The recent hubbub being stirred up by those who have set their own hair on fire over the introduction of smart meters is refreshing in one respect: it’s a nice change from reports of suspicious chem-trails and inside jobs on 9/11.

British Columbians are probably right to be apprehensive about BC Hydro’s motivations and future intent, particularly as the utility is controlled by a provincial government that already seems determined to govern more from an ideological imperative (or to satisfy the demands of crony capitalists) than from interest in the common good. When decisions are being made behind closed doors by cabinet – or politically appointed bureaucrats – with little or no independent oversight, we should not be surprised by hoi polloi expectations of conspiracy (see BC Rail, HST, et al). However, as far as I can see most of the anti-smart meter bleating is just annoying and politically counterproductive.

What are Smart Meters?

If you’re not aware, BC Hydro, the publicly owned utility that provides electricity to British Columbian homes and businesses (and exports electricity to the United States), has launched a project to replace all of the old analogue meters currently in use with new digital meters equipped with wireless signalling technology. This has inspired a minor movement in opposition, with people threatening to blockade their analogue meters in order to prevent replacement.

They’re called smart meters because – unlike the old analogue meters, which only recorded the total electricity usage and had to be read manually every month or two – the new meters can record usage on an hourly basis, detect power failures and irregular voltage levels, and contain two radio transmitters. One of these radios transmits data hourly to a receiver located in the same neighbourhood (which then relays the data to BC Hydro’s mainframe). The other radio, disabled unless the customer requests activation, allows that customer to use in-home or in-business technology to manage his or her own electrical conservation.

I expect that the new meters are also capable of recording bi-directional power transfers. I’m sure there’s a more technically accurate phrase to describe that, but basically it means that if you are generating your own electricity on your property, you’ll be able to “upload” it to the grid and be paid for it. BC Hydro doesn’t make this very clear in their promotional propaganda, beyond one sentence that reads “The measurement technology determines how much power is being consumed and produced.” I’m too lazy to read the technical specs to find out for sure, but that “produced” sounds promising.

If you think that the likelihood of your generating any power, let alone surplus power, is science fiction, just think of a product that is getting a lot of hype (and taxpayer subsidies) lately: the electric car. Personally, I have a lot of concerns with the electric car (at least from an metro-urban planning perspective – see pending separate rant on this topic), but if you want to know why you might soon be in a position to sell electricity, check out another smart concept, the smart grid, in this Wikipedia article.

Speaking of smart grid, the smart meter program isn’t just about individual meters. All of those individual meters collectively provide additional functionality as well, within neighbourhoods, within regions, and across the province. For instance, if one of your neighbours is by-passing the meter in order to steal electricity to secretly provide lighting to his basement hydroponic herb garden (a problem that can increase the likelihood of electrocution, fire, power failures, and electrical interference), the aggregated meters will record a discrepancy between the amount of power used on one block compared to the amount of power recorded by meters, making it easier to track down the leak. It’s only fair, after all, that everyone pays for what they use, regardless of the nature of that use.

Of course, it should be pointed out that this wouldn’t be as significant an issue if governments hadn’t put BC Hydro in the absurd position of being forced to fink to the police on anyone with higher-than-average power usage, effectively using a public utility as a law enforcement investigation unit. That few would bother to steal the electricity in the first place if they were just left to grow their herbs in peace is a detail that merits no official recognition.

There are undoubtedly larger-network benefits to the smart grid as well. For instance, the ability to manage the overall power network based on demand and supply is desirable. Power might be shifted across different transmission systems based on higher or lower demand in one region, or in order to react to supply problems in the form of generation outages (ie: dam maintenance or transmission line damage). An intelligent grid can potentially better manage electricity and promote better conservation, with less waste. Besides potentially relieving upward pressure on domestic electricity prices, it’s possible that better resource management might also reduce the need to generate extra electricity through the burning of coal and other polluting resources at times when systems near, or exceed, capacity.

The Opposition

There are certainly questions to be asked about any new technology being introduced, particularly when one has no choice over whether one uses the technology. “Is it safe?” and “Will my privacy be protected?” are two that immediately spring to mind.

Unfortunately, rather than have constructive conversations about these subjects, we seem to have a bunch of people with varying political agendas who would rather scream “It’s going to give me brain cancer!” and “They want to track how often I recharge my vibrator!” Most of these people are quite rational about most other things, and have legitimate political concerns about many topics, yet resort to irrational histrionics about smart meters.

Not only does this behaviour call into question their general credibility about other topics, but more importantly it occupies the space that should be used for more constructive conversations about resource management, public ownership and privatisation, environmental stewardship, open government, and equitable and fair cost recovery.

Considering its history, it is highly likely that the provincial government, in collusion with vested interests and foreign powers, is incrementally working toward the privatisation of British Columbia’s electrical grid. In all likelihood, the universal use of smart meters will make BC Hydro and/or its component parts more attractive to private investors. This presumed fact does not mean that the adoption of smart meters is the wrong decision any more than offering free wifi on BC Ferries will make it easier to privatise the ships. A strong case for smart meters can be made even if continued public ownership were certain.

British Columbians who are genuinely interested in continuing to have a publicly owned electrical utility would do well to aggressively promote that idea. Instead, people seem content to fritter away their increasingly limited political capital on absurd-sounding claims, like how smart meters “will effectively blanket homes and neighbourhoods with radiation”¹, “[...]what you are doing at any moment can be intercepted by market researchers, insurance investigators, saboteurs, would-be burglars[...]², or one American site that says “Smart Meters is a grid designed to control and incarcerate the public”³.

It’s not just anonymous cranks and semi-literate Facebookers, though. Opposition to smart meters seems to be the thing to do for some NDP activists. Take Bill Tieleman, for instance. His Tyee article on the subject last summer resorted to a lot of the same sort of panicmongering. He quotes a New York doctor who speaks of “exposure to radiofrequency radiation at elevated levels for long periods of time”. It seems that the doctor is either speaking out of context, or doesn’t understand how smart meters work, and Tieleman only impairs his own credibility by quoting him.

One thing Tieleman does mention, which is quite important to any discussion about ethics in government and about the implementation of the smart meter program, is the allegation by journalist Will McMartin about possible Liberal-party graft in the awarding of the smart meter contract⁴. This is certainly an issue of concern, and both McMartin and Tieleman are right to raise it. However, it is only an issue of implementation, not about the value of the program itself. If city council awards the garbage collection contract to one of the mayor’s political cronies, it does not therefore mean that garbage collection should be abandoned.

At least the NDP’s energy critic, John Horgan, seems to be staying away from the loonier claims of the anti-smart meter folk, which is probably tricky since many of them are probably people who vote NDP. At a public meeting in Kelowna, he avoided appearing to agree with those making hysterical health claims but tried to sound sympathetic by saying “But I do know, with absolute certainty, that the anxiety that these smart meters are creating are leading to health issues for people.”

In other words, if I may creatively paraphrase Horgan, “you people are making yourselves sick worrying about something that emits a mere fraction of the radio frequency power of that iPhone in your pocket, and you’ll never have to hold it up to your head. Get over it and let’s talk about something important.”⁵. Horgan can’t say so, but no doubt he thinks that that the crazy lefties who rail against smart meters for health reasons are as loony as the crazy rightists who rail against fluoridated drinking water and polio vaccination.

The NDP is well advised not to jump on the bandwagon of the irrationally discontent, unless they want to further drive away the environmentalist voters that they alienated in the last election by opportunistically opposing the carbon tax, a decision that cost them more votes than they gained.

It is difficult to comprehend how people can get worked up about a meter that sends out a two second signal once an hour, compared to all of the other much more intensive signals surrounding them. At this moment, there are, within detectable range of the chair in my living room, no fewer than twenty-eight detectable wireless modems all beaming signals, many probably doing so continuously, 24 hours a day. And then there are the cellular signals. Here’s a cell tower map of greater Vancouver:

Add to that the satellites beaming cable television throughout the city, the commercial radio signals, the two-way radios, the ham radios, the microwave transmitters on the mountains… even if you add up all the smart meters on your street, their output is minuscule by comparison.

Effectiveness of implementation

I’ve already mentioned the increased opportunity for privatisation. I’m not going to launch into a discussion of the merits, or lack thereof, of a privatised utility, other than to say that I doubt that most British Columbians are enthusiastic about the prospect. Privatisation is not an issue with meters per se, and some might call it a slippery-slope sort of suggestion, but if the subject is relevant, it relates to implementation. I’m uneasy about appearing to engage in conspiracy-mongering myself, but with this government almost anything sounds plausible, especially after the BC Rail fiasco.

With that in mind, it occurs to me that having the population in an uproar that appears to be caused by BC Hydro (even though BC Hydro is effectively forced to do whatever the provincial cabinet decides) serves very conveniently to cause deterioration of the traditionally good relationship between BC Hydro and its customers. Is the smart meter controversy eroding the pride that British Columbians feel about their utility? Even among those who don’t care much about the meter question, just being peripherally aware of controversy may be erosive. In business terms, it’s damaging the brand, and a damaged brand will be easier to dispose of, politically.

BC Hydro has provided on their FAQ, in my opinion, sufficient information about the health and privacy concerns that customers might have about how the meters will be operated at the time of implementation. Rather than report total electrical usage once a month, the meters will report total electrical usage once an hour. No one reasonable is going to have a problem with that.

One thing BC Hydro probably did wrong was to call them “smart meters.” The word smart evokes the concept of intelligence – artificial intelligence, in this regard. Who wants one of Ridley Scott’s replicants hanging on the wall outside her bedroom window? “Smart” vaguely suggests “sinister”, or “spying”, at least when applied to a cold machine of efficient calculation that doesn’t play games or have a “like” button. It’s no wonder there’s resistance. They should have stuck a fruit decal on it and called it an “iMeter.” Then, instead of launching anti-meter websites, the citizenry would be lined up outside of BC Hydro’s Dunsmuir Street headquarters, holding up fists full of cash and clamouring to be the first on their blocks to take home the new iMeter.

Though I found many of the answers on BC Hydro’s FAQ candid and informative, I also felt that a couple of the answers were potentially less than honest. Oddly, though, I kind of hope that they are lying. The first questionable question is “Will my rates go up because of smart meters?”, to which they provide an unqualified “no” as an answer.

The second question is “Will BC Hydro be introducing time-of-use rates?”. The answer here is also negative, ostensibly because time-of-use rating is generally only used in markets where the risk of exceeding capacity is high and time-of-use helps prevent it.

