Here is an email from Asma Jahangir, head of the Pakistani Human Rights Commission and the UN’s Special Rapporteur for freedom of religion worldwide. Now under house arrest in Lahore, she’s one of many Pakistanis urgently asking the world community to raise our voice:

There is a strong crackdown on the press and lawyers… The Chief Justice is under house arrest (unofficially). The President of the Supreme Court Bar (Aitzaz Ahsan) and 2 former presidents, Mr. Muneer Malik and Tariq Mahmood have been imprisoned for one month under the Preventive Detention laws…

There are other scores political leaders who have also been arrested. Yesterday I was house arrested for 90 days… the President (who has lost his marbles) said that he had to clamp down on the press and the judiciary to curb terrorism. Those he has arrested are progressive, secular minded people, while the terrorists are offered negotiations and ceasefires.

Lawyers and civil society will challenge the government and the scene is likely to get uglier. We want friends of Pakistan to urge the US administration to stop all support of the instable dictator, as his lust for power is bringing the country close to a worse form of civil strife…

–Asma Jahangir
Lahore, Pakistan

(still from Avaaz:)

General Musharraf claims that martial law is necessary to combat extremist terror. But it just doesn’t add up. Musharraf retains strong links with the Pakistani Taliban (see PS below). His emergency powers are being directed only against the democratic opposition, free press and judiciary – just days before a scheduled ruling on whether Musharraf could run for president while remaining army chief. In an August poll, too, Pakistanis rated “ensuring an independent judiciary, free press and free elections” as their top priority.

Right now, leaders around the world are deciding how to respond. The General is dressing up his crackdown in the rhetoric of “anti-terrorism” because Musharraf and his military supporters depend on foreign military aid and international recognition to maintain their legitimacy. That’s why we have to speak out now.

The world can’t ignore the threat of chaos in Pakistan, or the voices of our fellow democrats there. Let’s come together as we did on Burma, and move our governments to act. In these crucial early days, the voice of the world’s people has tremendous power. Let’s use it. Sign the petition and tell your friends today -

http://www.avaaz.org/en/emergency_pakistan

With hope,

Paul, Pascal, Galit, Ricken, Graziela, Ben and the whole Avaaz team

PS for more background on Pakistani polls and Musharraf’s links to the Pakistani Taliban, see: http://www.avaaz.org/blog/en/pakistan

The employees of a local Plastics Company are being treated like slaves, and some of them believe that this is how Canada is, or at least Quebec; and that they never should have expected more. This breaks my heart. I have to believe this company is a cruel and illegal exception to be stopped, not the rule.

But I’m not a lawyer, I know nothing about how to deal with a union that seems only interested in getting my friend to shut up and quit bothering them with paper work; or a company with a pack of lawyers that seem willing to try any form of manipulation to keep their workers intimidated. I am not equipped for this- but I know there must be someone out there who is.

My friend has been fighting the company for over two years, since ripping his shoulder muscle using a machine he was told to work on by a manager.

There have been shocking lapses in justice- including important evidence not being presented in court, company doctors lying about the damage to his shoulder, and people being fired for trying to stand up to the company. Threatened with loss of employment, workers have gone back to dangerous jobs with unhealed injuries, including broken bones, too scared to even file an accident report. The company takes advantage of that fact that most employees only speak English as a second language and no French to make them stay in a damaging situation. I have met many of these people, and I think that if a real lawyer or law firm was able to convince them he or she was going to stick with them and work to make this stop, that many of them would come forward.

Currently my friend is being told he has no right to disability or insurance, that his time has run out, that he must return to his job at the place where he was injured and that even if he does so he may lose his seniority and pension. He is a completely upstanding citizen, but is functionally illiterate so people seem extra inclined to dismiss him and push him around.

The legal aide who took my friend’s case was a young guy, and he quit broken hearted about 6 months ago, claiming he had never had to fight such a wicked company. Now everyone seems to be trying to get my friend to just be thankful for a job and to go back to work in the place where he suffered psychological and physical trauma, including having the life of his children threatened.

My friend has spent the past years living off the charity of friends and the religious institutions where he volunteers. He says he has nothing left to lose and so he wants to fight this till the end so they will know they cannot treat people this way. Now he is ready to sue, but until now he has been trying to do everything the right way, trying to follow exactly what he’s told, and to be respectful. He worked for this company loyally for almost 20 years before getting hurt and in that time was praised for his abilities and given responsibility for training other workers.

