I awoke suddenly to an alarm at 4:30am and thrashed around in the dark to silence the beeping. I had been sleeping on a large air mattress between Tory and Winston, two friendly dogs belonging to my sister and her roommate. They stirred slightly, but as I forced myself out of the warm bed, they snuggled back down for a few more hours of sleep. It was Wednesday, October 31st, what was the first day of my trip to Europe. In an hour Meghan, my traveling partner, would pick me up and we would head to Halifax to catch our plane to Washington D.C. with the eventual destination of Dublin, Republic of Ireland. My sister Sheri made me some tea as I showered and bid farewell to me as Meghan pulled up the driveway. The two things going through my mind as I trudged towards the car was "Holy shit it is cold," and "What the hell am I getting myself into?"
Meghan Price is 23-years-old, like me, and works as a nurse in Miramichi, New Brunswick. We met about nine years ago at a conference our parents were attending and have kept in touch off and on ever since. After being frustrated by several plans falling through and by several potential travel partners changing plans, I asked her half joking on MSN one day if she wanted to go to Europe. She immediately thoguht it was a great idea, set about getting leave from work, and so, here we were, at about 5:00 on a cold Halloween morning, driving off to Hali and beyonjd in her beloved Tiburon.
After the usual procedures at Stanfield International and after various jokes about what we should have dressed up as for Halloween (ex. terrorist, tourist), we arrived in Washington D.C. at about 11:30 and headed into the city to see what we could see. Playing the role of tourists well, we walked along Pennsylvania Avenue and saw all the requisite buildings and sights that are comprised in a visit to D.C., Capitol Hill, the Canadian Embassy, George's House, etc. After an eight hour lay-over we boarded an Aer Lingus flight at 20:00 and were off to Dublin. Undersatndably, we were both very tired by this point, but the six and a half hour yielded little rest for either of us. Between the dumb shows on TV and the screaming baby we didn't get much sleep through the night, and so by the time we landed in Ireland, I was pretty damn tired.
We arrived in Dublin at 7:00 Thursday morning and hopped on a bus to head downtown. Under the shroud of over-tiredness I felt a pang of excitement that we were well on our way. Of course we were by now over 24 hours into our trip, and any feelings of excitement were soon over-taken by the severe desire for sleep. We arrived at our hostel at 9:00 so that they could tell us that we would have to wait until 13:00 for our room. Yay. We then made the first mistake of our trip, and ate breakfast at Burger King. They've concocted some kind of sausage burger sandwich, and it is absolutely disgusting. I was, however, satisfied that I was able to exit the restaurant without throwing up, and so off we went to see where our titred feet could carry us before 13:00. The one thing I could see about Dublin right away was that it was exactly what I expected. The row-housing, the multiple pubs, the Irish-looking people. Anyone who has traveled Europe will also tell you of the near overwhelming age of the buildings and communities in comparison to those in North America, and as we wandered around the soaring spires of churches and old castle walls, my interest was at least half peaked.
Once we got back to the hostel, our room was finally ready and we almost immdiately fell asleep for at least six hours. At 20:30 we again made our way into the downtown core and roamed the crowded streets, stopping at a restaurant and a pub.There was a huge mix of people of all languages, whjich surprised me, as I figuring Dublin to be more homogenous, like PEI. As it turns out, Ireland has exploded economically (in a good way) over the past few years, and as a result, the immigrant population has sky-rocketed. Though enthralled by the atmosphere of the streets and the diversity of people crowding them, there was much sleep to catch on, so after a meal and the requisite pint of Guinness, we headed back for our hostel where I snored the night away.
Coming from rural New Brunswick, far away from a metropolitan centre of any kind, Meghan was a bit overwhelmed by the size and intensity of Dublin. That, along with the draw of Blarney Castle and its famous stone prompted us to leave Dublin on Friday and to head for Cork. We caught the free breakfast at the hostel and then walked along the Leffey River through Dublin to the train station (just adjacent to the 250-year old, 64-acre Guinness Brewery). We got our Eurail Passes validated, picked up a couple post cards, and got on the train... just in time to see the last seat taken. We had the pleasure of sitting on the floor beside the bathroom, between a baby carriage and some garbage for much of the three-hour journey, but once an entire troupe of girls and their over-enthusiatic mothers (living vicariously through their daughters) got off to compete in a dance competition, we found ourselves sharing an entire car between ourselves and a young mother with her toddler. She was very kind and candid and through our conversation, gave us a bunch of tips on what to see and what to avoid in Ireland and London, and told us several stories about her life living in the area.
Cork, on the south shore of the island, is the second largest city in Ireland, and yes, was where Peter Petrelli was found in a freight container in the first episode of 'Heroes' this season. Cork was another beautiful town with tons of old buildings, blah blah blah, and such. Hoping to have the same luck with dinner as we had had the night before, we walked around looking for a restaurant, but after along fruitless search, Meghan ended up eating at McDonald's as I sat there watching, wishing I could find decent bowl of soup somewhere. (As an extended note, Meghan is absolutely obsessed with McDonald's and will sometimes go on little rants on the merits of chicken burgers vs. double cheese burgers. - ex. "Sometimes when I can't decide, I just get both." - Myself, on the other hand, not being keen on fast food to begin with and having just read a book on the industry, am about ready to give up processed food for good). When we got back to the hostel, Meghan took off for bed, and I sat downstairs in the bar, worked through our itinerary and travel plans for the next few days, and tried some 'Murphy's' (the local equivalent to Guinness). It was very good.
The next morning (Saturday), we headed off to Blarney Castle (a 600 year old fortification in Cork County), walked around the castle grounds, which were super cool, and kissed the Blarney Stone, which was super disgusting. (I was impressed that I didn't catch any major diseases, although it is possible that it is just dormant.) We stopped into a pub in Blarney before hopping on the bus back into town, and I finally got my bowl of soup. (Along with another pint of Murphy's).
We caught the bus back to Cork with a bunch of 30-something rowdy women celebrating a stagette or something, and then took another bus to the Cork Airport for our RyanAir flight to London. After another few hours of sitting around and waiting, we boarded the no-frills flight and bore the wrath of flying on the cheap for the next couple hours. The lethary of jet lag was still bearing down on us as we arrived in London that evening, but we felt ready for anything. Little did we know what awaited us in London at the now-legendary Bridge Park Hotel.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
Patty and Eugene Do UPEI: Episode 6
Coming on the end of the school year, St. Patrick's Day hits UPEI, and it's time to party. Patty finally convinces Eugene to accompany him to The Wave, UPEI's campus pub to celebrate, but not before Eugene gets a few pointers from Derek on how to be a smooth operator.
After appearing in four videos about UPEI and six episodes of this, their very own mini-series, 'Patty and Eugene Do UPEI - Episode 6: The Hair Flip' is the final installment of the adventures of Patty and Eugene. Eugene insists that he will keep in touch with all of the loyal fans of this series. Patty says he doesn't really give a $#&!, and that he is going to The Wave to get "blitzed, and [he doesn't] care that he and Eugene aren't roommates anymore and [he is] glad that they aren't and life will be so much easier without a caring friend looking out for [him]."
After appearing in four videos about UPEI and six episodes of this, their very own mini-series, 'Patty and Eugene Do UPEI - Episode 6: The Hair Flip' is the final installment of the adventures of Patty and Eugene. Eugene insists that he will keep in touch with all of the loyal fans of this series. Patty says he doesn't really give a $#&!, and that he is going to The Wave to get "blitzed, and [he doesn't] care that he and Eugene aren't roommates anymore and [he is] glad that they aren't and life will be so much easier without a caring friend looking out for [him]."
Monday, August 27, 2007
A High School Graduate - Five Years Later
June 24th, 2002
Greetings fellow Graduates. Finally, after twelve years of countless tests, projects, and exams, after a lot of bus rides and way too many Monday mornings, we are done. After tonight, no one can force you to write about aerobic respiration, or to tell them where Yugoslavia is, ever again. Our compulsory education is over, and while this is exciting, we must also remember that these are our last moments together as a class. Though you will see many of your friends and classmates over the next couple of years, it is unlikely that we will ever completely assemble as a class again. All of you in front of me here, will, after tonight, take different paths and follow different dreams. As we move on and, consequently grow apart, we will no longer be together at, nor connected by, the physical building of Bluefield. However, we will always have our experiences from our time at the Blue, both good and bad, all have which have hopefully made us better people and stronger individuals. My three years at Bluefield, and I'm sure many of you can say the same, were among the best three years of my life. Every day was an adventure, and meeting each one of you was an honour.
As relieved as we are to be free, our freedom from scholarly responsibilities will come at the cost of having to leave behind the best High School on Prince Edward Island. I'm sure many of you won't see a problem with having to leave behind the overcrowded cafeteria or the smell of manure in the morning, but Bluefield for us was not only a school, but also a community. A community where we worked and laughed and studied and played much of the past three years away. From this point on we will move onto new communities, as we move out into the world and find our own places in it. Whether that place be at university or college, in law offices or in hospitals. Maybe at a farm, or in a bank or at a church, maybe at Burger King, or, God forbid, maybe back in Mr. Cameron's good old Math 621, once again learning the intricacies of trig and logs and sigma notation. Wherever you find yourself, we all have the common education of Bluefield, where, if nothing else, we have learned to work hard, and to have fun.
Many of us have also experienced loss and pain along with our great memories. Many students lost parents or guardians, relatives and friends while at Bluefield, and we as a class lost a great classmate and friend who would've been sitting with us here tonight, but, I am sure, is watching from above. I think the community at Bluefield, the friends who were beside us through both highs and lows and everything in between, were always there for us when we needed it. High Scholl presents many obstacles for students, and the people of Bluefield, especially this class, helped make transitions at least a little easier. Twenty years from now, it won't be the falls we remember, but the friends around us that picked us back up.
Graduates, look around you. This will probably be your last chance to ever see all these brilliant faces in one place again. Chances are you have gotten to know most of these students around you over the past few years. In three short years, these strangers have become teammates, allies, and friends. Whether you played on a team, went on a trip, or whether you just attended some classes or parties with them, all have become familiar faces and the memory of these people will be with you for years to come.
Behind your brilliantly smiling faces of course, there are our families. We owe a huge mount of gratitude to our parents and guardians, whom we didn't, and don't always listen to, agree with, or obey, yet whom we have always respected. They were there on the first day we went out the door with our new Ninja Turtle or Barbie lunch boxes, and stand behind us still, relentlessly pushing, but always offering support. Brothers and sisters were there too. Whether scribbling on our homework, stealing our clothes, or just beating us up, they supported us in their own little way.
Also, to our teachers, who provided direction and guidance, or at least comic relief, throughout our High School lives. Thank you for a world of knowledge, even if we choose not to use it. Mr. Coady, even though you explained it very well, I'm still under the impression that when using the Chain Rule and Power Rule, that they are the... SAME. And I'm sorry Ms. Gillan, but most of us will not remember what the mercantile objective of the Hudson's Bay Company was, nor recall, Mrs. MacDonald, the symbolic and complex differences between Greek and Elizabethan theatre. But I will always remember some of our discussions, about everything from weather to the playoffs, from politics to who was getting kicked off Survivor next. Hopefully the educational tools you have armed us with will stay with us and propel us to new heights, but if not, we have awesome memories, and your guidance and insight was appreciated.
...And stay in your seats until I'm done.
Graduates, through our interactions and experiences together at Bluefield, we have been forever shaped into the individuals we are now. We leave behind out High School tonight with not only enlightened minds, but also with incredible memories. Mostly good, memories made with friends and classmates, and all looked upon with some nostalgia, and with some relief, but also with the hope that someday, we will see each one of our classmates again. Tonight the separation is real. For the first time I'm beginning to realize that these certificates mean that next Fall, the big yellow bus won't be waiting for me at the end of my driveway. Tonight we leave it all behind: The fantastic yellow lockers and the greasy pizza. The Blue Cross Relay and Oktoberfest. The excitement of the Electric Circus dance and the glamour of the Christmas dance. Our contaminated water and explosive sewer system. Chicken Match and ball hockey playoffs. Cramming for exams and playing cards in the cafeteria. Field parties and the now illegal Bluefield Midnight Movies. Band trips, rugby victories, field hockey champions. Soccer with Mr. Steele, Des's riveting lectures on isotopes, Mrs. Blanchard's analogies, Ms. Gillan's debates, and Mrs. MacArthur's proud tradition of 'To Kill A Mockingbird' every semester since 1978.
And of course, tonight we leave behind the proud, the strong, and the mighty, Bobcats.
Before we do leave tonight, I want to share some insight and thoughts for our future. First of all:
You only live once. So live each day of your life with nothing undone, nothing unsaid, and leave no regrets.
Gandhi once said: "There is more to life than increasing its speed." So take time to stop and reflect, or just to have a good time.
I'm not sure exactly what he meant by it, but in his eternal wisdom, Des Murphy was once quoted as saying: "Life is a series of polymers," and that "We're all heterogeneous mixtures."
"The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." - Nelson Mandela. Always remember to never give up, to never give in, and that it's better to lose than know that you never tried at all.
And finally, on the path of life, "Always keep your crayons sharpened, your sticky tape untangled, and always put the caps back on your markers." - Mr. Dress-Up
Tonight fellow Graduates, Class of 2002, we leave Bluefield tonight to pursue higher learning, and to join other schools and companies and institutions. But no matter where we go, I, for one, will always be proud to be a Bobcat.
After tonight, we will move on ahead, expanding our horizons. Sadly, some of us will lose touch, but best friends are forever. And though I may never see you again, everyday, when I look back at my three years at Bluefield, I will remember something about you. A smile, a joke, your friendship, and you will always be there: in my mind, and in my heart, back at the Blue.
Cheers Bluefield.
Thank You.
Greetings fellow Graduates. Finally, after twelve years of countless tests, projects, and exams, after a lot of bus rides and way too many Monday mornings, we are done. After tonight, no one can force you to write about aerobic respiration, or to tell them where Yugoslavia is, ever again. Our compulsory education is over, and while this is exciting, we must also remember that these are our last moments together as a class. Though you will see many of your friends and classmates over the next couple of years, it is unlikely that we will ever completely assemble as a class again. All of you in front of me here, will, after tonight, take different paths and follow different dreams. As we move on and, consequently grow apart, we will no longer be together at, nor connected by, the physical building of Bluefield. However, we will always have our experiences from our time at the Blue, both good and bad, all have which have hopefully made us better people and stronger individuals. My three years at Bluefield, and I'm sure many of you can say the same, were among the best three years of my life. Every day was an adventure, and meeting each one of you was an honour.
As relieved as we are to be free, our freedom from scholarly responsibilities will come at the cost of having to leave behind the best High School on Prince Edward Island. I'm sure many of you won't see a problem with having to leave behind the overcrowded cafeteria or the smell of manure in the morning, but Bluefield for us was not only a school, but also a community. A community where we worked and laughed and studied and played much of the past three years away. From this point on we will move onto new communities, as we move out into the world and find our own places in it. Whether that place be at university or college, in law offices or in hospitals. Maybe at a farm, or in a bank or at a church, maybe at Burger King, or, God forbid, maybe back in Mr. Cameron's good old Math 621, once again learning the intricacies of trig and logs and sigma notation. Wherever you find yourself, we all have the common education of Bluefield, where, if nothing else, we have learned to work hard, and to have fun.
Many of us have also experienced loss and pain along with our great memories. Many students lost parents or guardians, relatives and friends while at Bluefield, and we as a class lost a great classmate and friend who would've been sitting with us here tonight, but, I am sure, is watching from above. I think the community at Bluefield, the friends who were beside us through both highs and lows and everything in between, were always there for us when we needed it. High Scholl presents many obstacles for students, and the people of Bluefield, especially this class, helped make transitions at least a little easier. Twenty years from now, it won't be the falls we remember, but the friends around us that picked us back up.
Graduates, look around you. This will probably be your last chance to ever see all these brilliant faces in one place again. Chances are you have gotten to know most of these students around you over the past few years. In three short years, these strangers have become teammates, allies, and friends. Whether you played on a team, went on a trip, or whether you just attended some classes or parties with them, all have become familiar faces and the memory of these people will be with you for years to come.
Behind your brilliantly smiling faces of course, there are our families. We owe a huge mount of gratitude to our parents and guardians, whom we didn't, and don't always listen to, agree with, or obey, yet whom we have always respected. They were there on the first day we went out the door with our new Ninja Turtle or Barbie lunch boxes, and stand behind us still, relentlessly pushing, but always offering support. Brothers and sisters were there too. Whether scribbling on our homework, stealing our clothes, or just beating us up, they supported us in their own little way.
