Amidst the cacophony of loud voices, colours, noise, clutter and people in this Laos night market, she seemed out of place. Yet she stood out among the rest.
       Her simple stall, a ruby red material covering the ground, contrasted with her mustard coloured top, black embroidered trousers, and bare feet. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, holding her toddler son. His sister, about 8, sat slightly apart on her own.

       We were in Luang Prabang, its town centre designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Described in travel brochures as Simply Beautiful, this former Royal capital and mountain kingdom is considered one of the most beautiful in Asia. Struck by its charm: warm people, rich cultural heritage, myriads of Buddhist temples and street markets, French architecture (Laos was once a protectorate of France), we were delighted to be slightly off the beaten track. Laos, a communist country, is landlocked, almost hidden in southeast Asia.

       What attracted us to this young woman’s particular stall were her unusual metal articles for sale. On closer look we read a sign in English that began, these bracelets were bombs. We saw spoons, chopsticks, bracelets, rings, bottle openers….
       And so began our education.

       Her metal collection tells the story of a secret war waged in Laos from 1964-1973 by the U.S. Its aim: stop the spread of communism across Indochina. 250-260 million bombs were dropped on Laos during that time; 80 million failed to detonate.
       The tragic result: more than 34,000 people have been killed or injured by cluster munitions since the bombing ceased in 1973; there are still 300 new casualties in Laos each year. The majority of victims are children.
       Two years after the bombing stopped, villagers began to cast spoons from war scrap metal scattered around their forests and fields.
       Enter American New York designer, Elizabeth Suda, who visited Laos in 2008, saw the metal jewellery and objects, asked some questions, and the rest, as they say, is history.

       She subsequently founded Article 22, a design company named for the 22nd article of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
Article 22 also launched The PeaceBombs Project, one of the most important and moving enterprises to support the Laotian artisan. Using bomb fragment materials from the Secret War during the Vietnam War era, Laotian craftsmen/women now create meaningful jewelry and useful utensils for sale worldwide. Proceeds go back to the artisans and their communities.
       Postscript: Yes, we supported the PeaceBombs Project and purchased some items. Each time I glance at my aluminum ring from that young mother’s stall in Luang Prabang, I am reminded there is hope amidst despair, reconstruction from destruction.

           “Come ‘ere! Come ‘ere!”
         One of our tour companions waves excitedly. Points. We rush to where he’s standing. Hopeful.
           “Right there! See them trees moving! Right there!”
            Squint into the bush. Shade eyes from scorching sun. Nothing.
            “Aw. Gone now.”
            “See anything?” I ask.
            “Naw,” he confesses. “Just moving leaves. Had to be an elephant.”
           Sure, I think with skepticism. This guy probably sees Casper the Friendly Ghost rising out of a pumpkin patch on Hallowe’en.
            We’re on a wild elephant safari into the Thai jungle at Kuiburi National Park. Chose this tour because there was a chance we might actually see elephants in their natural habitat. After researching these majestic mammals, we decide this is the way to go even though we are warned we may not see any. Luck and being in the right place at the right time is our mantra.

            “Twice as many elephants work in Thailand’s tourism industry as the rest of Asia combined, with the vast majority kept in severely inadequate conditions…. When not giving rides or performing, the elephants were typically chained day and night, most of the time to chains less than three meters long. They were also fed poor diets, given limited appropriate veterinary care and were frequently kept on concrete floors in stressful locations.”   World Animal Protection (WAP) report
            At our next jungle stop, our group of 8 jumps off, scans the horizon in anticipation. We are on a plateau overlooking a large treed valley. Suddenly a flock of white egrets erupts from distant tree tops. We do know there is a symbiotic relationship between egrets and elephants. Egrets get a free ride and meal from insects the elephant kicks up as he moves across the jungle floor. In return, the egret feeds on parasites living on the elephant. We mention this quietly to our hyper tour friend.
            “Elephants!” he suddenly screams to everyone. “Those white birds mean elephants!”
              Not necessarily but possibly. The white birds we spy are far in the distance. Trying to spot an elephant in a treed jungle from our lofty vantage point is impossible. Our motormouth friend has stirred up a hopeless hope.