Please if anyone out there can help him understand what is happening and help put things right- he is open to all suggestions!! These injured and mistreated workers need to be able to find a passionate and dedicated laywer or law firm to take their case pro bono and fight this company. They just need someone to stand up for them.

If you can take a minute to think of anyone you might be able to forward this to, anyone who might be able to help take on this company or who might know someone who knows someone- please do it.

If you think you can help- contact me at risa@ openjournalmontreal.com and I’ll put you in touch.

Thank you very much for your time.
R

Your Excellency

I am writing to express my deep concern at the incommunicado detention in Fajr prison, Qom, of 173 members of the Nematollahi Sufi community following their arrest on 13 February, after an apparently peaceful demonstration. Detainees have allegedly been tortured during interrogation- not only does this damage the reputation of the state and the people of Iran in the world’s eyes, but confessions extracted under duress are prohibited by Article 38 of the constitution of Iran. “All forms of torture for the purpose of extracting confession or acquiring information are forbidden”.

I do not presume to know about the complexities of running a state. I respect the difficulty of your position but cannot support violence against peaceful people. In addition, the Sufi people have historically been able to bring peace and a space for productive conversation.

Sufi scholars went to great lengths in establishing a sense of continuity and evolution amongst the various revealed faiths – such as Judaism, Christianity and Islam. In helping to reconcile formally differing beliefs amongst Christians, Manicheans, Jews, and Muslims, the Sufis were instrumental in limiting political tensions and in facilitating a modicum of social peace and stability.

This ability is not a threat but is, instead, God’s greatest gift to his people: the ability to love and respect each other no matter how different we seem.

Therefore I am calling on the authorities to grant the detainees immediate access to their families, lawyers, and any necessary medical treatment.

Myself and thousands of others are calling on you to stand up for human rights, and for the constitution of Iran. These 173 missing people should released immediately and unconditionally unless they are to face recognizably criminal charges and to receive fair and prompt trials in accordance with their rights under international law.

Thank you so much for your time, and for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
Risa

I awoke this morning to the sound of children playing, light snow falling slowly from the sky. I looked out my second story residence window onto the park next to my building and saw little kids running around in their snowsuits yelling in Norwegian. I smiled. With my jet lag, and the sun rising so late here at the 60th parallel, I had greatly overslept. I left Mali one month ago, but I feel as though it is only now that my trip is coming to an end, or at least coming full circle.

Step back eight months.

I left Oslo on June 1st last year. My adventures took me through major cities in Europe: Copenhagen, Prague, Budapest, Vienna, Berlin and Paris. I then ventured into Northern Italy to play in the Dolomites with Greg, a righteous dude and steadfast climbing partner. I then continued on to the beauties of Verona and Venice before heading westward to France where I took the time to indulge in the wines of Bordeaux and the surf on the Atlantic. I jumped on the high-speed train to Paris to admire the romance of la vie en rose before finally taking a sketchy flight to Bamako for my first experience in Africa.

I fell in love with Mali and its people. Caring, beautiful, simple, non-confrontational, genuine, kind people. I will miss them dearly. Their culture, their thoughts, and their smiles. My last month in Mali was amazing. Joined by Dave, yet another epic dude and travelling partner, I embarked on an adventure I will never forget. I saw the heartland of a country I was beginning to call home; the Niger that nourished the land and the people; the infamous Timbukto, gateway to the Sahara; the stunning Hombori Tondo, a towering splendor amidst desert wasteland; and the mysterious Dogon Country with its rugged escarpments and beautiful sunsets.

My final night in Bamako was a sad one. I had not become extremely attached to any one person, but that made it worse; the many wonderful people I had met and befriended I would probably never speak to or see again.

So, I said goodbye to Bamako. I went out for a final spin on my motorbike and crossed the old bridge that takes you out of the city. I stopped halfway. I looked out over the last sunset I would see in Mali, took off my straw cowboy hat that I had been wearing since Oslo, now tattered beyond recognition, and threw it out into the Fleuve. It floated down like a light snowflake and landed softly on the Niger.

My return to the West was as chaotic as it could possibly have been. Bamako-Casablanca-Paris-Montreal-Charlottetown-Moncton-Hamilton-Waterloo-Toronto-Montreal-Vermont-Montreal-Orlando-Montreal-Paris-Oslo. If ever you think it might be fun to try to get in 10 flights in 30 days, take my advice: DON’T DO IT.

