Sveiks, Latvija!

I am too old for hostels, I think. I spent three nights at The Naughty Squirrel and, while the hostel was great (safe, awesome location, friendly workers, good price) some of the other guests reminded me of why I would prefer to camp. I don’t need to be woken up three times in one night by drunk Scandinavians…or drunk anyone, really. But alas, when money is tight (or you’re too cheap for a hotel) hostels are a decent option – just remember to bring earplugs!

After a sojourn in the UK for data collection, I made my way to Latvia to attend a workshop my project was facilitating and at which I would be presenting a bit about my research – the facet-nating world of interproximal wear facets *jazz hands*. Sarcasm aside, I do enjoy my research (sometimes) and the presentation went well and the feedback from the other grads students there gave me warm–validating–fuzzies. But I digress, this is not a piece on academia, but rather a rambunctious romp through a thousand years of Latvian history…in three days.

Day 1: History & Horrors

I began my first day in Rīga with an Old Rīga free tour, led by a man whose family hails from eastern Latvia and is ethnically Latvian. His dry, cutting sarcasm and candid view on Latvia’s history was quite to my liking. For the near two hours we spent with him he painted an intriguing picture of Vecriga (Old Rīga ) and Latvia writ large, giving us a brief but mind-boggling overview of the country’s history. Rīga was founded in 1201, but had previously been home to the Livs/Livonians, and has since been settled/occupied by Germans of the Hanseatic League, the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, the Swedish Empire, the Russian Empire, and the Soviet Union. With this cavalcade of nations, it’s no wonder the architecture is so typically European, the history so rich and complex, and the languages spoken so diverse. Upon my arrival at Rīga International Airport I heard so much Russian I was sure I’d ended up in Moscow! Most signs were in Latvian, Russian, and English, or just Latvian and Russian. It was an odd feeling, as a Russian speaker, to use Russian before English while traveling in a non-Russian locale.

After tour A, I made my way northeast to tour B at the Corner House – the former KGB headquarters from 1940-41 and post-1944. It was in this building that ‘enemies’, ‘dissenters’, and anti-Soviets were brought under cover of darkness to be imprisoned, interrogated, and executed; few who entered this building in ’40-’41 left alive. The terror of the Soviet Occupation in Latvia had been so intense that the Nazis were seen (briefly) as liberators when they in turn occupied the country. Our guide, whose grandfather had spent time in the prison post-WWII, was engaging but stern, taking us through the facilities as though we were the dissenters. We began in the interrogation room, making our way through the tiny-as-heck prison cells, the “exercise courtyard” (four walls and a floor of concrete), and finally the execution room where bullet holes still coat the walls. Several individuals on our tour had had family perish in this very room.

If the Corner House wasn’t enough to make one feel rather unsettled, then a trip to the Occupation of Latvia Museum seals the deal. Located downtown near the House of the Black Heads, the museum is located in a modern building and details the 51 years of Soviet–then Nazi then Soviet–occupation, leaving out no unsettling, depressing, or horrific detail. I will neither confirm nor deny that I was openly crying by the end, and I was definitely not crying when I got to the small case of bullets…which had been pried out of the walls of the Corner House execution rooms. Nor when I watched the videos of a free Latvia after the fall of the Iron Curtain. Nope, no tears. While themes of occupation, persecution, and state-sponsored death are not typical topics for children, the museum is open to all, stating that “young visitors will learn about the historical events with the help of an interactive companion, Miks the Teddy Bear.” One can follow Miks’ life through the occupation in a slightly less depressing journey. In the final box one can see Miks in front of Nathan Phillips Square, Toronto, waving the flag as a proud Latvian.

Last stop of this historical tour of the horrors of humanity was the former Rīga ghetto to visit the Latvian Holocaust Museum. During WWII over 70,000 Latvian Jews were killed, their names now inscribed on a memorial wall at this “place of life”. Inside one of the buildings is an intriguing way of presenting the lives of the deceased: boxes hang from the ceiling about head height, each plastered with pictures and information about those who were killed. One such individual was Wilhelm Edelstein, who was deported from Vienna to Riga and died at Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp in 1945. After those three stops I didn’t have it in me emotionally to visit the “1991 Barricades Museum”. I grabbed some pizza, pop, and Laima chocolate, sat by the old castle, and calmed myself while watching ducks and boats float downstream on the Daugava River.

Some additional points of interest, that are much less dark, include: the Three Brothers (the oldest buildings in Riga, dating to the 15th-17th centuries), the House of the Black Heads (originally built in the 14th century, then rebuilt from the original plans after the fall of communism), the Cat House (Kaķu Nams – below), St. Peter’s Church (great panoramic views of the city), the Museum of the History of Riga and Navigation, the Swedish Gate, the Latvian War Museum, and the Art Nouveau Block.

Day 2: Beaches & Bogs

After a very good night’s sleep, I rose early to catch the ~730am train (only €2.10!) heading west to the beachtown of Jūrmala, a former Soviet spa-like villa town. At 8am the beach was deserted, with only a few dog walkers and the seagulls for company. I did some yoga just shy of the frigid waves before leisurely walking in the water along the Baltic coast. Eventually, I cut into town, making my way back to the visitor centre along beautiful wooden-cottage lined streets, passed a gorgeous Orthodox church shining in the early morning sunshine, and a bench covered in metal seagulls. Next, I caught a bus north to the Jurmala Open Air Museum, a lovely little site which showcases the lives of Latvian fishermen. It also had some 16-17th c. shipwreck fragments and the odd naval mine! After a perusal of the site (and obligatory Titanic picture on one of the boats), I grabbed a hot drink and walked through the beautiful and serene Bulduri Nature Park to the coast, where I had a picnic lunch at Lielupe Beach and watched the everchanging clouds and the odd tanker drift over the Baltic Sea.

Jūrmala beach and the Baltic Sea

‘Crow’ on the beach

Bulduri National Park

Old fisherman’s cottage

Leilupe Beach

Seagull bench

Returning by bus to the train station, I carried on a tad further west to Ķemeri, a former hot spring resort town located in Ķemeri National Park. About 3.5km south of town was my main goal for today: the Ķemeri Bog, where there is a 3.5km boardwalk trail that takes you through this raised bog. As a handy info sign told me, raised bogs are essentially “natural sponges” made up of sphagnum moss. My favourite thing I learned was “how can a tank sink in a raised bog?” – very easily, apparently, as the Soviets found out during WWII. There are still several tanks kicking around in Ķemeri bog which, as the Russian part of a sign told me but not the English, ranges from 5-15m in height! Beware of Bog I guess! (…which is a pun as ‘bog/Bog’ is the Russian word for god/God…) During my trek I made several little lizard friends, scared a snake, relaxed on a Muskoka-like chair, and poked some spongy moss.

I returned to the town, walked around to see some of the sights (and lack thereof – many of the original spa hotels and buildings have fallen into ruin), and grabbed an ice cream and juice from the shops. I caught a train back to Riga, wandered around the old town for a bit as the sun set, then returned to the Naughty Squirrel to prepare for day three…and to rest my poor feet after ~15km of walking.

Day 3: Castles & Caves

Another day, another early start. I caught the ~745am train heading east towards Sigulda, a beautiful medieval town nestled in Gauja National Park. The town was founded in 1207 by the Livonian Brothers of the Sword who built a castle on the southern edge of the river valley. This was to be my first stop on my historical hike. It was a little rainy, but cleared up as the day went on, providing some stunning clouds for backdrops across the valley. The medieval Sigulda Castle (instead of the modern Sigulda Castle cum Sigulda Regional Council) today has been partially reconstructed, allowing visitors to climb the main and north towers, and imagine how it would have been in its glory days. There is also a large section of preserved ruins for those like me who prefer their history old and falling apart (but who also enjoy running along castle walls giggling as they stare through arrow slits). The castle’s grounds are now home to an annual opera festival, and provide stunning views along the Gauja River Valley.

After castle 1, I took a cable car across the valley, which gave breathtaking views along the river as, I kid you not, Rick Astley played over the speakers. A little bit of hiking later and I found myself at castle 2: Krimulda. Built in the 14th century (and destroyed by the early 17th), Krimulda today is an open field surrounded by trees–who almost form the medieval walls–with a small portion of castle wall extant. I had a brief chat with some other tourists (joking that we’d see who made it to Turaida first – them by car or me on foot) before descending into the valley in a death-by-a-thousand-stairs situation: it was very much like being back in Edmonton.

Along the valley, I came upon Gutmanis Cave, the largest and tallest in the Baltics. The walls of the cave have been carved/inscribed by tourists since the 17th century and it made for a fun game of ‘spot the oldest graffiti’. The cave is most famous for the story of Turaidas Roze – the Rose of Turaida. Long story short, a beautiful young woman had been secretly meeting her lover at the cave, but she was sought after by another. He pretended to be her lover and summoned her to the cave. Upon seeing his deceit she tried to leave but he wouldn’t let her. In exchange for her honour she offered him a magic scarf, saying it would keep him safe from harm. He did not believe her and demanded she prove it, so she tied it around her neck and told him to strike her with his sword. Unsurprisingly, he was eventually caught, tried, and hanged for her murder. Today, newlyweds and lovers pay homage to the Rose of Turaida both here and at her burial place at Turaida Castle, castle 3.

I arrived at the third and final castle and, to my surprise, saw the tourists from before behind me at the ticket counter–I won the race! Turaida is an expansive museum reserve, housing a sculpture garden, a church, several historical buildings, and a beautiful, red brick castle, lovingly and historically-accurately reconstructed with ye olde materials. Like Sigulda Castle, Turaida was originally built in the 13th century by the Livonian Brothers of the Sword, and used thereafter by the Teutonic Order and others until its ruin in the 18th century. The main tower–which is an original one—boasts a gorgeous river valley panoramic view, along with over a hundred stairs to get there. Classic castle.

After paying my respects to the burial of the Rose of Turaida, and buying a Latvian book because it promised descriptions of the church cemetery excavations, I caught a bus back to the train station and made my way back to Rīga. There, I checked out of my hostel, rolled my bag across cobblestoned streets, and checked into my hotel in time to grab dinner with the other Baikal Archaeology Project people in town for the workshops. Adieu, fun-filled days of wandering, hello academia.

