Crystal Clear - the cycles of poverty and ignorance

I used to think that the situations on the Jerry Springer show were staged. But that was before we visited Daytona Beach.

I used to believe that the sheer ignorance and depravity of the people on that show were faked for some sick pleasure of the audience.

But that was before we visited a local laundromat in Elizabeth City. Where we met 'Crystal'.

One thing I love about cruising is meeting people from all walks of life. In every type of place imaginable.

And then there are the ‘Crystal’ days. When I marvel at this world and all it’s made up of. America, fabled land of freedom and opportunity. Where Crystal is a 25 year old blond, blue eyed, toothless, clinically obese girl, sipping on a McDonalds Big Gulp trying to get her laundry done ‘cuz she works 7 days a week at Hardee’s’ fast food up the road. 

Why does she work so much? Cuz she “loves money, sho’ nuff!”

Like us, Crystal is complaining about the laundromat. For me, it’s the thick layers of grime on the walls, floors, and pretty much every machine. I’m worried the clothes will leave this place dirtier than when I brought them in. Crystal says the dryers don’t work and it’s a rip off and the place should be ripped down. I agree.

But we are drawn together in this place, out of necessity.

For Crystal, it’s because her landlord refuses to fix a leak at her apartment and she is refusing to pay her water bill. So presumably the water’s been cut off. She assures us that she ‘ain’t payin’ the rent neither’, so presumably she’ll be on the streets again soon.

This won’t be the first time. She points a stubby finger through the grimy window across the street. “I was staying in the shelter beside the Taco Bell” for a while when I had my kids.

Crystal has two children. Their names are tattooed boldly on each arm. The girl is Nevaeh (heaven spelled backwards) and the boy, Isaiah. She explains that they have been taken away by Child Services and have been adopted by some ‘army family’ who live across the country. They have been gone two years. But she is sure that she’ll get them back one day.

“It’s my family’s fault. They’re racist bastards. They hate black people and my kids are mixed race. They called Child Services on me and had my kids taken away lotsa times. Charged me with neglect. But they never helped me with ‘em. The last time they went to the day care and stole ‘em. Haven’t seen ‘em since.”

Crystal pulls out her fancy Samsung phone and finds some photos to show us. Staring back at me on the smudged screen is a frail 3 year old in a torn pink t-shirt, a huge smile. It breaks my heart.

Crystal tells us that the adoptive family has changed her kids names – both first and last names. At 4 and 6 years old. This sounds absurd to us, along with the fact that she pays child support monthly or it’s garnished from her wages.

She lives with her Haitian boyfriend who she repeatedly calls ‘crazy’. They have his 7 year old boy with them. What about the father of her own kids? “No where to be found. He don’t care, don’t look after them, never did”.

She hasn’t seen her own family in over a year, though they all live in this town. All 14 siblings. According to her, they’re all racist. Except her brother. But he’s been on the run for 9 years.

What for? “He done did some things he shouldn’ta done. Robbed some warehouses…”

Crystal smiles as she remembers, “he robbed Honey Bun warehouse one time, showed up at my sister’s house with a whole heap of donuts. Snacks. Like a whole truck full! We said ‘where you get all them donuts from?! And he’s like don’t y’all worry, just give ‘em to all the kids. Next thing you know the cops show up and tell us we gotta give back all them snacks!”

Crystal also tells us about her other 2 kids, and when JW almost falls off his chair, she explained that they were dead. She casually describes being beaten at 5 months pregnant, at a house party, with her daughter standing by.

It was two women and a man and they kicked her repeatedly in the stomach. As we gasp, she laughs. I guess it’s been a crazy life! But anyway, my daughter was cryin’ after me, and later I jus’ started bleedin’”.  She lost the twins within a few days. Later she was ridden with infection and had to have a full hysterectomy. Maybe that was a good thing. Is there anything good in this story?

She showed us her scar ridden, gelatinous belly. That was the icing on this dismal cake. The life of the uneducated, repeating the mistakes and patterns of their parents before them…

She was taken away from her mother when she was a kid as well. She has never been happy, never felt loved. I saw her in her daughter’s eyes.

