A Fall For A Close Call: The Quebec Referendum

During my struggle to find serenity in the ebb and flow of my new limeño lifestyle, my country was coping with its own conundrum. We were both simultaneously undergoing an internal struggle of sorts, fighting our inner demons but maintaining an outer calm. Even when the whole world seems to be falling apart, it is important to appear in control. Kind of like a brilliant T-shirt I saw someone wearing on the street a while ago announcing: "God is coming. Look busy!" The world had to know both Canada and William Bickford still had their houses in order and our demeanour demonstrated a reassuring "business as usual". By October, I noticed my situation was not as serious as I had originally thought when the talk of town - Canadian embassy staff and expats - centred on Quebec and the probability of separation. I was shocked and could not believe anyone would want to break away from Canada as it portrayed a sort of utopian society from my experiences and acquired knowledge. A land of tolerance and diversity. Everyone was free to be himself or herself under the Maple Leaf. It became even more surprising when people who were not affected by this situation would approach me and ask about the actual causes for the troubles between the two different cultures: the Anglos and Quebec. I rapidly became an expert at only 14 on the subject.

Pro-Federalist rally in Montreal, Quebec

Quebec separatism has followed an historic trend resembling a ride on a roller coaster. The highs and lows are extremely noticeable. The highs generally occurred during times of economic difficulty (i.e. 1990s recession), international conflict (i.e. during the great wars, Quebecers opposed involvement or conscription), in-house boondoggles (i.e. Quebec not being recognized as a distinct society, or signing the Charter of Rights and Freedoms) or meddling from people who should not get involved (i.e. Charles de Gaules infamous call to francophones "Long live free Quebec.") The lows, well that is slightly easier, you just don't hear any talk about it. In the mid-90s, The separatist machine seemed to be losing its momentum as the Parti Quebecois Premier, Jacques Parizeau, spearheaded his lifelong dream of achieving independence. At the Federal level, he enjoyed the support of Lucien Bouchard, representing the Bloc Quebecois in our House of Commons. Quite an incredible accomplishment that a party committed to secession is the second largest in Parliament. Prior to the October 30, 1995 referendum, they were central figures campaigning in favour of the "YES" (in favour of separation). Although a previous referendum had been shot down, to the discontent of the sovereigntists, they were committed to obtain a yes at all costs. Reality regarding the ramifications of an unfavourable vote for the rest of Canada, or the importance their provincial partner brought to the table in terms of economy, culture and history, had failed to set in, even in the final week leading up to the vote. Only the people of Quebec were allowed to decide their fate in the concert of nations.

The catalyst for the independence movement in Quebec was arguably the Quiet Revolution in the 1960s, where institutions were largely reformed. The Roman Catholic church was dethroned as the main providers of health and education by a newly created and well-funded unionized public sector, increased control of the management of the economy and the nationalization of  electricity production and distribution. This period gave birth to the Parti Quebecois committed to separatism as well as a small faction of Marxist separatists that undertook terrorist actions under the name of Front de libération du Québec. The spike of their activity came in the October Crisis  in 1970 during which James Cross, a British diplomat, as well as Quebec Labour Minister, Pierre Laporte were both kidnapped with Laporte eventually being killed. He was found in the trunk of a car parked in the Quebec City Airport. In 1980, the first referendum failed - the question centred on political sovereignty with economic association. The second, in 1995, was designed to achieve full independence although the question on its own was rather ambiguous to say the least. Judge for yourselves:

"Do you agree that Québec should become sovereign after having made a formal offer to Canada for a new economic and political partnership within the scope of the bill respecting the future of Québec and of the agreement signed on June 12, 1995?"

Correct me if I am wrong, but this question is as crystal clear as the water of the Gulf of Mexico after the BP oil spill. Something that would perhaps made more sense in my opinion was to simply state something along the lines of: "Do you agree Quebec should become a sovereign nation and negotiate new treaties as a new player in the world economy”. Something clear in my mind is an all or nothing concept. When you decide to buy a brand new tv, do you buy a refurbished one with no warranty? In my mind, Quebec was selling a broken object to "its" people. Parizeau and his Parti Québécois government in 1995 proposed the bill in question to the Quebec National Assembly. It proposed to give the Assembly the power to declare the province sovereign with the exclusive power to pass all its laws, levy all its taxes and conclude all its treaties. It received a first reading but the final version of the bill depended on the results of the 1995 referendum. Had this become law after approval by the assembly, it would have served as the legal basis for the Quebec government to declare Quebec a sovereign country.

On the other side of the vote, the Federalist players were led by - in the words of Ahmad Rashad - my main man, Jean Chrétien, Daniel Johnson, leader of the Quebec Liberal Party, Jean Charest, leader of the Quebec Conservatives and Brian Tobin, then Federal Minister of Oceans and Fisheries. It seemed troublesome in the beginning that the Federalists had not taken their task very seriously. I recall some people mentioned our Prime Minister had gone golfing before the end of the season. The Federal Government in the possibility of a “YES” vote did little contingency planning. Some cabinet ministers had met to discuss scenarios such as referring the results to the Supreme Court. Senior civil servants considered the impact of the vote on issues such as territorial boundaries, federal debt, whether or not Chrétien, since elected in a Quebec riding, would be able to assure the Governor General he retained sufficient support within his party to remain Prime Minister. The Department of National Defence made preparations to increase security at some federal institutions and ordered our CF-18 aircraft out of Quebec, ensuring these would not be used as pawns in any future negotiations. The aboriginals in Quebec were also on the federalist side. First Nations chiefs claimed that joining an independent Quebec would violate international law, as their agreements were with the Canadian government. Grand Chief Matthew Coon Come underlined the right of the Cree to self-determination by keeping their territories in Canada.

