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“H
ow do you plan to pay?” Henry
asked, walking around the car
and rubbing his beard with
oil-smeared fi ngers. There was something
weasely about his expression.
“You don’t take cards, I suppose?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve only $20 in cash. Will that cover it?”
Henry just shrugged, and then got to work.
It was 11.40am and the clock was ticking.
A guided trek into the depths of Haliburton
Forest was intended as the highlight of my
Canada trip, a last hurrah before I fl ew home
the next day. The group would depart from
the visitor centre at 1pm sharp — the sharp
had been stressed — but on the way there I’d
stopped at a grocery store and locked my
keys in the boot of my hire car. I was ten
miles away from the meeting point.
Henry, the local mechanic, forced a thick
piece of wire through the window seal,
feeding it towards the unlock button on the
inside of the door. It was a painstaking,
hair-tearing process. But a er 20 minutes
of muttered expletives, Henry opened the
door with a smug fl ourish. And then jumped
out of his skin.
The blare of a car alarm commands urgency.
A fl ustered Henry prodded frantically at the
‘open boot’ button on the steering column.
Nothing happened. He clambered into the
back, hunting for a lever to drop the seats
and gain access to the boot. But this was a
convertible and the rear seats didn’t lower.
“You should phone the rental company,”
Henry said above the din, emerging red-
cheeked from the car. I punched the digits
into my mobile, but the line wouldn’t connect.
“It’s because I’m using a foreign mobile,”
I explained.
Henry’s non-foreign mobile sat on the
bonnet of his truck. He looked at it, and thenback at me. “There’s a phone booth 200
metres up the road,” he nodded.
“But I’ve no change, Henry.”
He reached into the front of his dungarees.
“Here’s a quarter,” he said, and started to roll
a cigarette.
Those were a lonely 200 metres. It was
12.30pm; I’d surely missed my trek. A bank
of gloomy clouds smothered the sun, and
the branches of the pine trees drooped like
sagging shoulders.
“Hey, wait up!”
I turned to see a shopper running to
catch me up. “I got your key out!” he panted.
He’d worked Henry’s wire through a crack
between the back seats and used it to hook
the fob. I could have kissed his round,
pink face.Henry was leaning against my car with the
key. “That’ll be $40 for my time,” he said.
“But I’ve only got $20!”
He shrugged his trademark shrug and
drew on his cigarette. I cast a desperate eye
on the ground, seeking inspiration or a $20
bill, and then dashed into the store.
“Do you do cash back?”
“Cash back, sir?” said the owner blankly,
rolling the words in his mouth like a cow
chewing cud.
“Yes! Can you charge an amount on a card
and give that in cash?”
He pondered for an eternity. I imagined his
tail swishing behind the counter. “Yes, sir, we
can do that.”
“Wonderful!” I handed him my debit card.
He stared at it for a while. “But not on debit
cards,” he said.
It was the only card I had. “OK, OK. What if
I buy something and overpay — could you
give me the di erence in cash?”
Again Mr Moo considered things. “Yes, sir,
we can do that.”
“Excellent!”
“But not on debit cards.”
If I’d had a towel, I’d have thrown it in. The
group would be heading out in 15 minutes,
eyes peeled for wolves and bears, and I was
stuck in the company of a cow-like man
who... “I’ve paid Henry,” said a voice nearby.
It was my pink-faced saviour from earlier,
with what I’m sure was a halo on his head.
“I can’t let you do that!” I stuttered.
“Too late. It’s done! If you follow my car, I’ll
get you to the visitor centre in time, too.”
He was as good as his word. In fact, I arrived
with a minute to spare. And for all the thrilling
sights on my forest trek, it’s the faces from
the preceding hour I remember best; those of
Mr Moo, the kind stranger and the weasel
Henry — whose quarter I never did return. WORDS BY ADRIAN PHILLIPS
CANADA
LOCKED OUT
Adrian is a travel writer/
broadcaster who has
covered everything
from seafood safaris
to swamp-walking.
He’s also currently
managing director of
Bradt Travel Guides.
He has a disorganised
brain and no sense of
direction, which means
most trips develop into
unintended adventures.
@adrianphillips1Winding road through
the Ontario forestNovember 2016 83TRAVELLERS’ TALES