But I am finally feeling a little settled again. It’s strange. I had been expecting my return to Montreal to feel like a return home. I did after all spend 6 of my adult years living there and some of the people I hold dearest to me are in or around that city. However, in contrast to my expectations and despite how amazing it was to be back in my old hood, in the end it was my arrival in Oslo that really made me feel as though I was “back”. I suppose it makes sense. This was the starting point for this little adventure, and I knew it would also be the end. Then again, one ending is also some other beginning.

Regardless. I am back in a tiny residence room at the northern outskirts of the city. Excited about getting in some cross-country skiing as a break from sifting through interview transcripts and Malian documents, writing and re-writing. I am anxious about returning to Africa as soon as possible though. Perhaps Mali, perhaps somewhere new. There is still a good chance that I will be heading to Kenya in March for an internship with the UNDP. I’ll certainly keep you updated. For the next while though, I will be taking in the luxuries of Oslo and the abundance of snow. Enjoying the contrasts that make up life.

I hope you are all doing well and have been able to get at least a little enjoyment out of my ranting and raving from the developing world. Keep in touch. And in the mean time, live and love life.

Epic.
Michael

A cool breeze blowing off the Bani River descends upon Mopti, softening the brutality of the mid-afternoon heat in the ancient town. Two men dressed in Tuareg attire – flowing robes and protective turbans – huddled in the shade playing a game of Wali to pass the time, engaged but silent, as words required more effort than their effectiveness warrants.

A voice echoes from the stairwell: « Tout de suit, tout de suit », instantly disrupting the lethargy of the heat-plagued afternoon. « Tu dois partir tout de suite. J’ai trouver un Pinasse Marchandise pour Timbukto. Le bateau t’attends. »

The men look up slowly. Then towards each other. “Holy dirt! Dude! Giver’”
Unceremoniously, the robes are discarded and exchanged for matching Ho-chi Min T-shirts; ‘Faux Tuaregs’ exposed and familiar heroes emerge.

Cast of characters:
1) PEI Mike, resident of Bamako formerly of Oslo, expert moto driver.
2) TN Dave, resident of nowhere, drinker of enormous amounts of wine and coffee.

Stage left, enter ‘Palmo’ an excessively large jug, bright yellow, container of water, and soon to be basis for measurements of volume, height, weight, value, and general nimiety (Latin root word for “excess” as many of you will recall).

Scene ends as Michael, Dave, Palmo and two Malian friends run out into the streets towards the port in a frenzy that only the urgency of an imminently departing boat demands. Four hours later, Michael, Dave and Palmo are all aboard enjoying the sunset view of Mopti harbor as offered by a still anchored pinasse.

And so began the Nimiety on the Niger. Shortly after sunset, the pinasse departed from the harbor, entering into the main current of the Bani River, main tributary of the legendary Niger. Five minutes later, the pinasse pulls to shore for evening prayers and remains anchored there until two in the morning.

For three days and two nights, the pinasse served as home; a merchandise ship full of charcoal, watermelons, flour, and about twenty residents, only two of whom slept in Gortex bivies and used an unleaded fuel-powered Whisperlite stove to make morning coffee. The river itself ran a sublime, meandering course, nourishing the riverbanks sufficiently to allow green agricultural fields and mud villages amidst the encroaching sand dunes of the Sahara.

But this little river journey was but the first leg of the now infamous epic journey of The West African Shakedown. To describe this experience in its entirety would require a short novel, so for now we hope you will be satisfied with the following list of journey facts, highlighting some of the key aspects of this P’tit Tour du Mali:

Consumption:
# of meals involving rice and sauce: 59/63
# of meals involving rice and sand: 59/63
# of beers enjoyed over sunsets on the Niger: 5
# of gag reflexes while attempting to show respect by eating local millet based delicacy called toh: 3

Adventure:
# of “Welcome To” videos filmed with Michael’s digital camera (i.e. Welcome to the Sahara, Welcome to Sheep Transfer, Welcome to Couper Decaller etc): 17
# of fanciful stories proposed starting with the line: “When we buy those camels…”: 4
# of times seminal techno track “Brother’s Gonna Work It out” is heard while riding a camel through the Sahara: 2
# of nights slept at the highest point in Mali after a stunning sunset rock climb: 1

Travel:
# of people who vomited in our mini-bus ride into Dogon country: 4
# of flat tires on said van ride: 2
# of dudes who decided to move up to the top of the van halfway through the ride: 2

Palmo:
# of liters held by Palmo: 20
height representation: 1 Palmo = 2 ft
weight representation: 1 Palmo = 20 kilos
monetary representation: 1 Palmo = 4,000 CFA (8 dollars)
actual value of Palmo: apparently only about 400 CFA (80 cents)
percentage of people who asked for Palmo as we walked by them on our 4-day trek through Dogon Country: 100

Beasts of Burden (and other exciting fauna) sightings:
# of hippos: 1
# of horses: ~ 100
# of camels: ~ 1000
# of sheep: ~ 10,000
# of goats: ~ 10,000
# of donkeys: ~ 10,000,000
# of pigs: 4

Live and love life.

