Tag Archives: simon fraser university

Stories of a Life | Redux | Curiosity About Life | Joy

September 21, 2024Stories of a Life Reduxgraduation, ken waites, lord nelson school, simon fraser university, templeton secondary schoolRaymond Tomlin

Lord Nelson Elementary School in Vancouver
Lord Nelson Elementary School, on Vancouver’s eastside, where I attended Grades 1 thru 3.

The summer of 1959, after I’d completed Grade 3 at Lord Nelson School in Vancouver, in August of ’59, my parents moved from Vancouver to Edmonton to be closer to family — on both my mother’s and father’s sides of the family.

In Alberta at the time, the provincial government had adopted what they called an “Enterprise Programme,” a focused academic programme meant to engage students intellectually while providing them with the tools they would require to compete successfully at post-secondary university.

While all other Canadian provinces had adopted a two stream programme, one academic (university bound), the other vocational (meant to prepare students to work in the trades), Alberta was having none of that — educational achievement at the highest possible level was Alberta’s goal, the curriculum requirements rigorous, demanding and challenging, and consistently above grade level.

The Enterprise Programme was defined by competition and the striving to become the best possible student — failure was never an option, doing your best was expected and required, academically and socially.

Future leaders were being trained in Alberta.

“The provincial government meant to produce the best and the brightest, informed by a progressive educational ideology that Alberta was the first Canadian province to adopt in the 1950s, an educational philosophy that was child-centred, subject-integrated, with an activity-based approach, known in Alberta as the Enterprise Programme, focused on content centered courses in History, Geography, and Civics integrated into a new course: Social Studies, which was taught across all grade levels, this new subject emphasizing the development of democratic, co-operative behaviour, and inquisitiveness through experiential learning.”
Lynn Speer Lemisko & Kurt W. Clausen, Connections, Contrarities and Convolutions: Curriculum & Pedagogic Reform in Alberta; Faculty of Education, SFU, March, 2017

In the summer of 1962, my parents made the decision to return to Vancouver — the reasons unclear to me, but whatever the case, in the summer of ’62, living at 2136 Venables Street, I was enrolled at Templeton Secondary School, then the toughest school in Vancouver (that mantle would soon be claimed by VanTech — but in 1962, Templeton was the school where all the toughest “juvenile delinquents” were enrolled, although truth to tell, many of those students found themselves behind lock and key at the Brannen Lake Juvenile Correctional Facility).

From Grades 7 through Grade 12, I attended Templeton Secondary School.

Based on my experience in Alberta, I was enrolled in the academic programme at Templeton, whereas every person I’d attended Grades 1 thru 3 with at Lord Nelson found themselves enrolled in the vocational stream.

Odd, I thought to myself at the time.

Another odd thing I found: from the spring of 1963 on, my grades never soared about a C-average — whereas in Alberta, I’d been a straight A student.

Unlike most other students enrolled in the academic programme, I was required to take vocational classes — and from Grade 8, I was enrolled in typing and secretarial classes, unlike any other student in the academic stream.

Although a typing speed of 160wpm would serve me well later in life, I still found it odd, and just a bit concerning, that I was required to take three clerical classes each year through to graduation.

From Grade 8 on, I was also concerned that when I submitted an essay in Social Studies or one of my English classes, it either came back to me with a C, a D or a fail — with a comment from my teacher that someone other than me had written the essay, or I had either plagiarized or copied directly the work of someone else.

By the time I reached Grade 12, where I had achieved an A- average in French, was taking the lead in the school plays, and editing the student newspaper, I was disappointed to receive a D in English, and a fail in History and Geography.

I recall one spring afternoon in 1968, the teacher having turned down the lights, with soft music playing in the background, the teacher asking the students in my Grade 12 English class to write a stream of consciousness essay, which I was only too happy to do.

When I submitted the essay to the teacher, she took a glance at the essay and tore it up, saying to me, “You didn’t write this. You either copied it from someone else or had the essay prepared in advance (note. there had been no notice of a stream of consciousness essay taking place in class that day). You receive a fail for the essay. I’m disgusted with you.”

A dozen years later, I was the Assistant Director of Teacher Training, PDP 401-402 at Simon Fraser University (a position I held while working on my Master’s degree).