And then she was gone. And our laundry was done and we moved on. Untied from this city dock, and headed out. 

Shiloh, tied up on the city dock in Elizabeth City - even had our own gate!

Junior Captain at the helm, up the 'ditch'

Tying up in a lock

What lies ahead and to either side of us?

As we snake our way up the ditch, trees lining our path, I wonder what human stories are lurking, the pain and heartaches, the innocence of the children. The sordid details that are making their way to the next Jerry Springer line up.

Caribbean contrasts

This is my first year cruising. In a couple months we’ll have spent a full 12 months living onboard our boat. To landlubbers it sounds like an eternity, but to seasoned cruisers, we are mere infants, barely initiated to the lifestyle.

I have to side with the sailors on this one. I can’t believe we’ve been living on the ocean for 300 days. And in this time, not including our flight back to Canada and some sailing trips up and down the same islands with visitors, we’ve only sailed the distance between Grenada and St Lucia, or in quantitative terms, about 150 miles.

150 miles. In 10 months. OMG! Good thing I was not expecting a fast paced lifestyle. It’s hard to imagine how we’ve managed to fill the time, for a good 7 months, waiting out the hurricane season in Grenada, and a bit of island hopping for the rest of the time. But it ‘sailed’ by really. Time flies when you’re having fun.

Having fun takes many forms. It’s the contrasts I love best.

Today, headed into the marina on Shiloh’s side kick, the I LOVE SHILOH dinghy, we were hailed by the gang of local fishermen at the entrance to the lagoon. Arms waving, conch shells piled high, the frantic group got our attention and we spun around to see what it was all about.

The old wooden boats, bashing together as the guys unraveled gunky nets, all rippling muscles, sharp knives and fish blood, provided the backdrop. They needed a favour.

A fishing boat - St Lucia

Minutes later we had a stocky, rough looking, local fisherman called Allison (no joke!) on board with his daily catch, dripping fishy juices out of the once white sack, between our toes, onto the dinghy floor. He lived in Gros Islet, the poor seaside town just on the other side. He needed a lift across the lagoon entrance with today’s bounty. 100ft later, we had him docked at his destination and we were on our way.

Minutes after that, dinghy ‘parked’ we’d walked across the boardwalk of the well manicured marina, stopped off among the 10 stylish patios, choosing the Italian pizzeria, and I was sipping the foam off my cappuccino, downloading programs on the free wifi.

Contrasts.

From islands where goats rule the dusty roads, to others with cars spewing fumes down the highway strips.

From paint chipped, open gutter villages to the fanciest of marinas...

A local game of dominoes - Castries town, St Lucia

The fancy marina at Rodney Bay - St Lucia

A private residence on Rodney Bay Lagoon

We spent a month over the holiday season in Carriacou, where finding carrots or potatoes was hit and miss. Where the tiny local shops would wait with shelves emptying, for the promise of new stock brought over by the ferries. Christmas lunch was a hodgepodge of what we could find, five or six boats banding together to create a great day despite the lack of availability of much. Tomatoes were a scarce commodity, turkey brought in from Grenada – what a treat!, while tropical avocados were nowhere to be found.

Abundance in St Lucia after the droughts of supply in Carriacou

A few miles north, after a challenging sail, I am speeding through the aisles of a massive supermarket, where gluten-free has it’s own section and imported organic chocolates are prominently displayed. I can barely choose in this place. It’s sensory overload after months of living ‘island-style’ and making due.

Do I have enough room in my tiny impractical boat fridge for sour cream, yogurts, sliced hams, cheeses, corn on the cob, steaks, three types of apples, kiwis, chocolate milk (captain’s favourite) etc etc etc….

One thing is sure, I am going to gain weight over the next few months, judging by our (roughly) scheduled island stops. Martinique and Guadeloupe, still owned and well stocked by France promise great wine, cheeses, baguettes.

Maybe we should stop for longer in Dominica. There they’ve got more hills and forests to hike, and less restaurants and stores to indulge.