            We mutter: “this is the afternoon. Animals and birds are usually active in the early morning or evening. Any elephant is probably resting in the shade out of the hot sun like any sensible creature.”
             And so, as the afternoon wears on, our hopes diminish for seeing an elephant in the wild. But we continue to wait. And look. Scour the landscape. Walk back and forth across the cliff top.
          Close to twilight now. Park closes at 6 p.m.; insects already feasting on unprotected tourist flesh. Reluctantly we climb aboard the back of our safari truck. Slowly the driver retraces our rough and muddy route.
            “Stop!” orders a half whispering, half shouting guide with skillfully trained eyes. Points into the jungle to her right. Sun beginning to set. Rays act like an illuminating backdrop.
            Scanning eyes, cameras ready, silence. Ignore bug bites.
            Guide points again. Straining eyes catch a large, round gray mound amidst trees in the distance. It moves!
            Yes! See him! See his tusks! About 100 metres! Chomping on leaves! Ambling through his natural habitat! Unaware of spying human eyes!
            Cameras click in unison.
            “Madame,” cautions the guide respectfully. “No flash please!”
            Damn my camera!
          

Group stands in back of panel truck. Mesmerized. Watch every move Babar the Elephant makes as he slowly, languidly, eats his way through the foliage, ambling across our muddy trail in full view about 80 metres behind us. Then he blissfully wanders into the bush, disappears from view.
            Giddy. Thrilled. Worth the heat, bugs, discomfort, mouthy tour companion.
            The elusive elephant.

Maps: Kuiburi Park

       Her deft delicate arms swirl in circular motions over the ‘up’ escalator railing as she rides the moving stairs cleaning its glass sides.  When she reaches the top, I watch as she crosses to the ‘down’ escalator on the other side and repeats the cleaning motion.
       Dressed in the mall’s pale yellow service uniform with a white frilly apron, the graceful young Thai woman---shining black hair in pony tail---wears orange rubber gloves. She uses dark blue felt cleaning cloths to continue her escalator cleaning routine: sanitizing each moving railing while standing, holding the cloth firm against the constant motion; placing the cleaning cloth on a pole, wiping the moving parts as she rides again to the top then crosses over and repeats the same cleaning riding the down escalator.

       All part of the people-watching as I sit in this modern beach side city mall in Hua Hin, Thailand.  Watching couples stroll by, I am struck by the inordinate number of ‘mixed’ ones: white males with nubile Thai women.  The men: Caucasian, mostly older, overweight, and unattractive, followed by pert and pretty Thai girls who could be their daughters. 
       The tiny women lag behind because they can’t keep up with the long strides of their male counterparts who seem to ignore their distress.  They dress provocatively, small breasts showing hard nipples through gauzy tops. They trip behind in four-inch-high heels, determined to be No. 1 Girl.  Maybe get an offer they desperately want:  get out of Thailand for a better life with a doting Sugar Daddy or, if they’re lucky, a husband.  Their sing song sound language is delightful to the ear.  At least, at first.  Maybe after a steady diet or angry discourse of same, the melodic chimes could become annoyingly grating.

       It’s no secret it’s open season on the farang (a person of white race) male here.  But he knows he is hunted and as long as both know the unwritten rules, it’s a game as old as prostitution.  Online stories reveal ‘sad, sleazy, desperate men paying for love with Thai girls’ detailing the lonely lives of wealthy British, American, European and Asian males who pay well for a romance tour to Bangkok.  Apparently, such tours are also popular in Colombia and the Ukraine.

       Then there’s the entrepreneurial and maligned/lauded Thai woman who offers online advice (for a price, about $545Cdn for VIP membership) to her readers on how to catch and hold the rich white man of her dreams.
It’s easy once you know how.  VIP members are coached on: how to ask for money, what to ask for (trip/accommodation/favours), the language of love and/or commerce, irresistible sexual practices….