The English teacher referred to above had taken a seconded position as a PDP Faculty Associate — in essence I was her boss.

When we first connected, in September, at the outset of the 1980 academic school year, almost the first words out of her mouth were, “I had a student with your name at Templeton Secondary. How odd that you should both have the same name,” at which point I informed her that the Raymond Tomlin she had taught, and the person standing in front of her was one and the same person. She looked aghast, stammering, “But how?”

I told her I had a 3.8 grade point average and two undergraduate degrees, and was currently enrolled in a Master’s programme at the university, letting her in on what I am about to write and record for posterity now …

In June of 1968, when I was about to graduate, as was the case with all of the other graduating students, I met with Ken Waites, the patrician, white-haired Principal at Templeton Secondary School, in his office with the door closed, and this is what he said to me …

“Well, Raymond, even though you’re a couple of courses short of graduation, given your failing grades in History and Geography, I am nonetheless going to graduate you anyway — because any kind of academic future is clearly not in the cards for you. I want to tell you something that we’ve kept from you for the past five years: for each of those years, you were recorded as having the lowest IQ of any student enrolled in the Vancouver school district, not just at Templeton, but city wide. Your teachers and I had often wondered, given your low IQ, how it is that you locomoted yourself from point A to point B. Someone with as low an IQ as you shouldn’t even be able to speak — but here you are.

You’ve probably wondered to yourself, why you were required to take three clerical courses each of the past five years. The answer is easy: you spell well, and it was clear early on that you had an aptitude for secretarial work, your typing speed and accuracy superior. Your guidance counsellor and I determined a long time ago that the best course in life for you would be to enter the clerical field, to be a secretary — because, clearly, you are possessed of no academic skill whatsoever, although you seem to have done well in French.

I have had these meetings with all graduating students, providing what I believe to be sound advice on how each student should proceed with his life following graduation. In your case, your best — and I would say, your only — hope is as a secretary. Thank you for meeting with me this afternoon, Raymond. All the best in your future.”

In 1970, my new wife insisted I enroll at Simon Fraser University, where students with an inferior academic record were being accepted, in order to build the student body.

In my first semester at SFU, I achieved 3 C’s and two B’s. In my second semester, 3 B’s and 2 A’s — and every semester after that, straight A’s (not that I ever cared about grades, as did many of my fellow students — I was just hungry for knowledge, and curious about the world, eager to learn as much as I could, at one point early on not leaving SFU’s Burnaby campus over an 18-month period).

I loved to read, I loved to write, I loved to learn, I was curious about everything — being at Simon Fraser University and hanging out with and being challenged by the best and the brightest was like a dream come true for me.

My curiosity about life, about all aspects of our existence on Earth remains to this day — I want to read all of the papers of record every day (and I do!), to engage with nation builders and city builders, to work with persons of conscience, to work towards better, fairer, more just.

And I am afforded that opportunity each and every day, surrounded (outside of my plangent housing co-op life) by strong-willed persons of conscience who mean to build a better and more just world. As such, my life is near filled with joy!

Stories of a Life | Redux | Chief Cook & Bottle Washer

August 31, 2024Essay, fixin to die rag, Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life Redux, VanRamblingsjude, megan, simon fraser universityRaymond Tomlin

1978. Jude, at age 3½, and Megan at near 2 years of age. At the kitchen table for breakfast.

A couple of weeks ago, when I was extolling the virtues of my Instant Pot to a friend, in a lull in the conversation, she turned to me and said, “You like to cook, don’t you?”

The short answer: I derive pleasure from both cooking and baking.

Here’s the story behind my love for the culinary powers of the kitchen.

1616 Semlin Drive, at E. 1st Ave. in Vancouver. One of the homes I lived in growing up.

From my earliest days, I fended for myself.

My mother worked three jobs, and my father worked the afternoon shift at the Post Office. When I arrived home from school, although my father often left a stew bubbling away in the slow cooker, from age seven on, for the most part if I wanted to eat, I’d have to make breakfast, lunch and dinner for myself, and for my sister.

So, being somewhat industrious, I learned to cook — well, make sandwiches and, for dessert, Jello, at least for the first few years.

I loved turkey growing up (all that triptiphan), so with the help of my mother, I learned to make her delicious turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes and vegetables. For the most part, though, my cooking skills were rudimentary — but I didn’t starve, and more often than not there was food in my belly.