The paranoid in me thinks that they mean what they say, that “they” will not raise rates, but who can say what the government will force them to do, or what a future private owner might do? But the fact is, rates are almost certain to rise, eventually. It’ll just be for some other reason, of course.

But really, I’m nor terribly concerned. I think that they should raise rates.

As citizens of British Columbia, and therefore as investors in the utility, I think every residential household should be entitled to a base amount of electricity, regardless of the size of dwelling or the number of occupants, for free. Yes, that’s right – for free. But just a base amount. I’m talking about just enough to power a minimal number of energy-efficient lights and appliances necessary for basic survival and comfort. Any electrical usage above that basic amount would be charged for, at graduated rates based on a usage scale, so that the more you use, the more you pay.

(BC Hydro should stick to its commitment to avoid a time-of-use scheme as much as possible, unless capacity issues make it necessary. However, I would not favour time-of-use if capacity issues arise as a result of selling excessive quantities of power to jurisdictions outside of British Columbia, especially those who have no conservation incentives of their own.)

The result? Customers would have a much stronger incentive to conserve energy than currently exists, and the incentive would apply to all users, regardless of economic station, without unduly burdening (and even helping) the low income. This could mean everything from turning out a light when you leave the room to investing in energy efficient appliances and better insulation.

Now that’s something I’d like to see the anti-meter crowd redirect their energies toward.

1. http://www.notosmartmeters.com/health-issues/
2. http://www.facebook.com/pages/Stop-Smart-Meters-in-BC/104594719619502?sk=info
3. http://ppjg.me/2012/01/21/icleis-murder-meters-and-spy-grid-turning-mr-roger-neighborhood-into-electronic-internment-camps/
4. http://thetyee.ca/Opinion/2011/03/07/SmartMeterProfits/
5. http://www.bclocalnews.com/news/134976123.html

edwards block

Only two days remain until Vancouver’s triennial civic elections. If you’re reading this from somewhere outside of Vancouver, no need to go on – I recommend you read the label of a ketchup bottle instead – unless you care to learn more about the political underbelly of this town. After all, if even Vancouverites haven’t any significant interest (last election, less than one-third of those eligible voted), why should you care? On the other hand, urban affairs nerds might find the whole exercise a lesson in how not to elect governments in their own cities.

For starters, we have here what we call an “at-large” electoral system. Contrary to how that sounds – and what the quality of some of the candidates might lead you to believe – that does not mean that one must be the subject of a police hunt in order to run. What it means is that we have no neighbourhood-based electoral districts: all voters vote for the same pool of all candidates.

Yes, it’s awkward. There are at least four different ballots (excluding special resolutions): The ballot for city councillors lists 41 candidates on which voters must place an X beside up to ten names; the ballots for Parks Board (elect 7 of 21 candidates) and School Board (elect 9 of 20 candidates) are similar. Somehow, voters are expected to be familiar with the positions of 94 separate candidates, including the twelve running for Mayor.

It’s also expensive, from a candidate’s perspective: he or she must advertise to the whole city, not just a neighbourhood. Hence, candidates who do best are generally those with the most money. The ones with the most money are, of course, those who band together in political alliances and present themselves to voters in slates.

As you can imagine, the process of deciding for whom to vote is burdensome, and the outcomes for individual voters depend on several factors. Some voters are ideologically motivated; they vote for either the right wing slate or the left wing slate. Others pick and choose from the slates, and occasionally toss a vote or two to independent candidates (though these are seldom elected). Even with the slates, it seems likely that many voters choose their candidates based on other factors that reflect their own preferences and prejudices. For instance, in many elections, a candidate with an “ethnic” sounding name will often receive fewer votes than the other candidates on his or her slate, suggesting that xenophobia may sometimes be a factor. I suspect that in some cases, candidates whose names start with a letter early in the alphabet have a bit of an edge over the Wongs and Zigarliskis, if only because the voter runs out of Xs before she gets to the Xs.

In the past, there have been resolutions to move to a much easier ward system, where everyone votes for mayor, but only vote for council candidates in their own districts. This would certainly simplify things, though undoubtedly introduce other problems. I’m of the opinion, though, that at least a partial ward system would have to be better. I suspect that many people are dissuaded from voting chiefly because of the complexity of the ballots and the impossibility of really knowing for whom one is voting.

The reality is that our city governments are usually chosen through two factors: name recognition, and what I’ll simplistically call a rich/poor divide.

In a system like this a candidate whose name is familiar to voters is probably going to have either a distinct advantage, or a distinct disadvantage, (depending, of course, on whether that familiarity engenders positive or negative emotions in the voter). However, familiarity of name can be a neutral, but still problematic, reaction. For instance, our current Mayor, Gregor Robertson, would very likely suffer from the effects of vote splitting if an independent candidate named “George Robertson” ran for mayor. (For an example of this phenomenon, see the election involving Jim Green and James Green, 2005. There was another example in the 80s that I can’t recall now). In both cases, it is likely – though unproven – that a major candidate’s opponents deliberately engaged a similarly-named nobody to confuse voters.

The rich/poor divide, more accurately referred to, perhaps, as the east/west divide, has been abating to some degree in recent years, since the increase in home ownership (if that’s what one can call being mortgaged for a leaky, plywood box in the sky) concurrent with a continuous and dramatic rise in real estate prices is making those who formerly felt poor start to feel rich, if only on paper. Taking into consideration the aforementioned factors that discourage people from voting, it turns out that our elections are generally won by whichever slate manages to motivate more of its voters to actually go out and vote. Some would say that this is true in all elections, but I think that it is more critical the lower the turnout overall.

And of course, we can’t overlook the money factor. Since there are no spending or contribution limits in elections, our governments tend to be dominated by low-level status climbers and privilege seekers willing to dance to whatever tune the bankrolling developers and real estate types call. I’m sure that some would call that overblown hyperbole, but since I was once an active member and campaign worker with the most successful of the civic parties (before I quit it in disgust), I feel at least slightly qualified to spew forth on the subject.

At any rate, choosing candidates is an exercise fraught with frustration. Who has the time to go to all candidates meetings? It’s often a waste of time anyway, since they are usually stacked with a) campaign workers trying to hog the microphones so that they can target hard questions to opponents and easy questions to their candidates; and b) lonely – and usually long-winded – people for whom and open microphone is as tempting an invitation as is a bag of heroin is to an addict.

One could stay at home and read all of the candidate websites to find out what they stand for. Unfortunately, most of them are full of empty buzzphrases intended to fill out a “Platform” page with as many meaningless words as possible. E-mailing candidates specific questions is one option, though the chances of receiving a cogent response – if a response is received at all – from a major candidate is low, especially as the official election day draws near.

As I said – who has the time?

Fortunately for my readers who also happen to be Vancouver voters (whom I’m sure make up a voting bloc of such proportions as to fill a public washroom stall), I have taken the time to attend public meetings, read websites, e-mail candidates, read Twitter feeds, judge them on the quality of their campaign photos (and the style into which those who have hair have groomed it), and for good measure incorporated my own reactionary prejudices into the mix, too. Forthwith I present you with a summary of all of the candidates. I’ll deliberately try to avoid making explicit endorsements (with one or two exceptions), as my intention is to help you make up your mind, not necessarily get you to vote in lock-step with me. However, for those who wish to know, my endorsements will follow the summaries.

AFFILIATION KEY:

NPA: Non-Partisan Association, the (generally right-leaning) traditional victor in city elections.
VIS: Vision Vancouver. The (generally left-leaning) major alternative to the NPA.
CPE: COPE, or Committee of Progressive Electors, the decidedly left party that is in a semi-abusive relationship with Vision.
RPC: Resolutionist Party Canada. Whatever that means.
NSV: If you Google NSV the first result will be “No Scalpel Vasectomy”, but scroll down to “Neigbourhoods for a Sustainable Vancouver”, a party created largely due to a perceived denial of community input by Vision regarding new developments, particularly in the West End. I’m struggling to decide whether I think NSV will improve the city by increasing democratic participation, or impede its necessary progress toward densification by blocking change.
VCV: Vancouver Citizen’s Voice (a one-candidate - and possibly one member – party.)
GRN: Green Party. Sort of. The candidates (one Council, one School, one Parks) are Green, but they seem to be underplaying this label this election.
RICH: Rent is Crazy High. A couple of young people who feel – justifiably, I’d say – under-represented by the developer-funded major parties.

MAYOR:

[Mayoral candidate statements on city website].

Anton, Suzanne    NPA: Anton has been a councillor for two terms and, let’s be frank, is only the NPA’s mayoral nominee because no one else wanted the job. Known as a bit of an opportunistic flip-flopper (which her team tries to promote as “flexibility”), I have seen no indication that she has any real comprehension of any world except her own privileged, west-side one. She’s obviously not stupid, but it seems she hasn’t yet broken down the silver-spoon barrier that would enable her to be a mayor for everyone. Think Phillip Owen in a dress. Like Owen, she might suddenly come to some kind of an understanding of the other side of town once she’s been defeated at politics, but judging by her opportunistic grandstanding on bike lanes and Occupy Vancouver, she’s not mayoral material yet.

Buday , Golok Zoltan    IND: Possibly the candidate with the worst website. Has some valid concerns and is obviously thinking about issues, but not mayoral material.

Caissy, Menard    RPC: I can’t tell if the text on his cryptically-nested collection of webpages is campaign material, punk band lyrics, or both. Poor literacy level not encouraging.

Cooke, Lloyd Alan    IND: Too little information to judge positively.

Dubgee    IND: East Van musician. This guy sounds kind of interesting, though I wouldn’t necessarily say mayor material. He’s exactly the kind of person Suzanne Anton ought to spend some time getting to know a little. Unfortunately, she’d probably call the SWAT team if he ever came near her.

Helten, Randy    NSV: Although I haven’t yet convinced myself that he’s not a NIMBY candidate, this guy is on my maybe list. Seems to have more interest in democratic participation than other candidates, and that’s a big plus.

Lawrance, Robin    IND: The only candidate who has his eyes closed in his campaign photo. I hope he just blinked and isn’t deceased. At any rate, I’m not sure Vancouver needs a mayor that can’t take TWO digital pictures and pick the best. (Mind you, maybe he did…) No website, so what he stands for is unknown, but he gets points for confidence.