Side Stop: Rundāle

After two days of workshops, and many interesting presentations on middle Holocene hunter-gatherers from Siberia, we went on a field trip to the Latvian countryside estate of Rundāle Palace. The present day palace was built in the 17th century, but the original manor house dated to the 15th century. It was home to Ernst Johann von Biron, a favourite of Catherine the Great of Russia—and as our sassy and delightful guide Olaf intoned, a ‘favourite’ held a very special place…under her majesty (if you get his drift). The two hour tour was over in a flash and Olaf was ever the storyteller, weaving tales of political intrigue, salacious rumours, Soviet anti-capitalism, and even a diverting display of ladies’ fan language. I walked away from Rundāle with historical facts, a fond memory of teaching R. how to waltz in the grand ballroom, and the ability in ‘fan’ to tell someone across a room how big an engagement ring I want and when they can deliver it to me. A skill every modern woman should know, really!

[Research] in a time of [coronavirus]

I hope Gabriel García Márquez can forgive me for editing the title of his famous work for my own purposes.

Recently, whenever anyone asks me: “Jen, how are things in Edmonton?” the answer tends to waver between ‘alright’ and ‘meh’. I’m sure many people reading this feel the same. We’re all in the same boat in a sea of pandemic and every day is like being on those metaphorical ocean waves: sometimes it is calm, sometimes it is terrifyingly fierce, sometimes we’re caught somewhere between the peak and trough and we’re waiting for the wave to break. But humans are, and always have been, resilient in the face of adversity; we make do and, well, mend. Or make sourdough. Or ‘victory garden’. Or play pandemic. Or binge watch that new show on Netflix. As a teaching assistant leading students through hominin evolution this semester, this ‘adversity’ statement feels quite poignant.

But whenever someone follows up with: “So, how about your research?” I am engulfed in a silent but ever-so-present terror that I have spent months trying to suppress, so I smile weakly and reply, “We’re waiting to see what happens.”

My doctoral research will be based on a particular sample that is currently in two locales: still in the ground in Siberia, near Lake Baikal, and in a museum in Saint Petersburg, Russia. We’d planned a field school in Siberia for Summer 2020 and I was looking at spending Winter 2021 in St. P. The former had to be cancelled; the latter has been postponed – I don’t know until when.

My sample can’t leave the country, and I’m not allowed in.

So when I’m asked about my research, what I don’t say is that if the borders remain closed, if the university won’t let us travel, if this doesn’t mildly resolve itself by next year, if people keep ignoring provincial and federal health guideline (wear your darn tootin’ mask), my degree will be postponed indefinitely. What will I do until I can start again? No effin’ clue. It’s stressful, it’s frustrating, and to quote our prime minister, “It sucks.”

I am not the only one in this situation. Many of my cohort, as well as thousands of graduate students and professors across the country, and around the world, are in this same boat – unable to travel, abroad OR within Canada; unable to access their labs, equipment, and samples; unable to progress. Some have been able to change their research questions and continue as ‘normal’ (well done! I am jealous), others will take an extra year to complete their degree (I wish you success in getting extra funding!), and those like me are in a weirdly modern, living version of purgatory – just without Satan (unless that’s the name of your cat…).

While I don’t always feel it, these is an underlying continual stress that won’t go away, and it manifests as baking-bonanzas, troubled sleep, and irritation about simple things. When I talk to my cohort, it’s not just me ‘in purgatory’, but even those who are able to continue with their theses. Will my thesis be as good without field data? Is a literature review thesis as useful, or good enough to get into a PhD? Can I afford to take another year of school? What do I do when I’ve graduated? Will there be jobs? People don’t reply to my emails, so how can I virtually collect my data? The stressors go on.

And that’s before considering all the undergrads, for whom I have the utmost sympathy, and for whom the above questions are also applicable. I’ve done university now. Twice. So even though I complain and whine and moan, I know what to do, how to study, get work done, and live on my own. I can ‘adult’ sufficiently, though I admit I’ve had cake for breakfast…and lunch…and dinner…maybe more than once. But undergrads are new to this, even the fourth years, and online learning is not fun for anyone. How do you hold an online field-school? How do you get a job in archaeology without having done a field school? (for many, you can’t…).

I recently read a CBC article about universities pushing classes back a week, then I made the mistake of reading the comments.

RANT ALERT (proceed to “All I will say…” if you wish to avoid reading my anger.)

For every comment complaining students are lazy – no, we’re tired. Many of us live away from home, have been deprived of social contact, and are overwhelmed with pandemic life ON TOP of school and needing to keep good grades so we can get into programs, get good jobs, get bursaries and grants to live.

For every comment complaining students are entitled – maybe, but aren’t many of us entitled, O anonymous adult commentator who has good enough internet to make such a blasé comment? My co-TA and I spent the weekend fixing and paring down a lab quiz because the file size was too big, as some students don’t have decent internet access to download large files. Are they entitled, too? The ones who use public libraries because they don’t own computers or can’t afford internet?

For every comment complaining “we’d have lost the wars” if today’s students were soldiers etc. etc. – seriously? Who hurt you? I know plenty of non-student adults who leave much to be desired in soldier quality. We’re weak? Tell that to Emily or Victoria, who defended their PhD theses for 4+ hours straight. If you’re obsessed with fighting, students ‘fight’ in other ways, and student groups engage in social activism daily and have been the push in social movements for decades. Remember Greta? Pretty sure she’s a student…guess Sweden will lose that war they’re not fighting.

For every comment complaining students don’t understand that life is hard – sorry, come again? I’m thirty. I have a mortgage. I’ve lived in countries not as progressive as Canada. Tell me about how life is easy, please. Yes, everyone’s mental health is doing poorly (same with students), yes there are people who are losing their jobs or homes and struggling to get by (same with students), yes you should also have an extra week to relax and just be, yes there are people worse off than students – congratulations, you’ve won the misery gold medal. Take your stoicism and shove it.

All I will say to that is this: school, undergrad or graduate, IS a full time job, and comes with just as many responsibilities and difficult decisions as a “real job”. Stop complaining about us and petition your government officials to do something about the pandemic. We sure are.

Aaaaaaaaaaanyway. The Fall 2020 semester is coming to an end (crap, I have a lab quiz on Thursday), exams are on the horizon (wait, what? I haven’t had an exam since 2016), and Christmas is in the air (I decorated yesterday; half my ornaments are already on the floor…thanks Seabass). Next semester I’ll be writing my prospectus and preparing for my candidacy exams in the spring as I’d originally intended. And hopefully -hopefully!- I’ll be packing my rucksack to head into the field in summer, and if not, if the borders are still closed, then hopefully -hopefully!- I’ll be able to pack my suitcase for the fall. And if not…I’d rather not talk about that.

Those old war posters seem all too fitting now, “Keep calm and carry on.” Though I have a humble amendment to make: “Keep calm and carry on…and keep 2m away from me.”

…else I may have to make you part of my sample.

Sumashedshaya and other Russian words

The following is a tale in three parts, for my ‘homecoming’ trip to Siberia did indeed include three parts, only one of which I had anticipated when I’d booked my flights and gotten my visa earlier in the year. Poetically, it was ten years to the day I left my exchange to Russia (July 9^th, 2008) that I set foot again on her beautiful soil (July 9^th, 2018) and began what can only be described as a journey of sumashedshaya (crazy) proportions; the only way I know! 😉

 

Part 1: How to survive in the mountains in July

Last summer, after some rather unpleasant life-changing occurrences, I was skyping with my Rus-mom and as I told her my tale of woe, she bluntly told me “Come to Russia. We’ll go hiking. Everything will be better.” And I thought why the h-e- double hockey sticks not? All I knew upon planning my month-long adventure to Siberia was that I would be in Krasnoyarsk, my second home, and that I would be hiking in ‘Shumak’. No amount of google searching really prepared me for what this meant or even was.

Fast forward to July, and after 25 hours of travel on four flights over two days (with a brief layover in Amsterdam where I caught up with a good friend) I arrived in Kras at 5am. Shortly thereafter I was on a train to Irkutsk. After the 18-hour train we hopped on a mini bus for 6 hours followed by sitting in the back of a flatbed truck for another hour. Then finally, FINALLY, we reached the start of our journey to Shumak. What is Shumak? Allow me:

Beginning of the Shumak River

Nestled in the Eastern Saiyan Mountains, Tunkinsky National Park is near the border with Mongolia in the autonomous region of Buryatia and is the home of Shumak. Shumak is, contrary to what I thought, not a mountain but a river that begins as a waterfall within these mountains. Not only that, but it is home to a protected area of 100+ healing mineral springs and a couple geothermic radon pools. It is said that Genghis Khan once sent his emissaries to Shumak in order to bring back some of the healing waters. People come to Shumak to relax, to heal, to take in the water and the beautiful surroundings.

Russian mom Sveta and I getting our mud-glow on

We began our journey at the base camp area of Nilovoi Pustinya before hiking 70km into the site, which is located on the other side of the 2700m Shumak Mountain Pass; a roughly 2-day trip. We forged a couple mountain rivers (on the way home it has rained so heavily that the river was almost impassable!), crossed the pass (which in July was still somewhat covered in snow) and made our way along the river until we reached Shumak. Here, we found berths in one of the numerous log cabins (built by people over the centuries and free for use if there is space – otherwise you camp) and began our two weeks of healing and relaxation.

Hiking up to the Shumak Pass at 2700m

Mountain Pass selfie – those lakes are a 2hr hike away

That log cabin, nestled on the bank of the Shumak River, became my home away from home. We were 13 and until people began to leave and new people came in, we were a little Russian family. It was almost like communism I hesitate to say – we shared resources, cooked and cleaned laundry together, went on hikes and shared stories together, and for a few days the boy with the ukulele would lighten our evenings with music and singing. I got to play a harmonica and speak some English with him and it was lovely.

Our cozy cabin home – can you see it?

Modern-day communism – with a ukelele

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m not normally one for sitting around and doing nothing, but I was rather amazed by how easy it was to do so here. An average day included three rounds of walking among and drinking from the mineral waters (some for fighting cancer, some for good kidneys and bladders, I even found the fountain of youth! Now with iron!), prepping and cooking our meals on our camping stove, having a radon bath in the evening, and depending on the day doing a day hike to one of the many mountain lakes or sacred places within the Shumak river valley. Some days were spent collecting tea leaves, mushrooms (so Russian!), wild rhubarb, or vising other travellers to drink tea, sing, and share stories. It was amazing and also humbling, as I quickly became our cabin’s, and Shumak’s, ‘pet’: after a few days everyone knew about the Canadian girl and people wanted to feed me, talk to me, or take selfies with the innostranochka (foreigner) – me.

And surprisingly I wasn’t the only foreigner! While there I also met and spoke a teeny bit of German with the 5-time Olympic medallist in biathlon for Germany, Sven Fischer! We’d all heard the rumour that an Olympian was in Shumak, but as luck would have it Rus-mom and I were behind them in line at one point and upon hearing German I couldn’t help but interrupt, Sie kommen aus Deutschland? I don’t know who was more surprised! We chatted in English for a bit and the rumour was confirmed. Cool beans!

