Stories

I Love Alberta Beef

That’s me in the foreground showing off my new packet of drinking straws. My brother Scott is the one in the background.

We like ducks.

Disclaimer

1. This blog has nothing to do with bacon.
2. No bacon was eaten by the author while he added to this blog.
3. No bacon was eaten by the Kevin Bacon while the author added to this blog.
4. If this does not suit you, feel free to immediately return this blog for a complete and prompt refund.
5. For those in the blog-returning category, I suggest a quick trip to the closest butcher for a tasty treat. Anyone not in the mood for bacon or who are currently vegetarian, I recommend renting the movie ‘Babe’.
6. Unfortunately for you or the deep pockets of Kevin Bacon’s lawyers, this blog does not offer an unauthorized in-depth look at the splendid life of Kevin Bacon, the ‘Six-degrees of Kevin Bacon’ game or a move-by-move analysis of how to re-enact ‘Footloose’ dance scenes in an abandoned warehouse near you.

However,
If you by chance happened to stumble upon this blog in the hope that beyond this disclaimer there will be no further mention of bacon, or Kevin Bacon for that matter, I invite you to pull your index finger back and roll down the page. Or you can go over to the sidebar on the right and scroll down, if you're still into that kind of thing. Anyone who plans on using the down arrow can leave this blog immediately. That sort of behaviour isn't welcome around here.

I Love Alberta Beef

Alberta. 2003. It was the summer of two competing phenomena: the mad cow crisis and the bumper sticker. Americans may have stopped Canadian Beef from flowing over the border but Albertans fought back with the “I Love Alberta Beef” bumper sticker. It seemed as though every driver in the province had slapped a bumper sticker to the tail end of their Chevy, Ford or Dodge. Their message was simple: Eat more beef. And Love it.

I arrived in the festive mountain town of Banff with two friends, Rob and Fiddy. Bumper sticker mania was at its pinnacle. Our initial stroll through town landed us at the “Official Alberta Beef” information booth. A jovial stereotypically-attired rancher handed us each a healthy stack of “I Love Alberta Beef” bumper stickers with one condition:
“Do you boys promise me that you will spread the good word?”
I shook his hand and looked him straight in the eye and replied, “Yes Sir. Yes we will.”

I was a roughneck, Rob and Fiddy were treeplanters. The transient nature of our employment made this the single weekend of the summer that we crossed paths. Being Canada Day, we decided that we would let our hair down even further than we normally would. We decided this weekend was going to be the weekend of the year. After all, it was Canada Day, anything less would be unpatriotic.

A copious amount of beer, we decided, was the best way to accomplish this task. A ten minute drive to the liquor store was all that stood between us and a weekend for the ages. But not today. The normally calm and traffic-free streets of Banff were engulfed in a traffic snarl that would strike fear into even the hardest New York cab driver. The Canada Day parade was about to start. Banff Ave was shut down from end to end, thus rendering the entire street system of town utterly useless to vehicle traffic. Half an hour wasted looking for even the most “ticket likely” parking spot later, we conceded defeat and returned to our starting point.

Rob said it best, “You know what? I’m choked. We got beat by a parade. If there was a fire and they had to shut the streets down? Maybe. A hostage situation? Better. But a parade? It’s such a lousy reason for not being able to buy beer.”
Fiddy added, “I know, but I’m not walking all the way across town and back just to buy a case of beer. Not in this heat. Remember what that girl said yesterday Rob? The temperature today is supposed to get up to thirty above.”
“Right. Canada Day. Thirty above. Why did she bother adding she was from Saskatoon?”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. This was supposed to be the weekend of the year. The last thing that was going to stop us from cutting-loose, Canada Day style, was a parade. Let alone a parade that we weren’t involved with. Then it hit me: The parade! I looked up at the two dejected souls and asked: “You guys still have your “I love Alberta Beef” bumper stickers?”
“Yeah, why?” they said in unison.
“Go get all of them.”

My plan solved every problem we faced. We could get beer, avoid walking, settle the score with the parade and most importantly, fulfill our promise to the rancher.