McGuire, Gerry    VCV: Has some good ideas, but can’t really be considered a serious candidate. Might be a good place to park your mayoral vote if you really can’t stand anyone else running.

Paquette, Victor B.     IND: Opposed to parking meters. Wants to return parks to the people by filling them with parked cars. Bzzzzz – Next!

Pelletier, Samuel    IND: Earnest young man with a highly sensible platform that is possibly the clearest and most literate of any of the 94 candidates. Blurry campaign photo makes him look a bit like Frankenstein. May have a future – should perhaps start with more modest goals.

Robertson, Gregor    VIS: Ah, Gregor. “The Juiceman”, as he is derisively known by rightist critics. There’s nothing the right doesn’t object to more than success, and Robertson seems to have some of that. Built a big business. Was born with good looks. People on the west side vote for him. Is building infrastructure for the city’s beleaguered bike riders. And yet… I still find it hard to get excited about him. Maybe because he seems a little too friendly with developers, or perhaps because he gushed enthusiastically about Gordon Campbell right before the provincial election. He seems a bit like a tactician most interested in whatever will improve his own political successes in the future. On the other hand, maybe that’s just good politics.

Zimmerman, Darrell “Saxmaniac”    IND: Hard to take seriously a candidate whose nomination form consists of “No profile provided. No contact information provided. No photo provided.” (and whose list of nominators looks like he passed the form around at the legion where a bunch of drunks scrawled names on it, many of them illegible).

COUNCIL:

[Link to all Council candidate statements on city website].

AFFLECK, George    NPA: I saw this guy at an all-candidates meeting and thought he sounded pretty reasonable and intelligent, except for some odd comment about how we need super-charged Chinese buses on Broadway, and I left the meeting thinking he might be worth a vote. However, I went and looked at his website, and it has to be the most content-deprived site I’ve seen. He says almost nothing, and taking that into consideration with his Twitter feed I must conclude that he’s either wilfully mute or simply vacuous. Perhaps his candidacy is simply a roll of the dice of fortune to see what happens, or maybe he’s building name recognition for a future run. Reminds me a bit of Gordon Campbell when he first ran for alderman in 1984 – and he was mayor two years later.

ALM, Kelly    IND: Has two websites, both the same, except the .com version is in a giant font (for the visually impaired?) and contains a bizarre chart that looks like a route map for Cathay Pacific. Seems a bit pro-car, and anyway, he’s a real estate agent, a career that rates lower in my books than school-yard pusher.

AQUINO, RJ    CPE: Seems like a nice enough guy, and seems potentially competent. Like most of COPE he has a lot to say about what isn’t working, but is a little short on what can (realistically) be done about it, such as the cost of housing.

BALL, Elizabeth    NPA: Website pretty much says what she’s done in the past (personally), not what she wants to do in the future (as a councillor). The most informative statement her site makes is “Elizabeth would like to continue her work and generate more revenue for Vancouver through arts, culture and heritage initiatives as well as improve our community by supporting children and working towards creating safer streets”, which really doesn’t say much at all. I fear she’s just a little too much of Anton’s world. She’s big on arts and culture, but I suspect her definitions of those are on the corporatey high-brow side.

BENSON, Nicole    NSV: Seems pretty good, though I haven’t heard her speak, except in a video intro. I’m somewhat sympathetic to the NSV candidates for their interests in neighbourhood consultation, transparency, and a reduction of blank cheques and subsidies to developers, but I’m also leery of NIMBYism and a rejection of the sort of densification that will be required, inevitably.

BICKERTON, Sean    NPA: I put Bickerton on my “maybe” list right off the bat mainly due to his opposition to expanded gambling in the city, though he’s not yet assured of moving up. I have some concerns about his “Safe Streets” initiative, which kindles an unfortunate memory of Lorne Mayencourt. I found his safe streets stuff to be rather vague about specifics and disproportionately targeted to the “crimes” being committed by marginal or minority groups, and without any hints about how he plans to fund his initiatives, since he’s running with a party that’s opposed to new taxes. How (or if) he responds to my questions will depend on whether he gets a vote. He got extra points for having the most detailed and informative website generally (though it still could have more meat).

CARANGI, Joe    NPA: Seems to have a lot of spunk, and as is well known, I like spunk. However, he likes to spew a lot of anti-bike twaddle, so low on my list.

CARR, Adriane    GRN: I’m pre-disposed to voting Green, so Adriane was on my ‘likely’ list early on, though not without reservations. I’d like her to be a little more assertive in presenting her opinions. She’s run for office seemingly countless times and has great name recognition. If she can’t get a seat on council this time, in a race that’s almost all about name recognition, it might be time to pack it in, or start getting a little more aggressive about her campaign style.

CHARKO, Ken    NPA: Another successful businessman who thinks that’s qualification enough to be a councillor. At least, that’s all I get from his website. Seems to be of the anti-bike variety, not uncommon in the NPA. I’m grateful to him for making his business known so that I can avoid giving him my money in future by choosing somewhere other than the Dunbar to watch films.

COPELAND, Cord “Ted”    IND: Types in all-caps, doesn’t know how to spell “independent”, no website. I’m not motivated.

DEAL, Heather    VIS: I don’t really understand why Deal seems to be unpopular with the right wing ranters to a degree that seems out of proportion to other Visioners. She doesn’t strike me as someone who is a rabid ideologue. On the other hand, I’m not sure that she stands out particularly, either. Undecided.

DHARNI, Michael Singh    IND: Candidacy seems to be all about the price of parking on city streets as far as I can see. Perhaps there’s more, but since he’s another independent council candidate without a website, who knows? Hellooooo? Does the 21^st century ring a bell? Even a child can set up a website on WordPress. For free.

FOX, Amy “Evil Genius”    IND: Her website has only a video, and I don’t do video when a paragraph will work just fine (the canny among you will have noticed the hypocrisy of that statement after what I said about Dharni). Appears as a joke candidate, but on the other hand, the candidate statement on her nomination form says far more in 140 words than most other candidates could apparently say in 140 pages. Maybe we should think beyond the necktie-and-fake-smile crowd and give her a chance.

FRASER, Grant    IND: He says that he has “had to wait for as many as 16 full trains at the Broadway SkyTrain station during the morning rush hour”. I would imagine that service could be improved, but I suspect that either he can’t count or he’s simply full of shit. Has provided nothing else to go on, let alone anything that makes me want to vote for him.

GAROSSINO, Sandy    IND: An early favourite. I like her boldness, her style, her enthusiasm, her ability to challenge and criticise things that deserve it while remaining positive. She started out anti-casino, and has a lot of vision (as opposed to Vision, of course) and the ability to communicate well. Seems able to work with many kinds of people. Should go far, if she can beat the “independent” odds. Might even make a good mayor. Deserves your vote – she’s almost certain to get mine.

GILL, Lauren     RICH:Likely to be viewed as a frivolous young idealist, and perhaps she should be, for her platform is not extensive. On the other hand, it’s no less extensive than some major party candidates who will be more readily accepted. Who’s to say she’s not just as worthy?

GREGSON, Ian    DEG: The De-growth candidates, of which Gregson is one, have an uphill battle, but they are initiating important conversations that tend to be stifled and pilloried quickly by those with competing vested interests. Having some of them on council along with a variety of other views would make for a more interesting city.

JANG, Kerry    VIS: Jang’s website suggests that he’s thinking about important things and suggesting progressive, creative solutions, though the website content also appears a bit dated. I’d like to know how he actually voted on some of the things that came before council.

KERCHUM, Marie    NSV: Doesn’t have her own website, and her Twitter account contains only 10 tweets, several of which are messages to new followers that say “Hope to give you good reason to follow me.” They’re probably still waiting. Rather unimpressive video interview on NSV site.

KLASSEN, Mike    NPA: His website extols all his virtues, but says nothing about what he wants to do. There’s simply a link to the NPA Platform which, if clicked, results in a “page not found” message that says “This is somewhat embarrassing, isn’t it?” Runs the citycaucus.com “news” site, which really seems an organ for abusing political opponents and promoting… Mike Klassen! Closely linked to Gordon Campbell and Colin “HST” Hansen, which is really all I really need to know.

LAMARCHE, Jason    NPA: Well, let’s put aside the fact that I never vote for anyone who poses for a campaign photo with his dog, especially when the dog is wearing a golf shirt. The whole sexist “date matrix” thing, along with some unfortunate sexist web dictionary entries that he swears he didn’t write (but that no one believes he didn’t) pretty much finishes him off for me. For gory details, read Jeff Lee’s Sun blog (where you can also view the stupid pet trick).

LOUIE, Raymond    VIS: Has no (known) personal campaign website, and there’s a Twitter account that might be his (@ClrLouie – but has never been used to tweet). I’d like to know that he has more in mind than simply toeing the party line.

LOUIS, Tim    CPE: Louis is an interesting character. Unlike many candidates, he’s prepared to take stands, even if unpopular, and I respect that. Unfortunately, he’s a bit of a polarising figure and I don’t think ideal council material, though he’s been a councillor before. He reportedly has a woodcut of Che Guevera hanging on the back of his wheelchair, and I once saw him at a showing of the movie “Fidel” (not at the Dunbar, thank the gods) wearing a bright red “Che” shirt. Now, I’m willing to acknowledge that Cuba perhaps does a few things better, or more humanely, than we do, and perhaps armed conflict was the only real way to get rid of the (U.S. backed) mafia running Cuba way back when, but I still can’t accept that a military dictatorship is a model from which to work here and now. I wonder, if Tim were able to hold a gun, would he be campaigning for votes or running through the woods picking off enemies?

MARTIN, Terry    NSV: Not much I can say that I can’t say about the other NSV candidates.

MASSON, Chris    DEG: Another De-growth candidate. They haven’t really distinguished themselves much, so whatever I said about the previous one likely holds for this one.

MAXWELL N BUR, RH    IND: Probably a nice guy with good intentions, but not likely to attract significant attention.

MCCREERY, Bill    NPA: I don’t care what his website says. I don’t care what he tweets. He lives in Richmond. Not even just across the river, but practically in Steveston. If I were in charge, a candidate would have to actually live in the city to govern it. I suggest he run for Richmond council. Next!

MEGGS, Geoff    VIS: I think Meggs is a pretty smart guy, and obviously pays a lot of attention to the city’s business. I approve of his support for bike infrastructure, and am tentatively in favour of reconsidering the future of the viaducts. However, he does seem to have a bit of a reputation as arrogant, and may have a few enemies. I think I saw a few in suits at the transportation meeting trying to nail him on something about attendance, but he shot them down easily. I’m not sure that I can trust him to stand up to developers, but he’s tough and competent otherwise.