Also, to our teachers, who provided direction and guidance, or at least comic relief, throughout our High School lives. Thank you for a world of knowledge, even if we choose not to use it. Mr. Coady, even though you explained it very well, I'm still under the impression that when using the Chain Rule and Power Rule, that they are the... SAME. And I'm sorry Ms. Gillan, but most of us will not remember what the mercantile objective of the Hudson's Bay Company was, nor recall, Mrs. MacDonald, the symbolic and complex differences between Greek and Elizabethan theatre. But I will always remember some of our discussions, about everything from weather to the playoffs, from politics to who was getting kicked off Survivor next. Hopefully the educational tools you have armed us with will stay with us and propel us to new heights, but if not, we have awesome memories, and your guidance and insight was appreciated.
...And stay in your seats until I'm done.
Graduates, through our interactions and experiences together at Bluefield, we have been forever shaped into the individuals we are now. We leave behind out High School tonight with not only enlightened minds, but also with incredible memories. Mostly good, memories made with friends and classmates, and all looked upon with some nostalgia, and with some relief, but also with the hope that someday, we will see each one of our classmates again. Tonight the separation is real. For the first time I'm beginning to realize that these certificates mean that next Fall, the big yellow bus won't be waiting for me at the end of my driveway. Tonight we leave it all behind: The fantastic yellow lockers and the greasy pizza. The Blue Cross Relay and Oktoberfest. The excitement of the Electric Circus dance and the glamour of the Christmas dance. Our contaminated water and explosive sewer system. Chicken Match and ball hockey playoffs. Cramming for exams and playing cards in the cafeteria. Field parties and the now illegal Bluefield Midnight Movies. Band trips, rugby victories, field hockey champions. Soccer with Mr. Steele, Des's riveting lectures on isotopes, Mrs. Blanchard's analogies, Ms. Gillan's debates, and Mrs. MacArthur's proud tradition of 'To Kill A Mockingbird' every semester since 1978.
And of course, tonight we leave behind the proud, the strong, and the mighty, Bobcats.
Before we do leave tonight, I want to share some insight and thoughts for our future. First of all:
You only live once. So live each day of your life with nothing undone, nothing unsaid, and leave no regrets.
Gandhi once said: "There is more to life than increasing its speed." So take time to stop and reflect, or just to have a good time.
I'm not sure exactly what he meant by it, but in his eternal wisdom, Des Murphy was once quoted as saying: "Life is a series of polymers," and that "We're all heterogeneous mixtures."
"The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." - Nelson Mandela. Always remember to never give up, to never give in, and that it's better to lose than know that you never tried at all.
And finally, on the path of life, "Always keep your crayons sharpened, your sticky tape untangled, and always put the caps back on your markers." - Mr. Dress-Up
Tonight fellow Graduates, Class of 2002, we leave Bluefield tonight to pursue higher learning, and to join other schools and companies and institutions. But no matter where we go, I, for one, will always be proud to be a Bobcat.
After tonight, we will move on ahead, expanding our horizons. Sadly, some of us will lose touch, but best friends are forever. And though I may never see you again, everyday, when I look back at my three years at Bluefield, I will remember something about you. A smile, a joke, your friendship, and you will always be there: in my mind, and in my heart, back at the Blue.
Cheers Bluefield.
Thank You.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
The Dominican Republic Faith and Justice Experience 2007: Day Seven
Day Seven was intended to be spent in the mountains, but as a result of our premature descent, there was little else to do than prepare for the next day. On Day Eight, we were to embark to cities and villages all across the Dominican Republic to spend a week and a half with Dominican families and communities. After a group exercise we all went off to do our own thing, write in journals, sit around in the sun, pack, play cards, etc.
Five of us, however, drove to the Canadian Embassy in Santo Domingo, so we could cast our vote for the upcoming PEI Provincial Election. Now anyone who knows what a geek I am would somewhat understand how pumped I would be to go to a Canadian Embassy in a foreign country. I didn't even care that it was a small-ish building, an English/French bilingual service sign, a Canadian flag, a recruiting poster for the RCMP; I was home.
To back up a little, our ride into the city was quite different from any other previous. Usually as a group we would travel in a 15-passenger, air-conditioned van, but today, we had a 4-passenger truck, meaning 2 of us travelled in the back of the truck. The heat and sun are the first obvious differences to riding outside a vehicle in the Dominican, as are the whistles, waves, and above all, the lingering stares from the thousands of people we passed. After one week in this foreign country some of the different or once shocking things were already fading into the background: the sight and smell of pollution, the scores of street vendors at every intersection, horses in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic, live chickens on the backs of mopeds and motor cycles. But I continued to be constantly reminded of cultural cleavages that existed both between social classes, and between this country and our own. As we headed back to the centre we stopped at a gas station; arguably THE symbol of Western power, and while walking through the air-conditioned, security-protected store therein, I could see in the distance the shacks and sheds of a poor barrio crowded on the side of a mountain. No better analogy could illustrate the the contrast between the first and third world than in this physical proximity between wealth and poverty.
That night we were asked to think about the trip thus far and to write down a few things that we were touched by thus far. I'm not usually big on soul-searching exercises, but as I sat down to think up some acceptable answers, it was evident that we had seen a lot more positive initiatives than I had anticipated. Micro-credits helping out the empoverished in poor barrios, youth teaching their peers about HIV/AIDS, the building of schools in the batays, community re-investment by the coffee assocation, the youth street home getting kids off the street and on their feet. As we were given our marching orders for the next and told about where we would be living for the next ten days in various locations around the country, it honestly seemed like we had been there for far longer and learned far more than I had expected to over the course of the entire experience. I don't remember what time I got to bed that night, but I know that by the end of the next day, culture shock had me in bed by 9:00pm. Stay tuned.
Five of us, however, drove to the Canadian Embassy in Santo Domingo, so we could cast our vote for the upcoming PEI Provincial Election. Now anyone who knows what a geek I am would somewhat understand how pumped I would be to go to a Canadian Embassy in a foreign country. I didn't even care that it was a small-ish building, an English/French bilingual service sign, a Canadian flag, a recruiting poster for the RCMP; I was home.
To back up a little, our ride into the city was quite different from any other previous. Usually as a group we would travel in a 15-passenger, air-conditioned van, but today, we had a 4-passenger truck, meaning 2 of us travelled in the back of the truck. The heat and sun are the first obvious differences to riding outside a vehicle in the Dominican, as are the whistles, waves, and above all, the lingering stares from the thousands of people we passed. After one week in this foreign country some of the different or once shocking things were already fading into the background: the sight and smell of pollution, the scores of street vendors at every intersection, horses in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic, live chickens on the backs of mopeds and motor cycles. But I continued to be constantly reminded of cultural cleavages that existed both between social classes, and between this country and our own. As we headed back to the centre we stopped at a gas station; arguably THE symbol of Western power, and while walking through the air-conditioned, security-protected store therein, I could see in the distance the shacks and sheds of a poor barrio crowded on the side of a mountain. No better analogy could illustrate the the contrast between the first and third world than in this physical proximity between wealth and poverty.
That night we were asked to think about the trip thus far and to write down a few things that we were touched by thus far. I'm not usually big on soul-searching exercises, but as I sat down to think up some acceptable answers, it was evident that we had seen a lot more positive initiatives than I had anticipated. Micro-credits helping out the empoverished in poor barrios, youth teaching their peers about HIV/AIDS, the building of schools in the batays, community re-investment by the coffee assocation, the youth street home getting kids off the street and on their feet. As we were given our marching orders for the next and told about where we would be living for the next ten days in various locations around the country, it honestly seemed like we had been there for far longer and learned far more than I had expected to over the course of the entire experience. I don't remember what time I got to bed that night, but I know that by the end of the next day, culture shock had me in bed by 9:00pm. Stay tuned.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
The Dominican Republic Faith and Justice Experience 2007: Day Six
While most of our days had begun by traveling into Santo Domingo and surrounding areas, today we started our morning by heading into the mountains to the North-West of San Cristobal, to the community of Los Cacaos. There we were to meet with people from La Esperanza, a coffee-growers' association, and be billeted with a local family for the night, before trekking up a mountain trail near the village. In two days we would be placed with families in different communities across the country for a week and a half, and this one-night billet would be a chance for all of us to get our feet wet in Dominican culture.
The journey up the mountain was a couple hours long, up a windy road around steep curves, often feet from the edge of plunging cliffs. As we moved further into the mountains, the vista over-looking the surrounding valleys became more and more magnificent, with greenery flowing out into the distance, back dropped by the staggered peaks of mountains on the horizon.
I was astounded by the infrastructure in this incredibly remote area of the country, the roads were well-maintained, and an intricate system of rock and mortar ditches winded along with the road, while stone retaining walls held back erosion. Periodically we would pass groups of men working on the ditches and walls, collecting stones, building new sections, and repairing damage. It was evident that this was an on-going project, and that there was a constant and concerted effort to maintain this path into the wilderness in the best possible condition. And for good reason too. In 1979, Hurricane David, a Category 5 hurricane, ripped through the Dominican Republic, wreaking havoc and killing close to 2000 people. In this region, where coffee is the main industry, communities were devastated. This road was rendered impassable by the torrential rains that accompanied the storm and by thousands of felled trees, cutting off Los Cacaos from the world. A group of citizens from the community were forced to make the same trek we were now, on foot, to reach civilization and to get aid air-lifted into the village. Re-building efforts took an understandably long time, but for the coffee industry, recovery would take years.
This is where La Esperenza comes in. A group of young people gathered together shortly after the disaster, trying to pool together the resources to develop a coffee collective in the Los Cacaos area. Through the years, while facing the challenges of building a sustainable business model and sporadic lulls in the coffee market, the association developed their product, accreditation, and processing facility to the point that today there are nearly 900 members of the collective.
Aside from fostering an evolving operation, the association has begun to put resources towards supporting the community. Scholarships established by the group allow for capable students to attain post-secondary education, whether in the Dominican Republic or abroad in Cuba or Costa Rica. The hope is that these students will someday return to carry on growth and help re-vitalize their small and remote community. As the collective recognizes how taxing the cultivation of coffee and other agricultural processes can have on the environment, they are working to diversify the industrial base of the economy, and putting research and resources towards ecological preservation and tourism. From a progressive business perspective, their goals are to promote the Fair Trade brand, and to begin exporting more of their product.
As we ended our meeting with the management group of La Esperanza, I was stunned. Coming from PEI, where we are constantly wringing our hands worrying about the sustainability of communities and watching youth fly off out West or to the States to find new jobs; it was incredible to see a small community in the middle of the mountains of a developing country creating solutions to their own problems. This wasn't a rich business venture propped up by government; it was a small community effort, for the people and by the people, quite literally built out of the ashes, from the ground up. I lauded the group who presented to us about their company, some of them who had been there from the beginning, telling them that their passion and awareness was encouraging, and that I wished the people back home were as proactive and passionate about their communities as the people of Los Cacaos obviously were. The La Esperenza experience in Los Cacaos is a prime example of a small community creating and filling a need. It was certainly light years away from Polar Foods anyway.
After some more rice and beans, we toured the coffee processing facility where the beans were dried, roasted, separated, and packaged. In a room just off the main road through the village, women were seated at tables sorting through the beans, separating the 'good', basically beans with no blemishes or discolouration, from the 'bad' beans (those possessing the aforementioned defects). Seemed simple enough: sit around and sort beans. Wicked. So we sat down to try it out, and other than turning to the woman next to me to confirm if a bean was good or bad every 26 seconds, it was about as exciting as my days packing diagnostic kits at Diagnostic Chemicals. We sat there for about half an hour, and between the 8 of us, logged about a quarter crate, thus about a quarter box for a collective 2 hours. The women, we were told, could fill a crate in about the same amount of time. Of course instead of wandering in and messing around with a pile of beans for half an hour, most of them work 8 or 9 hour days, some of them doing the same thing everyday for the better part of the past few decades.
Our trip into the mountains was cut short at that point. The son of one of the Administrators had been in a motorcycle accident early that afternoon, and as we were sorting beans, the news arrived that he had since died from his injuries. The townspeople were obviously upset as we thanked our hosts and offered our condolences and piled in the van for a long and silent trip back down to San Cristobal. It was an abrupt and disappointing end to our excursion into the mountains, but it was clear that this community, so accustomed to coming together to face adversity, would be totally focused on embracing the family and friends of the young man, and they sure as hell didn't need a bunch of Canadian on-lookers wandering and gawking around.
Instead, some cheer-up ice cream and a trip to the call centre to call home marked the end of our day.
The journey up the mountain was a couple hours long, up a windy road around steep curves, often feet from the edge of plunging cliffs. As we moved further into the mountains, the vista over-looking the surrounding valleys became more and more magnificent, with greenery flowing out into the distance, back dropped by the staggered peaks of mountains on the horizon.
I was astounded by the infrastructure in this incredibly remote area of the country, the roads were well-maintained, and an intricate system of rock and mortar ditches winded along with the road, while stone retaining walls held back erosion. Periodically we would pass groups of men working on the ditches and walls, collecting stones, building new sections, and repairing damage. It was evident that this was an on-going project, and that there was a constant and concerted effort to maintain this path into the wilderness in the best possible condition. And for good reason too. In 1979, Hurricane David, a Category 5 hurricane, ripped through the Dominican Republic, wreaking havoc and killing close to 2000 people. In this region, where coffee is the main industry, communities were devastated. This road was rendered impassable by the torrential rains that accompanied the storm and by thousands of felled trees, cutting off Los Cacaos from the world. A group of citizens from the community were forced to make the same trek we were now, on foot, to reach civilization and to get aid air-lifted into the village. Re-building efforts took an understandably long time, but for the coffee industry, recovery would take years.
This is where La Esperenza comes in. A group of young people gathered together shortly after the disaster, trying to pool together the resources to develop a coffee collective in the Los Cacaos area. Through the years, while facing the challenges of building a sustainable business model and sporadic lulls in the coffee market, the association developed their product, accreditation, and processing facility to the point that today there are nearly 900 members of the collective.
Aside from fostering an evolving operation, the association has begun to put resources towards supporting the community. Scholarships established by the group allow for capable students to attain post-secondary education, whether in the Dominican Republic or abroad in Cuba or Costa Rica. The hope is that these students will someday return to carry on growth and help re-vitalize their small and remote community. As the collective recognizes how taxing the cultivation of coffee and other agricultural processes can have on the environment, they are working to diversify the industrial base of the economy, and putting research and resources towards ecological preservation and tourism. From a progressive business perspective, their goals are to promote the Fair Trade brand, and to begin exporting more of their product.
As we ended our meeting with the management group of La Esperanza, I was stunned. Coming from PEI, where we are constantly wringing our hands worrying about the sustainability of communities and watching youth fly off out West or to the States to find new jobs; it was incredible to see a small community in the middle of the mountains of a developing country creating solutions to their own problems. This wasn't a rich business venture propped up by government; it was a small community effort, for the people and by the people, quite literally built out of the ashes, from the ground up. I lauded the group who presented to us about their company, some of them who had been there from the beginning, telling them that their passion and awareness was encouraging, and that I wished the people back home were as proactive and passionate about their communities as the people of Los Cacaos obviously were. The La Esperenza experience in Los Cacaos is a prime example of a small community creating and filling a need. It was certainly light years away from Polar Foods anyway.
After some more rice and beans, we toured the coffee processing facility where the beans were dried, roasted, separated, and packaged. In a room just off the main road through the village, women were seated at tables sorting through the beans, separating the 'good', basically beans with no blemishes or discolouration, from the 'bad' beans (those possessing the aforementioned defects). Seemed simple enough: sit around and sort beans. Wicked. So we sat down to try it out, and other than turning to the woman next to me to confirm if a bean was good or bad every 26 seconds, it was about as exciting as my days packing diagnostic kits at Diagnostic Chemicals. We sat there for about half an hour, and between the 8 of us, logged about a quarter crate, thus about a quarter box for a collective 2 hours. The women, we were told, could fill a crate in about the same amount of time. Of course instead of wandering in and messing around with a pile of beans for half an hour, most of them work 8 or 9 hour days, some of them doing the same thing everyday for the better part of the past few decades.