Jacques Parizeau belting out his nationalist propaganda 

The day Quebec voted was an all-nighter for me. It was the first time in my pre-adult life my parents had allowed me to stay up as late as I wanted. After all, the fate of my country was at stake. Being a strong proponent of the French language, having attended schooling and tied to the culture, I was hoping the "NO" vote would win. I saw a strong Canada as one with Quebec. As Jean said in the House of Commons: "No Quebec? No Canada." It was a hard night's work watching the results coming in, always bordering the 50% margin sometimes slightly tipping toward the "Yes" and others to the "No". I had never been this nervous, even in an Argentina football match. By the time Montreal, the Outaouais region (right across the river from Ottawa), the First Nations and the Eastern Townships' votes came in, it was clear the Separatists had lost. Booyah! At the end of the night, the score was 50.58% (2,362,648 votes) for the NO and 49.42% (2,308,360 votes) for the YES camp. What an unbelievable night! Jacques Parizeau came on the big screen, almost in tears due to his defeat, delivering his speech to his supporters along with his resignation as Premier of Quebec. In his memoirs, he said if he had obtained a majority of 50% +1, he would have negotiated separation but that immigrants, aboriginals and other groups were responsible for the defeat. I suppose we did not see eye to eye in terms of multiculturalism, tolerance and diversity. I was just happy Canada survived intact and the dragon of separatism would go back to its deep slumber.

Softball Saturdays

As is customary in venturing overseas, the change of lifestyle often becomes synonymous with experiencing “first times”. On this occasion, I was introduced to slow pitch softball. My first time. Don’t knock it until you try it! Some of my father’s colleagues participated in an organized softball league where games were regularly played at the Franklin D. Roosevelt High School over the weekends. They were scouting for new recruits to add on to the Canadian presence in a world dominated by American sluggers. My brother, Brian, who was somewhat more gifted when it came to organized sports – at least better natural ability and coordination, especially after my major growth spurt – had agreed to join, so I was happy to tag along and give it a shot. I would love to say that I was courageous and a superstar athlete ready to represent my country while thumping Yanks around the field, but really it was just an honour to serve my country as best I could and share an activity with my compatriots.

Brian pitching up a storm

The team setup was predominantly American, as previously mentioned. The teams I can remember from back then are: AID (Americans from various aid organizations), DEA (somewhat self-explanatory), Embassy (not many career diplomats there, mainly US marines responsible for Embassy security), Fetzer (a school of American Baptist kids who seemed to get by on walks), Profes (the Roosevelt teachers and major rivals to the students), Prophets (adequate name for a team of mainly US missionaries bringing the word of The Big Man Upstairs), Roosevelt (a team of students from the school, mainly High Schoolers) and Team Canada. The latter was perhaps the most fun loving of all the teams and I was fortunate to be on the roster. The Canadian talent, a source of national pride, counted among their ranks two RCMP officers, Alain Lambert and Jim Whalen, Stuart Bale, our admin officer, David Marshall, a trade commissioner, Gilles Rivard, head of the development section, Jules Audet, representing the Canada-Peru development program, Dave Schmidt, working for FedEx, Michel, a UN employee who looked like Jean-Claude Van Damme, and Scott, the lone American who had been excluded from the DEA team for some reason. Brian found his knack on the pitching mound, demonstrating great form and intestinal fortitude. Mario Lambert and I were there as well representing the rest of the promising youth.

The way Canadians explained the game to my brother and I was to just get out there, take a swing and have fun. That was the reason for playing slow pitch softball. Everyone had their chance to shine facing a slow ball almost anyone could hit, leading to a momentary belief of being amazing. Nobody and everybody was a hero. My fellow countrymen took this sport and its philosophy to a whole different and enjoyable level. I remember on some occasions, our batters who will remain nameless ran out of the batter’s box chasing a bad pitch to hit while everyone else had a good laugh on the bench. Sportsmanship was everything to us even if we were doing a ridiculous job. The opposition frowned on our disregard for real competition and the proper rules. The umpires were perhaps among the few locals involved in the Saturday league and had little to no understanding of the basic rules such as foul balls – when a ball is hit and lands  outside of the line – or strikes - a ball being missed when swung at or hitting the plate after a high arching parabola. This was sometimes frustrating as some teams played for walks. I recall my brother initiating confrontations over a bad call against our side with one of the umpires and all our team rallied behind him in support. The other teams, which took their game very seriously, over-competitiveness and aggression was common, but not for the laid-back Canadians. We were not out there primarily to win games - we hardly ever did - but we felt we deserved the same treatment our rivals enjoyed. If we complained, other teams and their fans (usually spouses taking in the game) looked down at us claiming we were whining. If they did it, it was normal. Therefore it was a league of whiners. Most of the time however, nobody had as many laughs and as good a time as we did.

