Two down: Montevideo Uruguay

Now for a Geography grad this may surprise you, but before getting to Uruguay I knew only three things about Uruguay:
1:Uruguay is not Brazil
2:Uruguay is not Argentina
3:Homer Simpson once pointed at a map of the world and said "Hee hee! Look at this country!:'You are gay.'"

That's it. Four years spent looking at maps to get a B.A. in Geography and that's all I've got.

"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"Two random people who picked your Uruguayan-addressed postcard out of a barrel on a deserted Pacific island."
"Two random people who picked your Uruguayan-addressed postcard out of a barrel on a deserted Pacific island who?"
"Two random people who picked your Uruguayan-addressed postcard out of a barrel on a deserted Pacific island and can't come up with a punch line cause we're useless in Spanish and you're a 60 year old Uruguayan lady speaking Castellano through an old-scratchy intercom and even if we were standing face to face you'd likely be as confused as us, probably scared to your wits based on my eagle-emblazoned clothing alone."
"Que?"
"Uh....¿habla Ingles?"

Postcard number two. Montevideo Uruguay. The plan was perfect: Spend a month and a half crossing South America from Quito to Montevideo before our plane out of Buenos Aires on May 30th. By then, of course, our Spanish would be polished up to a shine and we'd have a fun afternoon with the postcard's addressee. Problem is, nobody told us that Uruguayans speak Castellano Spanish with a curiously Italian-like accent at a rapid-fire, tongue-rolling velocity that would give an M-16 an inferiority complex. Gone were our days of traveling on Gringo-filled Andean buses to destinations where linguistic inferiority is greeted with encouraging patience. Our Spanish was stretched to its maximum but we were losing the patience of our deliveree second by second. Fast.

There we were, trying to convince Lelia that we were doing her a favor by delivering her mail, not two deranged mumbling psychos taunting her from the street by means of a conveniently-placed intercom box. It took a few hair raising minutes where confusion reigned supreme, but we finally figured out that Lelia's intercom-muffled shrieks of "Quién es?!" were simply a question: "Who sent the postcard?" Lelia gave up on technology, stomped across to the overhanging balcony and hung her head over asking for what was surely 'the last time' before calling the police, "Quién es?!" I glanced at the 'from' address on the postcard, and said meekly, "Andrea?" then looked up to gauge whether to stand or flee. Lelia's face broke out into a grand smile and she cried with delight, "Andrea! Ah!, Esto es bueno....MUY bueno! Si!, Uno minuto, uno minuto." Her face appeared as the door opened. We were met with a joyous but skeptical look as the door was inched open. The armor-piercing Castellano equivalent of "Whoareyoutwo,whatareyoudoinghereandhowdoyouknowAndrea?" shot out of her mouth, hitting my ears with its full brunt. My ears reeled from the verbal onslaught, saying to me in unison, "Well pal, looks like you're on your own with this one, we're outta here, goodnight."
We looked at Lelia, looked down at the postcard, then back at Lelia. "Es un postal(postcard). Andrea. Por tu. Si?"
"YesIknowwhatapostcardisbutwhatIdon'tunderstandiswhyyoutwoarehere, whoyouareandwhatthiaisallabout."
"Si, es bueno. Un postal por tu. Si, Andrea. We don't know her."
"Sowhyisitthatyou'retheonedeliveringthispostcardtome?"
"Uh, well, in this place in the Galapagos there's this barrel and it's, uhhhh, full of postcards, and, uhhh....."
"Que?"
"Well, it's a long story, it involves a barrel, postcards, us, and now...you. I'd like to explain everything. Do you have a minute?"
"No.Ineedtogotothedentist.Now.Youcomebackhereonfridayat4pm ,okay? 4pm.Friday.Here.Bye.Gottago."
"Okay, we'll be back at 4pm on Friday. Here. 2 days from now."

So we killed two days between postcard drop off and meeting. Montevideo isn't the worst place to spend two days. Dollar for dollar, probably one of the cheapest places to eat high-quality meat-based meals on the planet. Favorite meal? Easy. The "Canadiense" (Canadian) is a fine hunk of steak blanketed with a layer of ham, which is topped by a layer of cheese, which is topped with a layer of egg, over easy. The whole contraption is perched atop a mound of fries. Total cost, including half-litre of wine: $3 USD. Heart attacks don't get cheaper than that.