Wild rhubarb pirozhki and tea

One of my favourite memories from Shumak was the day one of the other women came back with wild rhubarb. Someone else had yeast and flour, we had fuel and a good stove. Together, the women of our cabin prepared and baked wild rhubarb pastries, pirozhki, while singing traditional songs – them in Russian, and me in English with a few Stan Rogers ballads. Later, once the pastries were ready, we grabbed the men, grabbed some tea and all sat on the riverbank picnic bench to eat and drink together. Magically, someone had vodka. Go figure! It was so lovely; when I think back on it, I feel a slight tinge in my heart that we will likely never all be together again, but all I have to do is remember the singing, the taste of the pastries, and the memory further ingrains itself on my heart.

Sem’ya (family) of cabin 21

Sunset chat time

Emerald Lake

I was sad to leave Shumak, not just because I didn’t want to hike with my pack for two days, but because it was so nice to be out of touch with reality. No news, no politics, no e-mails, just nature, healing, meeting and chatting with friendly and beautiful people, and a sense of having come home. This experience was something that I am extremely grateful for, and it was a unique opportunity born out of my youth exchange 11 years ago. From sitting on the river’s edge drinking tea and watching the sun set, to fighting mosquitoes while skinny dipping in the mountain lake, I added new experiences to my Russian repertoire and explored a new part of my home.

View back along the valley we hiked up to reach the Emerald Lake

 

Part 2: Country gal to city gal – out and about in Kras

We took the train back to Kras and were met by my Rus-dad – it’s been so long! Rus-mom and I unpacked, I saw my Rus-bro again, much tea was drunk, and we all watched a Russian movie – Viking, about tsar Ivan the First. I panicked slightly, as I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying, only to later be assuaged of my fears as many of my Russian friends couldn’t understand their accents either. Huzzah!

Красноярск (Krasnoyarsk) <3

My week in Kras was spent catching up and visiting with friends, doing the typical things I do every time I ‘go home’, and wandering about the city (i.e. taking a picture with the Lenin statue). My family has a new apartment in a completely new part of the city, so I inevitably got lost a few times taking the new bus routes but got to explore a new part of the city so that was nice. I also got to see where my Rus-mom works: SFU, Siberian Federal University, which this coming February will host the international Winter Universiade (university Olympics).

Sasha, my Russian father

Tatiana, my second Russian mom

Lyceum 11 ‘high school’ reunion

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the more memorable parts of being in Kras this time was I got to run Parkrun! Parkrun is a free timed 5-km run every Saturday morning that started in the UK and is present in 20 countries around the world. My parents and I got into it when we lived in the UK, and my mom founded the Kanata Parkrun in west Ottawa. This was Krasnoyarsk’s third Parkrun and I was their first ‘Parkrun tourist’ – a person from a different Parkrun (city or country!) It was very exciting for all parties involved and I even set their record! Well, okay, I beat their record but in turn was beat by a younger girl who set it. Her father was going crazy yelling at her to pass me – which she did with ease. I hear there are two other Parkruns in Siberia: one in Novosibirsk and one in Yakutsk; I guess I’ll being going north next time I’m in the neighbourhood 😉

Naberezhnii Parkrun, Krasnoyarsk :D

Other notable occurrences: I couldn’t go hiking in the Stolby (like Gatineau Hills) because there were bears (I don’t write the stereotypes, I just live them) but was able to hike in a different area of town with a friend; I saw an outdoor Charlie Chaplin film (The Kid), went clubbing with another friend, sat on a tank, ate ice cream in the heat while watching a boxing group practice; and oddest of all I helped a friend transport a coffee maker wedding gift on her motor bike – I was so worried I was going to become road beef but it all worked out!

Every visit I come to see this cross <3

Classic Siberia ;)

Russian ingenuity on a motorbike

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was also a speaker at my old Rotary Club’s meeting – something I’ve not done for over 10 years. Last time it was as an exchange student, but this time it was as a fellow Rotarian. It didn’t go quite as I’d planned (my target audience was not what I expected) but people were happy to listen and ask questions all about Canada.

 

Part 3: It’s not humerus – I ulna want tibia osteologist!

Model of the original town of Krasnoyarsk, founded in 1628 on the banks of the Yenisei River

Part 3 of our tale begins with my typical visit to the krayevedcheskii (regional) museum. I go, I walk around, I enjoy what has changed and what hasn’t, I found a group of foreigners and chatted with them, then I saw it – a picture of skeletons being excavated and a label telling me it was the excavations of the Voskresenskii Cemetery. I had to know: are their publications? Russian bones? Osteological analyses? Yes please!

After asking a few people, and being directed to another building, I eventually met the museum director’s executive secretary who was ecstatic to meet me. An archaeologist! From Canada! Who speaks Russian! And French! (I think I made her day – she’d spent time in Paris and only wanted to speak French). We had a long chat over tea, as is customary Russian hospitality and tradition, and she told me to come back the next day to a meeting with the lead archaeologist from the excavations and the osteologist who did the analysis of the skeletons. Holy (insert various excited expletives here)!

 

Long story short, what I understood was going to happen was not quite the same as what did happen (a common occurrence in Russia – not for my language skills but for Russian…ness), but I ended up meeting the osteologist and went with her to her lab. And lo, something occurred which made my whole year: she let me hold a skull and asked my professional opinion on an unknown pathology (disease). I HAVE ARRIVED. I AM A PROFESSIONAL! 😊 I couldn’t give her a definitive answer, as I too had no clue what it was, but she agreed with my assessment. She then proceeded to ask my opinion about some other individuals before giving me a tour of her tiny lab space and some interesting specimens that had been excavated: a textbook case of Potts disease, syphilis, broken bones, arthritis, and a fully fused spine (ankylosis) – all vertebrae and ribs were fused into one solid bone. Whoa….so cool.

As is tradition, she offered me tea and we spent some time chatting about bones, our research, the problems and corruption inherent in the system, funding woes, etc. Then, before I knew what was happening, she’d called her daughter, who is also an osteologist, and arranged for me to go north to the town of Yeniseisk to spend the weekend with her. Three days before I was due to fly home and my visa expired. Blink. Blink blink.

Raskopi (excavations) of Yeniseisk’s main street – the woman in the orange hoodie is the lead archaeologist

And so, I journeyed 350km or so north by bus to the old provincial capital of Yeniseisk, founded in 1619 on the banks of the Yenisei River by Cossacks. Zhenya (coincidentally, my Russian name) met me at the bus station and thus began my whirlwind 1.5-day visit to the town. While there I visited the local museum (which houses a fabulous display of the archaeological finds from the main street and around the various churches – including the original wooden palisade wall); saw the lab and the skeletons/artifacts the team was working on; met the lead archaeologist and had dinner with her, her husband, and their four cats (heaven!); and made a new colleague and friend.

Church renovations/restorations

Koshka (cat)!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On a professional note, it was also really cool to be able to talk to Russian archaeologists/osteologists and learn about how they work: from applying to grants and their conference presentations, to hearing about the trials and tribulations of working in the Russian system and how their legislation and laws differ or are similar to ours in Canada when it comes to protection of cultural heritage. Best of all, I was invited (if I ever have money or get a grant) to come and work and or do research with the over 3,000 skeletons in the osteologist’s collection in Kras and to collaborate on any research that would come out of it. Hmmm…can we say doctoral thesis possibility?

Old wooden fortifications, c. 1619 AD

Pawn and knight

Flintlock musket firing plate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the end, my trip to Russia was not at all what I expected but was so much more than I expected. I completed a difficult but zakhvativayushii (breathtaking, in more ways than one!) 200km hiking trip and again got to take the Trans-Siberian Railway, I reconnected with old friends and made new ones from across the country, and I made formal networking connections which may help in my future professional life. 10+ years on and my exchange is still giving back to me, one awesome opportunity at a time.

Inside my favourite church: St. Nikolai

Oh, and my Russian improved a tad. Slava bogu! (thank heavens!)

 

 

 

To find there but the road back home again

This one’s a long one, so I hope you’re ready! I spent a fantastic, albeit hot, four days with my friend in Van City. We went hiking in Squamish (ow my legs), I went walking all across the downtown and into Stanley Park (ow my legs), tried pure barre (ow my whole body), and visited a possible supervisor at a university in the city before turning my sights back east. I packed up my car – wine included shhhhhh – and left Vancouver to begin my dipsy doodling drive home. I divided my trip into shorter segments as I was heading home alone and to spend more time admiring the landscapes through which I was wandering. And, y’know, stopping wherever I could to be the history nerd I am :)

Conquering Stawamus Chief

Run Runaway

Day 14: Vancouver to Blue River Campground, BC

Distance: 583km

Nothing but driving today. Stopped off in Hope to see a railway tunnel, just missed the flooding in the regions around Kamloops, and found a nice little campsite off the highway to spend the night. It went below zero overnight.

Fraser River

Day 15: Blue River to Sunchild Reserve, AB

Distance: 534km

Chittering chatterer

Its 540am right now. I woke up at 5 much to my chagrin. I didn’t want to be up so early but when it’s chilly in the morning (almost a touch of frost!) and you had a cup of tea before bed it’s hard to stay in bed, but at least I was up before the sun! I got my stove out, made my tea, and I’m sitting here enjoying my hot cuppa as I watch the sun slowly begin to paint the mountains on either side of me with only the sound of birds, the odd car or truck on the highway, and in the distance the roaring of the river. Luckily this early in the morning the mosquitoes aren’t up so that’s a bonus! I had a chittering fight with an uppity red squirrel before packing up my gear and hitting the road for Alberta.

I drove down the Glaciers Parkway, aptly named for the multitude of glaciers that grace the mountains lining the road. There was still an abundance of tourists for early May but I got lucky in missing many of the tour busses as they went to Athabasca or beyond. Saw my sheep, made my way down the mountains and to the lovely old town of Nordegg, AB. There I found a swing set and swung myself contentedly while waiting for my friend – and my room for the night – to finish work on the Sunchild Reserve 202. A former roommate of mine, we’d not seen each other since grad in 2013, so it was a marvelous reunion with many a chick flick, good food, and a rainbow to finish.

Athabasca Glacier

Day 16: Sunchild to Edmonton

Distance: 290km

A short day today for two reasons: firstly, I has going to Edmonton to stay with family for a few days, and secondly, I wanted time to visit Rocky Mountain House N.H.S. But before that I treated my car to a lovely carwash and window shine. She deserved it!