Dave and Michael

I crossed the border on October 29th in a Mexican made VW Jetta named Cloey. The car belongs to my crazy french lesbian housemate / co-worker, but we are sharing her down here. I think she is happy to be home so far and seems to love the dirt roads.

My boss led the way after the border crossing, driving a large white Ford F250 which we have dubbed ¨Mamacita,´ which loosely translates into the dreamiest of all dream girls. Mama was pulling the last of our J 80 sailboats southbond.

The drive was out of this world. Just under 900 miles from the border to Puerto Vallarta. Rule number one of driving in Mexico is BOTH HANDS ON THE WHEEL! Children, dogs, goats, cows, horses, donkeys, cars, and trucks enter the roadway unexpectedly on a regular basis.

Maybe the funniest moment was when we came out of a pit-stop taco stand and found that a Mexican had washed my entire car and was sitting next to it with his sponge and a huge grin. The car was actually dirtier after he did his work, but I gave him 10 pesos anyway for his sheer entrepreneurialism.

The first Mexican state you enter from Tuscon, Arizona is Sonora. I thought it would be flat and ugly but it had beautiful mountains, like the rest of the drive, and scrubby vegetation in between dusty roadside towns. They grow a lot of poppy for US heroin there.

We spent the night in San Carlos on the Sea of Cortez. A juxtaposition of dry mountainous rocky desert and crystal clear blue ocean.

Next we passed through Sinaloa South of Mazatlan at 4 am where we could only find love hotels with big curtains to hide your car from gossip. Wayne slept in the truck and I had a wonderful night of sleep in the J 80 outside a Pemex station in the middle of nowhere. The vegetation started becoming more tropical from that point South.

The road deteriorated pretty significantly South of Mazatlan but the scenery went through the roof. The state of Nayarit is where I live, and I think it is one of the most beautiful places on earth. It is what one thinks of when one hears the word Mexico. Tropical, lush, mountainous, azure ocean, white sand beaches, rocky headlands, pastoral villages, you got it baby. The drive through Nayarit is as amazing as the road is narrow and lousy, and the sites are enthralling.

Here, with the slightest hint of cold (9 degrees?), the simultaneous and mass deployment of gear and ornaments that intersect in a fashion-pragmatism-use assembly is overwhelming me. Folks have busted out whole alternate sets of clothing configurations to address the aesthetic demands of weather in productive ways. Weather prioritizes a whole other mode of not only sign-value but also of habit and gesture as
expressed by the walking semiotic relays around me. The coolness is too much.

I am petty, yes, but this is how I spend my commute to York. I do revel in it; affirmation in critique! instead of an ipod to wash out the incursions, I may follow my friend’s advice and invest in a set of industrial earplugs. The tactic would not be an effort to negate the sonorized environment; instead, it’d enable and enhance touch and sight and smell and taste… Or not – but it’ll be cool either way.

I just hope i’m not blazed by a car while crossing a street with ears closed, though I did once fight the front end of a cab doing 55 with my drunken carapace and I still maintain it bent around me rather than I around it…a negotiation of asymmetrical vectors.

anyway, i work overnight at the shelter so i digress. gonna grab a few winks.

Neil.

Having visited the Mandingues Mountains once before, I knew there was an amazing little bouldering spot that was calling my name. And so with thoughts of moving over stone, I woke up with the rising sun, tossed a couple of litres of water, some chocolate, my chalk bag, and climbing shoes into my pack and headed off for an adventure. Driving some 65km on a dirt road with my dependable – hah! – Yamaha 100CC and my trusty Congolian sidekick Jos, we arrived in the village of Sibi in the early morning with a beautiful blue sky and a brilliant sun shining down upon us.

The small village of Sibi is inhabitated by the Malinké, a large African tribe that can be found through much of the Mandingues region. This mountain range, as well as its inhabitants, are really an extension of the larger Fouta Djalon Mountain range of neigbouring Guinée. The stunning scenery surrounding this small village contrasts wonderfully with the polluted streets of bustling Bamako.