       Which brings me back to Phil, the 50-year-old divorced Californian, father of two, who sat next to us on our flight to Bangkok.  On his way to meet his Thai woman, whom he said he met at an American banking conference, Phil was antsy and anxious to get to her.  Before our astonished eyes, he opened a small jewel box and brought out the exquisite diamond ring he planned to give her as a marriage gift.  I choked.  Of course, they had gotten to know each other, he said.  Of course, he will bring her back to the States to live, he said.  Of course, he had not met her parents and family yet, he said; he admitted some trepidation on his part: “they eat different things, you know.”
And so begins our three month education in Thailand.

Maps:   Thailand          
             Hua Hin

      Why is there such hoopla surrounding New Year’s Eve?  Over the years we have attended dozens of New Year’s get-togethers; I cannot think of one that met expectations.
      Perhaps it’s because guests aren’t supposed to celebrate until midnight.  This means, if your party begins at 8 p.m., you are obliged to mingle, tell, or listen to, bad jokes, gossip, and drink until the bewitching hour of midnight.  So for four hours you chat with people you genuinely like.  But let’s face it. Four hours held captive with the same people is three hours too long.  Then comes the countdown and kisses all around at the stroke of twelve.  Sometimes those kisses are welcome.  Often, because of alcohol saturated breath, they are not.

      I recall, wincing, how tortuous it felt during a Command Performance New Year’s event.  This translates into dinner with bosses or senior executives of workplaces where some minion had come up with the grand idea of dining together at a restaurant, then retiring to the Big Boss House in time to celebrate the magic hour with glasses of bubbly. Of course, the expectation was---if you followed the tribal rules--- we remain in Big Boss House until at least 2 a.m. Forced laughter at dumb stories by said leaders is encouraged, nay, mandatory.
      This painful exercise led me to consider the origins of New Year’s Eve and reconsider its value.

      In 46 BCE (Before Common Era), Roman Emperor Julius Caesar first established January 1 as New Year’s Day. Janus was the Roman god of doors and gates, and had two faces, one looking forward and one back.  Caesar thought the month named after this god (“January”) would be the appropriate “door” to the coming year.  He celebrated the first January 1 New Year by ordering the violent routing of revolutionary Jewish forces in the Galilee.  Eyewitnesses say blood flowed in the streets.  In later years, Roman pagans observed the New Year by engaging in drunken orgies—a ritual they believed constituted a personal re-enacting of the chaotic world that existed before the cosmos was ordered by the gods.*
      Aha! As I surmised, New Year’s Eve is fraught with No Good. 

      And New Year’s Resolutions? Research claims 38-45% of us (me!) never make resolutions and of those who do, only 8% are successful in achieving their goals.   
      The idea of Resolutions reputedly began with the ancient Babylonians some 4,000 years ago in mid-March when crops were planted. Babylonians made promises to the gods to pay off their debts and return any ‘stuff’ they had borrowed. If they kept their word, the pagan gods would favor them in the coming year. If not, they would fall out of favour—a place no one wanted to be with those deities. 

      Then, much later, along came Emperor Caesar whose subjects also offered sacrifices to their god Janus, making promises of good behaviour for the coming year in return for favours.
      So began the Resolutions and the practise took root. 
      Meanwhile, ever wonder about the origin of Auld Lang Syne? The Scottish poet, Robert Burns, wrote this New Year’s favourite.  The 1788 piece literally translates to “old long since” and means “days gone by”.
      Which brings us to a couple of other tidbits to ponder as the New Year approaches….
      -The world population is expected to reach nearly 7.6 billion at the start of 2018, the German Foundation for World Population (DSW) recently declared; over the past year, the number of people in the world has increased by 83 million - or approximately the population of Germany.
      -Stephen Hawking, Oxford professor and physicist, known for his groundbreaking achievements in science, is also recognized for making predictions about the future of humanity and Earth. He claims 100 years is how long we humans have left on Earth (BBC ). This is a stark shift backward from the 1,000 years time limit that Hawking had predicted in 2016.  According to Hawking in his BBC science series, Tomorrow’s World, climate change, overdue asteroid strikes, epidemics and population growth are to blame for the new century-long doomsday clock.
      Thus it is with trepidation, mixed with hope, we raise a glass and toast you and yours with sincere best wishes for a healthy, peaceful, and thoughtful 2018. 
      *U.S. News and World Report December 23, 1996