Rocky Mountain House is a beautiful mix of history, culture, and nature. Calm. Peaceful. A delight. The site extends north and southward along the North Saskatchewan River and while it was not yet open (i.e. no guides, interpreters, bathrooms…) the walking trails and ruins are still available for visitors to peruse and peruse I did!  It is home to, among other things, a small graveyard with twelve individuals who were dug up when a factory was put in upstream, the ruins of the first Northwest Trading Company’s trading post (rival company to the Hudson’s Bay Company), and a couple of bright red Muskoka chairs. Yes, I did sit.

The old Northwest Company trading fort

I arrived in Edmonton to spend a few days with my aunt and uncle and to catch up on some route planning while I had internet. I saw a coyote in their backyard, saw a play, had dinner with my cousin, went to the little botanical garden when I bought some succulents (which made it back to Ontario safe and sound!), and learned about what dialysis is and how it works.

 

[Prairie] of no cares

 Day 18: Edmonton to the Battlefords, SK

Distance: 389km

Easter selfie!

My first stop after leaving Edmonton was to see the giant pysanka in Vegreville – the largest pysanka in the world – where I paid homage to my aunt’s Ukrainian roots (and my non-existent Slavic ones, too) before heading to the Battlefords. I took some back roads to see the site of a famous battle from the rebellion era of Louis Riel before turning south to my evening campsite. I didn’t know when I left Alberta for Saskatchewan as the landscape never changed and I must have missed the sign telling me I’d changed provinces.

Battleford used to be the home of the Northwest Territories government buildings in the early days of Confederation – circa 1880. While visiting these ruins I cut myself on a piece of old window pane glass from the original building. It was almost as if the site was upset that I had climbed the steps to nowhere…The original building stood on that site and had many uses over its life (government affairs, church building, residential school, normal school, then empty) until 2003 when it was burnt down by vandals. Only the foundations, the half staircase, and a tall smoke tower remain.

The staircase to nowhere of the old government buildings

Prairie spring colours

I had hoped to visit Fort Battleford N.H.S. but like all other national historic sites and provincial parks it was not to open before the May long weekend – alas! I had to amuse myself by walking around the outside of the palisade and peering inside to see the buildings. In the rain. With my mug of tea. At least it wasn’t snowing!

There be crazy people in Saskatchewan!

Day 19: Battleford to Yorkton, SK (via Wanuskewin)

Distance: 484km

What does Wanuskewin mean…to you? quotes the welcome video at this Indigenous Heritage Park north of Saskatoon. Wanuskewin has been a gathering place for Indigenous peoples for thousands of years and boasts a beautiful park sprawling across former buffalo hunting grounds. The trails were lovely to walk, I saw many birds and a beautiful view of the Saskatchewan River, and best of all for me: the medicine wheel.

Medicine wheel

I raced the sun to Yorkton where I set up my tent and planned my coming days.

 

Day 20: Yorkton to Stephenfield Provincial Park, MB

Distance: 432km

I had lunch on the shore of Lake Audy in Riding Mountain National Park, Manitoba. There was nothing but the sound of birds taking flight, seagulls squawking, and the ice floe slowly making its way along the shore before being arrested in its journey by another ice floe. The crackling sound it made as it was subducted by the other ice was pleasant to the ears, and in the wake of this icy fault line a little icy mountain range was born. I dipped my feet in for a bit and brrrr! Cold.

Ice ice baby!

My first black bear!

Oh! I also saw my first ever bear (in the wild)! A small black bear on the side of the road.

I spent a few hours in Portage la Prairie (I’m sure I’d heard its name on the CBC before driving through) and bought the cheapest gas I’d seen across the whole country: a mere $1.17/L! Sweet sweet oil mana from heaven! I then turned south and found my campsite at Stephenfield Provincial Park, Manitoba. Finally! A real campsite – not one of the many RV campsites I’d stayed at (again, this one a rare park that was open). I bought myself some ice cream, walked around the site, swam in the lake in my underwear, and had a relaxing evening reading and watching the sunset.

Happy camper

Day 21: Stephenfield to Winnipeg

Distance: 110km

Beware Sacha: I’ve met your sister. And we get on like a house on fire 😉

Canadian Museum of Human Rights (also a story of human wrongs…)

Arrived in Winnipeg early and spent the morning wandering around the Forks – where the Assiniboine and Red Rivers meet and traditional gathering place – and visiting the Canadian Museum of Human Rights. It’s a beautiful museum, if not a bit eccentric in its layout! The ramps made me feel like I was at Hogwarts. I tried not to cry at some of the stories I read on the walls – stories of people displaced from their homes (in Canada and abroad), or those seeking shelter from war, famine, persecution. Interestingly, I enjoyed the response the museum took to images and boards they had of Aung San Suu Kyi, leader of Myanmar – instead of removing her completely from view, they dimmed lights and had a notice about the current situation and asked the audience to think critically about it. Why do they feel what they feel? Do they think she deserves to be there yes or no? Instead of hiding the bad, they ask you to consider why it is or isn’t and to decide for yourself. An interesting take given the current climate of removing things with which we disagree.

I met my friend, we did silly Winnipeg things, played Resistance with some of her friends, and enjoyed the company of someone as mad as ourself! :P

 

French Perfume

 Day 22: Winnipeg to Kakabeka Falls, ON

Distance: 674km

What to say about this leg? It was long. There is very little between Winnipeg and Kenora. It’s flat. Flat flat flat. I set up my tent and dropped into bed as soon as I arrived.

 

Day 23: Kakabeka to Hearst (via Fort William)

Distance: 557

Dr. McLaughlin’s pharmacy – you’ll be begging for mercy!

This poor ‘trapper’ and her guide

I arose early to make my way to Fort William – a National Historic Site outside Thunder Bay. It was a semi-private tour and we were led around the site by Dr. McLaughlin himself – medical doctor to the fort. It is 1816, and he believed me to be a trapper what with the cat ears on my hat; it was cold that morning, but the sun was ablaze and kept us warm. I learned among other things that the Anishinaabe cover their wigwam with birch bark as for them the birch is the tree of life, whereas the Cree used buffalo hides to cover their lodgings as the buffalo is their spirit of life. I also learned the following fun word: Kaministiquia, or ‘river of many brush covered islands’ in Anishinaabe, the local name for the river on which the fort resides. Dr. McLaughlin showed us his medicinal wears (including an enema device – quite sophisticated for the time!), showed us the wares and goods available for sale and trade (pelts from every Canadian animal imaginable – yes I pet them all), and indulged my chat to him about the fort’s use of first person interpretation.

I hadn’t realized that Highway 11 takes you into the hinterland of les Fronco-Ontariens. I’d earlier booked my campsite in Quebec on the phone and was pleased with my ability to do it a-okay en français. I was doubly pleased to arrive at Les Veilleus Campground and Marina north of Hearst to a fully francophone office, signage, and owners. Had a lovely chat with them, all en français, and was over the moon when he said my French was very good (it’s not “very” good but I’ll take it!). Maybe he was just being nice to the girl of anglophone parents who was going to be sleeping in a tent in this frigid weather (possible flurries that evening!) Whatever the reason, I was happy.

Barren but beautiful Northern Ontario – Hwy 11

Oh, I also only just stopped in time to avoid hitting a black bear as it bumbled across the road in front of my car. I was simultaneously terrified and in awe. Two bears in two provinces! Now I just need to see a moose and my Canadian animal bingo card is full!

I can hear loons calling across the lake…

 

Day 24: Hearst to Rouyn-Noranda, QC

Error 101: English language not found

Distance: 465km

And so I finished my traverse of northern Ontario and made my way into the land of separatists – er, I mean la belle province, Quebec! I made few stops due to the rain but enjoyed my first and only campfire of the trip. Until Quebec all provinces I’d been in had had fire bans so I indulged in some s’mores (bought up in Iroquois Falls, ON) and hot chocolate, and enjoyed an evening of reading and burning my dad’s old newspapers.

 

Oh! I also stopped in to Kapuskasing ( I had a friend in my undergrad from here!) and the small town where my high school cross country coach’s wife is from: Smooth Rock Falls. I stopped there, too, and tried to push a train because why not. Shout out to Mr. S!

Strong like cross country runner!

 

It’s the end of [my trip] as we know it…and I feel fine

 Day 25: Rouyn-Noranda to Ottawa, ON

Distance: 540km

I awoke on my final day debating if I wanted to head north a bit to Chibougamau, but after spilling my tea and the last dregs of my water I gave up. No tea = no trip! I must get home today! :P I drove through Rouyn-Noranda, Val d’Or, came south through Parc de la Verandrye (where I stopped to do a couple short trails), Maniwaki, and then Gatineau and Ottawa at last.

Pont Savoyard

Part of this leg was special, not just because I finally got home, but because I found a beautiful covered bridge. My grandfather was a big fan of covered bridges, and had quite the collection of ones he’d visited. Where I grew up, in NB, we have the longest covered bridge in the world. The Pont Savoyard, located in Grand-Remous, is a beautiful bridge spanning a particularly treacherous Grand-Remous rapids – which include a massive 2-3m high water bump (for lack of proper terminology).

And I would drive 100,000 km…

My odometer rolled over to 100,000 km during this leg and I knew my long journey was finally at an end. I made it home, gave my car a big loving hug, and tried not to begin planning my next car journey: north to Chibougamau and beyond. How far can one drive north in Quebec before the roads end? Stay tuned…!

And for those, like me, who love maps…feast your eyes!

My full route – 10,000+ km. While Google Maps says my route was 9,402 km it would only let me put in so many stops. And I got lost a few times…okay, multiple times. Shhhhh.

Ottawa to Vancouver

Vancouver to Ottawa

The Mileage Clicking West

I have a confession to make. Saskatchewan isn’t flat flat flat. It’s just flat flat. Generations of Canadians who have crossed the prairies have lied to subsequent generations, perpetuating the lie of the flat-as-a-table province. It had rolling hills at one point! However, it feels so flat due to the noticeable lack of trees. While the Prairie Provinces are the breadbasket of Canada, with fields and fields of golden wheat stretching to the horizon in growing season, they are barren of much else taller that 3ft. Phew! I feel better having lifted that from my shoulders. The furthest I got playing the “how far to the horizon game” was 11km.

Thar be hills!

Do you know how to tell the difference between Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and eastern Alberta? Trick question: they look identical. If it hadn’t been for the blue flag we’d have missed crossing into Alberta… AND we played the ‘horizon game’ west of Medicine Hat and got to 17km or so… (note: yes, I am aware this is not 100% accurate, there are indeed differences between them). But still! I also saw sheep and a prairie dog, so all is forgiven.