I had never played baseball or softball in my life, and neither did Brian. This did not deter us from engaging in the activity. In the beginning, I was not too sure if the glove was supposed to go on my right or left hand as neither seemed exactly comfortable – although I am ambidextrous. While warming up before a weekend match – our only source of practice - I missed a catch as I tossed a ball around with Jim Whalen, hitting me right in the knee. That was some awful pain I never wanted to replicate again. He suggested I walk it off, as all police-machoman-tough guys would, and eventually the pain would go away. He was right. Although no real technique was taught (i.e. positioning for a catch, defending a line-drive, how to time your swing when up at bat), we continued to practice a variation of America’s favourite pastime. It was apparent that the game did not require superior athleticism even though none among us was particularly good. The key was hand-eye coordination to determine positioning. The Marines annoyingly would say to their batters when they didn’t swing, regardless of the nature of the pitch “good eye”. The ball used in the game is significantly bigger than a baseball. Not only is it easier to keep an eye on it, but the speed is greatly reduced as it travels through the air. Aside from this, depending on what position you are assigned to in the field, you would have to sprint from time to time to make a play and having a bigger ball travelling slower makes it a game pretty much anyone can play. I thought I could get a hang of this eventually with practice, although our team did not consider that to be important. Warm-up on game day was good enough, a very Canadian approach to competition.

Best picture I could find of the Softball field

The league was also undergoing a period of expansion as a new franchise team was added the same year Brian and I were on our rookie season. The team in question was Mobil. The team was made up of some US executive businessmen from Mobil Oil, recently setting up operations in Peru. The rest of their roster seemed to include locally-engaged staff that had never played the game before and appeared to be coerced into the sport in a team-building effort. They did have some nice uniforms though. Maybe someone lost a bet on poker night, but they did not seem to want to be there at all. Their first match was against our team, a game we won easily. Hard to believe as we generally did not win. As a matter of fact, Stuart Bale, the closest we had to a team captain, had not come on that fateful day as he was ill. Upon arriving to work on Monday, my Dad bumped into him and told him the news. My Dad had never seen Stuart so disappointed, missing the only game in his entire posting that his team won. Mobil became better as they improved their skills and showed promising teamwork on the field, eventually declaring that their goal before the end of the season was to beat the Canadians. They trained twice a week on school grounds whereas the Canadians continued their relaxed attitude.  When game day came along, the men on a mission came up short against us. I thoroughly enjoyed being on this team as it brought a sense of camaraderie among my countrymen and the true value of sportsmanship: it’s just a game.

All Roads Lead To Santa Rosa de Lima

Success in a mission abroad lies primarily in becoming a spin artist. The reality of your own circumstances depends on how you define your status quo. The most appropriate motto I can think of is from Monty Python’s: The Life of Brian, which plainly states: “Always look on the bright side of life.” The easiest – and worst - thing to do in this type of situation is to face your reality negatively, locking the door to prevent contact with the outside world, confining yourself to isolation. You no longer deal with the situation, opting to run away from your problems. The other option, which I highly recommend, is to swing that door open and let yourself and your family be exposed to something new. The psychological trauma of being on “lockdown” mode for an extended amount of time can be extremely harmful. The sooner you realize this will not be like home – whatever that means to each person individually – the sooner you can learn from your surroundings and the richness around you. You will be proud of your accomplishments when you look back. You allow yourself to expand your horizons and have a real perspective of the world. Of course, similarly to being back home, some things are good and others are not. We, the Bickfords, always opted for scenario number two, which leads me to the story of our first day trip out of Lima.

Santa Rosa de Lima by Claudio Coello

In the early going, the Bickfords had become friends with the Lambert family, facilitated by the link of a working relationship in the Embassy between our heads of household and at the following generational level, through school. Over one of our first weekends, the Bickford gang met the Lamberts across Primavera and Velasco Astete, the main thoroughfares dividing our homes, where we would be joining another French-Canadian family on an interesting adventure. I can only remember the last name, Thibault, and he ran some sort of orphanage for underprivileged young boys in the city. Out of the three families, Mr. Thibault was the one who knew more about Lima, having lived there the longest. He had suggested we make our way to a hidden gem, Santa Rosa de Quives, a holy place the importance of which had not been properly explained to me at any point. He was in fact the only one to have been there, so we were basing this trip on pure good faith in him. Since both Alain Lambert and him had SUVs, they decided to split passengers up into men and women in their vehicles. Curious as both drivers were men so the division would not work in its entirety. Mr. Thibault would be the lead car of this expedition loaded with our women. It made sense for him to be the guide as he was the one with the intel. Alain, the RCMP veteran, would drive the escort car hauling all us hardy and handsome men. He even joked around reminiscing about his time spent trailing suspects early on in his law enforcement career as he agreed with his task in this adventure. We all settled into our proper positions and hit the road toward Santa Rosa de Quives.