“What are we doing at the start of the parade route with all these stickers?” Rob said.
“Watch this.” I replied, extending my arm and raising my thumb in a classic hitchhiker’s pose.
He smiled at me and said, “Yes Sir. Yes we will.”

A line of classic cars started the parade. The driver of the first car raised his eyebrows high to say there was no possible way we would ever set foot in his vehicle, period. The second driver somehow managed to raise his eyebrows even higher. Was my plan doomed to fail? What we saw next made our mouths drop. Rolling towards us was a “J.F.K.-assassination” style convertible. If there was the perfect car for this moment in time, this was it. A driver decades-younger than the “eyebrow-raisers” asked the obvious, “You guys need a ride?”

“Yes Sir. Yes we do.”

We sat in the back of the convertible rolling down Banff Ave. We were in the Parade. In shock from our sudden good fortunes, we played it cool for the first few minutes and got to know our driver and his two female companions. It turned out they worked for the same landscaping company. I looked glanced at the fingernails of the girl beside me. Dirty. They were telling the truth. I asked her, “So if you three work as landscapers, do you cut grass?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Do you cut that grassy knoll over there?” I said, pointing to our left.
She pointed her dirty fingernail and said, “That knoll? Sure, I cut it yesterday.”
“Hey, Fiddy! Isn’t that your grassy knoll?” Rob chimed in.
“Yup. That’s the one.”
“Your grassy knoll?” she asked, shooting a confused look at Fiddy.
Fiddy filled her in: “Last night I was walking back from the bar and I decided that your grassy knoll over there was the perfect place to spend the night. So I slept there, face down, and this morning an old guy in a Buick pulled up beside me and honked his horn. Repeatedly. I guess he was offended to see me passed out on his neighbour’s lawn. Two facts for you: One: Alarm clocks? Over-rated. Two: Most comfortable grassy knoll I’ve ever slept on.”
She blushed and shot a look even more confused than the last at Fiddy and responded in the only way possible, “Thank you.”

If only they fell in love at first “knoll.” They would share a lifetime of blowing people’s minds when they found themselves at cocktail parties being asked: “Well, Nick and I met at work. Where did you two meet?

If I had the nerve to hitchhike in a parade, in the back of a “J.F.K-assassination” style convertible, with a guy who had a personal grassy knoll groomer, also present, I needed to take things to the next level.

“Snipers! Quick! Front corners! Haven’t you seen the movie ‘In the Line of Fire? You guys need to protect me and Jackie O!” I shouted, butchering real history and film history in one fell swoop. But what did I care? I was in a parade. With stickers. With Jackie O. Fiddy and Rob jumped from the slowly moving vehicle and ran to the headlights. They placed one hand on the car and the other on their ‘earpiece’, checking for intelligence reports of gunmen. From my gunfire-enticing perch in the car, I cheerily handed out bumper stickers to everyone who approached our heavily-guarded ‘float’.

We saw the hat first, then the eyes. There was no mistaking who it was. On top of the grassy knoll was the man we knew would arrive. He emerged from the shadows and raised an object to his shoulder. His fist. Another object raised to his other shoulder. His other fist. He coolly watched us distribute hundreds of innocent bumper stickers to hundreds of innocent people then suddenly thrust both fists into the air and shouted: “Go get ‘em boys!”

It was the rancher.

We rounded the corner onto the home stretch. Spectators piled high along Banff Ave. The sides of the street were packed ten-deep and people on the tops of buildings shouted with delight. It felt like a ticker tape victory parade. A sudden onslaught of out-thrust hands dwindled our sticker supply down to the very last sticker. Fiddy was on his feet both literally and figuratively. He ran to the centre of the street and hatched a plan on the spot that would decide the lucky recipient of our final sticker. He shouted clearly, hushing the crowd: “Ladies and Gentleman, in my hands I have the final “I Love Alberta Beef” bumper sticker that we will hand out today. I will give this sticker to the first person to come out here and show me a “beef” dance.” With gusto, a middle-aged mom burst from the crowd and landed in the middle of the street. She nailed a perfect rendition of that Russian dance where you cross your arms and kick out your feet. If there was ever the perfect “beef” dance, this was it.