When in 1970, Cathy and I moved in together, marrying soon after, I was responsible for most of the cooking. Cathy’s mom sent her out $1000 a month (she didn’t know we were living together), visiting every three months, taking us to the local Woodward’s grocery floor, where she dropped in excess of $300 at each visit.

With Cathy’s mother money, we ate a fairly staple diet of generously thick T-bone steaks and baked potatoes.

Simon Fraser University’s Louis Riel House, SFU’S student family 1 + 2 bedroom residence.

Soon after moving into the Louis Riel Student Residence at Simon Fraser University in 1971, Cathy joined a women’s group, who met every Wednesday evening. Among the decisions that were taken by the women’s group was this: men shall participate in all household chores, and share in all food preparation.

As we often ate together with other of the students in the residence, my specialty became salads — all different kinds of healthy, nutritious salads, chock full of vegetables, nuts, sunflower seeds, and more.

At this point, Cathy still hated to cook — there was immense pressure placed on Cathy by her peers to develop culinary skills, but she refused. All that changed in the summer of 1973, which is a story for another day.

2182 East 2nd Avenue, in the Grandview Woodland neighbourhood of Vancouver.

When Cathy and I separated in 1978 — Jude and I lived in the home above, before Jude, Megan and I moved to Simon Fraser University and Louis Riel House, when I began work on my Masters degree — the thought occurred to me one morning when making breakfast that I was now the lone parent, and the sole person responsible for ensuring the children ate nutritious foods at each meal in order that they might grow up into healthy adults.

I took on the task of learning the art of cooking (and baking), in earnest.

There was, however, a quid pro quo involved.

After returning from a day of larnin’ and T.A.’ing at SFU, after picking up the children at daycare at 4:30pm, and walking the relatively short distance to our two-bedroom apartment at Louis Riel House, while the children played with their friends on the lawn in front of our apartment, I prepared dinner, calling them in about 45 minutes after dinner preparation had begun.

The kids were famished, and so was I.

Here’s where the quid pro quo came in: at the end of each meal, each of the children had to turn and say to me some version of, “Daddy that was a good dinner. It was mmmm, delicious. Thank you for making dinner for all of us, and all the work you put in to feeding us healthy and nutritious breakfasts, lunches and dinners, and all those wonderful desserts we love!”

I needed the incentive provided to me by both children, and their gratitude — which, in time, they came to acknowledge as their own. The kids felt good about encouraging me, as I encouraged them in all of their endeavours.

We were a happy family, and all was well with the world for the three of us.

Now, I was an adventuresome cook, and not everything I made turned out to the liking of all of us, or each one of us.

Being a dedicated democrat, Jude, Megan and I made a deal with one another in respect of dinner. Both children had to eat at least two bites of each food item I prepared: after all the work I put into preparing a dish, the least they could do was try out the dish to see whether they might like it.

Most of the time they did, but sometimes not.

One night, I made cream of escargot soup. Honestly, it wasn’t bad. But at the end of the soup entrée, I turned to the children and asked them what they thought, to which they replied almost in unison, “It was all right, tasty enough I suppose, but I’m not sure if I’d ever want to have it again.”

I agreed with them. We never ate cream of escargot soup ever again.

Each of us were allowed to have three foods on a list of our creation, foods we did not have to eat, no matter what.

Megan had three foods, Jude had three foods, and I had three foods — those foods changed over a period of time.

In order to add a food to our individual “nah, I don’t want to eat that food” list, some food on each of our lists had to come off. Took some thought on the part of the children as to whether they wanted to remove a food.

Megan, for a great long while didn’t like avocados — but one day, while placing a new food she didn’t like onto her “don’t eat” list, she took avocados off her list, eventually coming to love avocados, as she does to this day.

Watching me prepare meals all the time he was growing up caused Jude to want to become a chef — he worked in the food industry throughout his late teens and twenties, before getting into teaching, which paid better, and was overall less stressful, with “more honourable people”, he’d say to me.

In her teens, Megan became a vegan — there’s a story there, too, which I’ll leave for another day — and, for the most part, took on the preparation of her own meals, as did Jude over a period of time.