Through the disorganized driving patterns of a busy Lima, my motion sickness began to kick in as I sat in the back seat with Brian and Mario. I could see through my discomfort the famous pueblos jóvenes – local name for shantytowns - surrounded by dust, dirt and tons of rubbish as we progressed. We passed the mighty Rimac River, which flows through the centre of Lima. Sometimes a raging torrent, when we passed, it was a coffee-coloured trickle. Mario suggested it was the only river in the world where one could do brown water rafting. The cityscape was still enveloped in that persistent thick fog accompanied by that lingering curious odour. Eventually a tabernacle, pronounced in a colourful Lac Saint Jean accent, resonated from the driver’s seat as Alain explained that he had lost the lead car. Maybe his cop skills had undergone a sort of attrition after years of desk-related work. We were now five gringos on the road to who knows where, surrounded by the pueblos jóvenes and all their décor. He pulled off the highway, not to give us a closer look as to the living conditions but to ask for directions. In his thick French-Canadian accent he asked an indigenous-looking Peruvian how to get to Santa Rosa de Lima. Everywhere we went, no one knew what he was asking but they were kind enough to give us even more vague directions, hoping this would help us attain our objective and catch-up to the party. Hope was lost. We ventured through the hostile streets with everyone who gazed upon us wondering what we were doing there. We figured nobody knew where this place was, but in fact, Santa Rosa de Quives was the actual name of a place, whereas Santa Rosa de Lima was the name of a virgin. She was the first saint hailing from the Americas and the Patron Saint of Peru. I guess Santa Rosa de Lima was everywhere so to speak.

After our failed attempt to rejoin the party, or find the site of Santa Rosa de Quives, we decided to stop at a reasonable looking place to grab a bite to eat. Since we had no cell phones or military radios, we were unable to communicate with anyone else to let them know what had occurred. We stopped within the Lima city limits to a district called Ancón, which Alain explained was a treasured destination to many limeños looking for some fun in the sun over the summer months. It was hard to imagine what the place would look like without the fog and that cold humidity always upon us. Regardless of being indoors or outdoors, your clothes always felt somewhat wet and sticky. We parked in a playa ­– usually means beach but in Peru, parking lot – where the only vehicle that seemed to be properly parked between the lines and in front of the curb was a row boat. Even the oars were safely stored inside the vessel. This seemed comical from a North American perspective, as a parking officer from our home country would have had a field day in this city. People routinely parked wherever they felt was convenient and driving seemed to have few rules. Sure it is odd as an outsider but it is not up to us to judge and expect everyone to be like us. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Nearby we found a local seafood bar, a simple-looking place that appeared to have a great menu. It is common fashion there to have someone just outside a restaurant or bar approaching passers-by to coax them into their unique and fine establishment. Alain asked the friendly young waiter if they sold a drink called Sangre de Tigre. It was evident he did not understand Alain’s request but in a very “can-do” entrepreneurial attitude, he said they had anything we could ever want. The rest of us also had no clue what this was but we were all famished. We quickly learned that sometimes, the simpler the place is, the more genuine the food. I have no recollection to what this place was called, but the food was amazing. I ate perhaps one of the best ceviche mixto – a coastal seafood dish, usually fish cooked in limejuice, but this one had octopus, fish, shrimp and all sorts of good stuff – in my life. My bowl seemed to contain half of the ocean. What an incredible unexpected treat. We later tried Sangre de Tigre – a mixture of ceviche juice with vodka – a thoroughly vile concoction that we never drank again. After the meal we proceeded to the shore and boardwalk.

The bay of Ancon without the fog

The walk through the insidious fog was tough, especially after filling ourselves to the brim with incredible food. We saw several monuments telling their story about local heroes who gave their lives valiantly defending their beloved country. The Peruvians had fought battles against their neighbour and long time rival to the South, Chile. It was funny but I was quite familiar with their conflicts as history was fascinating to me since a very young age, and now I was listening to the Peruvians as they shared their tale. During our walk, we came across a motorcycle taxi service – a motorcycle hooked up to a sort of rickshaw – and we hired two of these to give us a tour of Ancón. We would have a chance to see more without having to walk with full and heavy stomachs. The drivers did not seem to express concern having three teens on one and two rather large adults, one more than the other, as passengers. They flew through the tight streets – and sometimes sidewalks - not really explaining much or giving us time to admire the scenery until eventually, I noticed we were on the highway travelling in the opposite direction to traffic. That was living on the edge! The drivers seemed to race each other and as we passed by, we greeted our fathers with gestures and waves of all sorts. Both vehicles merged once more into streets and sidewalks, completing a circle that took us back to the boardwalk where they picked us up. Maybe a 15 to 20 minute flash tour of Ancón. I am sure there was more to see but we shared many laughs and great anecdotes afterwards on our way back home to rejoin the women. I heard later from my Maman and Mario’s mother, Angèle, that their tour was rather dull. Perhaps our failure to reach the objective was a blessing in disguise. Santa Rosa de Lima was with us on that day.

From Russia With Love

As I mentioned near the conclusion of my previous blog entry, the world has its own way of making things work out, returning a sense of balance. The same energies would come into my life during the next few months of being a High School freshman. I was feeling further alienated seeing my bridges burned after attempting to join the Peruvian population. It was no longer an option for me to continue to that end and I was not willing to take any more chances. If my environment would be subject to further bombardment, I would not make it through the posting. Two years could turn into an eternity when being on the wrong end of a conflict. I was now moving away from “adaptation” to more of a “coping” mode in regards to my situation. At this point I was able to find several similarities between my life and prison movies. If I was going to survive high school, I needed a plan: someone to watch my back. My brother had kindly volunteered to be my backup – perhaps noticing things were off to shaky start, to say the least, but I could not have my brother fight my battles. I needed my own posse.