Our trip into the mountains was cut short at that point. The son of one of the Administrators had been in a motorcycle accident early that afternoon, and as we were sorting beans, the news arrived that he had since died from his injuries. The townspeople were obviously upset as we thanked our hosts and offered our condolences and piled in the van for a long and silent trip back down to San Cristobal. It was an abrupt and disappointing end to our excursion into the mountains, but it was clear that this community, so accustomed to coming together to face adversity, would be totally focused on embracing the family and friends of the young man, and they sure as hell didn't need a bunch of Canadian on-lookers wandering and gawking around.
Instead, some cheer-up ice cream and a trip to the call centre to call home marked the end of our day.
Patty and Eugene Do UPEI: Episode 5
After nearly six weeks of no Patty & Eugene to entertain you, the newest installment of everyone's favorite campus duo is back. Episode 5: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun comes in at a whopping 15 minutes of pure Patty and Eugene entertainment.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
The Dominican Republic Faith and Justice Experience 2007: Day Five
The wake-up call came 5:30am on Day Five, sparing me the joy of being awoken by the melody of the barking and crowing from the neighborhood animals. After a carb-orific breakfast of bread and cream of wheat (which I loved, but several others definitely did not), we were off to Santo Domingo for Sunday morning Mass. While one would expect a two and a half hour church service (with a pause of about 45 minutes to allow for the Baptism of about 70 parishioners) in a foreign language to be incredibly boring, the phenomenal music ministry made it seem like a concert, party, and celebration all at once. (And it certainly wasn't the longest Mass I've sat through, at World Youth Day in Germany in 2005 Mass was in German, and then had to be translated into English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian.)
One may also expect that in a country where poverty is rampant, that our group would be the best dressed of the bunch in the church. Not so. All of the parishioners were dressed to the nines, hair done, dresses, shirt and ties, sometimes full suits (which seemed a bit much on a hot Sunday morning). Meanwhile the tired looking 13 Canadians were sweating profusely, hair looking about as good as you'd expect after several days without proper care, and were sporting whatever wrinkled garb remained clean from our luggage. My bright green John Deere t-shirt, grey manpris, and hiking boots didn't quite cut it.
Afterwards, we gathered with the youth from the parish, ate some bananas (they're big on bananas down there), and ran through some random Ice Breakers and then showed us around their community. Seeing as this was our first opportunity to interact with some Dominicans that were our age, we were pretty much instant BFFs. As we made our way around the community, you would've seen us all laughing at each other and ourselves as we attempted to break down the language barriers. We hugged and waved bye as if we had known them for years instead of the better part of an hour, and jumped in the van, chewing on our new addiction; sugar cane.
On the way to the Casa de la Juventud (Youth Program for the Arch-Diocese), and in between us laughing our asses off while relating stories of home and doing impressions from Anchorman and MadTV, Cathy told us about the subway that they were building through the centre of Santo Domingo. As we drove, gaping holes were visible right through the centre of Av. Maximo Gomez, a major north-south thoroughfare of the city. Cathy related how many different contractors had been awarded tenders to build the metro, each allotted a couple hundred meters of the project. Without a whole lot of imagination, one could easily imagine the inconsistencies and costs that this could present to the project. Further to this, no compensation was afforded to the businesses along this main artery of the city to offset the consequences of the dwindling traffic as a result of the construction. Bankruptcies and closures were now commonplace along Maximo Gomez, adding to the mounting opposition to the costly project. In a country where we had seen crippling poverty and social services in dire need of attention, it seems the government may be in need of a priority shift. That, of course, will at least in part be up to the electorate in next year's Presidential election, for which there are already billboards erected everywhere across the country.
After a tour of the Casa de la Juventud, which is the centre for administration and planning of Youth programming, we moved on to Yo También, a home for street kids. This home was run by volunteers of the Arch-Diocese Youth Ministry, and provides shelter for boys of all ages, as well as an opportunity for education and training before they adulthood. Coming from a family that used to take care of Foster children, I could only imagine the backgrounds each child came from as we went around the circle and introduced ourselves. Several were scarcely 10, but the age many of them wore in their attitude and posture was much more advanced than that. After introductions and explanations about how the home operated, we ate together in the dining room. Having seen the basketball court outside, Kurtiss scarfed down his rice and beans and hurriedly pumped up the basketball that he had brought for the kids there. The deadened eyes that had been bored throughout the introductions suddenly came alive with excitement as we took to the court in the blistering sun for some 4-on-4. Now being 6'2", I am doomed for the rest of my life to be asked whether I play basketball, and when I answer no, "Well why not? You're so tall!" Well, I don't play basketball because I suck. Yeah, I ran around the court and tried to make a couple plays, but after a few laughing fits at my expense, I retired to the shade. Kurt, however, being the borderline pro that he is, played until he had schooled every opponent and his clothes were soaked with sweat.
We gathered once again as a group to hear more about how the home operated and what type of schedules the boys abided by. The most effective feature, in my mind, was the fact that the directors of the home themselves were in their twenties and thirties, and therefore young enough to relate to the youth and to be considered somewhat "cool" in their eyes. Despite the tough facade and the joking back and forth, one director told us that their primary modus operandi was love. A boy named Johnny pulled out a guitar and played a few of his own songs. He was unreal, and each time a song ended, the room erupted into raucous applause. That being the Dominican contribution to the gathering, Kelsey stepped it up with tap-dancing, of all things. While I rolled my eyes, half of the young boys stared intently at her tap shoes, wondering where the noise was coming from, while the other half stared at Kelsey's hair, wondering if it was going to jump off her head and attack someone (This is kind of an inside joke, but you'd probably understand if you have ever seen her hair. For those of you who have not, imagine a lion's mane. Then multiply it by 12 and tangle it all together in a disorganized heap. That would be Kelsey's hair. On a good day.)
After we all got up and made an attempt at step dance, we had the opportunity to talk with the kids and take some time to get to know them. Kurtiss took to the basketball court again, Kady and Amy played guitar and sang with Johnny, and a few boys dragged Kelsey over to teach her how to 'really' dance. Everyone from the group has their own story of that afternoon, but we all really enjoyed the chance to actually spend some time with them, rather than just sitting around in a circle and boring them to death.
When we left, some people exchanged gifts, a young boy named Samuel taught me a new handshake, and Kurt posed for a pic with the guys on the basketball court. And as the van pulled away amid cheers of "Gringo!" and "Marry me!" (I think that was directed at the girls), we were all smiling ridiculously wide, goofy smiles.
We spent the balance of the afternoon along the Malecon Libre (basically a boardwalk or promenade) in Santo Domingo. Being a Sunday, families were out and a mini relay of some sort was being run along the Autopista 30 de Mayo. The City has a habit of naming streets after important dates and after prominent foreigners. In fact, the 30 de Mayo used to be a part of George Washington Avenue (There are also streets named for John F. Kennedy, Winston Churchill, Jonas Salk, etc.), but was renamed after the brutal dictator Rafael Leónidas Trujillo was gunned down along that stretch of highway in 1961.
Now a haven for tourists and dotted with hotels, bars, and shops, we were given a couple hours to see the sights and to relax. Kurtiss, Debbie, and I found the nearest bar, a few Presidente beers, and spent the time chatting, laughing, and watching the world pass us by. The perfect ending to what had been, by far, our best day to date in the Dominican Republic.
One may also expect that in a country where poverty is rampant, that our group would be the best dressed of the bunch in the church. Not so. All of the parishioners were dressed to the nines, hair done, dresses, shirt and ties, sometimes full suits (which seemed a bit much on a hot Sunday morning). Meanwhile the tired looking 13 Canadians were sweating profusely, hair looking about as good as you'd expect after several days without proper care, and were sporting whatever wrinkled garb remained clean from our luggage. My bright green John Deere t-shirt, grey manpris, and hiking boots didn't quite cut it.
Afterwards, we gathered with the youth from the parish, ate some bananas (they're big on bananas down there), and ran through some random Ice Breakers and then showed us around their community. Seeing as this was our first opportunity to interact with some Dominicans that were our age, we were pretty much instant BFFs. As we made our way around the community, you would've seen us all laughing at each other and ourselves as we attempted to break down the language barriers. We hugged and waved bye as if we had known them for years instead of the better part of an hour, and jumped in the van, chewing on our new addiction; sugar cane.
On the way to the Casa de la Juventud (Youth Program for the Arch-Diocese), and in between us laughing our asses off while relating stories of home and doing impressions from Anchorman and MadTV, Cathy told us about the subway that they were building through the centre of Santo Domingo. As we drove, gaping holes were visible right through the centre of Av. Maximo Gomez, a major north-south thoroughfare of the city. Cathy related how many different contractors had been awarded tenders to build the metro, each allotted a couple hundred meters of the project. Without a whole lot of imagination, one could easily imagine the inconsistencies and costs that this could present to the project. Further to this, no compensation was afforded to the businesses along this main artery of the city to offset the consequences of the dwindling traffic as a result of the construction. Bankruptcies and closures were now commonplace along Maximo Gomez, adding to the mounting opposition to the costly project. In a country where we had seen crippling poverty and social services in dire need of attention, it seems the government may be in need of a priority shift. That, of course, will at least in part be up to the electorate in next year's Presidential election, for which there are already billboards erected everywhere across the country.
After a tour of the Casa de la Juventud, which is the centre for administration and planning of Youth programming, we moved on to Yo También, a home for street kids. This home was run by volunteers of the Arch-Diocese Youth Ministry, and provides shelter for boys of all ages, as well as an opportunity for education and training before they adulthood. Coming from a family that used to take care of Foster children, I could only imagine the backgrounds each child came from as we went around the circle and introduced ourselves. Several were scarcely 10, but the age many of them wore in their attitude and posture was much more advanced than that. After introductions and explanations about how the home operated, we ate together in the dining room. Having seen the basketball court outside, Kurtiss scarfed down his rice and beans and hurriedly pumped up the basketball that he had brought for the kids there. The deadened eyes that had been bored throughout the introductions suddenly came alive with excitement as we took to the court in the blistering sun for some 4-on-4. Now being 6'2", I am doomed for the rest of my life to be asked whether I play basketball, and when I answer no, "Well why not? You're so tall!" Well, I don't play basketball because I suck. Yeah, I ran around the court and tried to make a couple plays, but after a few laughing fits at my expense, I retired to the shade. Kurt, however, being the borderline pro that he is, played until he had schooled every opponent and his clothes were soaked with sweat.
We gathered once again as a group to hear more about how the home operated and what type of schedules the boys abided by. The most effective feature, in my mind, was the fact that the directors of the home themselves were in their twenties and thirties, and therefore young enough to relate to the youth and to be considered somewhat "cool" in their eyes. Despite the tough facade and the joking back and forth, one director told us that their primary modus operandi was love. A boy named Johnny pulled out a guitar and played a few of his own songs. He was unreal, and each time a song ended, the room erupted into raucous applause. That being the Dominican contribution to the gathering, Kelsey stepped it up with tap-dancing, of all things. While I rolled my eyes, half of the young boys stared intently at her tap shoes, wondering where the noise was coming from, while the other half stared at Kelsey's hair, wondering if it was going to jump off her head and attack someone (This is kind of an inside joke, but you'd probably understand if you have ever seen her hair. For those of you who have not, imagine a lion's mane. Then multiply it by 12 and tangle it all together in a disorganized heap. That would be Kelsey's hair. On a good day.)
After we all got up and made an attempt at step dance, we had the opportunity to talk with the kids and take some time to get to know them. Kurtiss took to the basketball court again, Kady and Amy played guitar and sang with Johnny, and a few boys dragged Kelsey over to teach her how to 'really' dance. Everyone from the group has their own story of that afternoon, but we all really enjoyed the chance to actually spend some time with them, rather than just sitting around in a circle and boring them to death.
When we left, some people exchanged gifts, a young boy named Samuel taught me a new handshake, and Kurt posed for a pic with the guys on the basketball court. And as the van pulled away amid cheers of "Gringo!" and "Marry me!" (I think that was directed at the girls), we were all smiling ridiculously wide, goofy smiles.
We spent the balance of the afternoon along the Malecon Libre (basically a boardwalk or promenade) in Santo Domingo. Being a Sunday, families were out and a mini relay of some sort was being run along the Autopista 30 de Mayo. The City has a habit of naming streets after important dates and after prominent foreigners. In fact, the 30 de Mayo used to be a part of George Washington Avenue (There are also streets named for John F. Kennedy, Winston Churchill, Jonas Salk, etc.), but was renamed after the brutal dictator Rafael Leónidas Trujillo was gunned down along that stretch of highway in 1961.
Now a haven for tourists and dotted with hotels, bars, and shops, we were given a couple hours to see the sights and to relax. Kurtiss, Debbie, and I found the nearest bar, a few Presidente beers, and spent the time chatting, laughing, and watching the world pass us by. The perfect ending to what had been, by far, our best day to date in the Dominican Republic.
Monday, June 11, 2007
The Dominican Republic Faith and Justice Experience 2007: Day Four
I wasn't exactly sure what to expect in visiting a Dominican Hospital, my limited visual indications of what to expect being from movies or TV shows. I was pleasantly surprised to find the facility that we toured on Day Four, The Robert Reid Cabral Children's Hospital; to be quite modern, and while Debbie (she's a nurse) had a few questions and concerns, for the most part, it was clean, well maintained and well staffed. As it turns out, the First Lady of the Dominican Republic had thus taken a special interest in that particular hospital after a tour of her own, and money had been earmarked to ensure that it was re-fitted and renovated properly to respond to current needs and specifications.
We toured several areas of the hospital, seeing children of all ages in all stages of treatment, from newborns to adolescent youth and everything in between. As one would expect, there were several kids bawling their eyes out as they were injected with needles or intravenous, others quietly slept in hospital beds or played busily with toys while hooked up to dialysis machines or respirators. Every child, whether crying, snoozing, babbling, etc. was accompanied by their parent, usually their mother, and each of them wore on their face and in their eyes the concern on their mind and the hope in their heart.
It was honestly difficult for me to walk through each room and see the children sitting with their parents, each struck by some disease or affliction, without averting my eyes and hurrying my pace out of the room. After four days in the DR, I was struggling with the feeling that these people saw me as nothing more than a tourist, someone coming to simply consume their poverty and pain, only to fly off back to my home of comfort after a brief stay. There is no comfort in admitting your own child into a hospital, though these families were lucky to be able to do so. And as heart wrenching as it was to watch children in pain while their parents looked on, there was little consolation in knowing that in leaving the hospital many of these children would return to the impoverished streets and communities that we had already seen. My glances into their eyes, as a result, remained brief and sheepish.
The highlight of our visit to this hospital for me was in touring the feeding area where newborns were being fed by their mothers. A new mother was bursting with pride as we entered, showing off her three-day old daughter, already sporting a full head of jet-black hair. When she told me how old her child was, I exclaimed to the rest of the group that she was precisely the same age as Madelyn Elizabeth, Jason and Steph's daughter, who had been born with hours of our departure from Canada.
As we moved back toward the entrance, we were shown the newly renovated kitchen that rivaled any in size or caliber that I have ever seen in Canada. It was a final example of progress being made, but also that great change could be initiated simply through a single act of political will. At the same time, while the children at this hospital received excellent care and benefited from the use of state-of-the-art equipment, if work was just beginning at this central hospital, it also suggested that there is more work to be done. This was in the centre of Santo Domingo, and while this hospital served a large area, this is a country of nearly 9 million residents, with many spread out in rural and remote areas.
The importance of this one hospital is reflected in the fact that while one entire floor is currently under renovation, the remainder of the hospital remains in operation, as there is simply no other facility capable of taking on its day-to-day operations. The progress being made was encouraging, but there were many indications that we would see in our own communities, that many Dominicans aren't able to seek proper medical attention, allowing for the worsening of what would otherwise be easily curable afflictions.
After briefly visiting a public session on HIV and AIDS put on by a NGO that works to support Dominican-Haitian women, we headed back towards the Santo Domingo Airport, near Boca Chica, where, off the main highway, we drove slowly down a dusty and bumpy trail between fields of sugar cane for what seemed like forever until we arrived at a collection of houses, clustered in what was, quite literally, the middle of nowhere. This community was built around the sugar cane fields, and the poverty we witnessed in this 'batey' was beyond anything I have ever witnessed or would care to witness again. As we walked among decrepit houses, a curious group of barefoot children followed our group from building to building, gnawing hungrily on mangoes from the trees above. Our host pointed out the single-rooms in which entire families lived, the pair of out-houses that serviced the entire community, the small pipe that served as running water for everyone who lived there. An elderly man on a wheel chair peered at us suspiciously before struggling to get back in his shack, out of sight. Another man in his fifties returning from the fields stopped and talked to us for awhile, telling us that someone had been burning the fields and destroying the crops. Apparently not fazed by the development, he smiled a toothless grin and nonchalantly swung the machete in his hand as he walked to his hut.