So where were we, oh yes, Lelia's apartment. Friday, May 27th. 4pm.
Either Lelia goes to the slowest dentist of all time, or she'd gone for another dentist appointment just prior to our scheduled meeting, because when we arrived at her apartment for the second time that Friday, her top lip was frozen. She pointed to her stationary top lip and offered, "Dentista, anestésico, es congelado."
I'm not sure if you've ever tried to understand a sexagenarian Uruguayan speak Castellano through an upper lip filled with novocaine, but it isn't exactly the sort of thing I'd recommend after a night spent filling your body with low-price grease-based protein-centric restaurant meals served with astoundingly-cheap wine.

It was rugged, Dom estimated our comprehension somewhere in the 20 percent range. I, being the eternal optimist, put the figure higher, more like 21 percent. Volumes of highly interesting material were lost as words tumbled out of Lelia's half-awake mouth onto our all-asleep ears, but some good bits were gathered, namely, Andrea.
Andrea is Lelia's daughter. She works on a private yacht for some ultra-rich family from Monaco. Andrea left Uruguay 20 years ago for a life on the high seas, working for the big cruise lines out of Miami and the Mediterranean. Lelia misses Andrea like crazy, and was absolutely delighted to hear news from her, any news at all. Andrea dropped the postcard in the Post Office Barrel a few months previous on a trip through the Panama Canal to the Galapagos Islands. She was currently on her way up the West Coast of the U.S. to Alaska. Lelia became quite emotional talking to us about Andrea, not quite Barbara Walters Special emotional, but definitely into Oprah territory. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she described how tough for her it was to have a daughter roaming the earth, far from home. The novocaine began to wear off and her top lip started to tremble as she explained how nice it would be if Andrea spent more time in Uruguay. Just when I thought the dam would burst, Lelia straightened up, looked strong and said with a tight smile, now fully formed, "In December. That is when I will see Andrea again. December."

We hadn't understood much verbally for the better course of an hour, but one thing was clear through the universal language of emotion: Lelia truly missed her daughter. Our postcard delivery stirred up emotions within Lelia ranging from glee, sadness to outright confusion. We waved goodbye to Lelia as she stood at her doorstep with a red scarf blowing in the wind, ready for the future, waiting for the future, needing the future. We promised to stay in touch and send her another postcard, this time from Montreal, by established postal service. Unlike some chance-encounter temporary-travel-acquaintance mail promises, I intend to keep my word on this one. Lelia will get her postcard, and her December.



Above: Envelope for postcard, "To" side
Below: Envelope for postcard, "From" side





Above: Lelia holding picture of Andrea.
Below: Lelia sandwiched between two red shirts: Kyle (with eagle), friend of Lelia (eagle-less).

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 piss-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 was to convince a passing motorist that we were worthy enough to ruin a faithful marriage with his gas pedal by committing an extra-marital affair with the 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,fs 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 err on the side of caution when accepting a ride. It’s better to be stuck somewhere than take a suspicious ride. Having said that, each ride is sized up according to your current situation. When you’ve got 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 its best to eat his way through the passenger 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. The ride was dicey enough as it was. I put the ride in jeopardy by giving the driver an ultimatum. “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, 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 leapt from its moorings and cleared the steering wheel and the dog, landing on the two men’s laps. The driver recoiled forcefully causing the back of his seat to snap off its supports, and fall onto my lap. The dog barked and the passenger looked for his dropped joint. 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 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 or 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 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 passed 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 rest-area 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 an encircled 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 his demolished 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 he 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

Quito

I'd like to introduce you to a jovial Ecuadorian named Wilson. He lives in a gated condo complex in suburban Quito and has a son named Josue. As you can see, they both love the colour yellow. Wilson was the lucky recipient of postcard number one. Well, let's make that lucky recipient of scrappy piece of lined paper love note number one. I think Wilson has the nickname of Nacho and he was sending it to his "love", but we delivered it to him instead. Woops, but who can blame us, my spanish is compiled mostly of words stolen from the menu of my favorite South Californian fast food chain, El Pollo Loco.

Wilson went to the Galapagos Islands two weeks prior to our meeting with a friend in the Ecuadorian military. He dropped the message in the barrel on April 7th, 2005. Ten days for delivery. By Ecuadorian mail standards, we pretty much beat FedEx.