Ivan Drago during a press conference

I figured the smaller groups of students were more closely knit, therefore harder to break into. Other groups were made up of Americans and other English-speaking kids and more quiet and distanced groups such as the Japanese and Koreans. I felt a sense of equal opportunity in evaluating my chances for proper integration as I shared the same ingredient with all of these other kids: a bunch of nothing. We were foreigners but, in my mind, this was not enough to click together. For a while, I navigated alone through the world of Roosevelt observing my peers during my classes and lunchtime. I saw from a distance how they interacted and I did not feel outgoing enough as I gauged my appetite for risk. I did not have any particular preferences, although I began to form a bond with Mario Lambert, a French-Canadian the son of the RCMP attaché in the Embassy and David Williford, whom I believe was the son of an American missionary or something of that nature. They were both in my Spanish and Debate classes and had a great sense of humour. Our Spanish teacher was a former Miss Peru – must have been a very long time ago – named Ms. Saco who had difficulty commanding respect and controlling her classroom. If you have ever seen an episode of Oz, well this was somewhat similar during the riot scenes. The only difference is that class would eventually come to an end while in Oz everyone’s sentences were different. The environment was so relaxed there, I was able to chat up a storm with both of them and build a closer connection.

During the course where I was regularly used for target practice (Physical Education) I began to befriend a Slavic-looking kid. He looked to me as a shorter and chubbier version of Ivan Drago, the Russian Red Army boxer who took on Rocky in one of Stallone’s movies. No one seemed to include him in their team when organized sports would take place. I did not want to pick a side, as I knew I would be picked on regardless of my decision. Students also seemed to periodically insult him using all sorts of words that I had never heard of before or care to repeat. It was evident to me he was another outsider. We seemed like a perfect match. If I was not liked, and I was an “alright” kind of kid, he must have been better at that time in my own mind than the average student. The first time I approached him, I attempted to communicate in English with him, as my Russian was nonexistent. I hoped this would be a common language. We were supposed to play volleyball and I did not have a partner and he did not appear to have one either. He responded verbally to my initial contact yet, although his lips were moving and his speech level struggled against the incessant sound of bouncing balls on the hardwood gym floor, I had no idea what he responded. We somehow managed to understand each other communicating through various gestures and facial expressions, such as waving towards each other so one would get closer and the almost universal thumbs up. We continued for a long time exchanging further gestures and actually laughing as we kept each other company during our sentence in the gym. It was funny but we seemed to find a connection without having to speak.

I later realized this Soviet buddy of mine was also in my World History class. Kevin “El Chivo” Jameson, who I swear to this date, was a clone of Woody Harrelson, taught this course. He was a young American, perhaps teaching high school kids for the first time in his career. He was a shy individual as well, something that was not a key to succeeding as a teacher there. The reason he was nicknamed el chivo (the goat) is because on several occasions, while he lectured on the topic of the day, a random person in the classroom would belt out “Kevin chivo” at the top of their lungs, and the rest of the class followed in unison with an “ey yeay yeay yeay”. Every yeays would get louder and given the day and circumstances, there could be several of them added on. He never seemed to have an answer to this behaviour and although I found this hilarious, I was also astonished at how little control teachers in this school had over their students and the overall lack of discipline. I had never seen this kind of behaviour in my life and in my other schools, there would be no place for this nonsense. This did not impede my newfound Eastern European buddy and my contributions to the chorus. We may have on occasion belted out our own chivos, creating the tsunami of ey yeay yeays. As a matter of fact, this was a very good stress relief technique. I remember leaving Mr. Jameson’s class usually feeling quite refreshed and ready to tackle the rest of my hostile surroundings. Kevin was a nice guy and did not exhibit any resentment or hostility from uproarism in his classroom. Perhaps he was just happy that the class would eventually come to an end. I often had chats with him about basketball as supposedly, he had played for Duke in the NCAA. I was young but that did not mean I was gullible. He did not seem to have the makings of a Varsity athlete.

Alejandro, Kensuke and I

The Russian and I finally began to speak once I realized his name was Alejandro. I now managed to discern the language as he tried to converse with me through a thick accent known internationally as Andaluz. It is close to Castilian (Spanish), but many letters are not pronounced, and the pace is somewhat quicker. It did not help that it was the first time I heard this regional accent. He did not have much English in his repertoire as this too was his first ever experience studying in the language. I possessed the advantage of having a prior oral record. Thanks to this new connection, I was reunited with my passion for basketball, playing at lunchtime with him and his Korean and Japanese ESL buddies. This was also where he introduced me to Kensuke Kobayashi, a good Japanese friend who became our gateway into a whole new language and culture. Kensuke taught me something I will never forget: Onara no nioigasuru (it smells like fart). This tied in to that lingering guano smell in the city air. He was a very nice kid and with a great sense of humour. Both of them also allowed me to learn a lot from cultures I had never been exposed to in the past, and share some knowledge of my own home. I had become a much prouder Canadian in response to the feeling of rejection that I felt originating from my hosts. It was now looking as I had finally found my place in the school where I could be at peace and let the good times roll. We were all kids in no man’s land.