The workers in the sugar cane fields do not own their own land, and so, as is wont to happen in any like situation, they are at the mercy of the companies that employ them and to the markets that determine prices of the cane they produce. The result is extreme poverty, leaving the people to work on developing gardens and maintaining livestock, although at some points in the year, there is nothing to eat but the sugar cane from the fields or the mangoes that fall from the trees when they are in season. Obviously struck by the extreme conditions we were witnessing, a member of our group was prompted to ask our host: "What brings you joy?" The young woman named Natasha who had been escorting us from house to house and to the community's place of worship where we now sat, smiled her beautiful smile and told us that watching her children grow and having hope for their future brought her joy. I have never been as humbled as I was in that one moment.
Here too however, amidst the poorest of poor, there are signs of progress. A school that boasts attendance of over a hundred children of all ages stands at the edge of the community. The walls inside are lined with what you would see in any classroom, the alphabet, a map, a flag, and the names of each student. The teacher told us briefly about the instruction of the youth and of how they could move on to High School at communities further down the road. As Natasha had expressed, it seemed there was indeed hope for her five children and the others in the community to begin the process of ending the cycle of poverty in their community.
As we headed back to our van, the group gathered for a picture with our host and with the children of the community. I snapped the picture and then showed the image on the digital display to the children. As they realized what I was showing them, they were absolutely thrilled, flocking around me, nearly knocking me off my feet and tearing the camera from my hands as they pointed to themselves in the picture. It was almost a relief to be able to make them giggle and just be children in a place that seemed so forbidding. Children lose their innocence young here, and are often sent to the field before they ever get the chance to finish school. The path out of poverty for these communities will be a long-term battle, and the burdens and obstacles facing these children seem huge, almost insurmountable, but in that moment, they were just children.
We toured several areas of the hospital, seeing children of all ages in all stages of treatment, from newborns to adolescent youth and everything in between. As one would expect, there were several kids bawling their eyes out as they were injected with needles or intravenous, others quietly slept in hospital beds or played busily with toys while hooked up to dialysis machines or respirators. Every child, whether crying, snoozing, babbling, etc. was accompanied by their parent, usually their mother, and each of them wore on their face and in their eyes the concern on their mind and the hope in their heart.
It was honestly difficult for me to walk through each room and see the children sitting with their parents, each struck by some disease or affliction, without averting my eyes and hurrying my pace out of the room. After four days in the DR, I was struggling with the feeling that these people saw me as nothing more than a tourist, someone coming to simply consume their poverty and pain, only to fly off back to my home of comfort after a brief stay. There is no comfort in admitting your own child into a hospital, though these families were lucky to be able to do so. And as heart wrenching as it was to watch children in pain while their parents looked on, there was little consolation in knowing that in leaving the hospital many of these children would return to the impoverished streets and communities that we had already seen. My glances into their eyes, as a result, remained brief and sheepish.
The highlight of our visit to this hospital for me was in touring the feeding area where newborns were being fed by their mothers. A new mother was bursting with pride as we entered, showing off her three-day old daughter, already sporting a full head of jet-black hair. When she told me how old her child was, I exclaimed to the rest of the group that she was precisely the same age as Madelyn Elizabeth, Jason and Steph's daughter, who had been born with hours of our departure from Canada.
As we moved back toward the entrance, we were shown the newly renovated kitchen that rivaled any in size or caliber that I have ever seen in Canada. It was a final example of progress being made, but also that great change could be initiated simply through a single act of political will. At the same time, while the children at this hospital received excellent care and benefited from the use of state-of-the-art equipment, if work was just beginning at this central hospital, it also suggested that there is more work to be done. This was in the centre of Santo Domingo, and while this hospital served a large area, this is a country of nearly 9 million residents, with many spread out in rural and remote areas.
The importance of this one hospital is reflected in the fact that while one entire floor is currently under renovation, the remainder of the hospital remains in operation, as there is simply no other facility capable of taking on its day-to-day operations. The progress being made was encouraging, but there were many indications that we would see in our own communities, that many Dominicans aren't able to seek proper medical attention, allowing for the worsening of what would otherwise be easily curable afflictions.
After briefly visiting a public session on HIV and AIDS put on by a NGO that works to support Dominican-Haitian women, we headed back towards the Santo Domingo Airport, near Boca Chica, where, off the main highway, we drove slowly down a dusty and bumpy trail between fields of sugar cane for what seemed like forever until we arrived at a collection of houses, clustered in what was, quite literally, the middle of nowhere. This community was built around the sugar cane fields, and the poverty we witnessed in this 'batey' was beyond anything I have ever witnessed or would care to witness again. As we walked among decrepit houses, a curious group of barefoot children followed our group from building to building, gnawing hungrily on mangoes from the trees above. Our host pointed out the single-rooms in which entire families lived, the pair of out-houses that serviced the entire community, the small pipe that served as running water for everyone who lived there. An elderly man on a wheel chair peered at us suspiciously before struggling to get back in his shack, out of sight. Another man in his fifties returning from the fields stopped and talked to us for awhile, telling us that someone had been burning the fields and destroying the crops. Apparently not fazed by the development, he smiled a toothless grin and nonchalantly swung the machete in his hand as he walked to his hut.
The workers in the sugar cane fields do not own their own land, and so, as is wont to happen in any like situation, they are at the mercy of the companies that employ them and to the markets that determine prices of the cane they produce. The result is extreme poverty, leaving the people to work on developing gardens and maintaining livestock, although at some points in the year, there is nothing to eat but the sugar cane from the fields or the mangoes that fall from the trees when they are in season. Obviously struck by the extreme conditions we were witnessing, a member of our group was prompted to ask our host: "What brings you joy?" The young woman named Natasha who had been escorting us from house to house and to the community's place of worship where we now sat, smiled her beautiful smile and told us that watching her children grow and having hope for their future brought her joy. I have never been as humbled as I was in that one moment.
Here too however, amidst the poorest of poor, there are signs of progress. A school that boasts attendance of over a hundred children of all ages stands at the edge of the community. The walls inside are lined with what you would see in any classroom, the alphabet, a map, a flag, and the names of each student. The teacher told us briefly about the instruction of the youth and of how they could move on to High School at communities further down the road. As Natasha had expressed, it seemed there was indeed hope for her five children and the others in the community to begin the process of ending the cycle of poverty in their community.
As we headed back to our van, the group gathered for a picture with our host and with the children of the community. I snapped the picture and then showed the image on the digital display to the children. As they realized what I was showing them, they were absolutely thrilled, flocking around me, nearly knocking me off my feet and tearing the camera from my hands as they pointed to themselves in the picture. It was almost a relief to be able to make them giggle and just be children in a place that seemed so forbidding. Children lose their innocence young here, and are often sent to the field before they ever get the chance to finish school. The path out of poverty for these communities will be a long-term battle, and the burdens and obstacles facing these children seem huge, almost insurmountable, but in that moment, they were just children.
The Dominican Republic Faith and Justice Experience 2007: Day Three
It seems that after three days events and routines that once seemed mundane become habitual. This rule was no different during our stay in the Dominican; crazy traffic jams, annoyingly loud roosters, stares from randoms on the street were now as normal and commonplace as red soil is to Islanders. Even the habits of the group, Kelsey's near-narcoleptic sleeping tendencies, Kurt's t-shirt/do-rag, Debbie's frequent bathroom breaks, became, while perhaps not normal, at least familiar tendencies.
After breakfast at the Centre, we headed back into Santo Domingo for the day. We began the morning at INTEC, a University within the Capital, for a discussion on Gender Issues. The talk covered areas of concern for Dominicans, most specifically within poorer communities of the country where sexual and physical abuse are rampant problems, exacerbated by high levels of HIV and AIDS. Worse, in the minds of many, this domestic abuse is considered the business of the household and of no one else. The abuse endured by many people within the country is absolutely atrocious, and stories were related to us about spouses who had their hands cut off, acid thrown in their faces, or whom were murdered, often for little or no reason. While the two hours spent on this topic were certainly enlightening to the plight facing the country in terms of domestic violence, it was difficult for me to remain focused on the issues at hand. When any type of domestic abuse comes up in discussion it often turns into a generalizing and man-bashing fiesta, which in my opinion is totally counter-productive. Violence is a societal problem and thus requires a society-wide solution. It is crucial that everyone be included in working against cultural and political beliefs that allow for it to continue. This will not be accomplished so long as narrow opinions and ideologies continue to characterize and generalize all men as the source of the problem. As soon as discussions attempt to make me feel ashamed for being a man, my interest checks out.
Following a short tour of the INTEC Gender Studies Department, we traveled to the Botanical Gardens, where lunch and a tour allowed us to re-charge and to take some time among the trees and ponds to process some of what we had heard and seen over the past couple days. Indeed, after several tours and sessions, it was beginning to seem that a myriad of insurmountable obstacles faced this developing country. Every facet of society that we had seen contained a plethora of issues and problems, and solutions seemed few and far between. Our visit that afternoon would be the first ray of hope that we would see in the work of Dominicans to build a better society.
In a poor barrio outside of the city, we rolled through dusty and dry streets, lined with poorly constructed houses, with mangy dogs on their last leg staggering around, and infants happily playing wearing nothing but a smile. We were headed for a school in this community where students had organized and coordinated a day-long session on AIDS and HIV for their peers and classmates. When we arrived, we sat down across from the room from them and introduced ourselves before they began to barrage us with questions. While the laughter and joy of these children was exhilarating enough in this, our first direct contact as a group with Dominicans, there were also two very important undercurrents to remember. First of all, these were kids teaching other kids about the hazards of unprotected sex in a country over-run by sexually transmitted diseases. As many are aware, it is both incredibly daunting and empowering for youth to take on such a task and succeed. The fact that youth had taken such a strong interest in this issue and recognized it as important enough to devote time and effort to was commendable. Second, while the community surrounding this building was falling apart in many ways, this school was well established. As we would see over the coming weeks, schools are one institution that even the smallest of the small and poorest of the poor communities contained. It seems somewhat cliché to mention the ancient adage 'scientia est potentia' (knowledge is power), but in the development of this country and in the throwing off of the chains of poverty, I see little that is more important than this advancement of education.
It was a brief and exhilarating encounter, but within those 30 minutes spent at the school, coupled with the work of the micro-credit NGO the day before, I began to see the parts of the puzzle coming together, the first signs of stepping-stones out of the mire of poverty and injustice.
We made it back to the Centre considerably early, and used the additional time to decompress with a game of Frisbee down at the community baseball field. While some of the children who flocked to us as we began to play had a bit of a rough time throwing the Frisbee for the first time, and others seemed hell-bent on beating the sense out of each other for a turn with it, the smiles on their faces seemed to indicate it was all a welcome escape from everyday monotony. When we left the field to return for supper, we got some pics with the incredibly cute kids and told them in our broken Spanish that it was great to meet them. Except that little punk that stole my Frisbee.
After breakfast at the Centre, we headed back into Santo Domingo for the day. We began the morning at INTEC, a University within the Capital, for a discussion on Gender Issues. The talk covered areas of concern for Dominicans, most specifically within poorer communities of the country where sexual and physical abuse are rampant problems, exacerbated by high levels of HIV and AIDS. Worse, in the minds of many, this domestic abuse is considered the business of the household and of no one else. The abuse endured by many people within the country is absolutely atrocious, and stories were related to us about spouses who had their hands cut off, acid thrown in their faces, or whom were murdered, often for little or no reason. While the two hours spent on this topic were certainly enlightening to the plight facing the country in terms of domestic violence, it was difficult for me to remain focused on the issues at hand. When any type of domestic abuse comes up in discussion it often turns into a generalizing and man-bashing fiesta, which in my opinion is totally counter-productive. Violence is a societal problem and thus requires a society-wide solution. It is crucial that everyone be included in working against cultural and political beliefs that allow for it to continue. This will not be accomplished so long as narrow opinions and ideologies continue to characterize and generalize all men as the source of the problem. As soon as discussions attempt to make me feel ashamed for being a man, my interest checks out.
Following a short tour of the INTEC Gender Studies Department, we traveled to the Botanical Gardens, where lunch and a tour allowed us to re-charge and to take some time among the trees and ponds to process some of what we had heard and seen over the past couple days. Indeed, after several tours and sessions, it was beginning to seem that a myriad of insurmountable obstacles faced this developing country. Every facet of society that we had seen contained a plethora of issues and problems, and solutions seemed few and far between. Our visit that afternoon would be the first ray of hope that we would see in the work of Dominicans to build a better society.
In a poor barrio outside of the city, we rolled through dusty and dry streets, lined with poorly constructed houses, with mangy dogs on their last leg staggering around, and infants happily playing wearing nothing but a smile. We were headed for a school in this community where students had organized and coordinated a day-long session on AIDS and HIV for their peers and classmates. When we arrived, we sat down across from the room from them and introduced ourselves before they began to barrage us with questions. While the laughter and joy of these children was exhilarating enough in this, our first direct contact as a group with Dominicans, there were also two very important undercurrents to remember. First of all, these were kids teaching other kids about the hazards of unprotected sex in a country over-run by sexually transmitted diseases. As many are aware, it is both incredibly daunting and empowering for youth to take on such a task and succeed. The fact that youth had taken such a strong interest in this issue and recognized it as important enough to devote time and effort to was commendable. Second, while the community surrounding this building was falling apart in many ways, this school was well established. As we would see over the coming weeks, schools are one institution that even the smallest of the small and poorest of the poor communities contained. It seems somewhat cliché to mention the ancient adage 'scientia est potentia' (knowledge is power), but in the development of this country and in the throwing off of the chains of poverty, I see little that is more important than this advancement of education.
It was a brief and exhilarating encounter, but within those 30 minutes spent at the school, coupled with the work of the micro-credit NGO the day before, I began to see the parts of the puzzle coming together, the first signs of stepping-stones out of the mire of poverty and injustice.
We made it back to the Centre considerably early, and used the additional time to decompress with a game of Frisbee down at the community baseball field. While some of the children who flocked to us as we began to play had a bit of a rough time throwing the Frisbee for the first time, and others seemed hell-bent on beating the sense out of each other for a turn with it, the smiles on their faces seemed to indicate it was all a welcome escape from everyday monotony. When we left the field to return for supper, we got some pics with the incredibly cute kids and told them in our broken Spanish that it was great to meet them. Except that little punk that stole my Frisbee.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
The Dominican Republic Faith and Justice Experience 2007: Day Two
Awoken by a melody of crowing roosters, barking dogs, and passing street venders blaring their horns, I dragged myself out of my bunk, checked the floor for bugs before stepping down, and had my first of many cold showers.
One cultural nuance left me a bit amiss my whole time in the hot southern country, and that was everyone's tendency to always pants. On PEI, at the first sight of spring (any day after February that is above 3 degrees), people are done with pants until the cold winds of November. I therefore expected Dominicans, who endure temperatures in excess of 40 and 50 degrees to opt for shorts (or 'short pants', as my father calls them.) Instead, shorts are frowned upon, even strictly prohibited in many areas. Not wanting to die in the heat, Kurtiss and I, the only two guys on the trip, opted instead for 'manpris'. Laugh if you will, but would far rather be called metrosexual (as I was many times) then to slowly roast in jeans.
After a hearty Dominican breakfast, we headed off to Santo Domingo for the day, about 45 minutes to an hour from our Centre, depending on traffic. I need not repeat the state of traffic as covered in my initial post, but our first foray into morning traffic gave us a whole new respect for the car horn. Our first couple experiences of crossing multiple lines of on-coming traffic made for a few nervous passengers and generated a fair number of yelps, mostly out of Christine.
Our day consisted of touring some areas of the city where more wealthy residents lived, impressive houses that rival anything here on the Island, several guarded by an assortment of attack dogs and men carrying massive shot guns. This was starkly contrasted by the heaps of houses crowded onto the hillsides that we would visit later that afternoon.
In the late a.m. we had a walking tour of the Colonial Zone of Santo Domingo. The Zone is a designated UNESCO World Heritage site, and for good reason. As the landing point of Christopher Columbus in the New World in 1492, and established in 1496, it is the oldest European city in the Americas. It is also heavily steeped in history, starting from the Spanish conquering and decimation of the aboriginal population, the enslavement of Africans, and the military involvement of several conquering nations, from Spain to France, Britain, to the United States.