Wilson was surprised to see us at his doorstep with the postcard. He figured one of his neighbours or somebody local would bring the message to him after they visited the barrel in the Galapagos. Now take this into consideration: The day previous to our delivery, the Ecuadorian President declared a nationwide state of emergency as a result of massive public demonstraions against his ill-advised actions at the top, namely, declaring a nationwide state of emergency. The borders were sealed, nobody was allowed in or out of the country. A curfew was imposed, then was ignored by everyone. General mayhem ensued. At the exact moment these pictures were taken, thousands of people were gathered in the centre of Quito angrily demanding the resignation of the President. The next day the President of Ecuador threw in the towel and put 'some other guy' in charge of the country. Military helicopter escape from the roof of the Brazilian embassy, police firing revolvers randomly into crowds, that sort of thing. All this and Wilson was surprised to see two backpack-laden gringos at his doorstep with a postcard.

Hey, at least we did something original.

El postal numero uno completo. Proxima, numero dos.

Guess where we are

Yep, that's nothing less than the soon to be world famous Post Office Barrel. 646 postcards were placed into the barrel with ever so much care, and we grabbed a healthy handful of postcards from the barrel to deliver to people, as promised, all over the world.


Who? Where? When? How? Why?


You'll hafta stay tuned to find out....

Later

Kyle y Dom

Layover

I'll give you one guess which city this is.

646 Postcards

And we're out.

4 Days to Liftoff

I'm sitting here at my computer at some ridiculous hour of the morning after re-doing the entire website from scratch. The best way to learn HTML is to accidentally delete your whole website.

Looks like we're gonna hit about 500 or so postcards by the time we leave Montreal April 5th. Not bad, 50 days, 500 postcards. I'm amazed by the response. Keep spreading the word and sending your postcards. We'll hit 3000 postcards in no time.

NYC

On March 9th, 2005 I arrived at Penn Staion with a backpack filled with 3000 pre-addressed postcards to hand out to the masses. Goal: Spread the word. Here's a glimpse at what transpired.


This is Dave Gorman and me. Well, an illuminated photo of Dave Gorman and me. I got much of the inspiration for Going Postal 3000 from Dave Gorman's Googlewhack Adventure. I read the book in the summer of 2004 and then saw his live stage show in the exact spot this picture was taken in November of 2004. The run for the show in NYC ended a few months ago, but the sign was still there. Dave Gorman's website is the place to find out about all things Dave Gorman. His show and books are all highly recommended.

I handed out postcards here for about 2 hours. Dave's image was the only light source around, so if you're into cheesy pun-ish sayings, go right ahead and say he 'lit up my life'. Being a Gormanesque Canuck, I figured this was the ideal spot to pitch a Googlewack-ish project to passerby, but boy was I wrong. The best indicator of the response came from a twenty-something woman who said she'd lived in the apartment building beside the theatre for three years and had never heard of Dave Gorman or his Googlewhack Adventure. I guess Bleeker Street ain't the random project loving mecca I'd imagined it to be after all.

It's not every day you tick a goal off your "list". Rarer still is a day where you tick two goals off your "list". Today was the day. The 'Today' day. Not only did I shake the leather-gloved hand of a Mr. Al Roker from NBC's Today show, but I managed to get a Going Postal 3000.com sign broadcasted into the homes of millions of tired-eyed moms around America. Despite ticking two life enhancing goals from my list, I went for the hat trick: I thrust a manila Going Postal 3000 postcard into Al Roker's hand. He looked at it quickly, then promptly dropped it directly into a muddy puddle. Security raised their eyebrows and Al checked to make ink from the postcard hadn't rubbed off on his glove. Doesn't matter though, I'm sure he'll send a postcard in. If there's one guy you can count on, it's Al Roker. The picture above is yours truly in a state of excitement from having just touched a living legend.


This is Gerrard. He's rad. He grew up in Woodstock NY. We hung out with him for a few hours in Willamsburg, Brooklyn. His dad was Bob Dylan's "right hand man". As a child at his folk's house in Woodstock, Gerrard ate thanksgiving dinner with George Harrison. He's apparently trying to get his hands on an RV. If you're ever in Willamsburg, be sure to hang out with Gerrard. He doesn't really have an address or use a computer, so just ask around.