Second Blood: How To Survive Bullying

Being the new guy on campus was nothing new to me. I never had my Col. Trautman to walk me through it. I had been in this situation many times before and overcame this challenge successfully. This time however, was much more complicated than my previous experiences. I was now a teenager and at this age, toys, cartoons, snacks and other elements important to young boys are completely irrelevant. This was a brand new game with higher stakes. Students in Roosevelt conformed to wearing a common uniform. However, it appeared that looks, a sense of being cool and popularity were rules of engagement. I failed to see any advantage to being the new kid on the block. I searched for something which allowing me to transform my shyness into a go-getter attitude and build a new image for myself. It could have been a chance to start from scratch. Instead, I figured people would embrace the difference I would impart to my classmates and accept me for who I was. Be yourself and everyone will love you, that is what they say. For the most part, I think I managed to stay under the radar as I kept to myself, reading books in the library during my free time and observing from day one how the student population mingled and the various clicks.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, architect of the New Deal

Obviously the largest group in the many divisions of my grade 9 classes were the Peruvians. My previous successful integration with Venezuelans and Chileans led me to believe this was the proper place for me to fit in. After all, this was my continent! As the school functioned on a credit system toward graduation, it was rare to have classes with the same classmates. I suppose Americans must have designed their high school system in this way to prepare their pupils for university, as it was also the first time I got to choose electives. This was an interesting concept. Sometimes, you could take a few courses which overlapped with those of a few other students. Among my first friends was Lucho Zuniga, a friendly Peruvian guy who was a surfing fanatic. I sat with him a few times in the library during study hall where I joined him at a table to read some books I had always been interested in picking up. He was also in my Algebra, English, World History and my Physical Education class so I figured we had a good shot at becoming friends. He did not appear to mind my presence. Another one of my Peruvian acquaintances was Cristian Hajossy who was in my physical science course taught by Ms. Zalecki. We walked on occasion towards the elementary school at the end of day where we would both get picked up to be driven home. On our walks he curiously asked me about my background, my country and mentioned some of the pretty girls in the school to keep an eye out for. It seemed everything was off to a slow but good start.

The only unwelcome problem I faced in the beginning was actually from a new kid, Rafael Benavides. It was my understanding his father had been in the Peruvian diplomatic corps and had recently returned from London. I introduced myself hoping to build a friendship based on our common experience yet it appeared upon every interaction things were getting worse. I had study hall with him as well, so I asked my teacher as many times as I could if I he would allow me to go to the library. It was the best solution I could think of as he and other students would team up to pester me, insult me and hit me with various objects (erasers, books, chalk and all kinds of wonderful projectiles) as the teacher frequently left us alone in his classroom. I guess he figured the “studying” would flourish if we were unsupervised. I feared that study hall period but never spoke to my parents, my teachers or anyone about this issue. I did not want to be seen as a snitch or someone who could not handle his own business. I figured that weakness could result in worse treatment and I remember that by the first month, all I prayed for was for our posting to get cut short. I adopted different crisis management techniques if I was forced to stay in that classroom, such as being quiet and pretending I was alone, politely asking him and others to cease and desist, but nothing ever seemed to work. I remember once asking Rafael to leave me alone and as a result, he took a chalk board eraser in his fist and smacked me on the back of the head. I had no idea what to do from there.

To add insult to injury, after Physical Education, Lucho and I would run together to our Algebra class across the campus hoping to make it there before the next bell would ring indicating the beginning of the next class. Otherwise, we would be subject to a warning. After three tardies, a detention would ensue, and who wanted to spend precious after-school time in school? One day, Lucho and I arrived late and our teacher, Mr. Brenig asked us to mark ourselves off as “tardy” on the board at the entrance of his classroom. I was through the door first and as I searched for a pen to write my name on the list, Lucho kept after me to pass him a pen. I remember telling him after his continuous insistence that I would lend him my pen as soon as I was finished with it. After all, it made sense to me since I was first in line. I learned soon afterwards that he was not in complete agreement about that procedure. During the rest of this semester and the next, Lucho, Rafael and other guys from P.E. used me for target practice. If I ever walked past them, they blasted soccer balls trying to hit me and taunted me in the hallways trying to trip and push me. “Welcome to Peru!” I would tell myself. I wondered how in God’s name could I become public enemy number 1 for telling someone to hold on before I hooked him up with a pen. All of this was ridiculous to me. Subsequently, they did everything to ensure I would have a hard time settling in to my new environment. They once stole my school uniform from the gym locker while wearing my sporting clothes and I had to spend the remainder of the day in sweaty clothes. I went to see Mr. Weinrich about this and of course he was in shock as this type of behaviour never occurred in his school. I began to think that the orientation session I had gone to leading me to pick this school was a greatly prefabricated public image campaign to brainwash parents into believing the students were future leaders and outstanding citizens.

John Rambo was taken away from peace and serenity when called upon

It was true that no one else had gone out of his or her way to treat me badly. Nonetheless, it was my first look into the world of bullying and how horrible someone can feel as a victim. I reacted negatively, closing myself off to the rest of the Peruvian students, feeling they were all against me. Perhaps this was true, perhaps not. My first year, although I began making good friends – I will delve further into this in the next posts, you can be sure of that – this treatment made me feel like a complete outcast making me want to board a plane bound for Ottawa and taking refuge back in my old school where I could be among friends. However, retribution can always come in unexpected and mysterious ways. Perhaps it is better to say, what goes around comes around. Near the end of the first year of school, we were playing soccer in P.E. and of course, all the bullies seemed to be playing against me even if they were in my team. Rafael kept making runs where he would charge me and push me, while he laughed as I hit the deck. After several weeks of this, I lost my cool, charged at him like a freight train, kicked the ball with all the possible gathered momentum and, by pure divine intervention, caught his foot as I went for the ball. Upon making contact, I clipped him off his feet, forcing him into an aerial somersault leading him to land on the floor breaking his ankle. This was completely unintended. I pretended I had gone for a legal challenge and kept moving. As a consequence, he wore a cast for the rest of the semester and the others backed off for the rest of my existence in this school. Both of them has apologized to me - which I was quite surprised - for their nasty treatment at the end of the school year. I earned respect through a total fluke and became untouchable. 