Stickerless but still in the spotlight, I stood up on the back seat and addressed the captivated crowd on the left side of the street. I shouted out what any sensible person would do in my situation: “Give me a “B”! Give me an “E”! Give me an “E”! Give me an “F”! What’s that spell?”, cupping my ear to the crowd.
“BEEF!” The crowd answered back. I turned to the other side of the street:
“C’mon right side of the street, you can do better than them! Give me a…!”
What followed was the first time in the history of the world, ever, that two sides of a parade route tried their best to out ‘beef’ chant each other. The crowd had beef fever. We were spreading the disease.

Up to this point, we had made it past the grassy knoll unscathed, handed out each and every last bumper sticker, and even incited a round of competitive ‘beef’ chanting. The crowd was in the palm of our hand. Rob somehow got his hands on a corrugated plastic sign with the word ‘Monday’ printed on one side, ‘Tuesday’ on the other. Seizing the opportunity, he held it over his head and shouted to the left bank of spectators: ”Who likes Mondays?”
“Mondays!”- the left bank shouted back. He turned to the right side, asking loudly: “Who likes Tuesdays?”
“Tuesdays!” replied the right bank.
What followed was the first time in the history of the world, ever, that two sides of a parade route tried their damndest to out ‘Monday’/’Tuesday’ chant each other.
For the record, Tuesdays won. They always do.

With the important matter of Monday vs. Tuesday settled, we bowed to the crowd and exited stage right. We were at the end of the parade. Our classic car-owning landscaper-cum-chauffer pulled up to the liquor store and thanked us for an unforgettable parade experience. We thanked him for an unforgettable parade experience. We bought our beer then walked back outside. Blocking out the sun was the unmistakable figure of the rancher. His weathered face broke into a wide smile as he offered us his meaty right paw. We shook firmly while he looked us square in the eyes and said:

“Yes boys. Yes you did.”

Red Lion

The following is one half of an actual telephone conversation.

Time: 6 a.m.

Date: May, 2003

Place: Lobby of a Red Lion Inn.

“Good morning, Red Lion Inn SEA-TAC. John speaking.”
“…”
”For what night?”
“…”
“Ok, and for how many guests?”
“…”
“Two Adults, great. Would you like a Queen-size bed…, two doubles.., twi…”
“…”
“Two doubles, June 7th, no problem. I’ll double check to make sure that’s available. Oh, it looks like we have plenty of rooms available June 7th. How long will you be staying?”
“…”
“Perfect. Two adults, two double beds. Arriving June 7th, departing June 8th. That comes to $89.53 after taxes.”
“…”
“And what name should I make the reservation under?”
“…”
“Thomas. Mrs. Claire Thomas. Great.”

“Looks like it’s all set, I just need to ask you one last question before I finalize the booking. Mrs. Thomas, are you from the city or from the country?”
“…”
“Are you from the city or from the country?”
“…”
“Oh no, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that we have two types of rooms. Some face the road out front and others face the forest out back. People from the country find that the traffic noise from the road out front keeps them awake at night while people from the city find that the noise from the crickets out back keeps them awake. There is also an elevator that makes a loud chime noise late at night near the rooms at the South end of the motel, but I’m sure we’ll be able to find you a room far enough from that to be quiet, but close enough to be convenient.”
“...”
“The country? Excellent. I’ll book you a room in the back. I expect that a few crickets won’t be anything new for you two, I wouldn’t want the traffic to keep you awake.”
“…”
“That’s what I thought. Now there is one more thing I must bring to your attention. There is a police firing range just past the forest at rear, but I can assure you that we’ve never had any complaints because the police wait until after Lunch to begin shooting.”
“…”
“Oh no, never any problem before. We just like to let people know in advance in case anything comes up, that’s all.”
“…”
“Ok then, you’re booking is completed. See you on the 7th.“
“…”
“Happy to assist you today Ma’am.”