MURPHY, Elizabeth    NSV: Not much I can say that I can’t say about the other NSV candidates. Saw her at the transport meeting – a mediocre speaker, likely due to inexperience. I’m sure she’d get better.

NGUYEN, Bang    IND: Seems to be hedging his bets by running for both Council and School board at the same time. Claims you “can’t make every single person happy”, but then tries to do that by saying “I will not remove the bike lanes but will not add to them as well.”

NGUYEN, Marc Tan    IND: As they used to say in high school annual write ups of the nerdy, awkward, virtually unknown students: “Best of luck in your future endeavours”.

ORSER, Rick    IND: A curious candidate. Put together a pretty thorough, if slightly odd website. Not sure what to make of him.

REIMER, Andrea    VIS: I like Andrea. She seems sincere, and has Green roots. Like Jang, I’d like to know how she voted on issues in council, especially related to development, but seems a good councillor.

SHAW, Chris    DEG: Shaw was an outspoken critic of how the olympics affected Vancouver, and I appreciated his tempered, reasoned voice. A smart guy who should perhaps be given a chance to participate in government.

SPIRES, Aaron    RICH: Another voice that deserves a little more attention than we generally provide.

STEVENSON, Tim    VIS: I once stepped into an elevator containing Stevenson and greeted him with a slightly unenthusiastic “Well, well. It’s our MLA”. He (inexplicably) blurted out his admiration for then-boss Glen Clark, and beamed proudly. When in return I offered a critical comment about NDP forest policy, he clammed up. I don’t know if it’s justified, but I find him a bit of an Elwood Veitch-like pleaser of people with power.

TANG, Tony    VIS: Another candidate who says little more than that he has a wife and a dog. Some people sure don’t do much work to earn votes.

WENDYTHIRTEEN    IND: Dear Tony Tang: Please see WendyThirteen’s website for an example of how to tell voters what you think you might like to do if elected. No need, however, to mimic her hairstyle – you’d undoubtedly frighten Penny Ballem.

WONG, Francis    NPA: Cute as a button, but not much to say beyond the party-line basics.

WOODSWORTH, Ellen    CPE: Years ago, I went to a few demonstrations that inevitably featured Ellen speaking into a bullhorn. I usually didn’t stay too long, as I’m not keen on bullhorn talk generally, and listening to a left-wing manifesto being read doesn’t make it more appealing. Mind you, right-wing manifestos are no more exciting, but they sound a lot better through expensive audio systems that only the right-wingers can afford. Anyway, yes, Ellen is of the old-school Rankin-style leftist that used to dominate council. I don’t necessarily agree with all of her positions, but she’s pretty hard working and earnest and is trying to is make Vancouver better for all. Maybe I wouldn’t be keen to have ten of her on council, but I think it’s pretty important that there’s at least one.

YUEN, Bill    NPA: “Bill Yuen is a professional engineer, who specializes in process optimization and performance improv….”. Zzzzzzzz…. Huh? Oh yeah. We’re down to the last council candidate. Sorry about being at the end of the ballot, Bill. Tough break. You ought to campaign for a randomly scrambled ballot. Anyway, as far as I can tell, Bill seems to be pretty involved in community stuff. If he hasn’t made it all up, and you’re inclined to vote for an NPA candidate, he’s probably a decent choice.

Ooo000ooo

Well, there you go. My brief summary of the election took eight pages, and I haven’t even gotten to the School Board or Parks Board candidates. You see why we need a ward system, already? Perhaps I’ll get to the rest before Saturday. If not, best of luck. I’ll need it too.

If you’d like my working spreadsheet, which contains all the candidates along with (if known/relevant) their party’s website links, personal website links, and Twitter feed links, feel free to view it here.

Update – Nov 19 @ 16:58h:

Late circumstances have caused me to drop the three NPA candidates that I had on my list: 1) The offensive chicken stunt held near city hall yesterday; 2) Bickerton’s failure to acknowledge, let alone reply to, my e-mail; 3) The reports that the NPA had hired lawyers to prevent identification- and home-deprived people in the DTES from voting.Best of luck to the rest of the party and independent candidates that I selected!

edwards block

It’s impossible to experience my immediate physical location in precisely the same way in which I experienced it as a barely pubescent youth so many years ago. Nevertheless, as I sit at an upper-level table in the W2 Media Café I sense many ghosts unrelated to the Halloween enthusiasts who occasionally wander through in costume. In this physical space once again, memories flood back of those days in the 1970s, when I was beginning to come of age and Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside community (often DTES in current written reference) was beginning a sharp decline.

The W2 Media Café sits in the south-east corner of what was once a department store. It’s more than just a café, though it is the café that makes up the “storefront”. It serves good food and employs DTES residents. But it also provides, on three levels, community meeting space, broadcasting facilities, office and desk space, training programs and workshops (particularly in media-related activities), public washrooms out of which security won’t throw non-spenders, and provides other services as well. In other words, it’s a sort of high-tech community centre that’s more about providing access to modern cultural and political communication tools to everyone, including those who live in the the area but may not enjoy the privileges that allow them to be full civic participants. The social centre of the new complex, into which the café and other operations face, is an atrium that contains a basketball court as well as Stan Douglas’s large mural Abbott & Cordova that depicts the Gastown Riot of 1971.

The department store, of course, was Woodward’s. In its day Woodward’s, with its big, revolving ‘W’ on the roof, was a landmark and bit of a community centre itself. It was the dominant economic anchor of the community when I was young, particularly after the other major department store, Eaton’s, moved uptown to the new Pacific Centre mall, a tragic failure of urban planning that has been sucking the life out downtown Vancouver’s streets ever since (including the streets beneath which it sits).

As a child I spent a good deal of time at Woodward’s, for my only paternal aunt, Peggy, was a sales clerk at the store. I was born in Vancouver, but I’d been taken to the prairies when I was quite young and I usually spent only my summer holidays in Vancouver. Visits to see Peggy at Woodward’s were common, and often during those visits I travelled downtown to Woodward’s by myself. I used to catch the BC Hydro trolley bus on Fraser, near 37^th, adjacent to the Mountainview Cemetary. Back then, the buses were of the old, brillo style, and on rainy days were musty and steaming as they rattled along with a seemingly interminable series of stops and starts.

The Fraser bus stopped right outside Woodward’s, on Hastings just past Abbott. As I remember it, the entrance to the store was on Abbott, and as I rounded the corner I always saw the same plump, upper middle-aged woman in a colourful flowing dress and a hat. She sat on a wooden box against the building’s granite cornerstone, sang or chanted softly, and held out small religious tracts to any passer-by who felt called to take one, her apparently sightless eyes focussed somewhere above my head.

Often I took one of her tracts, though I had no more than a passing interest in their contents. It was she about which I was curious. Part of it was racial: I had never known any black people, except through the unreal filter of a television, but there was something else that drew my interest, and I’m not sure that I know today what that was any more clearly than I did then. Perhaps I wanted to know who she was, where she lived, and what she thought. Perhaps I just wanted to sit down beside her and listen to her sing. I was too cowardly for that, however, and instead, as I sat on the bus later, I read her tract and then left it on the seat for someone else.

Once inside the store, I sought out my aunt, who worked in Men’s Undergarments (or in later years, Purses and Wallets). She was usually busy with a customer, so I would hang around in the periphery, absent mindedly fondling underpants until she noticed me. Once free, she told me what time her break was and then I went off to explore until then. If her break wasn’t too far off, I would hang around the store, browsing records, or stereos, or sometimes furniture. Undoubtedly I was tailed by store detectives on more than one occasion.

In the 70s there were plenty of down-and-out and addicted people living in the area. I was wary, and cautious of danger, but I never felt particularly afraid wandering through the neighbourhood, and indeed, I felt far more in danger on the grounds of my own middle school in suburban Winnipeg than in Vancouver’s skid row. In a way, my peripheral experience of the Downtown Eastside probably contributed to my future expectations of what a big city should be, and I loved Vancouver – in small part – for the rough edginess of its inner city.

Of course, that was the 70s. I was somewhat naïve and the Downtown Eastside would deteriorate considerably in later years – due partly, in my opinion, to government policies that, instead of treating suburban social problems in situ, encouraged addicts and the criminals that prey on them to gather in the neighbourhood in a climate of virtual lawlessness, left largely alone as long as they stayed out of richer neighbourhoods.

If I was meeting my aunt for her coffee break, we usually went to the lunch counter in the basement of Woodward’s, near the entrance to the store’s grocery department known as “The Food Floor”. The lunch counter was a long horseshoe-shaped, chrome-and-formica counter behind which waitresses walked back and forth, pouring coffee from glass pots and pulling pencils from behind their ears to scratch orders on slips of paper that they would rip from their pads and stick to a long coil for the cooks to retrieve. I always ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with a pickle, crinkle-cut fries, and a milkshake, a flavour combination that still makes me salivate when I think of it today (though one I tend to avoid ordering).

Other days, I met my aunt for her lunch or dinner break, and we left the store to eat, sometimes with her co-workers, at a nearby restaurant. Most memorable was a few doors up Hastings (or was it across the street?), at the White Lunch Restaurant. Later I would learn that the White Lunch had once been a chain of diners in Vancouver that was reputedly so named because of the racist laws and culture of the day, particularly the anti-Asian laws in various forms. In the 70s, however, the White Lunch had a diverse clientèle that included Caucasian, First Nations, and Asian diners, and a healthy socio-economic mix, too. Woodward’s clerks, business people, hippies, and down-and-outers all occupied booths and counter stools without noticeable rancour or judgement.

Sometimes I would stay downtown until my aunt finished work and we would go out for dinner, or shopping, and later ride home on the bus to her house. Other times, I caught the Fraser bus on my own. The returning bus passed behind Woodward’s, on Cordova Street beneath the walkway to the Woodward’s Parkade. At the corner of Cordova and Abbott an older man with an accent (Italian? Portuguese?) sat, surrounded in a hut seemingly built of newspapers and magazines so that only his face and hands were visible. He shouted out to rush hour commuters major headlines and implored them to get their news. Occasionally I bought a newspaper, not so much because I wanted to read it (it was difficult to read the large broadsheets of the day on a crowded bus), but because I felt so big city buying a paper from such a vendor. Sometimes I was downtown late enough to see the booth after the vendor had gone home, when all that remained was a small plywood shack, undressed and padlocked, its daytime life extinguished.