Keys To Choosing Your High School

The most important right of passage for a teenager is his or her school and for the first time in our lives, Brian and I would have to pick one. The first fine institution subject to our detailed inspection was the Lycée Franco-Péruvien, near Avenida Primavera and the Panamericana Sur. It was an ideal location as it was about 5 minutes away through the morning traffic from our SQ. The greatly revered Proviseur (the equivalent of a Superintendent) gave us the five-cent tour of the grounds and facilities, mentioning that as we were older, we were not required to wear uniforms. That was a relief, as we had not needed a uniform for school since 1992. The buildings seemed lifeless and the sports facilities were limited to a cement basketball court/soccer field heeding a warning of conflict for sport. It is somewhat difficult to play soccer and basketball simultaneously. Afterwards, he sat us down in his office, looked at our grades and proceeded to explain that the school curriculum was based on the Southern Hemisphere. As this was mid-year for them, we would be obliged to repeat half of the year we completed back in Ottawa. This meant that Brian now had 2 and half years to go to finish school instead of 2 and just add two more years to that to figure out my conundrum. Since the scholastic year ended at Christmas, Brian would have to wait until September to start university. In effect, we could lose even more time. We left with a bitter taste.

Colegio FDR Media Centre

The next school was where most of the Canadian Embassy kids were enrolled, Colegio Franklin D. Roosevelt. This was an American high school, home to children of diplomats, foreign business executives, political figures and Peru’s elite. The neighbourhood seemed somewhat friendlier in comparison to the Lycée, and the property was immense. It resembled a country club with the downside of having to go to class. The administration had organized an orientation meeting in the media centre, where the staff had prepared a presentation for parents and potential students alike. Everyone was in awe of the quality of education, allowing kids to graduate with an American High School Diploma (great for us as these studies are generally recognized by Canadian Provinces), and the prestigious International Baccalaureate. The presenters focussed on the great spirit of camaraderie, honesty, integrity and discipline. They further mentioned that a student who had recently stolen a painting during an art event sponsored by the school had shocked their community, as these sorts of events were unheard of at this fine institution. We were all very impressed and I am sure everyone was ready to sign up.

Afterwards, Brian and I met individually with the Principal, Mr. Brian Weinrich – who looked exactly like Dr. Frasier Crane - for a brief interview. I suppose this meeting was for him to judge our moral fibre. I was really nervous after that eye-opening presentation and I hoped that I was good enough to join the student population. Brian was in the office and I waited, thinking about key personality traits I should highlight and my previous record of academic excellence. I was not sure this would be enough. Eventually Brian came out and I was unable to ask him for any pointers or how the conversation went. It was my turn now. He suggested I sit across from him and I followed suit, sitting as straight and confident as I possibly could. I concentrated on creating a halo over my head that could be visible to the world. He threw in some questions to break the ice and up to this date, I was so nervous that I was unable to remember a thing we talked about. All I can recall is that once we finished, he smiled and said I was a great kid and I would do great in this school if I felt it was a fit for me. He put the ball in my court so I assumed I must have said something impressive to be given such a privilege of having the option to choose. I was proud of myself. He further commented that if I should encounter any problems, his door was always open for everyone. Wow! I really made an impression! I met my brother who also had a smile on his face and my parents, and we were ready to celebrate our victory.

            The following step was to meet the guidance counsellor in his office, next to the Media Centre building. He would be our secret weapon in achieving scholastic excellence. This was Robert Piper, an older gentleman from New England. I felt that I had the momentum to walk in there and seal the deal for my next two years. Once more, after Brian, it was my turn to schmooze him up and bring him on to my team. As we sat down, we spoke about my previous school, the courses I liked and what living in Canada was like for me. He immediately mentioned there were many Canadians in the school so I would feel at home. He suggested that in order to smooth my transition into this school, I should be enrolled in grade 9 to be among my age group – according to the Lycée system I should have been in grade 10. He gave me the choice and I followed his suggestion as I figured he was my fountain of knowledge. Afterwards, we spent about a half hour talking about NBA basketball where I mentioned I was disappointed to miss the first year of the Toronto Raptors franchise. He responded that he was a Celtics fan and I could not understand how he preferred them to the Lakers. I explained the beauty of the Lakers and their potential to come together and return the city to its deserved place in the league. It was just a matter of time.

Section of the High School buildings

            Long story short, Brian and I eventually picked Roosevelt over any other school in Lima. We did not have to look any further. No one in the school’s administration appeared to have any concerns that we had never actually studied in English before. Sure we spoke English at home with Dad, but that was it. We had never written the language before or had to study in this language. I knew I was going to have to work very hard to keep my place in a school that promoted excellence and represent my country properly among my peers. The first day of school was right around the corner and things just seemed more complicated than ever before. I knew other students again had the advantage of having shared many years in the same school and perhaps it would be hard to find my place among them. I had no idea what to expect in terms of my classmates, as I had little to no exposure yet to kids of my own age in Peru. I was confident nevertheless that I had made the right choice in Roosevelt and having my brother there, I knew we would look after each other and form a stronger bond. The Bickford boys had always triumphed in the past and this was just another test we would have to overcome.