$4 and a Microwave

Montreal doesn’t have a Subway. Montreal has a Metro. I’ll be the first to admit that pulling in $12 an hour to hand out event promotional flyers at Metro station ‘Parc’ wasn’t the type of career I had in mind. I entered the station and decided that the enclave at the top of the bank of escalators was the spot to maximize on passer by. The jealous glare from the ‘Watchtower’ pusher who arrived shortly after confirmed my suspicions. This was the spot. When you enter university you don’t visualize yourself upon graduation frequenting public transit facilities in order to compete with middle-aged Jehovah’s Witnesses for the best place to distribute promotional literature. If only they could see me now, the dozens of people who’d had the nerve to question: “So what do you plan to do with a Bachelor‘s Degree in Geography?” Realizing my obvious skills for sensing a good location were being unceremoniously wasted, I made a mental note to find a better form of employment. Correction, I made a mental note to find any other form of employment. While debating whether a hot dog or ice cream vendor was a more profitable venture, a curious man with an East-Indian accent approached and motioned to my stack of flyers.

“Are you having a job?”
“Pardon?”
“Are you working?”

"Uh, I'm working right now if that's what you're asking..."

"I see, you have a job. I am looking for somebody who needs a job."

“Well I kinda have this flyer thing going on right now. It’s only a short contract though, and today is my last day.”
“Can you fold things?”
“Ya, sure. Why?”
“I have a job for somebody who can do folding.”
“I’ll be done with this at ten o’clock”
“Here is my phone number. Be calling me back at ten o’clock. I am Sasha. You will work for me. You will do folding.”

When you’re standing at a metro station pondering employment improvement and a sketchy guy offers you a job, you’re either going to land a good job or a good story. Today was going to be a sure-fire winner. By five after ten I found myself in the passenger seat of a 1991 Dodge Caravan equipped with shiny running boards and dark tinted windows.

“This is good van. Dodge. I am selling it. You might want this van.
Two-thousand and five-hundred. Good price my friend.”

We made the rounds of Sasha`s ‘hood first searching for the elusive store-owner-lady who hadn’t paid him for her last order of t-shirts:

“She’s not selling my shirts again. She is a bad lady. She doesn’t be selling anything for me.”
We knocked on the door of a closed and deserted restaurant, apparently owned by his brother, where there was supposedly, “A job in this restaurant for you if you be wanting it.”

By this point I felt Sasha must be somewhat of an unorthodox entrepreneur, so I was eager to see where we would end up for the promised `folding` activity. It took Sasha exactly ten minutes to get from the metro station to another continent altogether. It may have been the basement of a modest house in the North-end of Montreal, but from my knowledge of international workplace safety standards cultivated from a lifetime of reading National Geographic magazine articles, I was in India. The basement was a scene of disarray rivalled only by a Calcuttan garment factory. Boxes were piled to the top of the seven-foot ceilings and at every step was either a spliced electrical cord or a ramshackle sewing machine. The house may have been deserted, but I imagined how a handful of workers could turn his basement into a sweatshop at the drop of a hat. Still unsure of the legitimacy of the business, I searched but could not find the two elements that could prove this was an illegal basement sweatshop: labour exploitation and smouldering fire hazards.

“I have plastic for you to fold.’’ said Sasha. Like every kid holding a ‘BIC’ pen the day the science teacher lets them use the Bunsen burners, I knew how to fold plastic. The premise is simple: Heat the plastic until it’s soft, then bend it. Scoffing in the face of existing safe heat-producing devices, Sasha had invented his own electric ‘folding` machine. A car-battery charger was plugged into the wall socket and its live leads were placed on a nearby table. Instead of attaching the live leads to a dead car battery, as is the usual style, Sasha ingeniously attached them to a pair of nails connected by a thin piece of wire. As the current began to flow, the wire quickly became red hot. To add danger to beauty, the entire heat-producing assembly was mounted to a piece of wood, which began to smoulder. “Why buy a safe product when the firefighters have nothing planned for the day?” I reasoned. After showing me his invention, Sasha looked at me with a dead-serious look on his face: “Do not tell ANYBODY that you are working for me. OK, we are be starting now.”

