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The Citizen, 1997-01-15, Page 5THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15,1997 PAGE 5. The Short Answer: a dork I once had a teacher who told us, tongue wedged firmly in cheek, that "all generalizations are for idiots". She was probably right, but I'm going to risk one anyway: Anybody who hunts bears is a Dork. I'm talking about those brave wilderness warriors who charcoal their cheekbones, don Desert Storm-style camouflage fatigues, climb into their Jeeps and Jimmy’s and point the hood ornaments towards Bear Country. When they get there, they pick a likely looking spot, load their rifles and put out "the bait". The bait varies, but it's never anything you'd want to see on the breakfast table. Sometimes it's a pail of ripe fish heads or a bag of putrefying garbage. The Great White Hunters park their lard butts within easy firing range of "the bait" and wait for a bear to show up. The bears often do. Bears aren't too bright, and they'll eat just about anything - the stinkier the better. And since it presents the profile of an upholstered Dumpster, the bear is International Scene Z 7 __________ _ _________________________________________________________________________________________ By Raymond Canon Travel’s funny side Around this time of year most people are not very anxious to hear a lot of depressing or ponderous preachings on some aspect of our international trade or the horrendous situation in some part of the world. For this reason I thought I would tread on the lighter side of things and relate to you a few of the more humorous moments of my wanderings throughout the world. Perhaps you will recall some similar incident that you had, in which case we can laugh together. Did you ever have an outing turn out completely different from what it started to be? When I was living in Portugal, I went down to Lisbon one week to do some work. While there, I phoned two Portuguese girls (sisters) who were friends of a friend of mine in St. Gall. We got together for lunch and they asked me if I would like to go to hear the fados some evening. For the unitiated, fados are the traditional folk-songs of the country and are well worth hearing. So it was that we ended up in a nightclub and sat back with a bottle of wine to enjoy the music. Another tourist in the place couldn't seem to keep quiet and interrupted the music several times. An announcement came on the loud speaker asking whether there was anybody in the audience who spoke German. My friends volunteered me and I was asked if I would go to the gentleman and explain to him that he was disturbing the floor show. I went over, chatted with him for a moment and found out that he was a young Swiss who did not speak a word of Portuguese; he wasn't too inebriated, but he was homesick. To the delight of everybody I got him quieted pathetically easy to shoot. Especially when it's got its head stuffed into a garbage can. Il's about as challenging as hunting garden slugs with a hammer or fishing with grenades. The question is, what kind of spiritual bankrupt could possibly consider bear- baiting a sportsmanlike experience? Answer: a Dork. Or a poacher. Bear poachers make even the Dorks look good. Bear poachers kill bears any way they can - leg traps, poison, jack­ lighting - and then they cut off their paws, hack out their gall bladders and leave the carcass to rot where it fell. Poachers know that there are sickos in the Orient who will pony up more than $1,000 U.S. for a single bear paw - five grand U.S. for the gall bladder - in order to concoct health potions. They also know their chances of getting caught by budget-strapped government forestry agents are slim. Poachers are undeniably scum-sucking vermin, but al least they have reasons for slaughtering bears - they do it for the money, just like sneak thieves and hookers. But the Dorks? The so-called 'sports' hunters? They do it for... ...the thriimV. They must be beginning to feel a little lonely. British Columbia has more bears than down by inviting him over to our table where he remained for the rest of the evening. He turned out to be quite a pleasant fellow. He ended up paying for the entire evening and invited the three of us out for dinner the next evening. He apologized for being noisy but said that he was not only homesick; he was bored and wanted to cut loose a bit. I guess it happens to all of us. I was driving back from Florida one time and stopped in Sanford, Fla. to spend the night and get some gas. At the gas station, the attendant filled up the tank, checked the oil and asked me if the car was running fine. I assured him it was. "Well," he replied, "there is a loose wire in front and we can't seem to find where it goes. Maybe you should come and take a look at it." I got out of the car and looked at the wire. "Oh," I replied, "that's my block heater." What's a block heater?" he asked. In Florida he had obviously never seen one before and I had to explain to him what we used it for in Canada. His reaction was that it must really get as cold in Canada as people said it did. I assured him that it really did in winter but that it could get very hot in summer. In fact we have one of the greatest temperature spreads in the world. When I was doing a series of newspaper articles about Yugoslavia (this was before the break-up), I was going to Dubrovnik from Sarajevo by train as I had no car. The conductor was supposed to tell me where to change trains, but he seemed to have forgotten. He remembered only when the train was on its way to the next station. I would have to get off, he said, and find some way to get to Dubrovnik, which was on the Adriatic coast. He also forgot to tell an army officer which earned him a real any other province - so many that it's legal to kill 5,000 black bears alone