Into the Canadian Rockies

My parents are *tough* travelers - their last adventure was a 5,000-mile drive through South America. They dodged Amazon wildlife, a politically unstable Colombia and even fought tooth-and-nail with dicey Paraguayan policemen, who unsuspectingly asked for a $5 bribe to cross the border. They settled at $3.

The idea of traveling with them is unsettling, but it had to happen. At her emotional best, Mom asked "Do you want to come to the Canadian Rockies with us?"

Mom's always wanted to take *the* adventure trip with me after an Africa trip with my two siblings. "Ummmm...," I hesitatingly said.

"We're paying for it," she said.

"Ok Mom. When's the trip?" As easy as apple pie.

From Vancouver, we headed for the town of Kamloops, a one-day stopover before riding to the Canadian Rockies. Driving deeper into Canada, residential houses and rest stops vanished, replaced by the raw beauty of ice-capped mountains and a river flowing alongside the road, sometimes on the right, sometimes on the left.

Finally, we had enough of nature -- the urge to go was high. Ignoring the mountains, we scrounged around for a bathroom. We hit paydirt after 65 miles -- the bathroom had no tap, paper towel or soap, just a liquid handcleaner. This is an environmentally friendly way to save nature, according to a note on the wall.

Outside the latrine was an even bigger surprise -- a snack shop, with a lone, middle-aged Punjabi lady in salwar-kameez selling Kit Kat, chips, hot dogs and the last thing you'd expect in remote Canada -- *warm samosas* -- with chutney and tamarind sauce to boot.

"Are these [Samosas] home made?" I asked. [For reference: A samosa is an Indian snack, fried dumplings with a filling of potatoes, spices and herbs.]

"Yes! I made them an hour ago," she said. The Samosas were rotating in a warming device.

"I'll take two vegetarian!" I said. Screw the hotdogs.

"Are you Indian?" she asked.

"Yes, my parents are here too," I said, pointing down the mountain to my parents, who were duking it out over who'd drive next.

A warm smile spread across her face, and she asked where I was from. As I chowed, we chatted. She lived in a nearby town, splitting store time with her husband. They made samosas at home and brought it on duty change. They came to Canada from Punjab a long time ago. They settled down and made friends in the area. Their kids were now in high school.

"You are lying," said Mom, when I told her that Samosas were sold in that tiny store on top of that little mountain. "If you're incorrect, you give me $5," she said.

"Mom, look at her. I won't profit from identifying her as a Chinese woman."

I smelled danger as a stunned Mom looked at the Punjabi woman up the mountain. Mom loves to chat -- she gobbled up 1,374 minutes of my cell talktime in just 3 days. They met and chatted like long-lost friends.

The Punjabi lady's life revolves around the massive labor shortage in Canada, she said. That fact was more evident in Kamloops, our next stop, which I will explore in the next entry.

Life in Canada, Pt. 1 - Vancouver and Victoria

Rumbling through the Canadian Rockies earlier this month, its easy to orient with the easy paced life in Western Canada -- the provinces of British Columbia and Alberta -- for ethnic groups, Canadians and French-Canadians.

Between Victoria and Calgary, life changes with the blink of an eye -- from the social confines of Vancouver, to the remote openness of Jasper in Alberta, to sights of Punjabis walking around Calgary, Alberta's capital.

The trip started in Vancouver, a day stopover before heading to the Canadian Rockies. Vancouverites are proud of everything from restaurants closing at 9PM, the everyday rain, to the run-down Husky gas stations with World War 2 equipment.

That may seem egotistical, but Vancouverites are in clean denial about these issues. They'll counter back with stuff like "The Winter Olympics coming to Vancouver in 2010 (correct?). What does San Francisco have?"

Well, San Francisco residents are atleast honest about the city's shortcomings.

Beyond the ego clash, Vancouver offers a vibrant culture, fancy cars, and if I were to believe the hotel attendant, a strong marijuana culture. (He was a bit tipsy and almost broke my bag.) Vancouver downtown's got something of an Indiatown -- blocks filled with Indian restaurants and stores -- and further down that street, an even bigger Chinatown.

Canada also has so much greenery that Vancouver's natural beauty is underestimated. I fell in love with the dirt-cheap coffee at Tim Horton's, a donut chain you'll find at every block.

Go further west, to Victoria in the island of Vancouver, a tamed city smacked with beauty. It's like a quaint English town, with a stunning lakefront, gardens and historical buildings dotting the streets. Looking beyond it as a tourist, it seems like an artists' haven, many of whom have drawn inspiration from the city's beauty and all-year round good weather.

Victoria's biggest draw, Bushart Gardens, is a tourist trap; the city's creative culture is so compelling that it seems overwhelming. There were musicians all over the road, and a local newspaper's classifieds has dozens of writer and artist workshops.

Seeking an answer behind this creative haven in the middle of nowhere, I approached a tourist official. Emily Carr, one of Canada's greatest artists, was a Victoria resident, she said. She's a national icon and has inspired a whole new generation of artists in the region, she said. That's not the end.

The city is so remote it feels like being in wilderness, she said, and people are comfortable with the slow speed of life. As somewhat of an artist myself who really needs a year off, that felt palatable. With the fleeting thought of establishing residence there, I asked her about public transport in the area: the vast city is broken up by the lake and rivers, and residents can bike everywhere, she said. There is an airport too.

Nelly Furtado and Steve Nash are Victoria's other high-profile past residents, Wikipedia mentions. But behind Victoria's stark beauty is a conclave of artists, who remain anonymous and prefer to keep their city a secret.

(In the next entry, I'll move deeper into remote British Columbia, where warm and tasty Samosas are sold in the most remote confines.)

Beware police, aunties chasing down criminals

"Gundo chhe, gundo," my aunt retorted in a bloodcurling shout. (A thief, a thief!)

Half of us in the van, almost dozing off, were suddenly jolted wide awake. Where's the gundo (thief)? Who's gundo? Am I the gundo?  

I looked at my brother, then my cousin. Who was friend, who was foe? What the hell was going on? Everyone was clueless.

In a slight daze, I checked my pocket to see if gundo picked my wallet. We -- mine and my cousin's family -- had a fairly incident free trip down South India, so this was exciting.

Aunt artfully serenaded us with "gundo chhe gundo" not just once, but four to five times. She gave the rendition a melody that hit the right notes. The lyrics, peppered with a generous dose of "gunda," gave the strophes an artful rhyme. Unwittingly, my aunt was belting out a solo hit song.

When aunt's commotion settled, the mystery unraveled. Her nuclear explosion of rage was channeled at, if I remember correctly, some poor chap's minor overcharge for a service.

The incident didn't last long, but it was thrilling. We finally got a slice of villainy we craved to shake up the trip a bit. South Indians were weirdly friendly, and we were tired of their generosity. We wanted action.

One generous South Indian waiter gave us tea for free, but charged a hefty sum for the water in it. And early in the trip, another friendly hotel manager guaranteed us a malaria-free stay with the brilliant "mosquitoes not available" remark.

More than 25 years on, the biggest memory from the trip is "gundo chhe gundo." Sometimes the weirdest shit can stick in the head.

My aunt hasn't repeated "gundo chhe gundo" scene since. Like a crime scene she'd rather not revisit. The time has come for me to steal something from her place and recreate that moment....