It was, for us, a New Found
Land although we knew the maps, had seen the pictures and heard regularly of this
island that is not-quite-Canada in the news. The rugged beauty of the out
ports, the magnificence of Gros Morne National Park, the charming architecture
of St. John’s are not exaggerated in the travel brochures.
But like the majority of the
planet, you can hardly find a place where the majesty of the created and
evolved planet isn’t mitigated by the presence of humans and the things humans
make: highways, railroads, cities and towns, docks and ships and salt-box
houses clinging to the rocks. For the filming of the CBC mini-series—Random Passage—a cove was found from
which no sign of human activity can be seen; such a place is a rarity. What’s unique
in Canada about Newfoundland as a province is that every human endeavour there
has faced daunting obstacles in the steep, rugged landscape. Quite literally, it
means that every structure must cling to the side of a rocky hill, every fish
or chunk of coal must be carried uphill and down to reach its market.
And then, there’s the sea from
which Newfoundlanders have traditionally earned their daily bread. A map of the
shipwrecks around Cape Bonavista is so cluttered with Xs that they overlap each
other. Still, the map doesn’t include the dories smashed against the rocks in
storms, their planks scattered on the shore, husbands and fathers and brothers drowned.
For men must work and women must weep
For there’s little to earn and
many to keep
And the harbour bar be moanin’.
Although written for fishermen off the coasts of Great
Britain, the song popularized in Canada by Stan, Nathan and Garnet Rogers
summarizes well the agony of out port life on the sea.
All
this complicated further, of course, by the hurricanes that roar up from the
Caribbean, blow kisses to Boston and Halifax and vent their nearly-spent fury
on the Avalon Peninsula. The remnants of Hurricane Marie blew us off Signal
Hill but barely raised an eyebrow among native islanders. The winds that
powered the ships were, indeed, fickle and truculent friends.
So
Newfoundlanders are a hardy, friendly, honest lot like everybody says? I’m not
going to add to this generalization: I’m sure that kind folk, happy folk,
thieves and liars appear in the same proportion in Newfoundland as in
Saskatchewan. Furthermore, visitors (tourists) are catered for and pampered
because they have—in fact—replaced cod as the staple in much of Newfoundland
and should therefore hesitate to judge the smiles and courtesies of their hosts
as indicative. I do know that you can pile your firewood along the roadways in
Northern Newfoundland without fear of its being stolen, and front doors are
seldom locked except in downtown St. John’s. I also know that the
off-the-record chats with hosts at the historical sites were highlights of our
trip; most seemed relieved to branch off the official discourse into the
friendly, dignified stories of the real Newfoundland, its beauty and its warts. Their Newfoundland.
I
took hundreds of photographs, as we tourists tend to do. My favourite is of the
young woman who passed by me in St. John’s, walked decisively to the end of a deserted
wharf and sat for fifteen minutes gazing pensively out to the harbour mouth. I
could say that this photo summarizes the personality of Newfoundland, but for
all I know, she was a student from Saskatchewan studying archaeology at
Memorial University, as some have done.
Give
me a break; I’m just a tourist!
No comments:
Post a Comment