After the summer of 1973, Cathy became a great cook — there’s not much I miss about that tumultuous marriage, but I sure miss Cathy’s avant-garde cooking, her culinary craftsmanship, spicing and phenomenally delicious cooking.

Ah well.

1979 | 27-Year-Old NDP Rogue Candidate Wins Landslide Nomination

March 6, 2024#CdnPoli | Canadian Politics, BC Politics, canadian politics, Politicsburnaby, ndp, new democratic party, nomination, pauline jewett, simon fraser university, svend robinsonRaymond Tomlin

In 1979, when VanRamblings was enrolled in a Master’s Programme at Simon Fraser University (in Policy Administration, don’tcha know), Pauline Jewett — Simon Fraser University’s President, the first woman to head a major co-educational university in Canada — was approached by federal NDP leader Ed Broadbent, who asked the esteemed Dr. Jewett to consider becoming the New Democratic Party candidate in the Burnaby riding, in the upcoming federal election. With her tenure as SFU President drawing to a close, Dr. Jewett readily agreed to the proposal made by Mr. Broadbent, the deal done, the nomination sealed.

Pauline Jewett, Simon Fraser University President | Ed Broadbent, New Democratic Party federal leader

Not so fast …

Across town, there was a 26-year-old young man who had just graduated with distinction from the University of British Columbia Law School, and moved into a condominium with his boyfriend, just “down the hill” from Simon Fraser University.

Now, we’re talking 1979, when openly living with your boyfriend was not well accepted among the general population.

Even so, this brash and very bright young man made the decision to seek the federal New Democratic Party nomination in Burnaby, turning what had been planned as a New Democratic Party coronation for Pauline Jewett into a race.

Louis Riel House, Simon Fraser University student family residence, where VanRamblings lived.

The young man had every intention of winning the nomination, and becoming the next Member of Parliament, representing the good citizens of Burnaby.

This young man made his way to Simon Fraser University, meeting with members of the Student Forum, various of the student political groups on the left of the political spectrum, staff at the student newspaper, The Peak, as well as student leaders across the university, one of whom was VanRamblings, this young man meeting with us — usually in a packed apartment full of campus activists — on several different occasions, in our student residence apartment at Louis Riel House.

In fact, this vibrant, charismatic and engaging young man made a point of introducing himself to every student in each of the student residences at SFU, often meeting with these students several times, signing them up to his campaign team.

In the three months leading up to the off campus NDP Burnaby riding nomination meeting, the young man’s campaign team had signed up 3,000 new members to the Burnaby riding association, from across the demographic and cultural spectrum. Membership in the party had grown to such an extent that the riding association kept having to book larger and larger venues. On the night of the nomination meeting, more than 2,700 riding association members arrived at the hall to vote for their candidate, the majority of whom it soon became clear would cast their ballot for this charming, fascinating, almost bewitching, and intriguing young man.

Svend Robinson, 1979. New Democratic Party Member of Parliament, May 22, 1979 – June 28, 2004

Svend Robinson went on to win the federal New Democratic Party nomination to represent the citizens of Burnaby in a walk, garnering more than 90% of the ballots cast, the writ dropped by Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau within days of Mr. Robinson’s precision, near military campaign-style run to secure the nomination.

On May 22nd, 1979, Svend Robinson became the Member of Parliament for the Burnaby riding, where he was re-elected term after term for a quarter of a century.

In the years that followed Svend Robinson’s election to Ottawa, this principled New Democratic Party Member of Parliament, working locally with Gary Cristall on the Committee for the Defense of Human Rights in Latin America, and with Scott Parker and Daryl Adams on the Galindro Madrid Defense Committee — Mr. Madrid jumping ship in Vancouver, to make an application for asylum, to escape the brutal regime of Chilean dictator, Augusto Pinochet — Svend Robinson played a pivotal role in gaining citizenship for thousands of Chilean refugees fleeing the Pinochet regime, in all of our meetings, a quick study always, getting quickly to the core issues at hand, as we moved together towards remediative action and resolution.

When, over time, reflecting on his initial run for office and his work to secure the Burnaby NDP nomination in 1979, Svend passed on this piece of wisdom …

“Raymond, winning a nomination or winning election to office is always a numbers game. Planning, hard work, a first-rate campaign team, commitment, knowing why you’re running, keeping an eye on the goal, working closely with people to gain their confidence, to win them over, to assure your future voters you’re on their side, that you will do everything humanly possible to represent their interests locally, to work to resolve their individual problems, while remaining aware of the macro goals of your work — that’s the key to winning, not just for yourself, but for your constituents, for society at large, and for the world.”