     He came home from World War II a changed man. 
     He lied about his age to enlist because he was younger than the official acceptance age.  As the son of a World War I hero, a year-long resident in England with his mother’s family, and an idealist with strong convictions, he held a slightly romantic view of war.  His brother, relatives and friends had already enlisted. It was the exciting, heady mood of the day to ‘sign up’. A talented artist with his own mind, he wanted to join because he felt it in his blood. And it was The Royal Canadian Air Force that attracted him because he wanted to learn to fly.

     There was a systemic problem, though.  His artistic temperament fed a sensitive vein that ran through him. If he saw colours in technicolour, then he saw battle atrocities in vivid replays.  Over and over.
     Soldiers aren’t supposed to be sensitive.  They are taught to be tough robots.
     After his return to civilian life, his subdued temper flared more easily. Tortured by the realities of war, his subsequent art reflected a declining mental state.  Dark canvases featured war lords, demons, and hell.  Years later, his condition would be recognized and labelled as post traumatic stress disorder but at the time, he was diagnosed manic depressive.

     This decent gentle man once took his children for walks in the woods where he paused, listened to the wind whistling through the trees, and whispered: “hear the fairies dancing through the leaves?”  He wore corduroy jackets that warmed his touch and skin, the fabric emitting an aura of sweet tobacco from his pipe: the perfect place to snuggle when the world let you down.  He painted murals on the bathroom walls, creating a fantasy world for his bathing children.  His talent caught the eyes of prominent civic citizens, which led to numerous local newspaper articles and a scholarship. He painted day and night because it was his life’s blood. And in the evening his children, tucked into bed, were comforted when they heard their mother read to him as he put paint to canvas. He encouraged them in all ways creative, from drama and music to art and writing.  Today some of his grandchildren and great grandchildren exhibit---and excel---in those talents. 

     So each November, especially because Remembrance Day is part of this month, I think of him.  Perhaps I’ve embellished some of his characteristics but then, why not?
     For this soldier---who suffered as do all soldiers---was my father.

       “Jack the Ripper is one of my ancestors.”       
       When a close friend shared this information, it was with a hint of pride.  Jack the Ripper added a salacious touch to his lineage.  Which got me thinking.  What about mine?
        Little did I know what awaited me.
       A word of warning.  Unless you have at least two generations of names and dates from which something concrete can be traced, be prepared to play the frustrating detective.
       My search began with an elderly aunt, the last living relative on my mother’s side with any sense of historical pride.  She lives in New Brunswick.  We live in Ontario.            
       Although you can research on the internet, there’s nothing like touching base with a real person who might have actual photos, records, stories, about your ancestors.  So we drove to New Brunswick where the plot thickened. 
       My mother’s family did not seem to care about lineage.  I could acquire some scant knowledge about my grandparents on her side, but one generation earlier?  Not much from the early 1800s except for the names of both my great grandmother and great grandfather, their original country of birth, and two grainy photos.  This was a breakthrough.