As promised, my job description was simple. Folding. Sasha instructed me to fold 4-inch square pieces of paper-thin transparent plastic into a sort of a name-badge holder. By placing the small pieces of plastic over the radiant wire, they became linearly malleable. Two quick folds and they could hold paper nameplates. After 45 seconds of training, Sasha felt I was capable to work alone.

“If you are leaving, turn electricity off. We don’t want be wasting money on electricity.”
“Or give the firefighters something to do”, I thought.

Feeling productive, I started to work pretty hard and was well on my way to becoming the best-illegal-basement-plastic-badge-bender in the East, of Canada. Looking down proudly, I realized I’d completed 200 badges in my first hour. Sasha came downstairs, coffee in hand, sizing up my hourly output.

“You are too slow. My child is faster than you. He is seven. Maybe one day you will be good.” He said, grabbing a piece of plastic and showing me his expert technique. “Do like this: softly. Yes, this is better. For each bundle of 100 pieces I will be giving you one dollar.”

Still shocked by the myriad of workplace safety, tax and labour laws being broken, the economic reality of Sasha`s statement meant nothing to me. Clearly the melting plastic and the smouldering wood had placed me in an inebriated state. Slowly crunching the numbers through a fog of plastic smoke and basement dust, I calculated that being paid one dollar for each 100 pieces was going to net me two dollars per hour at my current rate. Being currently jobless and with nothing else better to do, or more accurately, nothing else worse to do, I decided to continue. The only thought that entered my plastic-fume riddled brain was: “Well, I’ll just keep at this until I get a free lunch then, won’t I?” After another hour of contained amazement, I had proudly completed 400 badge holders. Good enough to buy my freedom with a $4 lunch.

Being a good businessman, Sasha sensed my onset of lunchtime hunger and began promoting his post-lunch work opportunities. “Sorry. I have many jobs for you. Painting is one of these jobs. Twenty dollars each room. I also have many things for sale to my friends. Would you be needing couch, bed, television, microwave?” Now a microwave was something I could use. I’d been putting off a microwave purchase until the right deal came along. Clearly, this was the deal I’d been waiting for.

“How much you want for the microwave?”
“Ten dollars.”
"Ten bucks eh?" I said, weighing the options. It was a pretty low price, all things considered, but I only had $4 worth of work under my belt. I was out of cash so unless Sasha accepted Visa, I'd either have to work another three hours at my current pace to earn enough for the microwave. I hadn't remembered seeing an "Accepted here: VISA" sticker on the front window of the house so I scratched my head and contemplated another three hours of plastic fumes. Sasha saw the look of concern on my face and realized he'd lose all chance of me ever returning to his 'factory' again if he didn't act quick to sweeten the deal just a little.

“Okay, ten dollars for normally, but for you my friend: no price. Free.”

OK. Time out: Imagine it’s the mid 1940s and we’re inside the laboratory of the scientist who is designing the world’s very first microwave. Imagine this being his prediction for the ‘space-age’ technology:

“Microwave technology will be expensive at first. The Microwave oven will change the way housewives cook their meals. Never more will she face the rigor of slaving over a hot stove all day. Being a revolutionary food-warming technology, it will primarily be an appliance for the rich, but over time, the cost of a microwave oven will drop steadily. By the start of the 21st century, microwave ovens will be the preferred currency for sweatshop proprietors employing illegal-labourers in basement fire-traps.”

Minutes later I found myself walking down the street waving goodbye to Sasha with $4 in one hand and a microwave in the other. My lunch? -- Two microwaveable frozen burritos.

And that’s how you get $4 and a microwave in Montreal.

Epilogue:
Since it wasn’t hot enough outside that day and because the plastic bender did not produce adequate BTUs for me to break a sweat, I have yet been able to proclaim that I’ve worked in a bona-fide sweatshop. All a university grad can do is dream.


copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald

My Uncle The Agent

My Uncle The Agent

“You think he’s stopping for us?” My girlfriend Dominique said, pointing to the car pulled over 500 feet down the road.

