contrary to 'civilized values.' The ban was repealed in
1951.) As we set off , Willie told me about the ceremony.
“The potlatch was an opportunity to reaffi rm who you
were ,” he said. “It was a way to get through the harsh
winters. We gathered: that was the medicine.”
Willie took me to my lodgings, a beachfront cabin
at the Cluxewe Resort outside the logging town of Port
McNeill. The resort was comfortable but defi nitely
designed to propel visitors outdoors. (A note inside my
room reminded guests to please refrain from gutting
fi sh on the porch .) I spent the evening reading,
accompanied by a soundtrack of waves sweeping the
beach outside, and the next morning, I took a walk along
the stretch of pebbly Pacifi c shore in front of my cabin.
I wanted to reacquaint myself with the past, inhale the
moisture in the air, smell the cedar. Up above, unhurried
eagles swooped, exuding a proprietary air as they circled
and fell and circled again.
As I walked, it struck me that this beach, like so
many others, has been home to the Kwakwaka’wakw
people for thousands of years. Canada, on the other
hand, turns a mere 150 this year, and it seemed to be
a good time to refl ect on the nation’s progress. The
contrasts and contradictions I found in BC are playing
out on a national scale. The Truth and Reconciliation
Commission of Canada, set up as a response to the
abuse infl icted on indigenous students in residential
schools, concluded its fi ndings in December 2015,
attempting to redress the legacy with 94 Calls to Action.
The Idle No More movement has been applying the
spirit of Occupy to the issues facing First Nations
through a series of rallies and protests.
Meanwhile in BC, tourism revenue is expected to
double in the next 20 years, with the aboriginal sector
playing a starring role. (This year it is forecast to bring in
US$68 million.) Something is happening. This is not
about 'having a moment'; moments recede. This is a long
slog for respect, an eff ort to change the way Canadians
view the aboriginal community’s land and lives.
In preparation for our trip to Alert Bay, Willie drove
me into Port McNeill for a breakfast of eggs and bacon
at an unpretentious place called Tia’s Café. The town
is small, so it wasn’t a huge surprise when Willie’s
uncle Don wandered in. He told us there was
excitement up in Kingcome, site of the family’s
First Nations community. He said the oolies, or
oolichans—smelt fi sh used for making oil—had
Clockwise: Mussels at
Cowbay Café, in the port town
of Prince Rupert; a fl oatplane
docks in Prince Rupert; Haida
chief James Hart carves a
totem pole on Haida Gwaii.
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