       After our visit with Auntie in New Brunswick, she suggested where to start looking for real evidence. “Look for dad’s old house in Oxley around Amherst (Nova Scotia).”
       With great enthusiasm we followed what we thought were her instructions. (Amherst is a town in Cumberland County nestled between the Bay of Fundy and Northumberland Strait.)
       First harbinger of discouragement.  The keeper of records, the Cumberland County Museum and Archives, did not open until 11 a.m.  We looked at our watches.  9 a.m. 
       Not people to waste time in this fast-moving century, we drove 20 minutes to the town of Oxford, Wild Blueberry Capital of Canada (who knew?). Auntie identified a nearby village called Oxley where she was sure the family home was located. She was sure the family burial ground was in Rocky Cemetery.  Both places were definitely located along the Rocky and Roslin county roads, aka old Highway 321, a little-used thoroughfare running through sparsely populated areas.        

       Since our directions and names were vague---no fault of Auntie who shared with us what she had been given---we stopped at Oxford Town Hall where a friendly attendant enthusiastically pointed out how to get to 321. “Gets pretty rough,” she warned.
       And so began our quest.  Sparing the frustrating details, we discovered Rocky was actually Rockley, Oxley was actually Oxford, and the family home had been reduced to ashes. Apparently, vagrants were living in the deserted house and the good village fathers, after placing a newspaper advertisement seeking permission from the family, received the okay for the local fire department to burn down the home. Problem was Auntie’s sister, who granted the permission, didn’t tell Auntie until much later.

       The revelations continued. Grandparents were not buried in Ocean View Cemetery in Saint John New Brunswick but in Cedar Hill Cemetery that overlooked the sea.  Names were often incorrectly spelled, male and female names (Elija vs Eliza) used interchangeably, and family secrets, once skeletons in the closet, were finally spilled.

       The ultimate reward came with one of Auntie’s startling comments.  “’Course you knew about George, one of dad’s relatives. He was a pirate.”
       Wow! What is more exciting than a swashbuckling relative who sailed the open seas under the skull and cross bones black flag?  Why did George become a pirate?  What treasures did he plunder and where were they hidden?
       So maybe this ancestry stuff is worth all the time, trouble, sweat and tears after all. And there’s so much more to learn.
       Move over Jack the Ripper.

Maps: New Brunswick       
           Nova Scotia

     The amazing terrain of the Nisǥa’a Memorial Lava Bed, near Terrace, British Columbia, Canada, begins with a legend. 
Long ago, this land began to shake and rumble.  Nature’s harmony had been upset.
     It began by the river when one child took a humpback (salmon) from the water and slit open its back.  Then he stuck sticks in its back, lit them, and made the humpback swim. 
     The other children were amused to see the fish swim upriver with smoke coming from its back. 
     The same child slit open another humpback and stuck a piece of shale in its back.         
     Then he made it swim but the humpback floated on one side, weighted down by the shale. 
     The other children laughed despite the elders’ warnings. 
     And the ground rumbled.
     A scout was sent to investigate the rumblings.  From the mountain top, he saw smoke and flames up the valley…. 
     The legend continues how the villagers, although warned by their scout, could not escape the lava flow.  As they watched death and destruction surround them, they suddenly saw the mighty Gwa Xts’agat, a supernatural being who possessed the power of fire, block the lava’s path.  For days the spirit lay with its big nose fighting back the lava.  Finally, the lava cooled and Gwa Xts’agat went back into the mountain where it remains to this day.

     The legend underlines how important the fish is to Nisǥa’a people.  It is taboo to ridicule the fish and to do so, as did that errant child, led to the unfortunate death of over 2,000 villagers.  Now in harmony with their environment, the Nisǥa’a long ago developed a respect for their land.  Today they welcome interested visitors who take the time to drive along the 158 km Nisǥa’a Highway,100 km. north of Terrace, to the lava beds and more.

     Along with three children, ages 4 to 11, we tread carefully along the winding lava paths that spilled from the mountain crater about 240 years ago.  The boys claimed the stark and dramatic landscape was ‘perfect’.  A great place to act out a Star Wars scene!
The first thing we saw when we five jumped from the car were two ominous warnings:
     First, lava in the park is sharp and unstable; walk only on designated trails.  The lava is culturally significant---it is illegal to remove lava from the park.
     Second, you are in grizzly and black bear territory.  If you see bears, do not disturb---return to your vehicle.  (Gulp… how fast can you run with three small kids?)