After finally closing in 1993, Woodward’s sat empty for many years. Most of the buildings that comprised Woodward’s were demolished in 2006, but not before an uprising by local residents and activists, who occupied the original building for a week during the infamous Woodward’s Squat before being evicted by police. A subsequent tent city that emerged, and lasted for three months, shamed the city into a more progressive and community-focussed development plan, rather than allow the site to simply be turned over to land speculators, saving us, for now, from another soulless Coal Harbour.

Today, only the exterior of the remaining Woodward’s building is original – probably just the upper portions of the east and south walls. The interior is all new concrete and glass, industrial looking, clean. Behind the granite cornerstone sits a bank. The plywood newsstand on Cordova is long gone, and in its corner sits a shiny convenience store called “Express News”. The Woodward’s Food Floor is back, sort of, in the form of Nester’s, which is owned by Buy-Low Foods, which is owned by Jim Pattison. The rest of the complex is occupied by a combination of office space, condos, social housing, and the unfortunately-named ‘Goldcorp Centre for the Arts’, which is also the site of SFU’s contemporary arts programs.

I remember when I felt a youthful excitement about Vancouver, inner cities in general, and about my own prospects. In Winnipeg I watched Woody Allen films and – in comparison to my home – imagined that his Manhattan existed, on a smaller but growing scale, in my Vancouver. Thirty years on, I feel somewhat betrayed, for things have moved in a much different direction than I’d hoped. The town has too much money and too many people who seem willing to welcome increasing blandness and sterility. This is not unique to Vancouver, of course, but I feel the pain of it especially acutely here in my home town.

I’d thought I’d lost for good that youthful feeling of excitement. I had. But I got it back, just a little bit – I got it back this afternoon. Despite the extent of the changes in it, being back in this building, on this streetcorner, is an invigorating experience. I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the Visions of the Antons don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy town.

Anyway, we’ll always have Woodward’s.

PS: Don’t forget to vote in Vancouver’s election November 19.

edwards block

Last night I went to the Vancouver Club to demonstrate my opposition to the presence of former United States Vice president Dick Cheney. Cheney, who has recently published a memoir titled In My Time: A Personal and Political Memoir, was invited by the “Bon Mot Book Club” to address the club’s members.

I don’t go to very many public protests, because I don’t much like them. This has has more to do with temperament than judgement: I simply don’t like crowds, regardless of whether a crowd is pleased or angry. While a pleased crowd is generally less frightening, I find many crowds far too inclined to herd mentality to be worth the deprivation of my solitude. I’m not just talking about protest crowds: a crowd of sport fans, church parishioners, or family members have just as much potential for uncritical group-think when they gather.

Nevertheless, I felt compelled to attend this demonstration, as I believe Dick Cheney should be tried for crimes that contravene international law, particularly the United Nations Convention Against Torture, which was signed by Cheney’s former boss (or puppet, depending on your point of view), Ronald Reagan. Canada, as a signatory to this and other anti-torture conventions, has a moral (and possibly legal) responsibility to either deny Cheney admission or to turn him over to the International Court of Justice (to which a formal complaint against Cheney is outstanding).

By attending the protest, my goal was to express that opinion in a public way, and to express to the Bon Mot Book Club members that welcoming an alleged (and apparently self-confessed) criminal is, at best, a poor choice of dinner guest.

There are some things I did not have as goals while protesting. I did not go to prevent Cheney or anyone else from exercising his or her right to free speech. I did not go to block the doors and prevent the Bon Mot members from exercising freedom of assembly. I did not go to frighten, physically intimidate, or stalk and harass people who looked like they might be headed in the direction of the Vancouver Club, especially people who already looked frightened and intimidated. I did not go to scream, “How much are you getting paid you fucking pigs?” to the police who had been assigned to security. I did not go to try to assault anyone.

Photo: Vancouver Sun

Unfortunately, I was disappointed to find myself in a crowd comprised of many people who were more inclined to this sort of behaviour. I stood toward the back of the crowd, held my sign, and smiled politely at anyone who looked my way. I stayed until it was apparent that all the event ticket holders had arrived (and the media trucks had left), and then I departed, content in having expressed myself. I’m not necessarily opposed to more aggressive action when it is warranted, but stopping Cheney from talking wasn’t likely to save any lives or prevent any tortures at that moment and, at any rate, he has not yet been convicted of anything.

While at the demonstration, I took a couple of pictures with my phone and uploaded them to Twitter. I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but I’m trying to make at least some attempt to keep up with modern communication methods. It’s pretty much the only way the younger generations are communicating these days, and it seems to me that my refusing to play won’t have any detectable effect on the march of technological change (for better or for worse), but will serve to further isolate and lessen the impact of my cultural relevance (such as is it).

Upon arriving home, I found that my Twitter picture, which was accompanied only by the words “Cheney protest”, had been referred to by a Twitter user by the name of FACLC, a fellow in Alberta who considers to himself to be the love child of conservatives Richard Feynman and Ann Coulter. FACLC (whose alleged birth circumstances, I feel, perfectly justify his henceforth being referred to as “The Bastard”) apparently picked five people at random who had posted a reference to Cheney and called them all leftists with an “irresolute commitment to free speech”. Offended at being assigned the simplistic label of leftist, as if that single word somehow sums up my entire identity, and the suggestion that I was stifling free speech by exercising my own, I exchanged a couple of messages with him before I looked at his website and discovered that he’s one of those people for whom a position on anything that’s to the left of his must necessarily equate to communism.

I have to admit, while I was at the demonstration, I had a moment myself of feeling irritated by what I perceived to be the portion of the crowd that I sometimes, unscientifically, identify as being the “loony lefty rent-a-crowd”, the ones who show up to any demonstration that’s against anything. These are often the ones, unfortunately, who hold the bullhorns and scream incomprehensibly about contrails, Bilderbergers, and how 9-11 was an inside job. Some of them have a lot of time, energy, and emotion, but not a lot of critically informed focus, and some, I suspect, are simply members of our community who are struggling to find the right balance of medications with which to treat their mental health conditions. (They wouldn’t, of course, be so noticeable or command so much attention if more of the rest of us were inclined to do the work that we have apathetically left to them).

Looniness, however, is not restricted to those on the left. Dominating most of what passes for forums of public political dialogue these days (ie: the comment sections of news websites, or The Bastard’s Twitter feed), is a hugely energised crowd of people that I must refer to as the “loony right”. Somehow, anonymity and technology seem to inspire them to compete to see who can hold the most rightward of views, however insane or destructive, as if they’d collectively decided to  campaign for the return of western civilisation to the tenth century, but with internet, despite the likelihood that they would end up among the peasantry, or worse.

I don’t consider myself either a leftist or a rightist, and I don’t really care much about where The Bastard or anyone else would place me on that spectrum. Really, my reaction is about being labelled at all. I prefer to be free to arrive at my opinions independent of where they will situate me on the political spectrum or whether by holding them I’m contravening some party’s by-laws. If I have to be confused with one or the other, however, I’d rather be confused with the lefties, who at least seem to be motivated by the desire to build, rather than dismantle, civil society, even if their methods are sometimes misguided.

About the Bon Mot Book Club

If you’ve never heard of them and are wondering how you can join, well, forget it unless you’re rich, Conservative, and, most likely, white. More than one of their members endorsed conservative Liberal (explain that to your American friends) Kevin Falcon in the leadership race won by that “left-liberal” (as BC Conservative leader John Cummins refers to her) Christy Clark. Membership is by invitation or personal referral only, according to their website. If you want to cozy up to someone with referral privileges, try joining the West Vancouver Conservative Party constituency association, where Bon Mot founder Leah Costello is a board member. Or maybe you can petition the Globe and Mail, or the TD Bank, both of whom sponsor the event.

As book clubs go, this one isn’t what you’d call “literary”, so don’t expect to be reading any Proust (or Atwood, I suspect). Most of the books they dine in honour of (I’m reluctant to assume that they actually read them) are probably written by ghost authors.

It’s interesting that Leah named the group Bon Mot, French for “good word” – which is somewhat evocative of The Bible – yet is happy to celebrate someone willing to torture and kill people in the relentless pursuit of profit for his oil company masters. So Christian! Also amusing is Leah’s French pronunciation. If you watch the Bon Mot promotional video you’ll see her at the lectern pronouncing it as the “Bonn Mott” book club. Hearing this made me even happier with the sign I made for the demonstration:

edwards block

Of all of greater Vancouver’s generally boring suburbs, Richmond has historically been my least favourite, though the truth is, all of the suburban cities rate relatively equally compared to the much-preferred Vancouver proper. There’s no single reason for my particular disdain for Richmond; rather, a complex web of accumulated, interrelated flaws has hardened me against feeling affection for the town that serves as the final output for Vancouver’s sewage.

Richmond’s most obvious flaw is its flatness. For most, this is probably a minor characteristic, possibly even an overlooked one, but for me that flatness is evocative of my adolescent years in Winnipeg, though at least Richmond has a habitable climate and considerably fewer mosquitoes. The feeling of flatness is enhanced by the traditionally low height restrictions of buildings and signs, owing to the city’s close proximity to the international airport. When in Richmond, I feel as if the sky is mere inches above and the urge to duck follows me everywhere, as if I were seven feet tall and wandering around in a door shop for dwarves.

Then there’s the traffic plan. Or lack thereof. I suspect that the only reason they thought to lay down any sidewalks at all was so that the car stereo and crap furniture stores that inhabit the strip malls have somewhere to put their sandwich boards that don’t inhibit the flow of cars through the narrow parking lots. The roads are generally too narrow for the volume, since early city managers neither planned for future right-of-way expansion nor tried to foster a pedestrian- and transit-friendly community. If you plan to drive down No. 3 Road, bring along a book. If you plan to walk, bring body armour and a good insurance policy.

Speaking of No. 3 Road, I’d be lax if I failed to mention the lack of creativity in street naming. I’d expand on that, but it gives me a headache trying ponder all the various combinations of names that can contain the word “bridge”, or to sort out the otherwise identically named Crescents from the Cul-de-Sacs from the Closes, all of which seem to intersect, abut, and sidle each other in an endless series of dead-ends and misunderstandings that make me avoid all but a half dozen known routes out of fear that I might be lost forever in a subdivision of identical bungalows.