Our afternoon included visiting an NGO that works with poorer entrepreneurs and small business owners, primarily women, in helping them get back on their feet by means of low interest loans, educational seminars, and support. After speaking with some workers within this organization, we went for a tour of a poor barrio (community) to visit some of the entrepreneurs they had aided. This walk-through was our first immersion into the poverty on the streets. It was tempting to focus on the children who were incredibly cute and very excited at the novelty of having white people in their community, but there was a lot more to mentally process in this single experience.
The houses were built on a steep incline, sometimes a 45-degree angle, and were of simple construction; mostly cinder blocks and corrugated metal roofs. The narrow streets and stairways were filled with people, and though there was a lot of garbage, filth, and poverty surrounding us, another presence was clearly evident, and that was the sheer vibrancy of this community. Though they had very little, the people we visited were fiercely proud of their accomplishments and their homes. It was slightly humbling; these weren't people that wanted us to come build their houses, indeed, they had built their own houses and businesses from the ground up, brick-by-brick, wall-by-wall. They wanted only to share their story of successes, the pride in their families, and their hopes for the future. It was also light years away from our Island home, only about 6 hours away as the jumbo jet flies, where people were no doubt going about their lives a usual in our suburban, fenced-in lives of isolationist luxury. On the way back to the Centre I realized that in this, my first day in the DR, I had discovered many of the things I expected: poverty and an extreme shortage of what we would call essential services, but also something I did not expect, an aspect of society within that poor barrio that I envied: true community.
It had been an exhausting and ridiculously hot day. By 10:00pm I was snoring loudly from my bunk, much to the chagrin of Kurtiss, my roommate.
One cultural nuance left me a bit amiss my whole time in the hot southern country, and that was everyone's tendency to always pants. On PEI, at the first sight of spring (any day after February that is above 3 degrees), people are done with pants until the cold winds of November. I therefore expected Dominicans, who endure temperatures in excess of 40 and 50 degrees to opt for shorts (or 'short pants', as my father calls them.) Instead, shorts are frowned upon, even strictly prohibited in many areas. Not wanting to die in the heat, Kurtiss and I, the only two guys on the trip, opted instead for 'manpris'. Laugh if you will, but would far rather be called metrosexual (as I was many times) then to slowly roast in jeans.
After a hearty Dominican breakfast, we headed off to Santo Domingo for the day, about 45 minutes to an hour from our Centre, depending on traffic. I need not repeat the state of traffic as covered in my initial post, but our first foray into morning traffic gave us a whole new respect for the car horn. Our first couple experiences of crossing multiple lines of on-coming traffic made for a few nervous passengers and generated a fair number of yelps, mostly out of Christine.
Our day consisted of touring some areas of the city where more wealthy residents lived, impressive houses that rival anything here on the Island, several guarded by an assortment of attack dogs and men carrying massive shot guns. This was starkly contrasted by the heaps of houses crowded onto the hillsides that we would visit later that afternoon.
In the late a.m. we had a walking tour of the Colonial Zone of Santo Domingo. The Zone is a designated UNESCO World Heritage site, and for good reason. As the landing point of Christopher Columbus in the New World in 1492, and established in 1496, it is the oldest European city in the Americas. It is also heavily steeped in history, starting from the Spanish conquering and decimation of the aboriginal population, the enslavement of Africans, and the military involvement of several conquering nations, from Spain to France, Britain, to the United States.
Our afternoon included visiting an NGO that works with poorer entrepreneurs and small business owners, primarily women, in helping them get back on their feet by means of low interest loans, educational seminars, and support. After speaking with some workers within this organization, we went for a tour of a poor barrio (community) to visit some of the entrepreneurs they had aided. This walk-through was our first immersion into the poverty on the streets. It was tempting to focus on the children who were incredibly cute and very excited at the novelty of having white people in their community, but there was a lot more to mentally process in this single experience.
The houses were built on a steep incline, sometimes a 45-degree angle, and were of simple construction; mostly cinder blocks and corrugated metal roofs. The narrow streets and stairways were filled with people, and though there was a lot of garbage, filth, and poverty surrounding us, another presence was clearly evident, and that was the sheer vibrancy of this community. Though they had very little, the people we visited were fiercely proud of their accomplishments and their homes. It was slightly humbling; these weren't people that wanted us to come build their houses, indeed, they had built their own houses and businesses from the ground up, brick-by-brick, wall-by-wall. They wanted only to share their story of successes, the pride in their families, and their hopes for the future. It was also light years away from our Island home, only about 6 hours away as the jumbo jet flies, where people were no doubt going about their lives a usual in our suburban, fenced-in lives of isolationist luxury. On the way back to the Centre I realized that in this, my first day in the DR, I had discovered many of the things I expected: poverty and an extreme shortage of what we would call essential services, but also something I did not expect, an aspect of society within that poor barrio that I envied: true community.
It had been an exhausting and ridiculously hot day. By 10:00pm I was snoring loudly from my bunk, much to the chagrin of Kurtiss, my roommate.
Friday, June 08, 2007
The Dominican Republic Faith and Justice Experience 2007: Day One
With the Provincial Leaders' Debate that I helped coordinate at UPEI over with at about 9:00pm on Tuesday May 15th, I headed home to pack and prepare for our three-week trip to the Dominican. It was a rather daunting task, but with an incredibly busy week under my belt, I was more concerned that I was about to embark on a 15-hour journey to San Cristobel, Dominican Republic, having only had about 6 hours of sleep in the previous three days.
Leading up to this experience, I was not sure what to tell people, and was reluctant to call this trip a 'mission,' because everyone I met expected us to be building houses or churches or schools or to be working somewhere for the duration of our stay. Instead, our group would be attending info sessions, visiting NGOs (Non-Governmental Organizations), and living with Dominican families for a portion of our stay. Frankly, I was not entirely sure that this was the most fulfilling way to spend three-weeks in a third world country, but as I came to know, and hopefully as you will understand through this series of blog entries, our trip was one wherein we learned that the Dominican people are not in need of our pity and charity. Nor do they need me to go down and build houses; they can build houses much better than I will ever be able to. As we were told many times, the challenge is to understand what the obstacles are for individuals in impoverished countries; to hear their stories and as Westerners, to work in whatever capacity we are able to ensure that the injustices of our own culture, in our own communities and around the world are not propagated in the future.
So with these and more questions in mind, I packed my clothes, along with some toys and gifts for the people I would meet, while my roomies cooked me my final Canadian dinner for 21 days. Shortly before midnight Gillis picked me up and we headed to the Charlottetown Diocesan Centre, from where our group assembled, some friends came to say goodbye, and we departed via van for Halifax Airport. After 15 hours of travel, we had been through three provinces, three airports, and three countries, and were on our way through Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic (also the landing site of Christopher Columbus and the oldest Eurpoean settlement in the Americas) on our way to San Cristobel.
The traffic in the DR is almost beyond explanation. In a city of about 2.2 million people, I would guess that maybe 3 of them have read the actual traffic laws of the city. Rush hour consists of thousands of cars weaving in and out of lines at high speed with inches to spare, and with apparently no notice whatsoever of the lines on the road, nor of the hundreds of motorbikes, mopeds and scooters that zip in between the already volatile lines of cars. Being from PEI, where honking your horn is either used to greet someone on the street or as the equivalent of telling someone off, the constant symphony of blasting horns was a bit over-whelming. Several times I caught myself looking to see the honker, fully expecting someone I knew or someone waving at us. After awhile the honking would meld into the other thousands of sounds in this incredibly loud country. One will also notice once they leave the Santo Domingo airport that many vans and trucks have bars mounter on the front and rear of the vehicle. After scoffing at these seemingly unnecessary accessories, after being hit or hitting other vehicles on three separate occasions within our first week we soon discovered that their are two types of vehicles in the Dominican; those that have these bars, and those that are severely dented or missing parts.
Seatbelts are, however, little more than an accesory in these vehicles. In a country where a full Public Car (Dominican version of the Taxi) is anywhere between 5 and 10 people, motor bikes often have 4+ passengers, and the beds of trucks are additional passenger space, seatbelts are few and far between. Our group was driven around in a very nice air-conditioned van by an unreal driver/body guard names Anez. Within my individual community, however, I had little choice but to abide by the 'When in Rome...' adage, as my choices consisted of accepting a certain degree of risk, or being left wherever I was, alone in a city I didn't fully understand, and in a country where my 6'2" frame and freakishly pale white skin made me stand out like a Conservative in the new PEI Legislature, thus attracting the stares of pretty much everyone I came with a half mile of.
By 9:30pm on May 16th, I was exhausted, and as I laid in bed trying to overcome the heat, I thought of how different a world I was in than the one I had left only that morning. Somewhere between imagining how I could single-handedly fix a broken world and going over Spanish phrases in my head, I drifted off to sleep. And there was evening, and there was morning. The first day.
Leading up to this experience, I was not sure what to tell people, and was reluctant to call this trip a 'mission,' because everyone I met expected us to be building houses or churches or schools or to be working somewhere for the duration of our stay. Instead, our group would be attending info sessions, visiting NGOs (Non-Governmental Organizations), and living with Dominican families for a portion of our stay. Frankly, I was not entirely sure that this was the most fulfilling way to spend three-weeks in a third world country, but as I came to know, and hopefully as you will understand through this series of blog entries, our trip was one wherein we learned that the Dominican people are not in need of our pity and charity. Nor do they need me to go down and build houses; they can build houses much better than I will ever be able to. As we were told many times, the challenge is to understand what the obstacles are for individuals in impoverished countries; to hear their stories and as Westerners, to work in whatever capacity we are able to ensure that the injustices of our own culture, in our own communities and around the world are not propagated in the future.
So with these and more questions in mind, I packed my clothes, along with some toys and gifts for the people I would meet, while my roomies cooked me my final Canadian dinner for 21 days. Shortly before midnight Gillis picked me up and we headed to the Charlottetown Diocesan Centre, from where our group assembled, some friends came to say goodbye, and we departed via van for Halifax Airport. After 15 hours of travel, we had been through three provinces, three airports, and three countries, and were on our way through Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic (also the landing site of Christopher Columbus and the oldest Eurpoean settlement in the Americas) on our way to San Cristobel.
The traffic in the DR is almost beyond explanation. In a city of about 2.2 million people, I would guess that maybe 3 of them have read the actual traffic laws of the city. Rush hour consists of thousands of cars weaving in and out of lines at high speed with inches to spare, and with apparently no notice whatsoever of the lines on the road, nor of the hundreds of motorbikes, mopeds and scooters that zip in between the already volatile lines of cars. Being from PEI, where honking your horn is either used to greet someone on the street or as the equivalent of telling someone off, the constant symphony of blasting horns was a bit over-whelming. Several times I caught myself looking to see the honker, fully expecting someone I knew or someone waving at us. After awhile the honking would meld into the other thousands of sounds in this incredibly loud country. One will also notice once they leave the Santo Domingo airport that many vans and trucks have bars mounter on the front and rear of the vehicle. After scoffing at these seemingly unnecessary accessories, after being hit or hitting other vehicles on three separate occasions within our first week we soon discovered that their are two types of vehicles in the Dominican; those that have these bars, and those that are severely dented or missing parts.
Seatbelts are, however, little more than an accesory in these vehicles. In a country where a full Public Car (Dominican version of the Taxi) is anywhere between 5 and 10 people, motor bikes often have 4+ passengers, and the beds of trucks are additional passenger space, seatbelts are few and far between. Our group was driven around in a very nice air-conditioned van by an unreal driver/body guard names Anez. Within my individual community, however, I had little choice but to abide by the 'When in Rome...' adage, as my choices consisted of accepting a certain degree of risk, or being left wherever I was, alone in a city I didn't fully understand, and in a country where my 6'2" frame and freakishly pale white skin made me stand out like a Conservative in the new PEI Legislature, thus attracting the stares of pretty much everyone I came with a half mile of.
By 9:30pm on May 16th, I was exhausted, and as I laid in bed trying to overcome the heat, I thought of how different a world I was in than the one I had left only that morning. Somewhere between imagining how I could single-handedly fix a broken world and going over Spanish phrases in my head, I drifted off to sleep. And there was evening, and there was morning. The first day.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
...And now for something completely different: The Rants of a University Student (#45)
So, along with the usual questions (“Ryan, could you shut up please?” “Can you get down from there please?” and “Holy frig, you’re a little full of yourself aren’t you?”) about 407,036 people have randomly accosted me around campus to ask me where the the rant has been for the past couple weeks. Well, the rant writing was pretty slow for while there because New Year’s resolution season hit our house pretty hard this year. For awhile there, instead of a bunch of crank-ass alcoholics crawling out of bed at the crack of noon, everyone was bounding out the door at 5:00am, munching on brussel sprouts, and working out at the gym for 7 or 8 hours a day. It was as if we were all hopped up on endorphins and happy pills. It was disgusting. To make a long story short, I was too much of a happy person to come up with enough stuff that was pissing me off to write a whole rant. (Causing some of my friends to encourage me to start writing a new article: ‘…And now for something completely different: Positive Observations from Ryan Gallant.’ Riiight.) Of course the whole little New Year’s happiness nonsense crashed pretty hard after three or four weeks, as mid-terms screwed up schedules and sleep patterns, February blahs killed our joie de vie, and everyone just decided that staying in bed was a whole lot funner than freezing your face off in minus 348 billion degree weather.
Which brings me to another question. If it is -47 degrees out with the wind-chill, who the hell cares what the “real” temperature is? Like if my skin is going to freeze in two and a half minutes, then that is the damn temperature. And who are we measuring the non-wind-chill temp for anyway? Are there people out there somewhere in vacuum-sealed bubbles? Are there scientists conducting temperature-sensitive experiments in the snow banks? This is about as stupid as the time students complained that the high pressure sodium yellow lights on campus didn’t give off enough light and some engineer told us that they were fine. “Oh yeah, they give off plenty of light. It’s just not visible to the human eye.” Oh good. Idiot. On another random note, it’s a good thing cars are just spontaneously bursting into flame in our parking lots too. I mean it’s been at least 2 months since we’ve had a decent fire on campus anyway. I guess we were due.
Uh oh. Irving got into some trouble with IRAC (Island Regulatory and Appeals Commission) last month. As per provincial regulation, corporations can own no more than 3000 acres on PEI and IRAC suspects that Irving may have exceeded the limit. They were ordered to submit all documentation by the middle of this month OR ELSE face a fine of up to $10,000. Well shit. Oh all bow to the awesome power of the IRAC. I can just see the Irving Execs pacing around the office wringing their hands in fear. Ten grand. Imagine. I’m sure they’ll have to dip into the Irving Emergency Fund to pay that one down.
Oh, and don’t believe a word of Kristi Kelly’s article in the Cadre. Where in the World is Kristi Kelly? I’ll tell you where the hell she is. She’s about 15 feet away from me in the next office chatting away on her ever-present cell phone. I can hear her giggling from here. Every week I see the same damn articles. She’s in Budapest, she’s in Kuala Lumpur, she’s in Tuktoyaktuk. Bullshit. She’s been here all along. It’s all a little part of her house of lies. Kristi, come clean about your whereabouts. Your lies are weakening the integrity of The Cadre.
The Guardian asked a couple weeks ago if readers thought drivers on PEI are getting the message about drunk driving. What the hell do you think? I’ll give you three guesses, the first two don’t count. What kind of message are we supposed to be getting? A few weeks ago John Alvin Gallant was sentenced to 18 months house arrest for driving drunk and killing Charlie Campbell of Souris. Eighteen damn months to sit around home. Wonderful. Does this not sound ridiculous to anyone else? Is this how we strike fear into the assholes who decide they can down a case of beer and then drive around? Of course the Judge tried to justify the sentence by saying that John Alvin’s family would be worse off without him at home. Yeah no shit. I’ll bet Charlie’s family has a bit more to deal with than that. And the Judge figured he should be let off easy because “he feels sorry”? Who gives a shit? He’s responsible for someone’s death, and he’s part of a larger trend of people driving drunk and more and more Islanders getting killed every year as a result. The Provincial Courts have to grow some balls and get their shit together. Enough of this bleeding heart bullshit.
On a brighter note, it appears as though old Saddam won’t be making his big comeback in the next Iraqi election. Of course, as I’ve said before, I think his political career took a pretty big dive when they found him in a hole under a Styrofoam brick. Like, I mean, your army deserts you, and they don’t even give you a real damn brick to hide under? As one of my great professors would say, stick a fork in him; he’s done. Seriously though, if I was Hussein, (which for the record, I am glad I am not), I would’ve just faked a cough or something. I mean it worked for Augusto Pinochet. He was on trial for hundreds of atrocities committed during his reign in Chile, and he got sick, so they let him go home. So while Pinochet died peacefully at home in December at the ripe old age of 91, they took Hussein out for a good old-fashioned necktie social. Tough break Saddamy.