 

An Idiot I Suppose

Day 5: Regina to Airdrie

Distance: 778km

Albertans like trucks. There are many trucks in this province. Some trucks are so tall that I dare say you could drive a convertible underneath one. How do they reach the drive-thru windows? Are they able to clear snow off their roofs in the winter? How can they afford to fill up? And does everyone get a free truck when they move to Alberta, does that explain it? Nope. If that were true I guess we wouldn’t be ‘idiots’ from the Maritimes, would we?

Along this section of the Trans-Canada we played the ‘horizon game’, counted train cars (Dad counted 117 on one, if I remember correctly), and ate snacks while driving driving driving towards an endless horizon of field and sky, punctuated by little oil rigs (or are they pumps? The odd uppy-downy things that pump oil…) We could tell we were nearing Calgary as lo! tall buildings appeared on the horizon as if by magic. This city rose before us before sinking behind us again as we drove north to Airdrie to stay with my brother and sister-in-law for the weekend.

This included, but was not limited to: hiking, scrambling, hunting a rockfall through knee-deep snow, sheep, learning about how to spot avalanches, hearing the crack of said avalanches (on the other side of our mountain – phew!), a STAR helicopter (someone had fallen from a mountain…), and finally watching the fantastic anime movie ‘Your Name’ (Kimi no na wa).

Oh! And snakes. I learned how to accessorize with a chill grass python, watch a banana python hunt its prey, and feed a carpet python. Sneks are great – Manasa likes me! 😊

View from the rock slide

 

Northwest Passage

Day 8: Airdrie to Kelowna

Distance: 625km

And through the night, behind the wheel/The mileage clicking west/I think upon Mackenzie/David Thompson and the rest/ Who cracked the mountain ramparts/And did show a path for me/To race the roaring Fraser to the sea.

Or to the Okanagan…similar idea, different destination. We crossed into BC and gas went up almost 15-20c a litre (I’m longing for the Northern Ontario prices now) and the time went back an hour.

Far over the misty mountains cold…

Foggy and drizzly mountains made for an epic ascent and decent through the Kicking Horse Pass in the Rockies and the Rogers Pass in Glacier National Park, with mountains popping up in front of you as if out of nowhere as the road followed the curves and edges of the rock face. Sometimes most literally. I almost felt claustrophobic as the valleys opened up then disappeared, as if swallowed by the mountains,winding our way down through the passes, ears popping as we rolled along, the odometer rolling over the 95,000km mark (I started the trip at 91,000km)

 

 

 

 

A cracked mountain rampart?

We eventually left the gargantuan mountains for smaller, albeit still massive, ones, before they slowly gave way to the Okanagan Valley. Think Niagara Peninsula, but for BC – this is wine country! This is why Dad tagged along! This is why my car is laden with wine! Don’t tell Ms. Notley. While I’m not a fan of wine, I was a big fan of the views the wineries provided us. He taste tested Cabernet Sauvignons, Pinot Noirs, Rieslings; I scampered about taking oodles of pictures, keeping an eye out for Ogopogo in the lake below 😊 I also saw wild quail, but not at Quail’s Gate Winery as you would have expected, but at Mission Hill Estate Winery. I won’t wine about that!

 

 

A Mari Usque Ad Mare

Day 9: Kelowna to Vancouver

Distance: 461

And now we raced the Fraser to the sea. Leaving the Okanagan Valley – but not before stopping at a few more wineries, such as Blasted Church with its delightfully named wines (OMG, Bible Thumper, Big Bang Theory…) – we wove out way out of the mountain and along flatter parts. We passed Chilliwack, Abbotsford, Langley, before finally arriving at our final destination: Vancouver. We’ve arrived! And both intact; no one was pushed off a mountain, no one was left behind on the Prairies. Success.

Do you see Ogopogo?

After a lovely dinner with my cousin and his lovely lady, I dropped Dad off at the airport and made my way to a friend’s apartment – my abode for the next four days. Time to recuperate, relax, see the city, hike a mountain, and plan the road back home again.

Huzzah! 4,600km later!

Finally, after many years and trips to the Canadian east [Atlantic ] coast, I have made it to the Canadian west [Pacific] coast. I’ve been to the Pacific coast twice before, in Russia and in Peru, but never in my home country. Now all that’s left to do is head up north – thank heavens they have put in that road from Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk cause one day I’m going to drive it. Time to ad an extra ‘mare’ to our motto: ‘A mari usque ad mare usque ad mare’

Canada’s Really Big!

Three centuries thereafter I take passage over land/In the footsteps of great Kelso/Where his “sea of flowers” began/Watching cities rise before me/Then behind me sink again/This tardiest explorer/Driving hard across the plain – Stan Rogers, Northwest Passage

While this song is about the search for and discovery of the Northwest Passage, it is a song that transcends Canadian history, the millennia of people who have come into this great nation and forged their paths across the myriad of landscapes that make up the true North strong and free. I now consider myself one of these ‘adventurers’ as I take my own passage overland, watching those cities rise and sink in my rear view mirror…

For those who may not know, I am currently on route to the west coast on my great cross-country journey. I want to call it my ‘Cross Country Check-up’ but I shan’t as I don’t want to be sued by the CBC for copyright infringement. Alas! My father is joining me on the way out (we’ll see how long it will take before one of us pushes the other off a mountain – but hey! That would mean we made it as far as the Rockies…), then I shall be driving solo on the way home and dipsy-doodling my way across our great nation.

Why you may ask? Presently, I am between jobs (and thus have time time time), have a car, and have some income squirrelled away. I have always wanted to drive across Canada; I have done the East Coast to Ottawa trip many times (having grown up in New Brunswick) but I have never driven further west than Sudbury. So! Since never in my life have these three things come together, and I don’t suspect they will in the near future, the decision was made, the planning undertaken, and here we are typing this first missive somewhere in N. Ontario along Highway 17/in Regina.

And, to allow the home-folks to join in on the fun of this 9,157km trip give or take a few hundred clicks, almost each little entry has a particular song title or lyric attached to it. I shall leave it to you to figure out the singer 😉 For those of you who know my love of certain Canadian singers and bands, you shouldn’t at all be surprised by the selections!

Without further ado…

 

As we roll[ed] North to The Sault…

Day 1: Ottawa to Sault Ste. Marie

Distance: 802km

And so, the great west coast journey began. Weather: sunny. Temperature: warm and spring-like. By the afternoon I was roasting in my car with the AC on. Who knew Northern Ontario would get so hot…the mounds of snow in the fields and the ice-covered lakes wouldn’t ever give one the impression that spring has indeed arrived to Ontario. Will wonders never cease!

The main things of note were: the detour we had to take through the tiny town of Bonfield (which has a hockey rink with a roof but no walls), the price of gas slowly going up and up, and views over Lake Huron that would make you move to the Soo in a heartbeat.

 

 

Rocks and Trees and Trees and Rocks and…Water!

Day 2: Sault Ste. Marie to Thunder Bay

Distance: 692km

Gas prices keep going up. I can’t decide if it’s because a) rationally, we’re further away from the supply so it does cost more to transport, or b) irrationally, the gas stations are in cahoots to make me spend all my money before I leave the province. I’m leaning towards the latter, but I’m just bitter that it’s so much more expensive here than in other parts. Alack!

We left behind Lake Huron in exchange for Lake Superior, and equally beautiful and mystifying lake that is the reason it takes so bloody long to leave Ontario. 692km and we hugged the north shore of the lake pretty much the entire way. As the crow flies it’s much shorter.

It was warm today too, but cooler towards the evening, and the weather channels are calling for temperatures below zero overnight and possible flurries. Curse this never-ending winter! 😉 We drove through passes cut through the Canadian Shield, up and down valleys with plunging slopes into the lake, and views that were absolutely stunning – I can’t fathom how anyone finds this drive boring! I guess when you’re stuck behind a truck it’s infuriating, true, but when there’s nothing but you for kilometres ahead and behind, with nothing but the rocks and trees and water…it’s breathtaking.

Most importantly, I have finally completed my silly dream of going to Wawa. What is so interesting about Wawa? The GOOSE! The world’s largest goose statue! From the time you pass North Bay along Highway 17 there are signs: 700km to Wawa! 600km to Wawa! A mere 450km to Wawa! I can hardly contain my excitement. As a teen my mom and I made the drive to visit Sudbury and joked that we had to go to Wawa, especially as it is signposted for ages. Wawa is home to the goose. And it is a mighty fine goose indeed <3

But wait, there’s more! The infamous bridge over the Nipigon River! It’s still not completely fixed! (for those who don’t know, when it collapsed in 2016 due to design failure there was no way to go from east to west or vice versa by road without entering the US. Highway 11 and Highway 17 meet before the bridge and split again after the bridge. It is the only road. Crazy.)

Lastly, we passed by the point where Terry Fox unfortunately had to end his Marathon of Hope, and near to this final point there is a beautiful monument to him overlooking Lake Superior. A good end to a good day of driving.

 

 

 

The 100^th Meridian

Day 3: Thunder Bay to Winnipeg

Distance: 692km

You can tell when we left Ontario as the ground went flat almost instantly once we crossed the border into Manitoba. New province, new time zone, new views – omg so flat. Mentioned this to our host in Winnipeg and she confirmed: Yes, Manitoba is flat. This must be why Kenora was added to Ontario instead of being in Manitoba! 😊

If you find yourself leaving Thunder Bay (a conglomeration of several municipalities in 1970, including Port Arthur and Fort William), take the Trans-Canada and stop in at Kakabeka Falls. I had first heard about this little place in a book I read in grade 8 – “B for Buster” (one of the pilots is from from Kakabeka…), and as the name suggests it is near some waterfalls. They are lovely. Smaller than Niagara, of course, but equally majestic in their water flow and surroundings. There’s a nice lookout and some hiking trails I hope to catch on my way home.

We arrived in Winnipeg, had a lovely dinner (thank you Laura!!) then went for a short walk along the Seine – I tried not to hum ABBA to myself as we strolled – before chatting until bed. I also got to cuddle with Peaches, a delightfully fluffy rabbit

 

 

 

 

 

The Last Saskatchewan Pirate

Day 4: Winnipeg to Regina

Distance: 575km

There are two things you need to know about Saskatchewan. 1. It does not observe Daylight Saving Time, and for that it had my utmost respect. DST was brought in during the war and was only meant to be a war-time measure. And yet here we are decades later still struggling to adjust to that darned one-hour time change twice a year. Saskatchewan has it right – let’s ditch DST.