Jos and I dropped off my moto with a local villager, who then had his 10 year old son start us up a path that would take us into the heart of a beautiful rock landscape. As we climbed the winding trail an intense, nearly overpowering sent of mint engulfed us. It was completely intoxicating. Sure enough we were surrounded on all sides by lush fields of this potent smelling plant. We cut off as much as would reasonably fit into our packs and moved forward, knowing it would make wonderful gifts for our neighbours back in Bamako, who use this strong tasting leaf in their never-ending all night tea sessions.

Aside from an emergency break in order for me to relieve some reminant Giardia issues, our ascent was relatively effortless and resulted in our arrival on top of a giant hoop-like rock structure (this formation can actually be seen in a previous photo I sent showing yours truly pointing excitedly and yelling ‘epic!’)

After snapping some photos and screaming ‘epic’ several times, we found some shade under a huge rock, took refuge from the intense heat of the sun and dozed off in the pleasant breeze. I awoke only when the sun had crossed the sky and had moved the shade of the rock, throwing me back into the heat of the day. I got up and looked around, still amazed with where I was in the world, when all of a sudden I heard a distant but distinct ‘clink’ sound. Jos assumed it was the Toobaboos (white people) we had seen in the valley below, having a picnic. But I recognized that distinctive ‘clink’ sound and my heart began palpitating.

Sure enough, my ears did not deceive me. After hiking down the side of the mountain and following the occasional sound coming from deep in the lush greenery, I found them: local Malians teaching Toobaboos how to rock climb! That distinctive ‘clink’ was indeed the sound of quick-draws being clipped into bolts on the rock.

I chatted with the Malians and was surprised to discover that they have only been climbing for two years. They were flown to Charmonix, France for an intensive training course in rock climbing, subsidized by a development programme for entrepreneurship. They were sent tonnes of gear from France and now make their livelihoods taking tourists out climbing for 4 dollars a day. They have put up some 60 routes in the area and are busy setting up more.

I ended up climbing a few of them, starting out by leading a nice classic corner with a couple of intense moves to the anchor. It was called Voix de Moussa (Moussa’s Route) and sure enough, I was being belayed by none other than Moussa himself! The trip made my week, and I will surely be returning as soon as possible. It reminded me how important it is to give yourself a little playtime now and again.

Live and love life,

Michael

(*) Many of you know of my love of the term ‘epic’. It can be used in many situations. For example as a noun, as is most common; the epic tale of Odysseus. Or as adapted by young Californians in it’s adjective form to descibe the ‘epic-ness’ of a situation, that is, how much the situation was similar to an epic tale; ‘that was so epic dude.’ Or my personal favourite as a verb, as in, lets go epicking, i.e. lets go create are very own epic tale.

The term epic-withdrawal refers to ones state of mind when one has not been epicking for some time. Post Epic Withdrawal Syndrom, or PEWS, is a similar concept, descibing the feeling experienced on a Monday morning at work after an epic weekend, spent for instance skiing, or playing in the mountains. As an aside, I am currently reading a history of Francophone Sub-Saharan Africa where the author keeps using the word to describe historical African ‘epics.’ I smile each time I come across the word. Epic! True I might be over using it. But back off! I like it.

Luke and Charlie has a small spare room, with a window that looked out on a brick wall, and they offered it to me for 100 dollars, and I moved in that weekend. My parents even helped me, they were that brave. We only lived together for one year, but it felt like ten of us lived in there, and talked about writing and travel inbetween drunken frat-boy type bouts. It was lovely and just long enough, though I do have waves of missing them and the whole life I didn’t lead yet, and we all exchange lovely letters. These old letters offer such honest and interesting glimpses into other worlds that I share them here, and today I got a new one, this time from Luke out in San Francisco…
risa

It has been so kind to hear from you all in your respective
corners of the world. All of your adventures sound amazing
and keep me going through the day-to-day boredom of life in
America. I recently had a revelation about the importance
of keeping in touch with friends, so here I am with an
update for you on my life in Northern California.

I’ve been around San Francisco bay since late March. The
drive cross-country was an excellent period of meditation,
backed up by techno and campstove-made gourmet coffee, the
only way to clear Iowa safely in my opinion. Snide remarks
were made about my surfboards in Nebraska, and I
encountered two blizzards in Nevada. A righteous trip of
solitude and reflection overall.