Peru – First Blood

Prior to arriving in the great land of the Inca, I had ample time to picture Lima, Peru. This was before the golden age of Internet where access to information was slightly more limited. How did we ever manage back then? Even as I sat on the edge of my seat in the airplane carefully listening to the crew’s announcement about our descent to Jorge Chavez International Airport, I thought the city could resemble a blend between Santiago and Caracas. Memories of these two places were still somewhat fresh. As the aircraft continued its approach to land, I was not even able to see city lights in the dark. I always adored night flights as there were lights indicating a sign of life and civilization. A deep fog enveloped our plane, hiding everything as if keeping some kind of secret or hoping to surprise me. I impatiently kept gazing through the window hoping to catch a glance of a skyline, challenging the thick fog with a determined stare that met an even more determined contender. Neither of us gave up until eventually the plane touched down on the tarmac inching me closer to my new home for the next two years.

Peruvian flag adopted in 1825.

Our plane taxied to the terminal but did not park in front of the usual sleeves transporting passengers from the aircraft into the building. The flight attendants opened the doors preparing the travellers for their exit and a heavy smell penetrated the aircraft. This smell is something hard to forget. To say it stunk would be an understatement. The foul stench originated from fishmeal, garbage and perhaps a pinch of guano all engulfed in the thick, humid fog. We learned that the thick fog was called garua and would be our constant companion day and night for the next 6 months. I figured we would have to tough it out until leaving the airport, as in several large cities these are built in industrial areas. Upon stepping down a ladder leaving the Aeroperu plane behind, we boarded a bus that would take us to the terminal where we would have to go through customs, the international bureaucratic procedure officially granting the right of entry to the country. At this point, an Embassy admin officer, Mr. Stuart Bale, who had been on posting with his lovely family in Caracas, Venezuela overlapping with our time there, met us to provide a briefing on Peru. It was a lovely surprise to start this adventure with a familiar face. We went through customs through a special diplomatic line without any trouble eventually getting to baggage claim followed by our departure on an embassy van. All of this accompanied with that awful smell. There were several hundred people gathered outside the airport, milling about waiting for their loved ones.

We met our driver, a hefty Peruvian named Wilbur, who would take us to our overnight accommodation. As the vehicle made its way through the crowd, some kids began throwing rocks to our car, apparently in an attempt to irritate passing drivers enough to stop the car and exit the vehicle. Those who were not experienced in this kind of confrontation would soon find their vehicle swarmed by several dozen kids - called pirañitas - releaving you of any contents of your car. Stuart was kind enough to fill us in on some of this useful local intelligence. This part of the city was called Callao, and the cityscape was quite striking. We travelled along a large avenue where the median was covered in all manners of garbage, as the city did not have an organized collection system and contributed to the smell. On the opposite side, buildings appeared to have been demolished in some sort of terrorist attack. This was actually a way to save on property taxes, as the owners did not have to pay the maximum taxable return if the building was not completed. As we moved along, much of the city seemed to be distributed in a similar manner, although upon our arrival to Miraflores – a downtown for foreigners as well as a business centre for the city – things seemed to improve.

Our first night in the city, we checked in to the Hotel Pardo where we had reservations. It was a perfect location as it was literally right across from the Embassy of Canada and it was in the heart of the entertainment district for the gringos. That night, Brian was still upset at having to leave Ottawa behind so he had decided to stay in the hotel room. Dad, Maman and I went to the famous Calle de las Pizzas (Pizza street to us foreigners) to enjoy a locally made pizza and their own brand of sangria – a drink tracing its origins in Spain made of red wine, bubbly water or citrus flavoured soda mixed in with some seasonal fruit. It was a delightful meal, the service was excellent and the price was reasonable. There were perhaps anywhere from 30 to 40 pubs serving their own pizzas with special deals for the Pisco Sour, their national drink. Although I had heard of this drink during my time in Chile, I had never had the chance to try it as it was an alcoholic beverage. Peruvians would always proudly state that it was their drink and their neighbours to the South had copied their idea. I never debated with my hosts out of respect. In the streets as we made our way back to the hotel, there were several Peruvian kids selling roses to passers-by, many vendors with their moveable kiosks, all catering to the busy Miraflores nightlife. We did not stick around as the next few days would be action packed having to start our lives again from scratch and this time, Brian and I were going to have to go school hunting.

View of Pizza Street from Parque Kennedy, Lima, Peru

We were determined to make the best out of this situation and continue our seasoned adventurous spirit developed during our previous South American adventures. Our first night, as we readied ourselves for a good night sleep on foreign soil once more, we watched some local television hoping to find news providing more insight on the country’s happenings. Unfortunately it was a little too late and we were only able to see an end of the day commercial with a patriotic tune. The video had this attractive woman dressed in typical Quechua attire running around fields and there were also images of different regions of the country and the soundtrack was a song repeating “Así me gusta mi país, Perú.” (This is how I like my country, Peru). After this cute uplifting video, we settled into our beds for a goodnight sleep, as we had to be early in the morning in the embassy for a meet and greet. Instead of the sandman coming to ensure our dreams were sweet, an earthquake woke us up from our slumber. It was quite a scare, especially as it was the first one I had experienced in my life.