Have a good one!
Which brings me to another question. If it is -47 degrees out with the wind-chill, who the hell cares what the “real” temperature is? Like if my skin is going to freeze in two and a half minutes, then that is the damn temperature. And who are we measuring the non-wind-chill temp for anyway? Are there people out there somewhere in vacuum-sealed bubbles? Are there scientists conducting temperature-sensitive experiments in the snow banks? This is about as stupid as the time students complained that the high pressure sodium yellow lights on campus didn’t give off enough light and some engineer told us that they were fine. “Oh yeah, they give off plenty of light. It’s just not visible to the human eye.” Oh good. Idiot. On another random note, it’s a good thing cars are just spontaneously bursting into flame in our parking lots too. I mean it’s been at least 2 months since we’ve had a decent fire on campus anyway. I guess we were due.
Uh oh. Irving got into some trouble with IRAC (Island Regulatory and Appeals Commission) last month. As per provincial regulation, corporations can own no more than 3000 acres on PEI and IRAC suspects that Irving may have exceeded the limit. They were ordered to submit all documentation by the middle of this month OR ELSE face a fine of up to $10,000. Well shit. Oh all bow to the awesome power of the IRAC. I can just see the Irving Execs pacing around the office wringing their hands in fear. Ten grand. Imagine. I’m sure they’ll have to dip into the Irving Emergency Fund to pay that one down.
Oh, and don’t believe a word of Kristi Kelly’s article in the Cadre. Where in the World is Kristi Kelly? I’ll tell you where the hell she is. She’s about 15 feet away from me in the next office chatting away on her ever-present cell phone. I can hear her giggling from here. Every week I see the same damn articles. She’s in Budapest, she’s in Kuala Lumpur, she’s in Tuktoyaktuk. Bullshit. She’s been here all along. It’s all a little part of her house of lies. Kristi, come clean about your whereabouts. Your lies are weakening the integrity of The Cadre.
The Guardian asked a couple weeks ago if readers thought drivers on PEI are getting the message about drunk driving. What the hell do you think? I’ll give you three guesses, the first two don’t count. What kind of message are we supposed to be getting? A few weeks ago John Alvin Gallant was sentenced to 18 months house arrest for driving drunk and killing Charlie Campbell of Souris. Eighteen damn months to sit around home. Wonderful. Does this not sound ridiculous to anyone else? Is this how we strike fear into the assholes who decide they can down a case of beer and then drive around? Of course the Judge tried to justify the sentence by saying that John Alvin’s family would be worse off without him at home. Yeah no shit. I’ll bet Charlie’s family has a bit more to deal with than that. And the Judge figured he should be let off easy because “he feels sorry”? Who gives a shit? He’s responsible for someone’s death, and he’s part of a larger trend of people driving drunk and more and more Islanders getting killed every year as a result. The Provincial Courts have to grow some balls and get their shit together. Enough of this bleeding heart bullshit.
On a brighter note, it appears as though old Saddam won’t be making his big comeback in the next Iraqi election. Of course, as I’ve said before, I think his political career took a pretty big dive when they found him in a hole under a Styrofoam brick. Like, I mean, your army deserts you, and they don’t even give you a real damn brick to hide under? As one of my great professors would say, stick a fork in him; he’s done. Seriously though, if I was Hussein, (which for the record, I am glad I am not), I would’ve just faked a cough or something. I mean it worked for Augusto Pinochet. He was on trial for hundreds of atrocities committed during his reign in Chile, and he got sick, so they let him go home. So while Pinochet died peacefully at home in December at the ripe old age of 91, they took Hussein out for a good old-fashioned necktie social. Tough break Saddamy.
Have a good one!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Episode 4: Boys Will Be Boys
Eugene starts to work up the courage to talk to his secret crush as Patty grows more and more frustrated with that "guy from the library.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Patty and Eugene Do UPEI: Episode 3
Patty gets a little edgy after flushing his pills, so he and Eugene head to the gym to burn off some extra energy.
What's that? You didn't subscribe to the podcast yet? What's wrong with you?!? Click on the link at pattyandeugene.com or search "Patty and Eugene" in the iTunes Music Store to subscribe.
What's that? You didn't subscribe to the podcast yet? What's wrong with you?!? Click on the link at pattyandeugene.com or search "Patty and Eugene" in the iTunes Music Store to subscribe.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Patty and Eugene Do UPEI: Episode 2
In this, the second episode of Patty and Eugene Do UPEI, Eugene wakes up after a visit from the hair fairy, Patty give a tour of the washroom, and the boys pay a visit to the library.
When you subscribe through iTunes, you'll also receive occasional extra clips of Patty and Eugene not posted on any other site. Sounds like it kicks ass? It does.
Visit pattyandeugene.com to subscribe to the video podcast.
When you subscribe through iTunes, you'll also receive occasional extra clips of Patty and Eugene not posted on any other site. Sounds like it kicks ass? It does.
Visit pattyandeugene.com to subscribe to the video podcast.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Patty and Eugene Do UPEI
Here's the first episode Patty and Eugene Do UPEI. You can check it out on YouTube or Google Video. If you click on the link to subscribe to the show through iTunes, not only will you have the show delivered to you every week, but you'll also get the first and second episodes today!
When you subscribe through iTunes, you'll also receive occasional extra clips of Patty and Eugene not posted on any other site. Sounds like it kicks ass? It does.
Visit pattyandeugene.com to subscribe to the video podcast.
When you subscribe through iTunes, you'll also receive occasional extra clips of Patty and Eugene not posted on any other site. Sounds like it kicks ass? It does.
Visit pattyandeugene.com to subscribe to the video podcast.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
...And now for something completely different: The Rants of a University Student (#44)
While writing papers last week, (and by writing papers I mean talking on MSN and updating my Facebook), my procrastination was interrupted by a phenomenal new website designed for the hippest people in town. Yes, brownscourt.com has hit the web. This wonderful little website has vowed to allow anyone and everyone to post any shit they want with complete access and anonymity, taking the full brunt of any legal ramifications, one presumes. Words cannot express how flattered I was to be featured as the topic of the very first post to this new site. It is such an honour to be recognized by such an innovative and essential part of our community. And not be out-shined, the first post: ‘ryan g. doesnt know shit’ [sic] was quite an amazing piece of work. So amazing, in fact, that I decided a complete replication of the article was warranted, and so here it is (with my own accompanying commentary, of course):
Note: I apologize for the incredibly terrible spelling and grammar. Everything appears as it was originally published online.
“Anybody ever read the SU president’s blog in the Cadre? Dude doesnt know jack shit.”
As you correctly noted, my rant is published in The Cadre. Although I apparently do not know “jack shit,” I at least know that this form of publication would be what we in the English language commonly refer to as a ‘newspaper article.’ ‘Blogs’ appear online, and are not always, (but, having visited brownscourt.com, are apparently sometimes), written by people who "don't know jack shit". Further Note: As I am not exactly sure who this phenom of an author is, and assuming that the author is a male, given the fact that he referred to me as a “F***ing woman” at one point, will be referred to as Mr. Jack Shit for the remainder of this article.
“Why doesnt US invade North Korea?” Well, since the last invasion hasnt sparked that much love on the president… I dont think invading another country is the thing to do right away.”
I see that along the inability to spell half of the words in the English language, you are also unfamiliar with sarcasm. That’s terrible! Here’s an early Christmas gift from me to you, Jack: www.dictionary.com. Check it out sometime.
“As for your brilliant breakdown of magic 93…just because you dont like the damn music makes you a f***in expert or what? I’m not a Timberlake fan, but he is out there making millions while you are in uni making shitty columns for school papers.”
Sigh. You had to bring up Magic 93. So I hate Magic 93, get over it. I’ve explained many times where this irrational hatred of Paul and Anne comes from. So sue me. A little angst never hurt anyone. Anyways, what’s your beef with Timberlake? While you seem to think I am a huge Justin-basher, he hasn’t been mentioned in any of my rants since February 2004, and that was for ripping off Janet Jackson’s bra at the Superbowl. Get with the times kid. Do you have a little obsession with Mr. Sexy Back or something? And holy frig, if you’re referencing my articles from three years ago, are you maybe a little obsessed with the rant too? That’s kind of scary, Mr. Shit. But yes, I get your point, many of the people I satirize in my rant are richer and better looking and more talented than me. What a travesty. And yes, I am sitting here like a damn fool writing my rant for The Cadre and not making millions of dollars. In fact, I’m not making any damn money for them at all. Imagine. But you’re the moron sitting around writing blogs devoted to bashing my rants and my bullshit opinions. Your rant is about how my rants about other people are stupid. Look in a mirror, there moron. And how do you have this much time on your hands? If it’s because you skipped out on English 101 all semester, that would explain a whole hell of a lot.
“About the whole “music is blood…” ordeal: Shakespeare said shit close to that or even more wacked out and they call him a literary genious.”
I’m gonna have to stop you there, cowboy. The direct quote from the band ‘Dead Celebrity Status’ was: “Music is blood, blood is oxygen, breathe it in.” Um… no. Pretty sure Shakespeare didn’t say shit like that. You see, he was at least aware of the technical aspects of the English language, and was likely at least vaguely aware of what a proper metaphor was. And I have absolutely no issue with them saying “Music is Blood” or “Music is Oxygen” or “Music is Crack Cocaine” or whatever, because bands say stupid shit like that all the time. My problem is with the dumb-ass bands trying to make themselves seem more profound or emotionally thoughtful by referring to mundane and morbid objects or making lame attempts at dark poetry. But yes, you’re probably right, Dead Celebrity Status is definitely in line to follow Shakespeare into artistic infamy. Idiot.
“Im sure is isnt as easy as putting on eye shadow or getting tatoos to be musicians, otherwise I may as well say f*** this, prick my skin, and go get myself a record deal from Sony rapping about how I just lost my girl to a chimney sweep named Moe. What makes the shit legit is that the phrase “lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off” is pretty much true. Think about it.”
I have no opinion on this paragraph. Maybe if it made sense and I could actually understand what you were trying to say, I would be offended, but I honestly have no sweet clue how you manage to communicate on a day-to-day basis. And I agree; it takes more than eye shadow or tattoos to be a musician. And it takes more than breast implants and eating disorders and metaphors and references to death, blood, and suicide. So yeah, I don’t know why you decided to agree with me on that point, but sure. And the chimney sweep named Moe was a nice touch.
Anyways, Jack Shit, I guess my point is that there are many ways to contribute to a campus community, and whether you agree or not that my rant is a part of this university, your rant about my rants is in itself a recognition that it is, and I was not kidding when I said I was honoured to be mentioned on your special little website. Imitation, they say, is the sincerest form of flattery. I would suggest two things, however. First, that you maybe show some more respect towards the women on campus, mostly because they deserve it, but also because they constitute 65% of the student population, and could kick your ass. And secondly, that if you’re trying to make a contribution to this community with your website, try and recognize the hundreds of students who have gone above and beyond to build and maintain this community before you came along. Be it through any organization, group, program, initiative, article, protest, ceremony, or whatever, I know many who have been tirelessly involved in innumerable things here at UPEI and have done them all to the very best of their ability. I am most comfortable in criticizing stupid articles like your own, because I am fairly confident that without any like contribution, you have no leg to stand on in terms of critiquing the work of those around you. So Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Shit, and have a wonderful New Year’s in Brown’s Court.
And if you’re going to keep ranting in competition with mine, I suggest you catch up first. This is number 44. Good luck.
Have a good one, and Happy Holidays!
Note: I apologize for the incredibly terrible spelling and grammar. Everything appears as it was originally published online.
“Anybody ever read the SU president’s blog in the Cadre? Dude doesnt know jack shit.”
As you correctly noted, my rant is published in The Cadre. Although I apparently do not know “jack shit,” I at least know that this form of publication would be what we in the English language commonly refer to as a ‘newspaper article.’ ‘Blogs’ appear online, and are not always, (but, having visited brownscourt.com, are apparently sometimes), written by people who "don't know jack shit". Further Note: As I am not exactly sure who this phenom of an author is, and assuming that the author is a male, given the fact that he referred to me as a “F***ing woman” at one point, will be referred to as Mr. Jack Shit for the remainder of this article.
“Why doesnt US invade North Korea?” Well, since the last invasion hasnt sparked that much love on the president… I dont think invading another country is the thing to do right away.”
I see that along the inability to spell half of the words in the English language, you are also unfamiliar with sarcasm. That’s terrible! Here’s an early Christmas gift from me to you, Jack: www.dictionary.com. Check it out sometime.
“As for your brilliant breakdown of magic 93…just because you dont like the damn music makes you a f***in expert or what? I’m not a Timberlake fan, but he is out there making millions while you are in uni making shitty columns for school papers.”
Sigh. You had to bring up Magic 93. So I hate Magic 93, get over it. I’ve explained many times where this irrational hatred of Paul and Anne comes from. So sue me. A little angst never hurt anyone. Anyways, what’s your beef with Timberlake? While you seem to think I am a huge Justin-basher, he hasn’t been mentioned in any of my rants since February 2004, and that was for ripping off Janet Jackson’s bra at the Superbowl. Get with the times kid. Do you have a little obsession with Mr. Sexy Back or something? And holy frig, if you’re referencing my articles from three years ago, are you maybe a little obsessed with the rant too? That’s kind of scary, Mr. Shit. But yes, I get your point, many of the people I satirize in my rant are richer and better looking and more talented than me. What a travesty. And yes, I am sitting here like a damn fool writing my rant for The Cadre and not making millions of dollars. In fact, I’m not making any damn money for them at all. Imagine. But you’re the moron sitting around writing blogs devoted to bashing my rants and my bullshit opinions. Your rant is about how my rants about other people are stupid. Look in a mirror, there moron. And how do you have this much time on your hands? If it’s because you skipped out on English 101 all semester, that would explain a whole hell of a lot.
“About the whole “music is blood…” ordeal: Shakespeare said shit close to that or even more wacked out and they call him a literary genious.”
I’m gonna have to stop you there, cowboy. The direct quote from the band ‘Dead Celebrity Status’ was: “Music is blood, blood is oxygen, breathe it in.” Um… no. Pretty sure Shakespeare didn’t say shit like that. You see, he was at least aware of the technical aspects of the English language, and was likely at least vaguely aware of what a proper metaphor was. And I have absolutely no issue with them saying “Music is Blood” or “Music is Oxygen” or “Music is Crack Cocaine” or whatever, because bands say stupid shit like that all the time. My problem is with the dumb-ass bands trying to make themselves seem more profound or emotionally thoughtful by referring to mundane and morbid objects or making lame attempts at dark poetry. But yes, you’re probably right, Dead Celebrity Status is definitely in line to follow Shakespeare into artistic infamy. Idiot.
“Im sure is isnt as easy as putting on eye shadow or getting tatoos to be musicians, otherwise I may as well say f*** this, prick my skin, and go get myself a record deal from Sony rapping about how I just lost my girl to a chimney sweep named Moe. What makes the shit legit is that the phrase “lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off” is pretty much true. Think about it.”
I have no opinion on this paragraph. Maybe if it made sense and I could actually understand what you were trying to say, I would be offended, but I honestly have no sweet clue how you manage to communicate on a day-to-day basis. And I agree; it takes more than eye shadow or tattoos to be a musician. And it takes more than breast implants and eating disorders and metaphors and references to death, blood, and suicide. So yeah, I don’t know why you decided to agree with me on that point, but sure. And the chimney sweep named Moe was a nice touch.
Anyways, Jack Shit, I guess my point is that there are many ways to contribute to a campus community, and whether you agree or not that my rant is a part of this university, your rant about my rants is in itself a recognition that it is, and I was not kidding when I said I was honoured to be mentioned on your special little website. Imitation, they say, is the sincerest form of flattery. I would suggest two things, however. First, that you maybe show some more respect towards the women on campus, mostly because they deserve it, but also because they constitute 65% of the student population, and could kick your ass. And secondly, that if you’re trying to make a contribution to this community with your website, try and recognize the hundreds of students who have gone above and beyond to build and maintain this community before you came along. Be it through any organization, group, program, initiative, article, protest, ceremony, or whatever, I know many who have been tirelessly involved in innumerable things here at UPEI and have done them all to the very best of their ability. I am most comfortable in criticizing stupid articles like your own, because I am fairly confident that without any like contribution, you have no leg to stand on in terms of critiquing the work of those around you. So Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Shit, and have a wonderful New Year’s in Brown’s Court.