Little wonder that Svend Robinson served with distinction for a quarter century.

Coda

Pauline Jewett, NDP Member of Parliament, New Westminster-Coquitlam, May 22, 1979 – July 5, 1988

Having lost her bid to become the Member of Parliament to serve the residents of Burnaby, NDP leader Ed Broadbent appointed Pauline Jewett to run as the NDP candidate for New Westminster-Coquitlam, where she served with distinction in Parliament for nearly a decade, elected to office in 1979, again in 1980 and in 1984.

In 1991, Dr. Jewett was made an Officer of the Order of Canada, and in 1992, she was appointed to the Privy Council.

In 1990, Pauline Jewett was appointed Chancellor of Carleton University, serving in that role until her death from cancer on July 5, 1992.

Stories of a Life | Redux |
A Mexican Adventure

February 17, 2024Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life Redux, Travel, VanRamblingsbenjamin hill, cathy, Guadalajara, krla, La Peñita, louis riel house, mexicali, mexico, simon fraser universityRaymond Tomlin

I loved university. In the 1970s, I loved attending classes at Simon Fraser University, talking hours on end with classmates sharing obscure insights into arcane literature, or why anarchism is the most humanist political philosophy, or spending hours in the library, or finding some quiet corner to type out the dozens of essays that were due each semester.

I was so curious about the world around me, so committed to learning everything I could on any given subject presented to me by my various approachable and erudite professors and radicalized teaching assistants, in the books I was reading or from folks in the pub at whatever stage of their university career, who over a beer would good-naturedly engage with me in philosophical arguments, whatever the topic of the moment.

Louis Riel House family student residence at Simon Fraser University on Burnaby Mountain, circa 1972

Attending classes and living at Louis Riel House — sometimes not leaving Burnaby Mountain for months on end — attending Simon Fraser University was for me the happiest and most rewarding time of my life.

Not so much for Cathy, my long-suffering wife.

Cathy made no secret of the fact that she wanted to get away, to explore new lands, to be adventurous and anonymous thousands of miles away.

In February 1972, I was enrolled in my 5th consecutive semester at SFU, having identified my areas of interest for my studies — political science, sociology and anthropology, part of SFU’s radical PSA department — as well as English literature.

Much to my astonishment, I was achieving straight A’s in school, my grade point average past my first year 4.0, and in this fifth semester I was on a roll, most of my course work completed by early February, as I prepared to ready myself with the reward of five more A’s, bursaries and scholarships, and further down the academic road enrollment in a Master’s programme.

Arriving home mid-afternoon Tuesday, February 8th, 1972, opening the door and walking into our student apartment, Cathy standing in the living room, rather than approaching me to give me a kiss, she stood stock still, looking down, then looking up and directly at me, and said,

“We’re leaving for Mexico next Monday, for two months.

Get your head around it.”

Cathy and I traveling along the Oregon coast, headed to California, and then Mexico

I knew there was no arguing with her about her dictum. Cathy had sacrificed so much for me that it was quite clear: it was her turn now.

The next Monday morning we jumped into our 1970 Datsun 510 — a wedding gift from her mother. Hours later we found ourselves barrelling down the coast of Oregon heading towards Los Angeles, where arrangements had been made to stay with our friend, Bachi — with whom I had attended almost all my classes my first four semesters, and who was my best friend, Manuel Vittorio Esquivel, handsome, swarthy, adventuresome, and the best friend anyone could wish for.

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While in Los Angeles, Cathy and I listened to KRLA, southern California’s rock ‘n roll giant

Cathy didn’t like driving, so I drove the entire 1500 miles (I love driving!) to our L.A. destination, arriving two days after we’d left our Burnaby Mountain home, as we found our way to the Chicano area of Los Angeles, a Latino and Latina East L.A. of boom boxes and low-riders, a vibrant Mexican community with which we fell in love, as we did Bachi’s mother’s cooking — eating mole chicken and lime-cilantro rice for the first time while consuming gallons of fresh-squeezed orange juice available at farmer’s markets in two quart containers, for only a dollar, driving along the freeways in the jasmine-scented night air, KRLA radio at full volume blasting into the warm night air, free and in love, and enjoying the time of our young lives.