But that’s enough criticism – let me say something positive.

Though I have for many years actively avoided going to “Ditchmond” (as the locals derisively referred to it back in the day), it has in recent years undergone a major demographic shift, and lately I have been making some tentative forays across the river to see what’s up. This wasn’t completely intentional – I was picking someone up at the airport a while back and the flight was quite delayed, so I had a choice of hanging around YVR or going to Richmond for a couple of hours, and even downtown Kelowna contains more tolerable amenities than the airport, so off to Richmond I went. I’ve actually been back a couple of times since, by choice.

On the initial visit I found myself in what is now known as the “Golden Village” district, a commercial strip that contains a number of Asian-themed shopping malls, and through which a rapid transit line was recently opened that connects the area to downtown Vancouver.

Actually, I’m not all that keen on the expression “Asian-themed”, for it makes it sound like a bunch of white executives over at Cadillac Fairview opened a regular old mall full of Gaps and Grand and Toys but hung giant paper dragons over the escalator. No one ever refers to Cadillac Fairview’s Pacific Centre as a “Caucasian-themed shopping mall”.

At any rate, I kind of like the Golden Village malls, at least as much as someone can who can’t stand malls to begin with can “like” one. I started with Parker Place, based primarily on the great name. In a way it is my favourite so far, for it seems most foreign to my learned idea of what a mall is. The hallways are narrow and (relatively) rabbit-warren like, and the stores generally seem to be independent in nature rather than the bland and predictable chains that inhabit typical North American malls. In fact, I believe that Parker Place is unique in malldom in that its tenants have strata title over their spaces. Perhaps because if this, it has a bit of the ambience of a public market, say, an upscale version of the Mercado Publico in San Jose but with more glass and tile and fewer muggers.

From there, I made my way to Aberdeen Centre. This mall is much more in the western style, a little more upscale and shiny than Parker Place, and the store spaces are rentals, but the stores here are also likely to be unfamiliar to those who know only the typical North American mall. Like any other mall, there are plenty of stores in which I have little consumer interest, but there is one that I like quite a bit: Daiso, the Japanese department store.

Daiso is a sort of upscale “dollar store”. Products tend to be, generally, of a quality on the lower end of the scale, but much of it is far better than what is usually sold in what we typically know of as dollar stores, and products are often aesthetically unique and pleasing. I find it a good place to buy notebooks and assorted office supplies, as well as affordable but nice looking and practical dishes. They also sell replacement rubber ear buds to fit the ear-bud style headphones (that Future Shop will tell you don’t exist as they try to sell you a whole new headphone for $30). The price of replacement ear-buds at Daiso? Four for $2.

One also can’t go wrong with the “Food Court”. Typical malls usually have all the same grease-trap joints as any other mall – bad food at low-ish prices. The food in the Aberdeen Food Court is actually pretty good, though. On my most recent visit, I had a slice of “Teriyaki Chicken Mochi” pizza at the peculiarly named “Strawberry Cones Japanese Pizza & Pasta”. Though pretty tasty, and of a quality vastly superior to any standard discount pizza joint, this was probably the junkiest food offering available in the court.

My favourite part of Aberdeen Centre, though, is also the cheesiest: the musical fountain. It’s a smaller version of the same sort of fountain found outside of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas. When I was in Las Vegas I wasn’t at all interested in it, but at Aberdeen I find it fascinating. Perhaps the smaller scale makes it a more intimate experience. The first time I went, the fountain was sending jets of water in all directions in time with the song “It’s a Small World”. On my most recent visit, the jets were syncing with a medley of classical themes, ending in a crescendo with the conclusion of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker. It’s really quite silly – I stand there with all the six year old girls, enthralled.

The Musical Fountain

It occurs to me now that if the most exciting product of my recent trips to Richmond is a fond reminiscence of shopping malls, either Richmond still has depressingly little of note to say about it, or I’ve recently been lobotomised, since under normal circumstances I feel as if I’m being smothered by an asbestos blanket if forced to spend 15 minutes inside a mall. I’ve been known to walk four blocks down Granville Street in driving sleet rather stroll through the dry warmth of Pacific Centre, and I’d rather be eviscerated than go to Metrotown Mall.

I’m sure that what makes the Golden Village malls tolerable to me is the extent to which they are “foreign” to what is familiar to me. Visiting them is not like wrestling alligators or hiking across the Brazilian Highlands, but there’s still a sense of adventure to be had in discovering them, the sort of adventure one gets from travelling to another country and immersing oneself in a culture different from one’s own. It’s a shame that more Vancouverites – Caucasian Vancouverites, I mean – don’t feel inclined to that sort of adventure, or so I deduce from the relative rarity of pale faces at Aberdeen, or some other “ethnic” enclaves in the Lower Mainland. It’s much more pleasant to get out an embrace difference than to sit around complaining about it. Isn’t that what multiculturalism should be all about?

As for the rest of Richmond, the city is not without some signs of progress, such as the previously mentioned rapid transit line, which is surely the best thing to happen to Richmond in decades. I also noticed that a number of bike lanes are now appearing on major routes. Overall, though, I’m still a ways from feeling affectionate toward the ugly urban areas outside of the immediate vicinity of the Aberdeen Skytrain station.

edwards block

A small restaurant just outside the city centre. At a table in the middle of the room sits a beefy young man with t-shirt sleeves rolled up, a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo on the table in front of him. On the wall behind him, a poster, one of those old black and white pictures of dirty young men digging into their lunchboxes while sitting untethered on a girder hundreds of feet above what will become Rockefeller Center. Over the restaurant’s sound system comes the voice of Elvis Presley crooning Always on my Mind. In the corner, a man with a sweaty forehead flicks a cockroach off the wall behind him while he waits for a cheeseburger, fries, and a lemonade.

Brooklyn, 1972? No, Tokyo, 2011.

Specifically, the “Freshness Burger” just up the road from the Nakano JR station. Nakano is an off-the-beaten-track neighbourhood not frequented by the mainstream tourist. I’ve been sticking with Japanese food (well, Asian food – I think I had Korean last night, but since I couldn’t read the menu, I’m guessing about that), but after spending an hour wandering around the Broadway Shopping Arcade, my blood sugar was low and I felt the need for something fast and easy.

It’s not that Japanese food is that difficult. After all, I live in Vancouver and have probably eaten at least five times my weight in sushi already. The challenge is largely linguistic. Most of the restaurants I eat at have no English on their menus, but they usually have pictures of the food, so I just point to things that look appealing.

Twice now I’ve eaten in restaurants that had no pictures, so I had to pick something by pointing at text that, for all I knew, might have said, “Federal tax will be applied to all checks”. There is some risk involved, though I suspect it’s not serious. My fear, though, is that in my ignorance the waiter will bring me a plate on which a large pufferfish sits staring balefully up at me while the other patrons, all locals, look at me admirably, mumble amongst themselves, and then go back to eating their yakisoba. As it turned out, the first of these attempts resulted in a very plain, but tasty, bowl of noodles. The second time, I got a bowl of rice and sashimi (tuna, I think) and miso soup. Here it is for your enjoyment:

From what I’ve written so far, it seems to me that two things demand explanation. One is my use of “checks” instead of “cheques”, which under normal circumstances I would be loathe to do. At the risk of offending my American friends, I consider their spelling of the word for a promissory note to pay as a “check” to be a sign of wilful illiteracy of the worst example. I think it’s admirable to establish one’s new republic based on the sort of egalitarianism not practised by one’s former colonial master, but a new country should aspire to “be”, not to “not be”, and adopting ridiculously simplistic and confusing spelling just to be different seems absurd and, potentially, destructive to one’s ambitions. If the American empire is in decline – and given the line-up of proposed candidates for the leadership of the nation’s apparently ascendant party, one must conclude that the decline is now one of free fall – I would assert that the fault lies entirely with the unfortunate decision to adopt language that confuses financial instruments with the patterns on one’s boxer shorts.

I won’t go on about this subject, except to say that I’m extremely disappointed in the Japanese – the people who dress their daughters in British sailors suits for elementary school – for adopting this American misspelling over the clearly superior British one, for I see it all over the place. “Where?” you might ask. Usually at the bottom of menus, though they are frequently the only English words on them, besides “Menu” and “Drinks”.

The other thing that perhaps deserves amplification is my reference to the “Broadway Shopping Arcade”. Normally, a mall is the last place I’d be found anywhere, even in my own city, but I heard about this one while reading about Nakano and decided to take a look. The arcade itself is nothing to write home about (though I suppose that is, in effect, what I’m doing), but off to the side of it is a small network of winding alleyways full of tiny restaurants and bars, many of which would only hold a dozen people at most, some fewer. It was pretty quiet during the day, but I suspect that it’s probably a hopping place at night.

Best of all, though, is that at the far end of the arcade is a dingy old mall consisting of several floors laid out like rabbit warrens. The place is full of small shops that sell all kinds of oddities, dolls, clothes, comics, and food. The largest retailer, it seemed, is something called “Mandarake”, except that it wasn’t just one store. The were all kinds of peculiar little shops, which may or may not have been Mandarake-specific (some seemed more like small museums), seemingly independent of each other but maybe weren’t really. According to Wikipedia, Mandarake is “one of Tokyo’s largest vendors of used anime and manga-related products”, and their own site claims that they are “the biggest and busiest manga and anime place in the world.”

While in the mall, I picked up a couple of t-shirts of a type that seem to be worn by young people all over Tokyo: shirts that have English words on the front that make no sense whatsoever. It’s like someone generates phrases comprised of random English words and makes shirts. I haven’t been taking a lot of pictures in Tokyo, which is not unusual for me, for I tend not to want pictures of things that I can find 30,000 different views of on Google Image, but since I got here I’ve felt like photographing the shirts that I see people wearing on the street. I don’t of course, for that would be a little intrusive (not to mention lechy).

It’s not a shirt, but here’s a minor example of English oddity: an advertisement for some sort of building renovation:

I’ve been gallivanting all over town, since I bought a refillable transit pass that lets me ride all the trains, subways, and buses in metro Tokyo. I’ve ridden at rush hour several times and I haven’t found things as crowded as western media makes it sound. Yes, there are white gloved attendants in the stations, but I haven’t seen them shoving people into trains. I can also safely report, with some disappointment, that no one has yet groped me in a crowded train car.