“Nah, he’s just taking a leak,” I said as the passenger hopped out and did just that.

We were stranded at a poor location on Autoroute A63 just south of Bordeaux, France. The previous ride was a letdown of only ten kilometres that came after a three-hour wait. Our only chance of getting a ride now was to convince passing motorists faithfully married to their gas pedal that we were enticing enough to consider having an extra-marital affair with their brake pedal.

“Wait, check it out!” I shouted, picking up my backpack.

Clearly using his right hand for the call of nature, the man waved his free left hand our way. He’d apparently halted for more than simple roadside relief. Having never been waved at by a urinating man, I assumed the custom was to wave back. I did. He continued his activities with both hands. Leery of taking a ride from somebody so blatantly shameless, I looked over at Dom and asked,

“Whatcha think? It’s gonna be these guys or a long wait”

“I don’t know...looks kinda sketchy,” she squinted and watched the man zip up his pants.

“Well, the next ride might be worse. Grab your bag.”

When hitchhiking, it’s smarter to air on the side of caution when accepting a ride. It’s better to be stuck somewhere than take a suspicious ride. Having said that, the sizing-up of every ride is skewed by your current situation. When you have slim pickings, you take what you can get.

“Bonjour,” said the passenger in Portuguese-flavoured French as we approached the two-tone Peugeot. Top burgundy, bottom rust.

“Bonjour,” we said as he offered his right hand. I weighed hospitality versus hygiene and hesitatingly returned the gesture. Hygiene could wait -- we had ground to cover.

We peeked in the window of the car. A moustached driver sat in the front seat holding the collar of a growling white pit bull.

“Do not mind him. My dog is a friendly friend.” as the dog tried to get at us by eating its way through the rear-window. Gesturing towards our backpacks with his now-famous right hand, the passenger offered,
“Give me your sacs. I will put them in the trunk, no?”

“No, It’s okay. We will sit beside them in the back seat.”

“Mais no! There will be better comfort if you use the trunk. I insist!”

“No really, we’re cool with them between us. No problem.”

The driver screamed at the passenger in broken Portuguese/French, visibly upset at our refusal to place our bags in the trunk. I sensed this was a huge problem bringing our bags into the car. The passenger explained, “My uncle wants to show you our hospitality by placing your sacs in the trunk. There is no room in the car for your backpacks. He insists”

Granted, the bags would take up a fair bit of room in the tiny car, but I was much more keen to be sitting beside my backpack than having it in the trunk. If our stuff was in the trunk, the driver could simply speed away from us when we got out of the vehicle, leaving us in the dust without any of our belongings.

“No, we will bring our bags in the car with us. If you will not let us do that, we will not take your ride.”

The driver argued with the passenger briefly again, raised his hand in defeat, and motioned to the tiny rear seat.

“O.K., but it is then your discomfort, not mine!” He said, clearly in disbelief of our priority for backpack security over back seat comfort. Comfort could wait --we had ground to cover.

“On y va” choked the driver as he stood on the gas pedal and lit the cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth. The vehicle lurched onto the highway with us wedged into the rear seat upholstered in shedded dog hair. The passenger rolled a joint with his right hand and held back the snapping pit bull with his left.

“Friendly dog, non?”

“Non”, I thought.

Running on a set of what was surely oval-shaped tires, the car shook violently as we picked up speed. As the speedometer nudged past 165km/h, the plastic dashboard couldn’t hold on any longer. It cleared both the steering wheel and the dog, landing on the two men’s laps. The dog barked and the passenger looked for his dropped joint. The driver recoiled forcefully causing the back of his seat to snap off its supports, and fall onto my lap. Traveling at more than one hundred miles an hour in a vehicle visibly held together by duct tape with a dog barking, a man looking for a burning joint and a reclined driver against my stomach, I glanced quickly over at Dom. The look on her face confirmed our suspicions: “Pot laced with crack? -- Check.” Without slowing, the driver miraculously grabbed the dashboard from the jaws of the hungry pitbull and refastened it while the passenger triumphantly held up his undamaged, lit joint. The seat was deemed beyond repair and rested on my knees. My legs began to fall asleep and the men posed the four questions asked to every hitchhiker:

“Where are you going?”
“What are your names?”
“Where are you from?”
“Do you want to smoke?”