2. Saskatchewan is flat. Maybe not yet quite as flat as I’ve been led my whole life to believe, but my word it is flat. Flat flat flat. So much field, so much horizon, so much sky. And realistically, for this it is equally as stunning as the rocks and trees of Northern Ontario. The sky is big. SO big. If you think you’ve seen sky, well, sorry to tell you, you haven’t; Saskatchewan has all the sky. And it’s amazing – despite the land being hues of yellowy-brown and the sky being hues of blue (with the odd cloud), it’s a beautiful dichromatic landscape that just begs to be photographed.

In Regina we visited the Depot – the training site for anyone who has ever been a member of the RCMP. It’s a well-balanced history (good and bad, though less of the latter…) with some fun dress-up opportunities and some riding/driving simulators. And a small room with a ‘Solve the murder! Be a forensic expert!’ I’ve got a degree in this, yes, my father and I solved it 😉

 

Next stop, Airdrie, AB!

Десять лет назад

Ten years ago, today…

…I packed up two suitcases (remember when you could take two checked bags on a plane for free?), said my farewells to my family and friends, put on a can-only-be-Canadian-red blazer, and flew half way around the world – literally – to spend a year living in Siberia, Russia.

Was I having a bout of insanity? Were my parents sending me to the Gulag for misbehaviour? Did the government send me to spy à la Cold War? No, nothing of the sort. At just shy of 17, I chose to go to Russia to live for a year. (How?! I hear you cry).  I went on a Rotary International Youth Exchange, a program run by the Rotary organization, that sends high school aged kids from country to country on both short- and long-term exchanges.

I’ve spent the past week or so trying to decide how to write this piece. Reflections on the year? Discussion of Rotary and the program and how awesome it is? Just pictures (they’re a thousand words a piece!)? I decided, as you will soon see if you are still with me dear reader, to plagiarize myself. That is, I have taken bits and pieces out of an essay I wrote for my Grade 12 Writer’s Craft class titled, “The benefits of living a year in the middle of nowhere”. And now, without further stalin’…!

Early autumn morning on the way to school.

Most people know major cities, like Paris or Rome. I’d even go the length and say most have heard of Munich, Osaka, Los Angeles, or Vancouver. Now, if I were to ask you to find ‘Krasnoyarsk’ on a map, could you? (Here’s a hint: it’s in Russia). I bet even hard-core geography lovers would be in a bit of a pickle to pick up this almost million-person city in Russia. So where is Krasnoyarsk, anyway? Well, the middle of nowhere is a pretty good description.

North bank of the river Yenisei, which flows through Krasnoyarsk north to the Arctic

Located in the heart of Siberia, Krasnoyarsk is nestled between the river Yenisei and the Stolby taiga nature reserve, north of where Kazakhstan meets Mongolia. A major station on the Trans-Siberian railroad, Krasnoyarsk is between Novosibirsk and Irkutsk, a gem amidst the ever-changing landscape of Siberia. How exactly do I know this? Well, [ten] years ago I was given the enormous chance of going, by way of Rotary Youth Exchange, to Krasnoyarsk to live for a year.

So there I was, on the plane going to Moscow, making my way to a place I’d never seen pictures of, never heard of before, and knew almost none of the language. Makes you wonder, why Russia then? When I was given the chance to live almost anywhere for a year, I really wanted to do something different. Everybody goes to Europe [kudos to them – Europe is awesome!]. I wanted a challenge, a place hardly anyone had gone to before, and Russia was that place. The Russian language also uses a completely different alphabet, Cyrillic, and I wanted to be able to read it and write things so no one else could read them. For example, Вы сможете это читать? Learning Russian is one of the hardest things I’ve done.

Hardly anyone I knew there could speak English, and I was forced to learn the language to be able to live normally, to take a bus, go to the store, and get schoolwork done, instead of just standing and looking like a stupid foreigner (which at the beginning I was). On the journey over, I had a most unpleasant time in the Moscow airport, one that, for a moment, made me seriously reconsider my choice of country. How can the country’s main international airport have only three people who speak any sort of English? Even getting into Kras (as I affectionately call her) was a little oppressing at first: grey streets, grey skies, grey everything greeted me, and I wondered yet again, why did I come here? Although perhaps in was the fact that it was five in the morning and I’d already been travelling for two days without sleep. Maybe.

My Russian family <3

My host family, whose daughter was going to the U.S. on exchange, was absolutely amazing. I hardly ever felt awkward with them, and my host mom (shout out Светлане <3), treated me just like her own child after the first few weeks. Usually you live with three to four families a year, but I had the luck of staying with one and I couldn’t have been happier. Before she left on her exchange, my host sister showed me all around Kras, and I fell in love with the city: the churches, the river, the architecture (albeit Soviet and dull), the Stolby – everything! I felt like I was exploring a new side not only of the world, but also of myself. What reactions would I have? What experiences would I get to try? What new culture was ready to embrace me?

The main question I got upon my return to Canada a year later was what did I actually do in Kras? When people ask me this I really don’t know what to say other than ‘I lived’. Had a family, went to school, made friends, explored, did athletics, learned Russian, not that different from any year in Canada for me. The main differences were, obviously, that I learned Russian [and can still speak it quite fluently, though it’s gotten worse – oops], I was able to travel across the whole country (from Moscow to Vladivostok, from Lake Baikal to Yakutsk), spent four days on a train, met many new people and other exchange students, jumped off a bridge, and much, much more.

Four days on the Trans-Siberian. Thank heavens for Lonely Planet’s amazing guidebook!

Winter silliness reminiscent of V. I. Surikov’s painting “Taking the snow fortress by storm” (1891)

I just jumped off a bridge…still alive!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living in Russia forced me to grow up a little faster than normal. It allowed me to become fully independent and gave me freedom within rules (actually, Russia has very few rules, but you didn’t hear that from me. The rules are mainly ‘guidelines’ on how you should comport yourself). I was able to become a more open person while being true to myself through opportunities that took me out of my comfort zone on more than one occasion. For example, I used to get very nervous singing in front of people; however, when the Russians found out I could sing well they at once told me I’d sing in concerts. Again, and again, and again… Similarly, before Russia had I been asked to do a presentation, even just a school one, I would have not been able to do it. I used to get scared, shake, and become really nervous. Now people have to tell me to stop talking and I always go over my time limit! On these occasions, did I have much of a choice in what I was asked to do? Well, yes, but I was always mindful of how that would reflect on Canada, as I was a ‘little ambassador’ for our country, and for many of the people I met during my exchange I was the only foreigner they’d ever seen, let alone Canadian.

The orthodox church by my apartment. Loved this little guy <3

I also learned the culture of ‘the Motherland’ and became a part of it, making relationships that will last for a long time to come with people I’d have otherwise not met. The skills and new things I learned are worth much more than the money I spent to get there. By living in the ‘middle of nowhere’ I was able to get away from the stereotypical Russia and the hustle and bustle of the more industrial and touristy areas of the country and experienced the real Russia – the one you hardly ever see: falling down dachas (cottages), beautifully decorated Orthodox churches, the man on his way home from shopping in the next village over, cows blocking the road for at least ten minutes, the drunks sleeping in the stairwell almost stopping you from getting to school, squishing onto an obviously over-crowded bus to get to the island with the stadium…Siberia is real. There is no front to it all; what you see is what it really is – no tourist traps, no forgeries, and no over-zealous people trying to snag your money. I gained peace of mind from the simplicity of the Russian people and their surroundings and, being in the middle, was given many opportunities to travel with others or by myself into the vast, beauteous landscape of Siberia.

Siberian conqueror looking out over the vast expanse of the Stolby

All in all, my year in Kras was worth far more than money could ever buy. It was everything I’d though and then some. I learned, cried, got mad, celebrated both Canadian and Russian holidays, immersed myself in the rich culture of the hospitable Russian people. Learned a language, made new friends, saw new things, and you know what? Europe can wait. I’d sooner return to my ‘second’ home.

I was told once that “Once you’ve been to Siberia, you can’t not return.” They were right. I’ll undoubtedly go back [indeed, I returned to Kras for New Years and Christmas of 2011/2012].

Who’d have thought the middle of nowhere could be so wonderful?

Preparing to return to Canada, July 2008

Russian reflections – the cupolas atop the cathedral in Chita.

Meanwhile in Russia…your host father goes fishing, so you can’t bathe for a few days.

Cold in Siberia? Nyet! (it was only -40C/-40F)

…

Lyceum 11, my school for the year

Further pictures from my exchange can be seen on Facebook, here: https://www.facebook.com/jenipher.laughton/media_set?set=a.10150619401995626.681019.528200625&type=3

Or from my return visit 5 years after, here:

https://www.facebook.com/jenipher.laughton/media_set?set=a.10151155191620626.793241.528200625&type=3

Or if you just want pictures of Lenin statues…:

https://www.facebook.com/jenipher.laughton/media_set?set=a.68504005625.150189.528200625&type=3

Russian translation (hopefully!) to follow as soon as possible :)

 

From Castle to Castle

…to convent, church, and cave.

At 25 years old I have become my father (for whom I would have bought this magnet had it not cost an arm and a first-born child; I wouldn’t mind paying the first-born child, but I quite like my arm): I plan my travels based on castles, and other various old historic buildings. Not that that’s a bad thing really, as man have I seen a lot and I’m loving every minute of it! Plus, the views from these places… it’s enough to break your heart and steal your breath away.

When we left off three weeks ago I was worrying over my research project. Thankfully, I have a question now (woot!) but it still took a long while to get there. Namely those three weeks. Especially since my items to be recorded and studied dropped from 15 to around 10, then went up to 20 and a bit, and has now settled around 18 individuals. Easy right? Not quite. Two still don’t exist in pictures or the excavation logs, one is merely a foot (and some other bits), and one might not even be from my time period. I feel my dissertation should just be sorting out who is from the Hospital and who isn’t!

Enough of that, though, and onto the castles! The weekend after my trip out to Évora I took the train from Lisbon out to the absolutely stunning UNESCO heritage town of Sintra, the playing ground of Portugal’s former royalty. And why not flounce around here as a royal? Situated close to the coast, Sintra is nestle in three main built-up areas at the foot of a big mountain with fresh air, beautiful vistas, and the stunning remains of my favourite place in Portugal: the Castelo dos Mouros. Built in the 9^th century AD by the Moors, the castle was only taken in 1147 during the reconquest of Portugal from the Moors, led by Afonso Henriques, the to-be king of ‘Portucale’.