The sunny open air shopping mall located in wealthy, beach-fronted Santa Monica

All was not perfect, though.

One afternoon while awaiting dinner and sitting in the living room, Bachi’s 18-year-old sister, Maria — one of the most beautiful and self-possessed young women I’d ever met, who was enrolled in her second semester at a nearby college, and who worked as a sales clerk at a department store in a mall in the wealthy Santa Monica neighbourhood to help pay for her tuition — came home crying, sobbing, inconsolable, wracked with pain, broken and disconsolate, collapsing onto the sofa, curled up into a heaving ball of sobs and pain, bereft of hope, for the moment not of this world, not of any world, alone and withdrawn.

Maria worked in the shoe department at Macy’s. Earlier that afternoon, a wealthy woman in her early 30s had arrived at the shoe department, miserable, abusive, racist, on the attack and demanding service — pointing at Maria — to “that dirty Chicana over there, who oughta be sent back to where she came from, but if she’s gonna be here, she damn well better serve me, and get her ass over here. Now!”

The manager stood nearby, but didn’t come to Maria’s aid, instead directing the abusive woman over to where Maria stood, now quivering, saying to the irate-for-no-good-reason shopper, “Of course, ma’am. Maria is here to serve you. She will find you anything you need. Now hop to it, Maria.”

The situation devolved from there, with Maria finding one pair of shoes after another for this abusive woman, responding to the demands of the woman to …

“Get down on your knees, don’t look at me, put those shoes onto my feet now, don’t look up, and you better be careful when fitting those shoes, or I’ll have your job.”

The woman remained in the shoe department for an hour, loudly and abusively making Maria’s life a hell on earth, before finally leaving the department store harrumphing, having made no purchase. Maria finished her shift, and drove home.

Once home, after her mother intervened, Maria spent the rest of the evening in her bedroom, while Bachi, Cathy and I left his home, leaving Maria — whose young life had been a litany of the kind of abuse she had suffered that afternoon — in the care of her mother, as the three of us drove to a nearby drive-in for a burger and fries, staying away until late.

That evening, Cathy and I decided we would leave for Mexico the next day.

After an early breakfast of heuvos rancheros prepared by Bachi’s mom, Maria still in her bedroom, not wishing to join us at the kitchen table, leaving our car in the garage attached to Bachi’s home, Bachi drove us in his own vehicle to the Mexican border, just north of Tijuana.

Cathy had mapped out our journey, which involved us taking a bus to Mexicali, where we would board a train for the 2,000 kilometre journey to Guadalajara.

The above, very much like the train Cathy and I traveled on throughout Mexico

Both Cathy and I, once we’d boarded the train in Mexicali for the first leg of our Mexican adventure — we were planning on staying in Guadalajara for a few days, then planned to make our way over to the west coast, and come back to Guadalajara before heading to Mexico City.

Ours was, though, a largely unplanned adventure, where we both felt secure that we’d meet good folks, and learn something about a country about which knew little — were surprised that there were 20 young Americans traveling in the same car as us, hippies who’d shorn there hair, as I had, in order to get a visa, the men letting their hair and beards grow once we’d made it across the border.

As is almost always the case when traveling in a group — not that any one of us knew one another, or anyone else in our car — one of our 20 ‘fellow travelers’, in this case a gaunt young man with an adventurous spirit who had traveled to Mexico previously, suggested to us all that upon arriving in Guadalajara, we immediately make our way over to La Peñita, along the coast, 72 kilometres north of Puerto Vallarta, where we could stay for a dollar a day, swim, get to know the townspeople, and enjoy ourselves away from the hubbub of Puerto Villarta.

Sounded good to all of us — we now had a destination.

Now, traveling as a financially itinerant train and bus traveler in the 1970s was fraught with adventure. Why fraught?

Well, because revolution was the order of the day, throughout Europe, throughout central and South America, and most certainly in Mexico, where guerilla groups fought with the Mexican army, farmers led by ex-teacher Lucio Cabañas fighting against landholder impunity and oppressive police practices in rural Mexico, the guerillas carrying out ambushes of the army and security forces, and blowing up train tracks throughout northern Mexico — as proved to be the case on the first leg of our collective journey into the heart of Mexico.