Declining free drugs for the tenth time in as many days, Dom replied in accented Quebecois French “We’re from Canada.” This answer brought the strongest reaction from the men.
“Ahhh, foreigners.” they replied in unison, “It is not easy for us foreigners to hitch-hike in France. The driver looked at us in the cracked rear-view mirror “We are from Portugal. We know the difficulty of finding a ride in France. A Spanish man? A Portuguese man? He will pick you up. But a French man? Never. I will find you a Portuguese man”

It was settled then. We had ourselves an agent.

“We are going a different direction from where you are going, but my uncle will make a detour for you.” Said the passenger, looking at his uncle with admiration.

I quickly offered, “Nah, that’s okay, we can get out at the junction up ahead and find another ride there.”

“No. I will go further in your direction,” replied the driver sternly.

When a drug-induced duo toting a hungry pitbull insist on making a detour for you, two thoughts run through your mind: They might be on a happy ‘high’ or they are about to tie you up and steal all of your stuff. You will either soon be waving goodbye to your driver reflecting on their generosity or you will be soon be standing on the side of the road in a foreign country possessing little more than the dirty pair of underwear you have on.

The driver, correction, our agent added, “We will take you to a rest area and I will find you a ride”

Dominique and I exchanged glances. We might be lucky enough to leave the car with our backpacks but we knew first-hand the difficulty of getting rides at rest areas. The previous month we had spent the better part of a day stranded at a rest area south of Munich. Still in the grips of twitching hangovers from five days at Oktoberfest, we spent the morning with our thumb extended towards German-engineered vehicles attempting to break the sound barrier. Fetching little more than a sore arm, we changed our tactics for the afternoon by canvassing the picnic tables, bargaining for a ride with sausage-eating Bavarians. Nobody gave us a lift. We ended up taking a taxi to the next town. Based on our unsuccessful experience soliciting rides from lederhosen-clad ‘Shumachers’ bound for the Alps, our future seemed dismal.

The wounded Peugeot limped into the absolutely worst place to be stranded: A deserted tree-lined rest area. No toilets, no food outlets and worst of all, no stopped vehicles. The wall of trees made it impossible to indicate our ride-seeking intentions to passing motorists. Our hearts sank, but as we followed a bend around a thick grove of trees, a large tractor-trailer truck with the letter ‘P’ on the rear bumper came into view. A man sat beside the truck eating a bagged lunch. Our agent exclaimed energetically “Portuguese! Portuguese!” Obviously excited about finding the promised Portuguese driver, he brought the car to a quick shuddering stop and used all his might to pull his hefty body from the demolished drivers seat.

The agent strode confidently towards the trucker, winking back at us. The two men acknowledged each other like old friends and the agent took on the persona of a professional negotiator. The case was pleaded for giving us a ride South and the trucker seemed to offer little resistance, looking in our direction and nodding frequently. Amazed by the agent’s comfort under ad-libbed third-party hitchhike negotiating, Dominique observed and whispered quietly, “It looks like he’s talking to his uncle!” The two men shook hands. The agent called us over.

As we approached, the agent took on a serious look and motioned to the truck driver: “I have kept my promise. I have found you a Portuguese man. Now you must promise me something.”
“Sure, what is it?” I asked, hoping didn’t want our backpacks as a signing bonus.
“You must promise me only one thing.” Pointing his finger at us to drive the point home. “You must promise me that you will go to Portugal!” His face broke out in a wide grin. “This man will take you there,” gesturing to the nodding truck driver stuffing his face with a baguette.