For now, I’ve got to get out of this café, walk off my lunch en route to buy ingredients for supper and maybe squeeze in a swim.

Oh, and some sailing might be scheduled for the near future as well!

Canada's ugly secret and their annual celebrations

Shiloh along with all the other yachts in Grenada, have survived a few hurricane scares, as the storms dissipated or swung north.

Meanwhile I have been learning some shocking realities about the country of my birth.

Canada enjoys a great reputation in the world. Canadians are seen as friendly, non-aggressive, neutral. We encourage immigration from around the world and offer free education and healthcare. No one delves deeper. No one wants to know about the disease that plagues her. No one looks at the open wounds she carries. The ugly legacy of the Indian treaties and the modern day aboriginal dilemma.

But one only needs to drive outside the suburban numbness of southern Ontario. Something I never did when I lived here. Something most people don’t take the time to do.

It’s uncomfortable because there is no easy answer. Blame is useless. Children suffer.

Indian/Aboriginal Reserves are everywhere, dotted across the countryside. They have their own tribal councils and are exempt from many of the laws of Canada. They are a legacy of colonialism and they are not working. Poverty is rife. Education and healthcare is non-existent. Drug abuse is rampant. Child abuse and sexual assault statistics are disproportionately high.

Our native population has not fit into the puzzle of society. Residential schools took the children from their families and prevented the learning of traditional languages. Land was taken and treaties were signed. Today the people are looking for their land and welfare and a way to remember their history. They are dealing with alcoholism, poverty, depression. Casinos are not the answer, tax free cigarettes or ‘smokes’ are also not helping. The government and the chiefs have let their people down. The government looks at overcompensation in the wrong way, and the chiefs take the financial reparations and hoard it. Nothing trickles down to the reserves.

But there is one tradition that persists in native communities across the country. The Powwow.

These alcohol-free events are annual celebrations in aboriginal communities that follow a general structure, with the focus on dance and costume as well as traditional music, speaking of native languages (though only spoken by less than 25% of aboriginal people). There are spiritual speeches and prayers and gathering around a fire. And of course there is food and lemonade and vendors of t-shirts and dream catchers and miscellany.

And when we pass the many First Nation signs on the road all through Ontario, my curiousity is always peeked. Visiting a powwow is a way to see the people at their best and learn a bit about a lost culture and every time I visit now, I make sure a powwow is on our list.

This year, after the family reunion, and the sad stories around Fort Frances about the land that is being reclaimed by native communities and then falling into disrepair, it was time for some positives.

We headed to Serpent River and their annual event.

Welcome sign written in Ojibway and English

Many were camping, some in traditional teepees

Some of the costumes and dancers

A community elder who spoke at length in Ojibway and English about the importance of women

One of the leaders of the traditional bands, deep in song

This was the 'shrine' of a medicine man who danced in a trance around the centre

Among the spectators - an adorable little boy

And another...

When we saw this vendor first, I wondered what such a name meant, what it's significance was. I thought it might be a south American name. But then it dawned on me, as I saw many cool young guys in these hoodies. It was the youth, embracing their community and making it their own. It stood for 'on - the - reserve' or On da rez!!! Gotta love it!

I learned alot that day. Firstly, that Indian/Native/Aboriginal doesn't have one face. Doesn't mean only one thing. There are positives. There is a ray of hope. But things as they are, do not work. The pow wows are thriving in spite of every other aspect of their lives and the way the treaties are being dealt with. Should the reserves be abolished? If not, how will they assimilate and prosper in Canada as a whole? How can we/they improve healthcare and education? The faces of the kids got to me. They are caught up in the mess that carries on between our government and their leaders. It needs to change.Just can't think how.

JW was amazed and appalled at the secret Apartheid Canada harbours. He was shocked that the local and global media does not highlight the problems. How is Canada able to live with the problems we've created? Meanwhile the doors are open to thousands of others from around the world who come here for a better life and opportunities to prosper. Yet the very people who settled this land so many centuries ago, we cannot figure out how to ensure this future for them.