     As a result of the bear warning, when we entered the Beaupre Falls trail, we yelled and screamed and clapped and stomped.  No bear dare come near this ruckus!  After a short walk we arrived to a lookout with a clear view of the falls, Ts’itksim Aks, and the small mountain with the English name, Trap for Porcupines.

     After more screaming and hooting and hollering to scare bears, we continued our highway drive to the Tree Cast stop. During the volcanic eruption, molten lava solidified around trees creating hollow tubes after the trees burned or rotted.  Wild horses couldn’t keep the kids from galloping off in search of these holes. Like nimble monkeys, they scrambled over the lava gaps, convinced they were on a futuristic movie set.  They found the holes easily (a posted sign!) but to them it was a moonscape paradise.

     Ever wary for bear sightings, we drove on to Gitwinksihlkw village (population: about 1800), known as Place of the Lizards, on the Nass River. Oral stories passed on by elders tell of large lizards that lived here before the volcanic eruption.  Survivors resettled the village when the lava flow cooled.  Two significant features here attracted us:  the 55 foot high Bears’ Den totem pole and the old suspension bridge across the Nass.  That narrow, one person only, bridge sure looked rickety.  Only our eldest decided to stand on the swaying platform at its beginning. No-one wanted the bridge to collapse chucking innocent victims into the deep water below!
     Although we did not have time to traverse the entire length of the highway to take in all the stops, our big disappointment was not hiking to the volcanic cone.  Unguided access to the cone is prohibited and no guides were available this time of year.
     Still, it provided an overview lesson in life for our three young grandchildren.  And to our relief, but to their disappointment, we never saw any bears!

Map:  Smithers to Nass Valley

     Once upon a time, an emerald green iguana came to live at our suburban home.  His name was Drako and he became the source of local folklore.
     One day two salesmen sauntered up the walk to our front door.  It was a bubbling hot August day. Hoping to catch the hint of a lake breeze, I had left open our front door. Only a screened partition stood between me---inside---and any possible intruders.
     About to ring our bell, the salesmen suddenly scurried away with nary a backward glance.  Puzzled but relieved, I wondered why their sudden departure.
     Then I noticed. Chuckled.

     Resembling a mini-dragon, our teenage son’s pet iguana---Drako--- clung to the top of the screen. Sharp claws gripped the fine wire netting.  Beady eyes scanned tall trees with luscious leaves growing on our front lawn. Over 2 feet/0.61 metres long, including his long tail, Drako appeared an ominous creature to any unsuspecting onlooker. Like me, Drako obviously had hoped to catch a welcome breeze on the screen. Instead, he caught the eye of a couple of unsuspecting humans who fled as if seeing a monster.
     How did Drako become part of our busy family that included three teenage males?  Unfortunately, our middle son learned early in life he was allergic to furry creatures. No stately cats.  No bounding dogs. No fluffy bunnies. So he chose an iguana.  An iguana that was given freedom to roam our four-bedroom, two-storey home.  But that’s another story.
     Not especially cuddly, Drako did, however, possess other positive attributes.  A herbivore, he loved munching on crisp, water-laden lettuce fresh from the refrigerator. Or juicy grapes accidentally left on the kitchen counter. He didn’t cost a fortune to feed. 

     Arboreal by nature, he often climbed the floor length curtains to straddle the top of drapery rods.  Nothing more disconcerting than having the feeling something--- or someone--- is watching you.  Then you look around and there! on top of the curtain rod! lies a bright green lizard nonchalantly peering at you with big bug-out eyes.
     With a tendency to skitter across the floor with remarkable speed---and with the flexible body of a reptile---Drako could easily disappear if not watched and be lost forever: out an open door, down a loose floor grate, or perhaps wedged behind the furniture. This became a problem because he had no scent and therefore could not be tracked down. 
     One afternoon, Son Owner checked his special aquarium with the lava hot rock and found no iguana!  Raising the alarm, he enlisted his family’s aid in joining a house-wide hunt for his mini-dragon. Even brought in a large, reckless tracking dog to sniff him out but with no scent to follow this proved fruitless.  Only thing this rambunctious dawg accomplished was terrifying the rest of us and probably drove Drako deeper into hiding.