Considering that the the population of metropolitan Tokyo is roughly the same as that of all of Canada, the level of cooperation and the efficiency of transportation is highly impressive. I have seen not one incident of road rage or expression of anger by anyone, anywhere. I have seen only two vehicles being driven in what I would call an aggressive manner, and both of those were being driven by Caucasians. The metro station in my neighbourhood, Ikebukuro, handles a million passengers a day. I’ve been through that station several times a day since I’ve been here, and it’s a model of social cooperation. There are people walking in all direction – it looks like the inside of a beehive. Compare that to Vancouver’s SkyTrain: the entire system handles only 380,000 passengers a day, but if two people are riding an escalator at the same time, the odds are good that one’s going to be irritated by the other in some anti-socially apparent way. I realise that they have their own unique cultural issues, but we have much to learn from the Japanese.

Among the other places I’ve wandered is the garden of the Imperial Palace. Here’s a picture of the wall and moat, as well as the Fujima-Yagura. A yagura is a building for storage, and this one, apparently, has a limited view of Mt. Fuji from the top:

I also went to Akihabara, which is the traditional neighbourhood for electronics. It has become a bit of a mecca for gamers and anime enthusiasts so it’s full of young (and old) geeks and nerds (the Japanese word, apparently, is otaku). I found a narrow, six floor mall stuffed full of tiny stores that were themselves stuffed full of every electronic part or component you might seek, from capacitors to server cases. Alas, I was unable to find (at a price I was willing to pay) what I came looking for: a battery operated, pocket-sized cellphone signal blocker.

Here’s the entrance, ’cause I know you’re as fascinated as I:

As I was leaving there, a huge thunderstorm descended on the city, with thunder so loud it echoed deafeningly between the buildings, and everyone on the street stopped to look up. Then, the clouds opened and a deluge of rain fell. People ran to awnings and the elevated train tracks for shelter. I personally ducked into the nearest store, which turned out to be the “Love Merci Adult Amusement Park”, five floors of every sex aid you can imagine, including one floor containing nothing but inflatable, anatomically functional dolls. Curiously – or not so curiously – all the dolls were female. The sex shop was unlike Canadian ones. It was clean, had friendly staff, there were male and female customers who seemed to be shopping without shame, and there were no peep show booths in the back with sticky floors. (I’m not sure if that last bit is an endorsement or a complaint).

Speaking of cellphones, this is another area in which Tokyoites are superior, in my opinion. Everyone, it seems, has them (as is the case almost everywhere in the world now) but they are very polite with them. Not once have I seen anyone talking into a cellphone in a restaurant or on the subway. In fact, there are signs on the subway asking people to put their phones on ‘silent’ and refrain from making or receiving calls. They’re all texting, to be sure, but it’s quiet. In fact, for the world’s largest metropolitan centre, Tokyo is surprisingly quiet. Car horns are seldom heard. People converse in civilised tones. The only place I’ve noticed an inordinate amount of noise is inside the ubiquitous pachinko parlours, which appear to be casinos full of slot machines. According to my friend Guy, from Sechelt, whom I met up with here, it’s all just in fun, and that gambling isn’t legal, but that if you know how it is possible to redeem your winnings for cash on the black market. I won’t be finding out, of course, for I’m too cheap to gamble. If I wanted to throw my money away I’d just flush it down the electric toilet with the heated seat in my hotel.

I haven’t done any cycling here, but it seems like it wouldn’t be too difficult to steal a bike if I were so inclined. Tokyoites seem to leave their bikes unlocked, or with minimal security, all over the place, and there are a lot of them, everywhere. In fact, today I happened across this peculiar scene in Nakano:

edwards block

Okay, I’m a little behind in my travel blogging. Maybe it’s the heat. Or maybe it’s the food. There’s been a lot of food. In fact, this whole trip has mostly been about eating. Of course, one can’t eat continuously throughout one’s waking hours, so we’ve filled in the non-eating periods with other activities, like digesting, researching new places to eat, and visiting cultural sites. I’m not much of a ‘foody’, generally, but I do like to eat, so my companion has been the driving force behind the relentless pursuit of food and I’m quite happy to participate.

A brief historical preamble: Unlike the rest of Malaysia, a slight plurality of Penang’s population is ethnic Chinese, closely followed by ethnic Malays. Also well represented are Indians, primarily Tamils. Ethnic Chinese arrived on the Malay peninsula sometime in the 14^th century and their descendants are referred to as ‘Peranakan’. The culture and unique language have largely disappeared, as their numbers have been dwarfed by the influx of larger numbers of Chinese since British colonisation. What has not disappeared to the same extent is Peranakan cuisine, also called ‘Nyonya’ cuisine, which comes from the term ‘Nyonya Baba, which is more or less a combination of the words for ‘Ladies’ and ‘Gentlemen’.

That’s enough dry history. On to the wet food. Some of the Peranakan dishes I tried I thought we’re okay, but the one I liked best is ‘Laksa’, which can be found all over the place, in various forms. The most common, perhaps, is ‘Assam Laksa’. Essentially, laksa is a bowl of soup noodles. Nothing unusual about that in Asian cuisine, of course, but as far as I can tell, it is the spices and other ingredients that make it unique – some combination of Chinese, Malay, Indonesian, and possibly Thai influences. I ate assam laksa several times. It’s a seafood soup, typically (I think), not exceptionally spicy, though it does have some small hot chilies in it. It is sort of sour, presumably from tamarind.

Another dish I soon came to favour, though not Peranakan, was Char Kway Teow, which is rice noodles fried in pork lard with assorted other ingredients, especially cockles and pieces of sausage. I can’t imagine that one would want to eat this on a regular basis, unless one wishes to develop a physique in the style of Mao Zedong, but it sure is tasty.

Char kway teow, Joo Hooi

My favourite place for both of these dishes was a little hawker market on Penang Road called ‘Joo Hooi’. I didn’t take a picture of Joo Hooi, but here’s one I stole from the internet:

(photo credit: Jazz)

I also enjoyed an ample supply of Mee Goreng, another fried noodle dish, a bit spicier and – possibly – a bit healthier, and of course, thanks to the Indian population, plenty of dal, tikka, and tandoori. I tried a bowl of chendal, which is sort of a dessert that I didn’t think I’d like much, but turned out to be pretty good. I think it contained tapioca, coconut milk, and taro, and I don’t know what else. But that’s not all I ate. There was also Pangan chicken, a betel leaf salad, sea bass with lime and chili. The only ‘western’ thing I’ve eaten is breakfast. My hotel provided each morning a staid English breakfast of eggs, ham, beans, fried tomato, and toast. Since I skipped most of the monuments to colonial imperialism in Penang, breakfast was my token acknowledgement of that part of the history.

Of course, there’s more to Penang than food. There’s drink. At Joo Hooi I had the only thing in Penang that I did not care much for: a glass of olive juice. It wasn’t horrible, but it seemed an unsatisfying combination of sweet and salty and wasn’t particularly refreshing. After that, I stuck to lime juice with lunch. Though not much of a coffee drinker generally, I also discovered a taste for the local “kopi”, which is a thick, strong, sweet, creamy brew apparently made from coffee beans that have been fried in butter instead of roasted traditionally. Owing to the heat, I’ve also taken to drinking ‘ice cream coffee’ after lunch and, occasionally, a mojito in the early evening, especially when sitting at an oceanside cafe at a place called “Beach Blanket Babylon” and, once, at the “Eastern and Oriental Hotel”. It’s an absurdly colonial place where some members of the staff actually wear pith helmets and stirrup pants, but we stopped for a drink in the hopes that we’d plunk our asses down in the same chairs that Rudyard Kipling and Joseph Conrad once sat in.

We also visited the Peranakan Mansion and Khoo Kongsi, both of which represent aspects of Peranakan culture as well as cross-cultural influences. I’ve already mentioned the trip to Batu Ferringhi. We also took a day trip out to Balik Pulau, a small town somewhere mid-island where we failed to find whatever it was we’d set out to find but ate some more laksa, and on the way back from there stopped at the Kek Lok Si temple. Apparently it’s the largest Buddhist temple in southeast Asia, and parts of it are impressive, but it’s also riddled with gift shops which, while I suppose they help fund the upkeep, seem to detract from things by their numbers.

Here are some of my temple pictures:

Avalokitesvara - Goddess of Mercy

A 'Disnified' version of some Buddhist icons...

I can’t really talk about Penang without mentioning the traffic and the sidewalks. There’s lots of the former and almost none of the latter. The place is a honeycomb of narrow, winding little streets that presumably were built for horses and rickshaws, and since the buildings were built right to the road’s edges, pedestrians are often forced to dodge in and out of doorways and porches to avoid the cars, trucks, pedicabs, taxis, bicycles, and of course the motorcycles that seem to be the dominant mode of transport. The only real sidewalks are on major thoroughfares, but there are rarely any crosswalks or traffic lights on these routes, so crossing them often involved waiting for a rare break in the flow and then making a suicidal dash across to the other side.

Despite the apparent anarchy of the traffic, things seemed to be moving quite efficiently and I was surprised not to have seen any accidents despite the obvious craziness, like the motorcycle I saw weaving in and out of fast moving traffic that had two women sitting on it with a small child standing, helmetless, on the gas tank, or the man on a motorcycle squeezing through a narrow space between a bus and a taxi at 30 km an hour, steering with one hand and talking on a cellphone with the other. The illusion of efficiency somewhat dissolved, however, at the bus station in Balik Pulau, where the bus company has posted, on a sign board next to the bus schedules, graphic pictures of accident scenes that involved buses. I suspect that the pictures were meant to encourage safer driving by motorcyclists, who seemed to be the primary victims, but I’m not sure that showing your customers pictures of severed torsos and dismembered limbs is an ideal marketing tactic.

The photographer, two degrees shy of heat stroke

edwards block

Three years ago in Thailand, on my first visit to Asia, I thought my skin would melt off. I like heat, but I’m accustomed to the Pacific Northwest variety, where in summer one can be comfortably hot in the sun, but kind of chilled in the shade. The vast bulk of my DNA likely originates from seafaring barbarians from above the 60^th parallel who raped and pillaged their way down through Scotland, which accounts for my red beard. Of course, the Romans were there first, but even Caesar knew a thing or two about chilly winters. The point is, tolerance for extreme heat does not come to me naturally, genetically speaking. This time, at least, I knew what to expect and I was somewhat mentally prepared for it. I was pretty proud of myself in Singapore, for I wandered the city extensively and didn’t crumble into a cranky heap once.