And if you’re going to keep ranting in competition with mine, I suggest you catch up first. This is number 44. Good luck.
Have a good one, and Happy Holidays!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
...And now for something completely different: The Rants of a University Student (#43)
What the hell is with this weather? In the past week I’ve seen hailstorms, torrential rain on sunny days, green sheet lightening and some crazy-ass fog. It’s ridiculous. But don’t worry. For all of you who blame the irregular weather patterns on Global Warming, have no fear, our savior is here. Yes, the Tories have decided not to put up with these Global Warming shenanigans any more, and have pledged to slash green-house gas emissions by 45-65% ...by the year 2050! 2050? Great! By then I’ll only be... well, dead. Morons. Someone needs to tell these people to get their shit together.
For those of you who don’t read The Guardian on a daily basis for it’s wealth of information on the local deaths and riveting tutorials on Contract Bridge, the paper has over-hauled their old design. But don’t worry, their proud tradition of printing dumb-ass stories and making themselves look like complete idiots continues. On October 13th, for example, there was a front-page story about the new high-tech PEI Licenses. Accompanying it in front-page, full colour 5x7 detail was a teenage girl holding up her shiny new license, complete with her name, her address, birthday, height, everything. Brilliant. What Privacy Act? It’s a wonder those geniuses over at The Guardian aren’t awarded a few more Pulitzer Prizes every now and then.
You know what pisses me off? (“Yes, Ryan, we know, we know. A lot of things piss you off.” Shut up.) It pisses me off that people don’t go out anymore. And sure, maybe I just got a little too attached to the Wednesday night Peake’s phenomenon this past summer, but nowadays, no one seems to want to go out. At all. Ever. And they all have stupid excuses. “Oh, I have a test next Tuesday.” “Ok... You know this is Friday right?” Now schoolwork aside, what pisses me off even more, are the people who figure they can’t go out or do schoolwork or anything because they have to watch a damn TV show. They have this dumb-ass idea that they have to be on the couch, at the same time every week, and they adjust their schedule accordingly. This is ridiculous. Watching some TV now and then never killed anyone, but putting your whole damn life on hold so that you can watch some stupid fictional life of some moron living their fictional life and interacting with other morons is bullshit. Tape it, rip it off the internet for frig’s sake, maybe even miss an episode. It’ll be on a friggin DVD in a few months anyway. Heaven forbid you try and live your own life once in a while.
Global National reported last week that the Tim Horton’s that will be opening in Afghanistan to bring a taste of home to Canadian soldiers is going to cost Canadians four million dollars. In the article they stated that operating the franchise coffee shop will cost an additional two to five million a year. Who cares how much it costs? The merits of any war being fought in the region now aside, we have sent thousands of young men and women across the world to fight a war. We will almost certainly watch some of them come back in flag-draped coffins, and Global thinks we should be pissed that they’re getting some coffee? Who gives a shit? It’s only $4 million. Down the street they’re spending 4.5 million to put in a few traffic lights at the Peter Pan corner. Build the soldiers a damn Disney Land for all I care, they do a job that most of us don’t have the balls to do, let them drink as much damn coffee as they want. They deserve it infinitely times more than some bureaucrat or dumb ass news anchor. Yes, I was referring to you Kevin Newman. Jackass.
There was a huge uproar last week when the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Peter MacKay allegedly called Liberal MP Belinda Stronach “a dog.” A little history here for those of you who don’t know; Belinda and Peter used to be a couple, in the romantic sense, back when Ms. Stronach had just broken onto the political scene as a member of the Conservatives. In 2004 she dumped MacKay by, get this, joining the Liberals, and she kind of neglected to tell MacKay this was all going down until about an hour or two before news of her desertion was made public. More recently, Stronach has been accused of being involved in an affair with former Toronto Maple Leafs enforcer Tie Domi, which, in turn, led to the break-up of his marriage. Now if any other woman was caught doing shit like this, MacKay may have called her any number of names; a dog, a home-wrecker, a skank-dragon. He could have said Fuddle Duddle for all we know. Does it really matter? Well the critics think so. They’ve been throwing conniption fits from here to Vancouver, screaming “this is an insult to all women everywhere.” Why? He didn’t call ‘every woman everywhere’ a dog. He just called Belinda a dog. Get a life. And sure, maybe Parliament is not the best place for this type of insult to be thrown about (not like they aren’t every other day anyway), but seriously, we’ve all seen break-ups worse than this in High School. You know, someone screws up, a few names get thrown around, maybe MacKay and Domi have a little tussle in the playground, and everyone goes home scarred for life. People need to stop pretending like this is some huge travesty that is beyond the means of comprehensibility. We’ve all been through shit like this. It’s just another story about a pretty girl and a guy with a broken heart. One journalist recognized Belinda for what she is and called her a bitch. As a result, he was ripped to shreds by other members of the media who said he should never get another job anywhere ever again. Overkill much? Here’s a couple quotes in reaction to his comments: “I find it shocking that people would use him now that he has displayed such horrible language around women.” Around women? What is this? 1877? “What he has done is absolutely unforgivable. It hurts women everywhere, and there is no place for that kind of language and that kind of attitude in our society today.” Screw off. Listen, she’s a rich drama queen, she dumped a boyfriend without telling him, deserted her whole political party in exchange for a patronage cabinet post, broke up a marriage, and says that her being accused of adultery is an impediment to other women who want to run for political office. Belinda IS a bitch. Chrétien was a bastard. I’m an asshole. Get over it.
Have a good one!
For those of you who don’t read The Guardian on a daily basis for it’s wealth of information on the local deaths and riveting tutorials on Contract Bridge, the paper has over-hauled their old design. But don’t worry, their proud tradition of printing dumb-ass stories and making themselves look like complete idiots continues. On October 13th, for example, there was a front-page story about the new high-tech PEI Licenses. Accompanying it in front-page, full colour 5x7 detail was a teenage girl holding up her shiny new license, complete with her name, her address, birthday, height, everything. Brilliant. What Privacy Act? It’s a wonder those geniuses over at The Guardian aren’t awarded a few more Pulitzer Prizes every now and then.
You know what pisses me off? (“Yes, Ryan, we know, we know. A lot of things piss you off.” Shut up.) It pisses me off that people don’t go out anymore. And sure, maybe I just got a little too attached to the Wednesday night Peake’s phenomenon this past summer, but nowadays, no one seems to want to go out. At all. Ever. And they all have stupid excuses. “Oh, I have a test next Tuesday.” “Ok... You know this is Friday right?” Now schoolwork aside, what pisses me off even more, are the people who figure they can’t go out or do schoolwork or anything because they have to watch a damn TV show. They have this dumb-ass idea that they have to be on the couch, at the same time every week, and they adjust their schedule accordingly. This is ridiculous. Watching some TV now and then never killed anyone, but putting your whole damn life on hold so that you can watch some stupid fictional life of some moron living their fictional life and interacting with other morons is bullshit. Tape it, rip it off the internet for frig’s sake, maybe even miss an episode. It’ll be on a friggin DVD in a few months anyway. Heaven forbid you try and live your own life once in a while.
Global National reported last week that the Tim Horton’s that will be opening in Afghanistan to bring a taste of home to Canadian soldiers is going to cost Canadians four million dollars. In the article they stated that operating the franchise coffee shop will cost an additional two to five million a year. Who cares how much it costs? The merits of any war being fought in the region now aside, we have sent thousands of young men and women across the world to fight a war. We will almost certainly watch some of them come back in flag-draped coffins, and Global thinks we should be pissed that they’re getting some coffee? Who gives a shit? It’s only $4 million. Down the street they’re spending 4.5 million to put in a few traffic lights at the Peter Pan corner. Build the soldiers a damn Disney Land for all I care, they do a job that most of us don’t have the balls to do, let them drink as much damn coffee as they want. They deserve it infinitely times more than some bureaucrat or dumb ass news anchor. Yes, I was referring to you Kevin Newman. Jackass.
There was a huge uproar last week when the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Peter MacKay allegedly called Liberal MP Belinda Stronach “a dog.” A little history here for those of you who don’t know; Belinda and Peter used to be a couple, in the romantic sense, back when Ms. Stronach had just broken onto the political scene as a member of the Conservatives. In 2004 she dumped MacKay by, get this, joining the Liberals, and she kind of neglected to tell MacKay this was all going down until about an hour or two before news of her desertion was made public. More recently, Stronach has been accused of being involved in an affair with former Toronto Maple Leafs enforcer Tie Domi, which, in turn, led to the break-up of his marriage. Now if any other woman was caught doing shit like this, MacKay may have called her any number of names; a dog, a home-wrecker, a skank-dragon. He could have said Fuddle Duddle for all we know. Does it really matter? Well the critics think so. They’ve been throwing conniption fits from here to Vancouver, screaming “this is an insult to all women everywhere.” Why? He didn’t call ‘every woman everywhere’ a dog. He just called Belinda a dog. Get a life. And sure, maybe Parliament is not the best place for this type of insult to be thrown about (not like they aren’t every other day anyway), but seriously, we’ve all seen break-ups worse than this in High School. You know, someone screws up, a few names get thrown around, maybe MacKay and Domi have a little tussle in the playground, and everyone goes home scarred for life. People need to stop pretending like this is some huge travesty that is beyond the means of comprehensibility. We’ve all been through shit like this. It’s just another story about a pretty girl and a guy with a broken heart. One journalist recognized Belinda for what she is and called her a bitch. As a result, he was ripped to shreds by other members of the media who said he should never get another job anywhere ever again. Overkill much? Here’s a couple quotes in reaction to his comments: “I find it shocking that people would use him now that he has displayed such horrible language around women.” Around women? What is this? 1877? “What he has done is absolutely unforgivable. It hurts women everywhere, and there is no place for that kind of language and that kind of attitude in our society today.” Screw off. Listen, she’s a rich drama queen, she dumped a boyfriend without telling him, deserted her whole political party in exchange for a patronage cabinet post, broke up a marriage, and says that her being accused of adultery is an impediment to other women who want to run for political office. Belinda IS a bitch. Chrétien was a bastard. I’m an asshole. Get over it.
Have a good one!
Monday, October 23, 2006
...And now for something completely different: The Rants of a University Student (#42)
Well, my the Thanksgiving break was short-lived. No sooner had I finished off about 45 pounds of Thanksgiving turkey when I found myself smack-dab in the middle of mid-term season. For many of us, this means logging in hundreds of hours in the super-quiet room in the Library or in Kelley’s good old 24-hour computer lab, for others, it means memorizing stuff to the point that you forget where you are, who you are, and how the hell you got yourself into this nonsense in the first place. For still others, such as myself, the massive amount of work piled in front of us means fretting about it constantly, while simultaneously ignoring it completely. Yes, procrastination is upon us. This made for an incredibly unproductive weekend for me, with the days broken up by random 3-hour naps in the middle of the afternoon, constant web-surfing through emails and blogs and Facebook, not to mention endless searches for obscure and useless information that has nothing to do with anything. It got so bad at one point that I resorted to cleaning the house, at which point I dug out an old juicer that Mom and Dad had bought during a mid-eighties health craze, and started making juice out of all the fruit in the refrigerator. Needless to say, I am pretty much screwed, and yet, instead of doing actual work, here I am writing a damn rant.
Liberal leadership contender Michael Ignatieff got into a bit of hot water last week when he stated that Israel had committed war crimes during the Hezbollah-Israeli war this past July. There was an uproar following these comment, prompting a former co-chair of his campaign and Liberal MP Irwin Cotler’s wife to withdraw support. Prime Minister Stephen Harper weighed in on the debate as well, accusing all the Liberal leadership candidates as being ‘anti-Israeli’ and shaming them for not standing up for the Jewish community (which is really smart, seeing as Bob Rae’s wife and kids are Jewish). Jewish groups from across the country also expressed outrage at Ignatieff’s comments. Why? First of all, we’re talking about Israel here, a nation-state, not a religion. It is an undisputable fact that during the war Israel used cluster bombs and destroyed electrical, water, and sewage plants, as well as Beirut International Airport, thus making civilian evacuation extremely difficult. Under the Geneva Conventions, these could all be considered war crimes.
Now I wouldn’t even try to suggest that Hezbollah is not responsible for war crimes, indeed as a terrorist organization, they are engaged almost exclusively in illegal activity, but this in no way exonerates Israel. The Israeli attack was responsible for the deaths of many Lebanese civilians and for the destruction of non-military infrastructure, including schools and hospitals. I don’t have a problem with people trying to dispute these facts, they certainly have that right, but I definitely have a problem with the suggestion that anyone who questions Israel is somehow anti-Israeli or anti-Semitic. It pisses me off when the popular media implies that suggesting any wrong-doing on the part of Israel is somehow taboo or racist. This is endemic of the past decade, and especially in the period since September 11th, in which our society has begun to accept the destruction of non-military infrastructure and civilian lives in foreign wars simply if we feel that the attacker has “a good reason.” That’s bullshit. The Geneva Convention was put in place for a reason; so that the rules of war would apply to everyone. A war crime is a war crime no matter who you’re fighting, what colour your skin is, or what religion you are. They are war crimes because they recklessly and needlessly endanger the lives of innocent civilians and non-combatants, and in this regard there are no ‘if,’ ‘ands,’ or ‘buts’ about it. We need to start rationally considering the laws of war, rather than using real or apprehended threats as justification for writing blank cheques to political leaders so they can wage war and wreak destruction without recourse or criticism.
On an unrelated note, if Weapons of Mass Destruction were reason enough to invade Iraq, then why the hell isn’t the US headed to North Korea? I mean, you wouldn’t even search through caves and shit, they march their WMDs right down Main Street, Pyongyang. Just a thought.
So, I got stuck in a car that had Magic 93 on the radio during the Top 9 @ 9 last week, and I am getting pretty worried about music these days. I figured I’d try to make the best out of a bad situation and give the countdown a chance, seeing as I hadn’t heard in about 5 years. So, song number three was announced, and this random song comes on about sleep and psychosis and cockroaches laying dreams in some guys brain. Of all the crap that’s out there, THIS is number 3?!? I have no idea what the name of the song is and who sings it, but holy crap it was terrible. And I mean I’ve heard some pretty bad songs on Magic over the years; Blue, Tub-thumping, Don’t Cha, Sexy Back, but for the love of everything sacred, is the whole industry going to shit?
I thought we had done pretty well making it through the bubblegum pop nonsense of the late 90s and the brief Latin craze, all but this emo-screamo-faux-urban-grunge -think-you’re-profound-because-you-talk-about-suicide bullshit is ridiculous. Who the hell are these people? And I don’t know why these bands think that if they swear and wear eye shadow and get tattoos that they’re all suddenly become legit musicians. More baffling is why the hell all the 13-year-old prostitots accept their allusions of grandeur as “good music”. Some band named ‘Dead Celebrity Status’ was recently quoted as saying: “Music is blood, blood is oxygen, breathe it in.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? Sure, we could consider music essential and metaphorically refer to it as either oxygen or blood, but using both in hopes of sounding hardcore, also renders this analogy flawed, redundant AND incredibly stupid. Of course some 13-year-old boy going through some puberty rebellion is going to be like “Shit yeah! They talk about blood, they’re awesome!” No, they’re not. They’re just dumb asses.
And who the hell are these ‘Panic! At the Disco’ morons? I’ll tell you who they are, they’re a bunch of damn kids who were born between 1985 and 1987 and have therefore never been to a damn disco and wouldn’t even know what a roller rink is for frig’s sake. These geniuses have managed to write a few clever little ditties however, like: ‘Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off’ and ‘The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage.’ Brilliant. A thousand monkeys typing on type-writers for 4 billion years couldn’t come up with such bullshit. Their lyrics are equally ridiculous: ‘“What a beautiful wedding!” says a bridesmaid to a waiter. “And yes, but what a shame, the poor groom's bride is a whore.”’ Awesome. Good Charlotte is still impressive with their skillfully written lyrics: “Motivate me, I wanna get myself out of this bed.” Lofty goals boys, lofty goals. And Mario continues to swoon the ladies with his love ballads: “C'mon and braid my hair, back in my hood” and “Where did you come from, I wanna thank your Moms for bringin' you into this life, and makin’ you my type.” Wow. What depth of character. Idiots. Oh, for all you skank-a-trons out there, the Pussycat Dolls are looking for a new lead singer. Apparently lead vocalist Nicole Elikolani Prescovia Scherzinger wants to go solo. Wonderful. I cannot wait.