We assured the agent that we would keep our promise and visit his homeland. We shook hands to seal the deal and moments later we waved goodbye as our agent and his nephew started out of the rest area in a whirlwind of blue-smoke. After brushing the last traces of dog hair off our backpacks, we turned our attention to the amused-looking truck driver. He sat there, finished his bread and shook his head as if in disbelief at our agent’s negotiating prowess. He cleared his throat, pointed towards the fleeting Peugeot and said in flawless French:

“He seems like a nice man, your uncle”

copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald

The Moroccan School of Meat

I like to eat. Especially between sunrise and sundown. You probably know the hollow angry feeling when you go hours without a meal, right? Have you ever observed a smoker who needs a nicotine fix? Okay, imagine not just yourself, but everyone in the city, no, make that everyone in the country, going without food or cigarettes from sunrise to sunset. Now take that vision and throw in some garbage, mud houses and the odd donkey. Welcome to Morocco during Ramadan.

By my second week, I’d managed well enough. An occasional hidden snack here or there, but for the most part the pattern was the same: starve until sundown and then eat like a king. I entered the town square as the sun decided enough was enough and the air-raid siren began to wail, signalling it was now time to put food in your mouth. I was famished. A wonderful smell hit my nose: barbeque. I walked straight up to the vendor, bought a sandwich and I bit in. Finally: food, wonderful food. Nothing could beat barbequed meat after a day spent fasting. I looked over at the vendor with a mouthful of hot meat and asked him:

“What kind of meat is in my sandwich?”
“What type of meat? In this sandwich there is heart…and what do you call it, oh yes: fat”

I choked down my feed thinking how, under different circumstances, I would choke up the sandwich and left the town square. A row of sheep’s heads smiled at me from the counter of the street side butcher shop and I noticed an official-looking certificate on the exterior wall just behind a long-tailed carcass hanging from a metal hook above the sidewalk. Dog? -- Likely. Some customer brushed up against the skinned beast, allowing the certificate came into clear view. Despite not being able to read Arabic under normal conditions, my mind was fortified from a heavy dose of heart and fat. I was able to read the certificate clearly:

“The Moroccan School of Meat was established to ensure the quality of meat all over Morocco. Its rules are few, but well-followed by purveyors of meat from North to South, East to West.”

Rule 1: Meat must never be refrigerated
Rule 2: Mops and buckets make poor cleaning devices. Cats are much more preferable.
Rule 3: All chicken's feet/heads should be given to dogs. Dogs must march around the city streets proudly showing off their prize before eating.
Rule 4: All meat must be cut on wood. This wood must never be washed. Water and soap may cause the wood to rot, this will make future meat taste bad.
Rule 5: Chickens must be transported live and in an inverted position, held by their legs. If waiting for a bus, the chicken must be allowed to stand tied by one leg to a bicycle or other stationary object.
Rule 6: At least 4 cats must always be present on the street outside every butcher shop.
Rule 7: It is a crime to display public distaste for cow tongue.
Rule 8: All blood from animal products must flow out of a butcher's shop, across the sidewalk and into the street on its way to the storm drain. There must be ample room for no less than three thirsty cats or two thirsty dogs.
Rule 9: Heart and fat make a delicious combination.
Rule 10: All meat must be transported through crowded markets and be touched by children before reaching a butcher shop.
Rule 11: All meat products will be hung from metal hooks over the sidewalk and must be inadvertently bumped by no less than 10 people before being sold.
Rule 12: All sheep and/or goat heads must be transported by bicycle.
Rule 13: After arriving by bicycle, all sheep and goat heads must be displayed facing the street upon open-air counter tops with either their tongues hanging out or parsley/assorted garnish jammed between their teeth.
Rule 14: All fish heads must be left on the street in plastic containers. It is a crime for cats to eat fish head. Fish heads must be eaten by kittens.
Rule 15: It is impolite to laugh loudly if a tourist approaches your butcher shop, pointing to a piece of dead animal and asks: "What's this?" Preferably, a small chuckle or a wait-until-they-turn-the-corner 'knee-slapper'


copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald