Canadians seem generally more relaxed about things. Construction crews leave it up the driver to find the best way through areas of road work, no one gets their undies rumpled when a dog is loose, and rangers will let you camp where you please. At least this is what we’ve found. In Canada, you just feel freer than you do in the states. The mentality of the American culture is linear, like the yellow and white lines in the road that force you forward, faster and faster; lines that hold you captive with their thin logic. Keep moving, progress is good, growth is good. We had a flat tire and had to stop at “Frank’s” in Teslin. Frank’s wife came out into the yard of the older couple’s well-kept ranch style home. Frank, wearing oil-soaked coveralls, paused from his work on the rear of his tow truck and said, “bring her in.” Frank’s wife talked to us out in the yard about the cancellation of mosquito spraying because residents up in Faro were complaining about getting sick. She looked like she had just taken her the curlers out from her white, bouncy hair. “My premier and your governor our down in D.C. trying to sell that gas pipeline,” she said. I told her they were actually drinking cocktails right about now and planning on where they’ll vacation. “I know that’s what our premier is doing!” she exclaimed. Frank gave us back the repaired tire and showed us where the last place that had “fixed” it had forgotten to remove the nail from inside. We drove slowly away, toward the 50-s era restaurant they had recommended. I thought about the woman’s complaint about her premier. Our Frank is too busy for vacation. He is too busy, no doubt, worrying over his monomaniacal plans to progress Alaska into oblivion. For me, Alaska’s Frank has done nothing, except cause more hardship. Canada’s Frank fixed my tire.
|
-
Columnists -
|
||||||
| Copyright
2005
Insurgent Media. All Rights
Reserved. in-sur-gent (in sur'jent), n. 1. a member of a group which revolts against the policies of its leadership. |
|||||||