Above, a contemporary photo of Benjamin Hill, in the northern Sonora state of Mexico

Upon arriving in Benjamin Hill, in the northern Mexico state of Sonora, approximately 714 kilometres south of Mexicali, the train conductor informed us that there would be a day or two layover in Benjamin Hill, as the tracks 30 kilometres to the south had been blown up by guerillas. When we arrived in Benjamin Hill, midday, the sun was bright, the day sweltering.

We all alighted from the train to take a look around at the dusty little village.

We debated whether or not we’d each rent a room in one of the mud shacks off the main street. One of our companions, who had kept a close watch on me since we’d boarded the train in Mexicali, a ‘sexual freedom leaguer’ traveling with her boyfriend, she a stunningly gorgeous young Asian woman, her boyfriend a nerdy-looking, quiet guy, looked at me and looked at Cathy, and then set about to announce to everyone gathered around in the boldest possible fashion …

“I want to fuck him,” then looking at me said, “I want to fuck you. Let’s go find a room in that building over there.”

I looked over at Cathy, who was rolling her eyes, looking heavenward, then looking at me, exclaiming …

“You want to fuck her, go ahead.

I’m not fucking her boyfriend, though.”

Me, I’m not good in situations such as the one I was now being confronted with.

Would I liked to have gone off with this beautiful young woman for a sweaty afternoon of sexual frolic?

Sure — but that would mean leaving Cathy behind, and I wasn’t prepared to do that, so I just said, “You’re invitation is very kind, and I appreciate it, but I’m going to stay with Cathy,” at which statement the young sexual freedom leaguer grabbed her boyfriend’s hand, marching off to rent a room in a sun-baked mud building.

As it happens, the twenty-two of us remained in Benjamin Hill for only about six hours, as the authorities had identified an alternative route to get around the tracks that had been destroyed. By late evening, we were all on our way again, the night chill, Cathy wrapped securely in my arms, under a blanket we’d purchased in town for about three dollars.

Two days later, we arrived in Guadalajara, the twenty-two of us alighting from the train, seeking food and drink. “No water,” our appointed leader told us — “Stay with Coke, you’ll be better off. You can trust it because it’s bottled by Americans under strict standards. Drink the water, or anything washed in local water, and you’re going to find yourself in trouble.”

So, we found a street food cart — all along the way from Mexicali to Guadalajara, we’d fed ourselves from the food carts at stops along our journey south.

We looked for, and found the bus station, all of us purchasing tickets to La Peñita for the five-hour, 262 kilometre pilgrimage to our coastal village destination, arriving around 7pm, night and dark, although the near full moon above shone bright.

Once in La Peñita, we secured our accommodation — spacious houses about 200 yards back from the beachfront water, several of us staying in each of three houses we rented for what would be our one-week stay in the rural village, our new home.

Having left our pack sacks in our new domiciles we all went back into town, where we were accosted by a group of 6, 7, 8 and 9-year-old boys who wanted us to play foosball with them, for a peso a game — if they won, we gave them a peso (equivalent to about one cent), the game free to play.

The first game I played was with one of the 6-year-old boys, who wasn’t tall enough to even see the top of the foosball table. “This is gonna be easy,” I thought to myself, “Poor kid.” I meant to win, and show this boy how it’s done — although I’d never played foosball before. Five minutes in, the game was over, I hadn’t scored once, the boy’s facing beaming, looking up at me saying, “De nuevo, señor, de nuevo.” Over the course of the next hour, I played each of the boys, as did the men in our group, losing each game successively more quickly, as was the case with each of my companions, now 20 pesos poorer than when I’d begun the night, the women standing nearby by shaking their heads, going off to look at the “shops” nearby (stalls, really), the young boys now gleeful.

Our leader, the gaunt young American man, rounded us all up, and said, “Let’s go for a swim,” and we did, some of the women going back to our new homes to find blankets to lay on the sand, but not swim suits, as this was to be a naked swim in the ocean, all twenty-two of us running toward and splashing in the warm, sparking water, the moon above glistening in the purple night sky, the light of the moon reflecting off the gentle waves of the ocean water.