Since arrival I’ve been teaching sailing to random
well-to-do folks from all around the country and world.
San Francisco bay is now one of my favorite places to sail
in the world. Between the bridges, the city, the local
mountains, and the “wind machine”, she never fails to
amaze. Not the most socially responsible work, but it is
hard to imagine not being outside anymore. Pounding along
under the Golden Gate and sunny skies with a reef in and
the rail buried has yet to disappoint any of my clients,
or me for that matter.

For a couple months now I have been living in the San
Francisco with my cousin. As I sit in this art gallery
cafe listening to some great free live music, I realize
this city charms me deeply enough to nearly hold me.

The N train runs underground through the heavily urbanized
sections of the city, then surfaces about halfway across
the peninsula on its way to the end of the line at Ocean
Beach. It crosses the San Andreas fault and from the sunny
side to the foggy wind-battered outer neighborhoods, where
I live.

A few days ago, an afternoon nap evaded me, so I rambled
downhill to my corner cafe where I chatted politics and
women with a typically very intelligent homeless San
Franciscan. A couple of steaming dark roasts were able to
shake the listlessness, so I hopped the N to catch the
sunset over the Pacific.

Surfers call Ocean Beach OB, and it really is the end of
the line. It is where the power of Southwest groundswells
from typhoons in the South Pacific and Northwest
groundswells from massive storms near the Alaskan Aleutian
islands explode onto the shores of this major city. It is
known for its exposure and unforgivingness and its density
of local wildlife including a great white shark population.

After the first submersion the cold North Pacific seems to
go directly into your bloodstream. Paddling out is a
departure from the city to the wilderness. The wave is
fast, heavy, unpredictable, and shallow here. The rip
currents are extremely powerful at this spot, and often
your board will just lose buoyancy after having been caught
in some gnarly downdraft. How far down will she take you?
You have ceded all control. Respect is ultimate.

Waking at 5 am to catch the first of a new swell. Driving
to the beach in the dark and fog. This is ridiculous but
you cannot stop. The cold water is a rapturous flight into
an ecstasy of terror, and celebration of the extreme
vitality and beauty of life.

So I stood on the dunes at the end of the line, looking out
over OB across the Pacific to where the orb of the sun
slowly dipped below the horizon. The wind was blowing
heavily onshore. Bad for surfing but creating beautiful
waves in the sand covering human footprints and making the
dunegrass, golden in the sunset light, perform a wild
dance. When the big one comes will sand cover man’s
footprint here as Katrina reclaimed New Orleans with water?

Having Davey local working crush up in the vinelands has
been so good. Together we have been able to penetrate deep
into the ultimate spiritual and aesthetic juxtaposition to
the sea – the high mountains. Watching a crazy full red
moon rise just after the sunset from our basecamp at 10,000
feet at the foot of a glaciated stratavolcano was surreal.

More recently we nearly froze to death on a late season 6
pitch trad climb up Cathedral peak in Yosemite… frigid
white granite! Bleeding hands, bleary eyes, loss of finger
feeling, unimportant thoughts… gone. We always knew the
mountains were unforgiving but we learned again, a hard
lesson.

So that is what I have been up to. I have omitted many
other great stories, I am sure you have too. There are a
couple about live music in the impossibly hip neighborhoods
of San Francisco but you’ll have to come to Mexico to hear
those.

In a few weeks I’ll be moving South of the border for the
winter. The flip-flops remain but I am trading in my
t-shirt for a big straw hat.

You are all cordially invited to visit. I plan on setting
up quite a base camp and will have access to all manner of
land and sea based vehicles.

Mexico City has a giant coliseum where they host
bullfights. New Years in the capitol?

I hope this finds you all healthy and happy.
All the best,
Luke

It is 6:21 pm on Wednesday, September 21, and I just finished watching a segment on the Toronto CTV news about this summer–described, to my horror, as the “best summer ever.”

I take it that heat and sunshine dominated as “best” factors, and the forty-four disgusting, pollutant-overloaded, impossible-to-breathe, too dangerous to BE outside, killer smog days were just a blip on an otherwise perfect summer.

I miss the CBC every time I watch your newscast. The aforementioned report is but one of many skewed “news” items: the gas price hike an occasion to sympathise with “poor” SUV drivers who cannot afford to go to the lake; the sensational, incessant coverage of the Alicia Ross disappearance (selective, considering women go missing all the time); exploitative reports on the Katrina “refugees”…

I guess Global will get my “audience commodity” share until the strike ends. Kudos on terrible journalism. Fox would be proud.

Natalie Kallio