And finally, don’t drink the water or make out with randoms at Mount A or St.FX. The Norwalk virus has rendered hundreds of students at these campuses as useless as, well, they’ve always been kind of useless. It kind of makes up for all the snobbish uppity-bitch comments about UPEI that I’ve heard from Mt.A and St.FX jerks over the past few years, like “At least we go to a real school.” Yeah well, at least we know how to wash our hands and shower now and then. I think it was all summed up fairly well when one of my friends at Mt.A said last week: “It’s really bad because everyone’s touching everyone.” Indeed. ‘Welcome to Mount A: Everyone’s touching everyone.’ Wonderful.
Have a good one!
Liberal leadership contender Michael Ignatieff got into a bit of hot water last week when he stated that Israel had committed war crimes during the Hezbollah-Israeli war this past July. There was an uproar following these comment, prompting a former co-chair of his campaign and Liberal MP Irwin Cotler’s wife to withdraw support. Prime Minister Stephen Harper weighed in on the debate as well, accusing all the Liberal leadership candidates as being ‘anti-Israeli’ and shaming them for not standing up for the Jewish community (which is really smart, seeing as Bob Rae’s wife and kids are Jewish). Jewish groups from across the country also expressed outrage at Ignatieff’s comments. Why? First of all, we’re talking about Israel here, a nation-state, not a religion. It is an undisputable fact that during the war Israel used cluster bombs and destroyed electrical, water, and sewage plants, as well as Beirut International Airport, thus making civilian evacuation extremely difficult. Under the Geneva Conventions, these could all be considered war crimes.
Now I wouldn’t even try to suggest that Hezbollah is not responsible for war crimes, indeed as a terrorist organization, they are engaged almost exclusively in illegal activity, but this in no way exonerates Israel. The Israeli attack was responsible for the deaths of many Lebanese civilians and for the destruction of non-military infrastructure, including schools and hospitals. I don’t have a problem with people trying to dispute these facts, they certainly have that right, but I definitely have a problem with the suggestion that anyone who questions Israel is somehow anti-Israeli or anti-Semitic. It pisses me off when the popular media implies that suggesting any wrong-doing on the part of Israel is somehow taboo or racist. This is endemic of the past decade, and especially in the period since September 11th, in which our society has begun to accept the destruction of non-military infrastructure and civilian lives in foreign wars simply if we feel that the attacker has “a good reason.” That’s bullshit. The Geneva Convention was put in place for a reason; so that the rules of war would apply to everyone. A war crime is a war crime no matter who you’re fighting, what colour your skin is, or what religion you are. They are war crimes because they recklessly and needlessly endanger the lives of innocent civilians and non-combatants, and in this regard there are no ‘if,’ ‘ands,’ or ‘buts’ about it. We need to start rationally considering the laws of war, rather than using real or apprehended threats as justification for writing blank cheques to political leaders so they can wage war and wreak destruction without recourse or criticism.
On an unrelated note, if Weapons of Mass Destruction were reason enough to invade Iraq, then why the hell isn’t the US headed to North Korea? I mean, you wouldn’t even search through caves and shit, they march their WMDs right down Main Street, Pyongyang. Just a thought.
So, I got stuck in a car that had Magic 93 on the radio during the Top 9 @ 9 last week, and I am getting pretty worried about music these days. I figured I’d try to make the best out of a bad situation and give the countdown a chance, seeing as I hadn’t heard in about 5 years. So, song number three was announced, and this random song comes on about sleep and psychosis and cockroaches laying dreams in some guys brain. Of all the crap that’s out there, THIS is number 3?!? I have no idea what the name of the song is and who sings it, but holy crap it was terrible. And I mean I’ve heard some pretty bad songs on Magic over the years; Blue, Tub-thumping, Don’t Cha, Sexy Back, but for the love of everything sacred, is the whole industry going to shit?
I thought we had done pretty well making it through the bubblegum pop nonsense of the late 90s and the brief Latin craze, all but this emo-screamo-faux-urban-grunge -think-you’re-profound-because-you-talk-about-suicide bullshit is ridiculous. Who the hell are these people? And I don’t know why these bands think that if they swear and wear eye shadow and get tattoos that they’re all suddenly become legit musicians. More baffling is why the hell all the 13-year-old prostitots accept their allusions of grandeur as “good music”. Some band named ‘Dead Celebrity Status’ was recently quoted as saying: “Music is blood, blood is oxygen, breathe it in.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? Sure, we could consider music essential and metaphorically refer to it as either oxygen or blood, but using both in hopes of sounding hardcore, also renders this analogy flawed, redundant AND incredibly stupid. Of course some 13-year-old boy going through some puberty rebellion is going to be like “Shit yeah! They talk about blood, they’re awesome!” No, they’re not. They’re just dumb asses.
And who the hell are these ‘Panic! At the Disco’ morons? I’ll tell you who they are, they’re a bunch of damn kids who were born between 1985 and 1987 and have therefore never been to a damn disco and wouldn’t even know what a roller rink is for frig’s sake. These geniuses have managed to write a few clever little ditties however, like: ‘Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off’ and ‘The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage.’ Brilliant. A thousand monkeys typing on type-writers for 4 billion years couldn’t come up with such bullshit. Their lyrics are equally ridiculous: ‘“What a beautiful wedding!” says a bridesmaid to a waiter. “And yes, but what a shame, the poor groom's bride is a whore.”’ Awesome. Good Charlotte is still impressive with their skillfully written lyrics: “Motivate me, I wanna get myself out of this bed.” Lofty goals boys, lofty goals. And Mario continues to swoon the ladies with his love ballads: “C'mon and braid my hair, back in my hood” and “Where did you come from, I wanna thank your Moms for bringin' you into this life, and makin’ you my type.” Wow. What depth of character. Idiots. Oh, for all you skank-a-trons out there, the Pussycat Dolls are looking for a new lead singer. Apparently lead vocalist Nicole Elikolani Prescovia Scherzinger wants to go solo. Wonderful. I cannot wait.
And finally, don’t drink the water or make out with randoms at Mount A or St.FX. The Norwalk virus has rendered hundreds of students at these campuses as useless as, well, they’ve always been kind of useless. It kind of makes up for all the snobbish uppity-bitch comments about UPEI that I’ve heard from Mt.A and St.FX jerks over the past few years, like “At least we go to a real school.” Yeah well, at least we know how to wash our hands and shower now and then. I think it was all summed up fairly well when one of my friends at Mt.A said last week: “It’s really bad because everyone’s touching everyone.” Indeed. ‘Welcome to Mount A: Everyone’s touching everyone.’ Wonderful.
Have a good one!
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
...And now for something completely different: The Rants of a University Student (#41)
You wouldn’t normally think of a Pub Crawl as an educational experience, unless of course you’re doing research on how many juggidy-jugs you can drink before you pass-out on the floor of some random bathroom or about how much force is needed to jump through a plate glass window at the legion. The Big Ass Pub Crawl however, taught me a few things about the downtown night life that I wasn’t aware of before. See, I come from a time when downtown used to be the place to be, a time when people actually went to Myron’s. No seriously, people would actually pay to get into Moron’s, and on their own free will at that! You younger students probably think I’m crazy, but it’s the truth.
Anyways, the Kent Street I encountered the night of the Pub Crawl was much different from the one I remember. I first noticed that, a) Kent Street is pretty damn sketchy. Random fights were breaking out here and there and there were some pretty some shady characters roaming around, not to mention a few too many prostitots to be out that time of the night. Of course back in the day Kent Street saw its share of rowdiness too, as, every now and then, the crowds from Moron’s, Melon’s, and Breaker’s would converge on Kent, along with a small fleet of cabs, 10 or 12 City Police vehicles and a couple RCMP cruisers shuttling patron after patron off to Sleepy Hollow. You didn’t, however, have to fear for your life, unless, of course, you had hit on some random girlfriend of a guy hopped up on E. Need more proof that Kent is becoming increasingly ridiculous? 3 words: Myron’s Chem-Free. Sketch. b) Source Security is absolutely and utterly useless. I came out of a bar that night to see some guy getting his head bashed in, and not like a few love-taps to the face, this was hospital-trip-in-an-ambulance kind of bashed in, and all the while some Source Security guard watched on from about, oh, 6 feet away. Not 3 minutes later me and another guy had to break up two other guys in the exact same place. Now, in case you’ve never seen me before, I am not exactly what you’d call the most buff guy on campus, and though I went to school in the Crick for 9 years, I am definitely not qualified to break up two drunken idiots arguing over some bar star or cigarettes or whatever. We intervened because these two guys were about to rip each other apart, and we were slightly concerned, which is more than I can say for Mr. Shit-for-brains security dude. Finally, c) The Dining Room of Piazza Joe’s is a ridiculous place to host a dance party. Call me crazy, but a place with slippery wet floors, broken beer bottles and a massive head-bashable fountain right in the centre of the room is not the best place on earth to have a couple hundred very drunk and very stumbly students rocking out. As a side-note, girls, please start wearing more practical footwear. I know you think the heels and the hours of pain are worth it to look a little bit taller, but honestly, I don’t think you’re really fooling anyone. “Hey look Ted, Mary grew 3 inches since yesterday.” “Wow, she is so hot now.” Here’s a little test, if the shoes are so uncomfortable that you have to take them off before the end of the night to walk home barefoot, or worse, around the glass-covered dance floor then those shoes are very very stupid. Go get your money back.
The Guardian reported last week that as a result of the collapse of a 35 or so year-old overpass in Laval, Québec last week, PEI’s Department of Transportation and Public Works has sprung into action, inspecting all 4 overpasses on PEI. Yep. All 4 of them. Thankfully each structure was given the stringent “two-tier” on-site inspection. The first test is a visual test, which consists of some guy looking at the overpass and noting if there are any “sagging beams or missing parts.” Missing parts eh? “Hmmm. This one seems to be missing a 7-tonne pillar. I wonder where that got off to now?” I was told that the second part of the test is an auditory test. Yes, and auditory test on an immovable structure made of tons of concrete. Wonderful. Why the hell does The Guardian feel it necessary to make Islanders look like the biggest morons on the face of the earth. Also last week, instead of using the front page to report on actual news, like Canadians in Afghanistan or North Korea’s nuclear testing, they had a story about some poet writing a poem about this lady peeling carrots somewhere up west. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with them?
Last week the U.S. House of Representatives was advised to invest in some new Coast Guard vessels for the Arctic, prompted by reports from scientists who suggested that global warming could result in a completely ice-free Arctic passage within decades. “We must conduct surveys of our nation's extended continental shelf in order to support our claims of sovereignty.” said advisor Mead Treadwell. Does no one else see anything wrong with this? So the Americans want to exert their control and sovereignty and superiority and yeah, blah blah blah. Same old. But the North-West passage may be ice-free within a matter of decades? Um. I think we should maybe get some priorities figured out here. Instead of working to combat global warming and the catastrophic results of having the Arctic ice melting, we’re going to buy a couple boats so we can sail around up there when it’s all thawed out? Brilliant.
In other news, in response to the tens of thousands of terrorists that row across Lake Superior to get into the US every year, the US Coast Guard has begun to patrol the Great Lakes on boats with mounted .30-calibre machine guns. This would be funny if it weren’t so sad. Everyone realizes the gravity of 9-11 and its fallout, but this is a bit of an illogical over-reaction. As an old proverb puts it: “Why are you out on your lawn wildly waving your arms?” “I’m keeping away all the tigers.” “There aren’t any tigers around here.” “See how well it works!?”
Finally, I would like to apologize for my previous rant in which I criticized the extravagant spending on the redesign of Peter Pan Corner. I had stated that I thought the $3.5 million was a bit excessive, but see, I didn’t realize that by “fix Peter Pan Corner” they actually meant “rip up everything within a 5-mile radius” and “push mud around randomly for a few weeks.” My bad.
Anyways, the Kent Street I encountered the night of the Pub Crawl was much different from the one I remember. I first noticed that, a) Kent Street is pretty damn sketchy. Random fights were breaking out here and there and there were some pretty some shady characters roaming around, not to mention a few too many prostitots to be out that time of the night. Of course back in the day Kent Street saw its share of rowdiness too, as, every now and then, the crowds from Moron’s, Melon’s, and Breaker’s would converge on Kent, along with a small fleet of cabs, 10 or 12 City Police vehicles and a couple RCMP cruisers shuttling patron after patron off to Sleepy Hollow. You didn’t, however, have to fear for your life, unless, of course, you had hit on some random girlfriend of a guy hopped up on E. Need more proof that Kent is becoming increasingly ridiculous? 3 words: Myron’s Chem-Free. Sketch. b) Source Security is absolutely and utterly useless. I came out of a bar that night to see some guy getting his head bashed in, and not like a few love-taps to the face, this was hospital-trip-in-an-ambulance kind of bashed in, and all the while some Source Security guard watched on from about, oh, 6 feet away. Not 3 minutes later me and another guy had to break up two other guys in the exact same place. Now, in case you’ve never seen me before, I am not exactly what you’d call the most buff guy on campus, and though I went to school in the Crick for 9 years, I am definitely not qualified to break up two drunken idiots arguing over some bar star or cigarettes or whatever. We intervened because these two guys were about to rip each other apart, and we were slightly concerned, which is more than I can say for Mr. Shit-for-brains security dude. Finally, c) The Dining Room of Piazza Joe’s is a ridiculous place to host a dance party. Call me crazy, but a place with slippery wet floors, broken beer bottles and a massive head-bashable fountain right in the centre of the room is not the best place on earth to have a couple hundred very drunk and very stumbly students rocking out. As a side-note, girls, please start wearing more practical footwear. I know you think the heels and the hours of pain are worth it to look a little bit taller, but honestly, I don’t think you’re really fooling anyone. “Hey look Ted, Mary grew 3 inches since yesterday.” “Wow, she is so hot now.” Here’s a little test, if the shoes are so uncomfortable that you have to take them off before the end of the night to walk home barefoot, or worse, around the glass-covered dance floor then those shoes are very very stupid. Go get your money back.
The Guardian reported last week that as a result of the collapse of a 35 or so year-old overpass in Laval, Québec last week, PEI’s Department of Transportation and Public Works has sprung into action, inspecting all 4 overpasses on PEI. Yep. All 4 of them. Thankfully each structure was given the stringent “two-tier” on-site inspection. The first test is a visual test, which consists of some guy looking at the overpass and noting if there are any “sagging beams or missing parts.” Missing parts eh? “Hmmm. This one seems to be missing a 7-tonne pillar. I wonder where that got off to now?” I was told that the second part of the test is an auditory test. Yes, and auditory test on an immovable structure made of tons of concrete. Wonderful. Why the hell does The Guardian feel it necessary to make Islanders look like the biggest morons on the face of the earth. Also last week, instead of using the front page to report on actual news, like Canadians in Afghanistan or North Korea’s nuclear testing, they had a story about some poet writing a poem about this lady peeling carrots somewhere up west. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with them?
Last week the U.S. House of Representatives was advised to invest in some new Coast Guard vessels for the Arctic, prompted by reports from scientists who suggested that global warming could result in a completely ice-free Arctic passage within decades. “We must conduct surveys of our nation's extended continental shelf in order to support our claims of sovereignty.” said advisor Mead Treadwell. Does no one else see anything wrong with this? So the Americans want to exert their control and sovereignty and superiority and yeah, blah blah blah. Same old. But the North-West passage may be ice-free within a matter of decades? Um. I think we should maybe get some priorities figured out here. Instead of working to combat global warming and the catastrophic results of having the Arctic ice melting, we’re going to buy a couple boats so we can sail around up there when it’s all thawed out? Brilliant.
In other news, in response to the tens of thousands of terrorists that row across Lake Superior to get into the US every year, the US Coast Guard has begun to patrol the Great Lakes on boats with mounted .30-calibre machine guns. This would be funny if it weren’t so sad. Everyone realizes the gravity of 9-11 and its fallout, but this is a bit of an illogical over-reaction. As an old proverb puts it: “Why are you out on your lawn wildly waving your arms?” “I’m keeping away all the tigers.” “There aren’t any tigers around here.” “See how well it works!?”
Finally, I would like to apologize for my previous rant in which I criticized the extravagant spending on the redesign of Peter Pan Corner. I had stated that I thought the $3.5 million was a bit excessive, but see, I didn’t realize that by “fix Peter Pan Corner” they actually meant “rip up everything within a 5-mile radius” and “push mud around randomly for a few weeks.” My bad.
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