Gerrard took us to a place in Williamsburg called the "Free Store". As the name says, everything in the store is free - a shoplifter's wet-dream. I walked out guilt-free with a cassette called "Gazza and Friends - Let's Have a Party." Now I'm the kind of guy who's keen on having a party at any given time, but you can see how even the less party-prone among us would have a tough time disagreeing with the wavy font and balloons that spell ou the enticing title. Gazza's even got that mouth-open, party-starting grin you look for in a party starter. I'd forgotten my yellow Sony Sports walkman at home, so I stuffed the cassette in my less-than-shoplifter-like small pocket. A few nights later I popped Gazza into our ancient cassette deck while partaking in a cereal feed of knock-off 'Crisp Rice'. Gazza's Pet Shop Boys-esque English 'football' star vocals over early 90s techno beats and mo-town classics put up a pretty good party-having argument. I emptied the bowl and reached for the much more party-like Honey Smacks and waved my hands in the air like-I-just-didn't-care, cereal style. Shaq Diesel eat your heart out.


We were with Gerrard when we saw these cakes. He wasn't quite as stoked about it as Dom and I, but then again, he has eaten turkey with a Beatle, so you can see where he's coming from.


We saw this Cadillac with Gerrard too. He claims it's a sixty-eight. I claim he's probably right. If Gerrard's an expert on anything, it's definitely the sixties. You've gotta admit it's a pretty badass grill. Not the kind of thing you'd wanna get caught up in, that's for sure. I would've gone as far as saying it's the most badass grill I've ever seen, but I saw this one last summer.


This, of course, is the Naked Cowboy. He's pretty much the best thing since sliced bread. I'd tell you more, but it's easier if you just go to his website. Immediately after this picture was taken, I was interviewed by Anamaria Flores of the North Jersey Record newspaper. I'm not exactly sure where North Jersey is (Apparently near a White Castle fast food restaurant) but one thing's for sure: if you're in the centre of Times Square being interviewed by someone from a newspaper, you feel like a big shot. She put Dom and I on the cover of the travel section, in colour. Big Shot.


This picture is kinda hurting. My eyes are red and teeth look yellow. Dom looks like the Michelin Woman. But that's okay, cause the important thing is not HOW the picture looks, but WHO took the picture. After Dom and I got screwed over royally at 1am by an unnamed hostel on the upper west side, we decided to cut our losses and fend for our lives on the concourse of Penn Station. When we got to the 103st Subway station, we saw a really wigged out rat walking drunkenly across the platform. Then we met two sisters, Meg and Kara. Meg was freaked out by the rat, but managed to still take this picture. They listened to our predicament and offered us a couch to crash on at Kara's place in Brooklyn. We took them up on the offer and had a great sleep. Like me, Kara's 25 and a writer. She's currently working as a temp somewhere in NYC and plans to put together a collection of memoirs about working as a temp. She hates rats, but dislikes the term "memoirs" even more. Same goes for me.

$4 and a Microwave

Montreal doesn’t have a Subway. Montreal has a Metro.

I’ll be the first to admit that pulling in minimum wage 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 moments after me 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?” I realized my obvious skills for sensing a good location were being unceremoniously wasted and 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 are already having 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?”
“Yeah, 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 commenced making the rounds of Sasha’s ‘hood’ by 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.” Then we knocked on the door of an obviously closed and deserted restaurant, apparently owned by his brother, where supposedly there was, “A job in this restaurant for you if you be wanting it.”

By this point I’d taken a liking to Sasha. His unorthodox entrepreneurial style was inspirational to say the least and I was curious to learn more about 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 the 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 a true illegal basement sweatshop: labour exploitation and smouldering fire hazards.

“I have plastic for you to fold.’’ said Sasha. Now I, like every other kid in my grade 8 science class who owned a ‘BIC’ pen the first day our science teacher let us use the Bunsen burners, 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. After an hour, I stood proudly over 200 completed pieces.. Sasha strolled downstairs with a coffee in hand, sized-up my output, and put me in my place.
“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 a pile of 400 name plate 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 the following is 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

I Love Alberta Beef

**I Love Alberta Beef recently won the Grand Prize in a Story Contest organized by Matt Jackson of Summit Studios. It will be part of a forthcoming compilation of Travelers Tales. Please see Summit's website for more info:http://mattjackson.ca/


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.”

copyright © 2005 by Kyle MacDonald