each year. That probably means that British Columbia has more bear hunters as well. But that doesn't make it popular. An Angus Reid poll taken in October showed that nearly 80 per cent of British Columbians are opposed to sport- and trophy-hunting of bears. Not surprisingly, the Dorks are trying to change the public image of their grisly addiction. A spokesman for the U.S. National Rifle Association argued in a recent press release that setting out bait for the purpose of blowing bears brains out is actually...quite humane. The NRA reasoning (!) goes that baiting lets hunters get close enough to be sure that the bear they see in their crosshairs is not a sow with cubs. Unless of course the sow has 'stashed' her cubs in the bushes while she investigates - something sows with cubs usually do. There is a simple way that all bear-hunting Dorks could avoid shooting mother bears and orphaning cubs. They could give up buying barrels of fish guts and rancid horsemeat. They could donate their fantasy-stud, pseudo-military hunting gear to the local theatre society or a costume shop. They could get smart, get serious, get on board, get with it. dressing down in front of everybody. At any rate the officer and I found ourselves alone 36 kilometres from our destination. We (use the term advisedly) decided to walk the entire distance which was fine for him since he had little to carry; I had my typewriter and my bag. We finally made it and, while I laugh about it now, I was really bushed when I arrived. I was, however, not going to admit that to him. He was, he said, "impressed." The most chaotic passport inspection I ever saw was in Baghdad. When we got off the airplane, everybody took off for the terminal at breakneck speed, their passport in their hand. I should have known there was a reason for all this but, when I got there, the passengers were all waving their passports at the inspectors, trying to be next to be inspected. You might think that there would be a line-up. Not on your life! Everything was pure pandemonium. Just when I was wondering just how long it would take to get through this mob, I heard my name being called. I found myself face to face with a gentleman whom the company had sent to meet me. He got me through in no time and I discovered afterwards that he had written the appropriate chalk marks on my luggage. I presume a bribe had taken place but I was smart enough not to ask. He saifi my visa to enter would be "arranged later". So it was! I'm still not certain if I was in the country legally or illegally. But then for a long while I felt the same about Canada. When I came to get my citizenship, nobody could find any record whatsoever of me having entered the country. If my articles disappear without a trace, you will know they have caught up with and deported me... of it By Bonnie Gropp Happy where you are "Honey, if anyone had told me 10 years ago that this is where I'd be on a Saturday night, I'd have to assume they're a stranger." So said I to my warrior this past weekend as I sat, curled up in my 'jammies', a wine spritzer beside me, a game of solitaire in front of me and my family around me. Now, while there are those who will determine this action, or lack of, to be a symptom of the winter weather, let me assure you, this is not so. This, contrary to my children's teasing remarks that I have no life, is my life. And I have chosen it. It certainly isn't the way things began. Growing up, I learned early that Saturday night was the time to howl. My parents loved to dance and were dam good at it. No matter how wearing the work week was, they were never too weary to waltz or too pooped to polka. Unlike many people of my generation, Mom and Dad both worked outside the home. So, after five days and nights of mental and physical labour, of doing everything for someone else, this time was their time. Therefore, the concept that socializing was a deserved reward was ingrained in me from a very early age. By the time I hit adolescence, I was in full stride — out the back door every Saturday night that is. As a young adult who, unlike my mother, worked at home, I felt I needed the time out to stay sane. Then I got a job outside the home and suddenly leaving it anytime I didn't have to, began to look less attractive. Where my folks found the energy I have no idea, because the thought of spending more time out in the real world was more exhausting than work. This viewpoint was compounded by another realization. My eldest was suddenly a senior in high school and I didn't know what had happened to the years. Somewhere my life had moved into fast forward and every minute spent away from my family seemed wasted. I suddenly perceived how very little time we had together on weekdays, with mealtimes served up at different times for everyone, or even on Sundays which often were spent with extended family. It came to me that I wanted to know as much about each of my kids and my husband, as they wanted to share. If I couldn't manage it as well as other people seem to Monday to Friday, then I'd better make the time. If that meant staying home most Saturday nights, it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. After all, I knew it wouldn't be forever; before I knew it the teen drive to get out of the house on weekends would make it virtually pointless for my kids' parents to stay home. Goodness knows, that day is moving closer with rapid speed. Now, all this is not to say that I have become a total fuddy-duddy. Certainly, there are breaks in the routine when one occasion or another results in a Saturday night of old. And interestingly now that they're not the norm, they're a lot more fun. But generally, I'm enjoying my quiet Saturday nights. It's a cozy, satisfying feeling having nowhere you have to be other than where you want to be — right where you are.