Then I arrived in Penang.

I generally try to avoid air conditioning, for it’s a huge drain on energy, and there’s something sort of weird about sitting inside a refrigerator, and constantly moving from too cold to too hot can’t be healthy either. However, I find I have no hesitation about turning on the machine in our Penang hotel room every time I come in the front door. I also find plenty of excuses to wander through air conditioned shops that normally would have no appeal to me. (“Why yes, I think we should browse in this polyester track suit store.”)

Normally in this sort of heat, I would opt to wear the least amount of clothes possible, but since the majority of the population of Penang is Muslim, I feel an uncommon urge to dress more conservatively than I might otherwise. I’m making good use of my linen and seersucker shorts, and have abandoned underwear altogether as an unnecessary burden of superfluous insulation. Fertility specialists tell men who are trying to conceive to avoid hot showers and hot tubs, in an effort to prevent sperm degradation, but I wonder how useful that really is? After all, I’m not aware that the people who live here have extraordinary problems with fertility, and if the men of Penang have testicles half as roasted as mine and can still reproduce, perhaps heat is less a factor than we imagine. Is that too much information? Just be glad I’m not providing pictures.

Midweek, we decided to take a day trip out to Batu Ferrenghi. This particular section of the island isn’t a major draw, as it’s the primary destination for white western tourists (and I didn’t come to Malaysia to be immersed in my own culture) but it did have two things going for it. One was a spice garden, where we were able to wander trails through the jungle and look at a vast array of the plants from which many spices are obtained, as well as many other varieties of tropical flora. We had lunch in a gazebo and then swung on a large bench suspended by ropes over a stream while monkeys passed through the trees overhead.

Here are a few spice garden images:

edwards block

On my final day in Singapore, I once again ventured out to the north end of the island in search of the Changi Prison Museum, this time equipped with a more detailed map and the freshly viewed Google Street View image in mind. As it turned out, I was only a couple of blocks off on my last attempt.

For all of my effort, the result was somewhat mediocre. I skipped over the chapel portion pretty quickly, for I’ve already seen umpteen monuments to Christian hocus-pocus in umpteen countries, and after a while it gets to be like watching reruns of a show you never liked much in the first place. The museum itself was sort of interesting, but the whole thing was obviously designed by and for the (primarily English as well as Australian and American) colonisers who were victimised by the Japanese occupation. That’s not to say that those victims didn’t suffer horrendously, but I wondered if perhaps the emphasis was a bit Eurocentric given the incomparable scale of atrocities committed against ethnic Chinese. On the other hand, I can hardly be an expert on a subject I knew almost nothing of before my visit.

Once done there, I took the MRT out to Pasir Ris, a community on the other spur of the East-West line. Pasir Ris Park was my destination, the third largest park in Singapore. Much of it is like any other urban park, with playgrounds, fields, picnic areas, and a small amusement park. However, it also contains a five hectare mangrove swamp through which has been built a series of boardwalks, and that’s where I spent all my time. Here’s a sampling of some of the wildlife:

The park had quite a few people in it, but the mangrove swamp, despite being fully board-walked and easily accessible, was virtually deserted save the occasional jogger. Not that I’m complaining – after all the hubbub of the central city, I relished the peace and tranquillity of the swamp. The only thing that marred the peace, really, was oddly entertaining. The amusement park is quite close to the swamp, though you can’t hear anything from it – except, that is, for one ride which features the amplified opening bars of Strauss’s Also Spracht Zarathustra, the sound of which echoes spookily through the swamp and invokes a degree of the supernatural.

I had unconfirmed plans to meet some people in Little India for dinner at 6:30, but by the time I got back into the city centre I didn’t have time to go back to my hotel to check for messages, so I just headed straight to Little India station. The group of workshopping academics – the indirect reason that I am here – were supposed to be taking an audio tour of Little India before dinner, so I figured I’d run into them somewhere. I strolled around for about half an hour and then decided that I was probably better off sitting in one spot and watching for them to amble by. After all, how hard could it be to spot a pack of mostly white academics wearing headphones?

I chose as my aerie a small outdoor bar which was in reality a bunch of tables set up in an alley near the Indian arcade. It was an oddly comic scene. All of the other patrons, except for the six year old daughter of a Chinese man who’d interrupted his shopping for a beer, were men. I sat in direct view of two 60ish white guys, one of whom had hair dyed the colour of ginger and wore an AC/DC concert shirt but had a face like a desiccated crab apple. His friend wore a ‘Thailand’ t-shirt that looked like it had been cut out of a velour painting. Call it stereotyping, but all I could think of was ‘sex tourist’. The rest of the patrons were single men, mostly Indians and a few elderly Chinese.

The music that was amplified through the alley was some sort of power-ballad collection, featuring songs such as “Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina” and “I Will Always Love You”, which went along very nicely with the televisions mounted on the wall that were broadcasting some sort of violent American wrestling program that, as far as I could see, no one was watching except the six year old girl.

I ordered a Guinness, which I managed to save in the nick of time from being poured over ice by the waitress, and watched the stream of people passing through the alley. Indians must surely be the most beautiful people on the planet, whatever the gender (and there were at least three genders represented), even – or especially, perhaps – all of the young Indian men sporting 70s gay-porn moustaches. I’m usually in the habit of making eye contact with people wherever I go, and most of the time people look away, but Indians, I find, typically look straight back, with deep, dark eyes that seem to bore into you, neither threateningly nor over-amorously, and often they will smile.

Shortly after I’d ordered my second Guinness (which I almost never do – one and a half is usually the optimal quantity beyond which I start to get a little silly), the television switched over to women’s wrestling, which seemed even more violent than the men, though undoubtedly it’s all just theatre. After several minutes during which a black-haired woman and a blonde-haired woman – naturally wearing some sort of absurd, revealing sleepwear – slammed and hit and limb twisted each other with little noticeable reactions, the blonde woman cornered the other woman against the corner, stuck her ass in her face, and jiggled it back and forth. The dark haired woman howled in agony in a way that she had not when her face had been slammed against the mat. The six year old and I looked at each other and I rolled my eyes, prompting a giggle.

I finished my beer and continued wandering the streets until I found a wall to sit on and took up the watch once again for the touring academics. My perch was across the road from the Maxi-Cash Pawn Shop and the Jewel Palace, both of which were lit up like an Esso station. Next door, at The Church of the Eternal Light, the porch light flickered erratically.

edwards block

A couple of weeks back, as I was cycling out to Wreck Beach, my front fender started to make a hell of a racket, so I pulled over to check it out. As it turned out, I’d run over a piece of chewing gum that someone had coughed up onto the roadway. It was firmly stuck to my tire, and with each revolution it hit the edge of the fender and caused a clatter. In order to solve the problem it was necessary to pull the spitty, gritty lump of gum off with my fingers, which was surprisingly difficult for a warm day. After that I had to dislodge it from my hand which, in the absence of any useful implements, involved rubbing my fingers against the curb on Highbury Street. (If that doesn’t move you to search out a trash can the next time you need to dispose of your gum, then think of all the people with wheelchairs who experience the same trauma but with less convenience.)

Of course, the trauma was not so great that I now belatedly feel compelled to blog about the subject, but I thought of it now because I’m once again visiting Singapore, the only country in the world – that I know of – that has banned the import and sale of chewing gum. I remember when the ban was first implemented, in the early 1990s. At the time I knew absolutely nothing about Singapore and thought the ban an absurdly draconian example of Orwellian excess. I envisioned secret police sneaking around in trenchcoats nabbing schoolgirls with suspicious jaw movements, girls who were then dragged off to Room 101 for interrogation.

When I first visited Singapore in 2008 I wasn’t too worried about the chewing gum law, since I don’t chew gum. However, I remember that in grade six (that would have been about 1975 or so) I was accused by my teacher of chewing gum and told to come to the front of the class to spit it out. The trouble was, I wasn’t chewing gum. Somewhere along the line I’d picked up the nervous habit of making chewing motions with my mouth, unconsciously acting as if I were chewing gum. I didn’t even know I did this, but one of my classmates apparently did, for he spoke up in my defence, explaining that I always chew my tongue.

I know, a little weird. What’s even weirder is that I still do it. Not constantly or anything, in some kind of way that screams for a lithium prescription, but every once in a while I notice that I’m chewing nothing. It’s usually when I feel like I’m being observed in a moment of inactivity, such as when I’m on my bike at a red light and there’s a car full of people next to me. I suppose it’s the same social akwardism that makes me put my hands in my pockets, or reach for my key ring or some other handy object, when standing at a crosswalk waiting for a light to change, as if I’m somehow more vulnerable and exposed with empty hands. (Interestingly, I can’t recall ever having felt this sort of exposure when naked in public).

Anyway, I was on a bus yesterday, one of many buses I was on yesterday in a three-hour attempt to locate the Changi Prison Museum (thanks for the great directions, Lonely Planet), when I noticed that I was busily chewing nothing at all, and it occurred to me – possibly because right above me there was a sign encouraging citizens to call the police immediately if they see anyone suspicious – that possibly this mock chewing of mine could attract unwanted attention.

I never got hauled off to the gulag, but neither did I find the museum. Toward the end I spotted an imposing white building surrounded in chain link fence topped with three strands of barbed wire, with a heavily fortified guard shack, and thought I’d finally found it, but it turned out to be The Japanese School, which was sort of ironic since the Changi Prison Museum’s primary focus is the atrocities committed against POWs during the Japanese occupation in World War II. In the end I gave up and left it for another day, and made my way back to Little India for an afternoon snack.

Today I was much more successful in my quest to visit the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve for a little jungle birdwatching. With 600% humidity I was already well-moistened by the time I walked the short distance from the bus stop to the reserve gates, and by the time I’d ascended to the summit of Bukit Timah – Singapore’s highest hill at 165 or so metres, I was dripping wet. After traipsing all over the reserve, I’d only spotted three birds, and managed to identify only one of those (a Crimson Sunbird). I’d seen more birds outside of the Plaza Singapura shopping mall on Orchard Road, but I still enjoyed being in the jungle for a while, listening to the cicadas and looking at all the unusual insects, like Giant Forest Ants and something that looked like an earthworm with 100 legs that moved like the wind. Now I’m back at the hyper-colonial Raffles Town Club (where I feel more like a trespasser than a guest), preparing for a dip in the pool before I head out in search of a hawker stall for my evening meal.

edwards block