While you might now be thinking ‘okay, it’s a castle Jen, I’ve seen many/some/pictures of/no castles – why is this special?’ To which I merely respond with the following picture:

Castelo dos Mouros

Yeah. Imagine taking THAT fortress. The path I took from downtown Sintra up to the entrance of the castle was about 1.3km of winding, steep mountainside, with an elevation gain of roughly 420m. I found it hard to progress at a few points, so image climbing to those peaks in full armour… The weather also aided in making this place amazing, in that between bouts of sun and drizzle the fog rolled in over the mountain and the castle’s walls – very haunting and beautiful. Once inside (finally!) the child in me spent the next hour gallivanting along the old walls and loving the fact that there were no barriers; I was trusted to not kill myself. It’s refreshing in our nanny-states of today. The views from both of the towered-peaks of the castle were as breathtaking as the walk up (literally and figuratively!), from the Atlantic all the way to Lisbon visible and stretched out before you. Zakhvativayuwschii. The cistern, reputed to have never run dry, is also a cool (pun!) place to sit with traditional Medieval music playing.

Surviving the climb up to the top tower of the castle.

The nave of the 14th century Convento do Carmo (roofless since 1755)

Back in Lisbon, this revelry (or nerdiness) in the historical continued as I finally made it to the Convento do Carmo; third time’s the charm! This convent was built in the 14^th century in honour of the Portuguese victory at the battle of Aljubarrota (1385) in the ‘War of the Two Johns’. Here, the military and strategic cunning of Nuno Alvares Pereira and his small (6,000) army defeated the larger (30,000!) Spanish force with relative ease (and with the help of 100 English long bowmen). Long story short, Nuno funded the building of the convent, and after his wife’s death he gave up all his titles and fortunes (which was almost half of Portugal!) to live out the rest of his life in the convent; he was made a saint for his piety. The convent is a stunning piece of Gothic architecture, made even more stunning by it’s roofless-ness. The great earthquake of 1755 destroyed the roof of the convent and did some damage to the structure, but the vaulting arches and stone walls stood firm and remain today as a testament of Nuno’s faith (and that of Gothic architecture!) The open-air ruins house a host of carved works, a cat, and the small but very interesting Archaeological Museum of Carmo. I was lucky when I finished in the little museum, as upon returning into to the nave of the convent I was the only person there. Sun shining, birds singing, and a roof open to the sky and the glory of above.

And now for something completely different (but not): the other castle. Friday and Monday were bank holidays in Lisbon in honour of Saint Anthony, so the university was closed. I took advantage of the extra days and made my way north to Porto for the weekend, to explore the city of port and to visit the UNESCO heritage town of Guimarães. I arrived Friday morning, dropped my bag at my hostel, and saw everything in the city I wanted to see. Compared to other cities, Porto is not as tourist-y (explained by the Portuguese saying: “Braga prays, Coimbra studies, Lisbon shows off, and Porto works”) but it still has an amazing array of things to see and do. Among the numerous gorgeous churches that litter the city, the one I found most enjoyable was that of Saint Francis. Beautifully carved with a gold-gilded interior, this 14^th century Gothic construction is also home to some 19^th century catacombs and an ossuary (which you can see into through a grate in the floor. Yay, bones!). The Catedral do Sé is equally impressive, and the Torre dos Clerigos gives stunning views across the city. I spent the evening wandering around the UNESCO-designated historic waterfront, Ribeira, ate a francezinha (a most fantastic sandwich full of meat meat meat!), and sat by the water’s edge before bed called.

Porto, on the north side of the Rio Douro

Saturday morning dawned far to early (I curse drunk people who fight loudly in the streets at 2am >.<), but I was bright eyed and bushy tailed by the time my train arrived at Guimarães. It was here that Afonso Henriques was born and from whence he began his reconquest of Portucale from the Moors in the 12^th century. Guimarães became capital of the fledgling state, and as such the city boasts that “aqui nasceu Portugal” – Portugal was born here. And boast she can! The narrow, medieval, winding streets lead one up through a well-kept and history-laden city up to the Paço dos Duques (the palace and home of the Dukes of Braganza) and to the castle.

Castelo de Guimarães

Knitting on the castle walls – you should have seen this coming!

Aqui nasceu Portugal – Portugal was born here.

The castle was ordered built by Mumadona Dias, a wealthy noblewoman, in the 10^th century in order to protect the city and people from the Normans and the Moors. It now stands proudly at the top of the historic centre of the city, with views from it’s corner towers across the surrounding area; it is lovingly decorated in the colours and flag of Afonso Henriques. After my jaunt along the castle walls, I took the cable car to the top of Penha Mountain, the views from which are as stunning and breathtaking as those from the Castelo dos Mouros. While walking around the exterior of the church at the top of Penha (couldn’t go in as a wedding was underway), I was hit in the arm by something. When I looked down I saw a small lizard scurrying away. So, I was hit by a small lizard from on high. Cool beans. Is this where I should have heard a heavenly host?

View of Guimarães, and the Minho region, from atop Penha

My final day in Porto I walked the 8km out along the Rio Douro to reach the lovely sandy beaches of the Atlantic and to see the two castles (well, fortresses, but the word is interchangeable in Portuguese) protecting the coast: Castelo do Queijo (Cheese Fortress) is worth a mention for its fun name cased on the cheese-like rocks upon which it stands. I’d hoped to catch the tram back as it was very hot and a long walk to get there, but public transportation was suspended as I happened upon the running race weekend in honour of Saint John. Cool, but it meant a long walk back. So much exercise…!

Cheese Fortress – named as such do to the rocks below it

 

Saude!

So many barrels of port! The Largest barrel Calem caves has can hold over 55,000L of port!

I had some time before my train back to Lisbon, so I finally made it to one of the port caves to learn about the wine (and have a cheeky little sample). Our tour guide at the Calem Port Caves was fantastic with a delightfully subtle sense of humour (wait, am I discussing a human or a wine?), and the two types of port we got to try were both very nice. I don’t drink, but when I do I enjoy a small glass of port, so a bottle of Calem port will go back to Canada with me in August. I had lovely chats with my co-port-tasters, and in our group of twelve or so and nine of us were Canadian, French- and English-speaking! What are the odds? I’ve met more Canadians in 5 weeks in Portugal than in 3 years in the UK :)

 

Two of these Canadians, like me, where on their way to Lisbon that afternoon to see the festival of Saint Anthony. We exchanged contact details and later that evening met up in downtown Lisbon to party-it-up with the rest of the city :D The parade was cool, however it was not like parades at home (a bit too slow for us), and around midnight we went our separate ways. I spent the next hour or so (until 1:30am!) walking around Alfama and watching the party; the entire city by now was just one big party. Literally. There were people everywhere: eating from charcoal bbqs, drinking, dancing in the square in front of the Sé, dancing in the main square; even on my walk home, which is normally calm and people-free, was chock-a-bloc with mini-party after mini-party. It was definitely the largest party I’ve ever been to! Luckily I was so tired that I fell asleep immediately, as the music I’m sure was playing until dawn ;)

Images: top from left – festive decorations in Porto; one of the many beaches of Foz do Douro on the Atlantic coast; my newest little friend in Guimarães. Bottom from left – the church of Cedofeita (made early), the oldest Christian building on the Iberian Peninsula supposedly built by King Theodemar in the 6th century AD; graffiti of le Petit Prince near our place in Lisbon; view of the area down river of central Porto.

 

Sun, Romans, and a Whole Lot of Hills

Two and a half weeks in, and I have to say I’m in love with Lisbon. Maybe I’ll stay here; I mean it rained the entire first week so it’s just like England.

My colleague, S, and I arrived in Lisbon bright and early on a Sunday. We got a taxi to our apartment (and were completely ripped off; a word to the wise don’t trust the taxi driver’s meter – it’s rigged!), and both stood dumbfounded at the bottom of our travessa. As we looked up. As we girded our loins, so to speak. We should have expected it, given the ups and downs we took to get there. But nothing could have prepared us for walking up what felt like the steepest little hill in all Christendom.

The view from our apartment balcony

Okay, so I’m exaggerating a tad, but Travessa do Pasteleiro (Lane of the Pastry-maker) sure is a steep little hill! Especially when you’re dragging a 20kg suitcase behind you and low on sleep. Let alone when you then have to then drag it up four flights of narrow stairs. Bem-vindo a Lisboa! We settled into our home for the 5.5 weeks while we’re here then popped out for groceries. Which involved walking up another steep hill; I will have calves of steel by the time we return to the UK!

S and I are here in Portugal to conduct research on some archaeological material excavated from the Praça da Figueira (Square of the Fig Tree) in downtown Lisbon. During archaeological intervention back in 1999-2001, in preparation for the building of underground parking, over 2,000 years of Portuguese history was uncovered: from Romans (3rd – 5th centuries AD), Medieval (5th – 11th centuries AD), and part of the old Islamic quarter (11th – 12th centuries AD), to the Royal Hospital of All-Saints (15th – 18th centuries AD) and the great Lisbon earthquake of 1755 which raised most of the city to the ground.

The past two weeks have consisted of cleaning bones and walking, and walking and cleaning bones. It’s a long, but nice, fifty-minute walk to the university where S and I have been ‘brushing up’ on some Roman history ;) Conveniently, all my subjects are clean and ready to go but it was decided it would be good for us both to get some practice in cleaning and handling more archaeological material. And I can’t say I’m complaining – I do love dirt! And we’ve now got ourselves some clean Roman friends. In terms of the research aspect of this trip, there have been some ups and downs (lack of research questions, unfinished work, very little archaeological information about the site/material, some of my material being found to be from an earlier time period…), and the odd bit of cultural frustration (ah yes, the concept of time…), but on the whole we’re making some progress in each of our dissertation areas. I believe. I hope…!

View from in front of the Portuguese Parliament: we pass it daily on our walk into/from uni.

Countryside: I captured a farm and its fields from the train on the way to Évora.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, while the research front may or may not be advancing, the history-nerd front has made great leaps and bounds. While I have yet to make it to the Convento do Carmo (alas, it was closed the day I went!), and have a day trip to Belem in west Lisbon planned for this weekend or the next, the rest of the city is covered. The day after we arrived we were scheduled to meet with our supervisor, who had flown over from Cranfield for the week, but he was only arriving in the afternoon which gave us a morning to explore downtown Lisbon. A quick 15-minute walk along the River Tagus/Tejo got us from our place near Madragoa to the gorgeous open-planned Praça do Comercio, arguably Lisbon’s main, and most impressive, square. From here we walked north and made our way up the beautiful Avenida da Liberdade to what we affectionately have started calling “the big roundabout”, Praça Marquis de Pombal – it’s a roundabout INSIDE a roundabout. Take that, Swindon!

Praça do Comércio

From there, we timed our walk home in order to get a time estimate for walking to the university. Although it’s a 4km walk at most, the hills…add time :) We then walked the whole journey and met our supervisor as well as our secondary, Portuguese, supervisor and her colleagues. After a brief tour of the university and the facilities we had a lovely (albeit slightly awkward) walk with our Cranfield supervisor to the top of Parque Eduardo VII, from which one can marvel at Lisbon as she sprawls out in front of you from horizon to horizon. Not bad for a first ‘official’ day!

View over the city from the top of Parque Eduardo VII.

Our first full weekend here S and I toured the downtown core, admiring the Pombaline architecture (after the earthquake, the Marquis of Pombal was given near free-reign over redesigning the city centre which had been worst hit by the ‘quake and resulting fires) and made our way to Alfama. If it’s the only thing you do in Lisbon, a walk around the spiralling, narrow, steep streets of the Alfama neighbourhood is a delight. Sometimes you’ll come upon a tour group from one of the cruise ships, but go in far enough and it’s just you and the streets, which survived the brunt of the 1755 earthquake and thus retain their Medieval layout and haphazard design bursting colours and life.

Colour party in Alfama: a typical street in the old district.

The 12th century Catedral do Se

We also ventured into the Catedral do Se, built in the late 12th century in dedication to the defeat and expulsion of the Moors from Lisbon. With high arches, beautiful stained glass windows, and elegant stone masonry, the Se is probably my favourite church on this continent. We also paid to enter the Cloister, and it was worth every eurocent. Where one would normally expect to find grass, the interior of this cloister contains an archaeological site which has exposed Portuguese history down through the Islamic period and into the Roman city of Olisipo. Not to mention the masterly carved arches, windows, crypts, and tombs scattered around.

On a separate trip to Alfama, we visited the remains of the Roman theatre, exposed during building works in the area, then up up up to the Castelo São Jorge. This Moorish fortress, dating back to the early 12th century, is a focal point of Lisbon as it sits atop the tallest hill in the city and, as our hike up to it only confirmed, was built in a very strategic position making it very hard to attack! The Moors held out for months before finally succumbing to the Christian onslaught and being pushed out of the city, and later out of Portugal entirely. The castle sprawls over a large area, and the main fortress still maintains its walls and towers, and steep-steep steps. If you want a good work-out than you need look no further than a trip to São Jorge.

Downtown Lisboa as seen from the top of Castelo São Jorge.

One of my favourite ‘Portugal moments’ so far, however, comes from my day trip out of the city to the Medieval walled city of Évora, about 150km south east of Lisbon in the Alentejo region. I spent a whole day traversing this amazing place, and it definitely lived up to its UNESCO World Heritage status. The main core of the city is located atop a hill – of course – and is completely surrounded by the Medieval walls. From the Catedral do Se, another fantastically built and decorated cathedral with an equally beautiful cloister – archaeological dig not included, the sprawling streets and beautiful squares, complete with Roman Temple smack dab beside the Se and old Moorish fortress, Évora oozes with history.

2,000 years of Évora’s history: the Moorish fortress, the Roman Temple, and the Se.

One of the morbidly decorated columns in the Bone Chapel

And for the physical anthropologist, one need not look further that the Igreja de São Fransisco, home of the Capelo dos Ossos – the Bone Chapel *swoon*. I probably spent a bit longer there than was healthy, engrossed in trying to sex the skulls lining the pillars and walls; admiring the the sacra and various long bones used in decorating the walls, pillars, and arches; and thinking about where are the phalanges were put. The bones belong to some 5,000 individuals, mostly made up of former monks, but with some from cemeteries dug up centuries ago. The arch above the doorway into the chapel also adds to the grim scene presented to visitors: “Nos ossos que aqui estamos pelos vossos esperamos.” We bones here for yours are waiting.

Macabre yes but utterly fascinating and, in its own gruesome way, beautiful. On a lighter note, I also spent half an hour just sitting in Largo do Aviz, where I passed the time watching a horde of pigeons…being pigeons. It was oddly interesting and quite relaxing, and gave me the energy in the hot Portuguese sun to complete my own little mission: to find the end of the aqueduct! Along with Roman Temple, Évora also has a Roman aqueduct running into it. The arches within the walls are charmingly integrated into the architecture of the city, with houses built into/under them and cars parked below.

I followed the aqueduct out of town and within a short while was walking along side a field (with sheep!!!!!), with few houses around and a Convent in the near-distance. Where the aqueduct crossed the road I found a sign outlining the entire length of the aqueduct and the greenway running alongside it with information panels scattered across its 8.3km run. Needless to say, I didn’t have time to complete the 16.6km round-trip (alack), but I did follow it the kilometre further to where it disappears underground for a distance. A beautiful walk through the Alentejo countryside which, for me, ended at the Monastery of São Bento (no entry, but still a great thing to look upon). Don’t know how many tourists/travellers know of this path, but it was so lovely, and I know for sure that if I’d had the time I’d have definitely run the whole thing.

The incorporation of the ancient into the new.

Greenway alongside the aqueduct.

Upon returning into Évora, I grabbed myself an ucal (delicious delicious chocolate milk in a bottle) and an ice cream at a little kiosk and sat in the sun. In the presence of the Roman Temple, the Se, and the Moorish fortress, I pondered upon the history and beauty of this quaint city, and soaked in the feeling before catching my train back into Lisbon.

Well, that’s enough of an update for now! I could go on for pages more (one of our Portuguese supervisor’s colleagues has cottoned on to the fact that I can talk for Canada), but will give it a rest until later. It’s a bank holiday tomorrow apparently and I’m all up for letting my legs, and writing hand!, have a well-deserved break (spent the whole day in the lab with the Royal Hospital of All-Saints material writing away and darn it all if my distal 2nd and 3rd metacarpals aren’t hurting) ;)

Boa noite e beijinhos!

The crenelated walls of the Moorish Fortress.

 

 

PS: I still can’t understand spoken Portuguese very well, but I’ve managed to make myself understood, from buying fruit at the market to getting S a new travel card when hers got wet in the rain. Booyeah! :D

 

A Canadian Queen’s Scout

Note: This post was written on September 16th, 2015, but has only been published now as I have received confirmation of completing the QSA.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

It. is. done.

I’m 25 today and have added another notch on my belt of awesome.

When I’d first moved to Shipston, I vividly recall my first time passing the Shipston Scout hut and thinking ooooo! Scouts! I’m there. That September, I began as an Assistant Explorer Scout Leader with the 1st Newbold RN Sea Explorer Scouts (i.e. Venturers, but more water-based). A year and a half on, I’ve moved south to Highworth, started my Master’s degree, have learned billions more while being Mistress Marion, spent a week commanding children around a naval base, and above all else, achieved my Queen’s Scout Award (QSA) – the highest honour a young person can achieve in Scouting.

I’d toyed with the idea of completing the QSA for a few years, but on my 24th birthday I was given the appropriate gentle little shove to get on my way, and spent the next 365 days working towards it. The award consists of eighteen nights away; six little themed projects from international, environmental, and values categories; time in Scouting (using my time at Newbold as well as my time with the 96th Ottawa Venturers); a final presentation to sum it all up at the end, and the five QSA challenges.

96th Ottawa Venturers: fun at Klondike!

One of my six projects: research paper on Ebolavirus

1st Newbold RN Sea Explorer Scouts

The QSA Challenges:

1. Service: I love to volunteer, and as such was already volunteering at the Air Ambulance shop in Shipston when I decided to start my QSA. 18 months of customer service, stacking shelves, and turning hangers the right way round and putting them in size-order (an OCD person’s dream!) :) Along with this some of my time spent as  Beaver Leader with the 96th Ottawa Colony was included.

96th Ottawa Beaver Colony

2. Physical: after a bit of time deciding what to do as a new physical activity for a year, I decided upon something I’d already been learning and doing at work – Tudor Dancing! I’ve taught people from many different countries the country dances of an England of olde, and have gone a step further and attended many Contra dancing events (a North American variation on English Country Dance) and Ceilidhs. More recently, I have driven a good 100km to attend a Tudor Dancing Workshop in Oxford (along with the odd spontaneous Tudor Dance Party in my kitchen).

May Day dancing kicking off with a Sellenger’s Round

Leading a lively Horse’s Branle at Mary Arden’s Farm

Teaching the Stratford Historical Society how to dance a Grimstock

3. Skill: my Sheep-to-Sheep Project. I spent the year (and them some) learning how to process wool, learning all the individual steps in wool and yarn production in order to take my freshly sheared Cotswold sheep fleece and turn it into a plush sheep toy :) Washing, picking, carding, spinning (wheel and spindle), knitting, basic dyeing…as a good young Tudor maid I’ve learned it all! And used it to give informative and real demonstrations to visitors in English, French, and a bit of Spanish. Additionally, I have then been a nerd and taken my knitting to various historical sites in England: the Royal Crescent in Bath, Blenheim Palace near Oxford, and the idyllic Cotswold village of Upper Slaughter.

Royal Crescent, Bath

Upper Slaughter, Cotswolds

Blenheim Palace, Oxford

My sheep! And some woollen skeins

The Walking Wheel on which the wool was spun

Darning my socks at work with my own wool thread

4. Residential: a 4-night 5-day volunteer project in an unfamiliar environment to you. In May I hustled down to Portsmouth to be a Divisional Officer in charge of a group of children at a week-long Scout camp aboard HMS Bristol, a decommissioned Destroyer used for training purposes at HMS Excellent. (they let a Canuck on their navy command base – woo!) I met some fantastic people, some great kids, and learned to loath ‘Call the hands’ (at half six in the morning after an evening telling kids to get the heck into bed and be quiet). HMS Bristol is like a drug, and unless you’ve experienced it for yourself you just can’t understand what it’s like. That, and I ran a camp-wide silent macarena-off. Win.

Some of the surviving leaders after a week of torme- fun. Fun.

5. Expedition: a 3-night 4-day expedition of your choosing. I amassed three fellow scouty-people and we set off on a canoeing exped down the River Avon to the River Severn, taking the route that Tudor sea fish would have taken in the 16th century from Gloucester to a market in Warwickshire. We had two beautiful days, and two miserable rainy days, and even though we had to pull out just shy of our final destination it was a fantastic four days on the water with some good (and not so health and safety approved *cough cough*) stories to tell.

Early morning at Fladbury Canoeing Club, where we spent a night

Expedidition self-portrait!

Finally reaching Tewkesbury after a miserable day of travel

So! I did my presentation last week, had the DC sign and send my forms, and am awaiting a response. Come next St. George’s Day look for me in the parade at Windsor Castle ;)

Tadaaa!