     Desperate, we called the pet store owner who gave precise directions on how to find the reptilian pet. After filling a tin foil pie plate with water, we placed it on the floor surrounded by newspaper.  Sprinkled flour on the newspaper.  Now all we had to do was wait for Mr. Iguana to come out of his hiding place to drink water.  Naturally he would splash in the water.  Naturally his wet clawed feet would pick up the flour as he headed back to his hiding place.  All we needed to do was follow his flour-laden tracks and presto! we would find him.
     Except the plan didn’t work.  For one week, the mini dragon disappeared. 
     Until one morning we heard a shriek.  Aha…Mr. Iguana must have reappeared!  In Son Owner’s bottom drawer of his dresser.  Hidden comfortably amongst his underwear.
     Drako caused cocktail chatter. Guests arriving in our home for refreshments were puzzled by many bare green stalks planted in pots. Our resident mini-dragon had polished off the foliage leaving only the stems. 
     It was easy to get rid of an undesirable guest. We merely introduced our lizard in all his reptilian glory.  Amazing how said guest suddenly remembered something left cooking on his stove at home and hastily excused himself.
     Even the twittering birds perched on the hydro wire stopped their chirp chattering in silent awe when they spied this strange creature. In a group, they scuttled quickly in the opposite direction along the wire while staring at this harnessed green iguana slowly climbing to the top of our backyard cherry tree.
     When Son left for university, he found a home for Drako with a local avid naturalist who introduced myriads of students to such stunning marvels of nature as iguanas. 
     And Drako lived happily ever after.

     “Watch those prickly spines…and boil the leaves for at least 5 minutes before eating…”
      We’re talking about the Maya chaya, a maple-leaf shaped green known as tree spinach in México’s Yucatán Peninsula: a ‘miracle’ medicinal plant richer in iron than spinach and an excellent source of potassium and calcium.  But beware: its leaves contain toxic hydrocyanic glycosides so boiling before consuming is a must.
     Chaya is only one health food we’ve discovered on our winter sojourns to different foreign destinations over the years.

     Ever eat cactus pads?  Nopales (from the Nahuatl language), commonly known as prickly pear plant in Canada, reportedly prevent cancer, improve skin health, protect the heart, improve digestion, boost the immune system...you get the idea.  Each Spring it’s easy to spot the prickly pear growing in the wild.  Look for splashes of brilliantly coloured red and yellow blossoms that dot an arid field. There’s something neat about saying you’re eating cactus. Of course, we told our skeptical friends, we don’t eat the spines; of course, we scrape them off!

     In Lhasa, Tibet, out of breath from thin air in the high altitude until we sucked in oxygen through a tube from oxygen pillows, we chowed down on yakburgers. Only later did we learn this healthy deep red meat, with a delicate beef-like flavour, is higher in protein and Omega 3 than bison and most fish. The longevity of the Himalayan people is attributed to their yak rich diet.

     Meanwhile, in Playas (aka General Villamil beach), a coastal town in Ecuador, we heard about nuns who sold Noni wine.  Noni is touted as a cure-all: like other superfood discoveries, it helps prevent cancer, diabetes and liver disease; is a powerful anti-oxidant; boosts the immune system and so on and so on.
     Always interested in improving our health, we had to try it.  Buying Noni wine on the Sabbath from the shy wine-making Sisters in a coastal Ecuadorian convent is a memorable experience.  Finding the nunnery was difficult; finally finding the door to the nunnery was like playing a game of Clue. Once inside, we carefully wound our way down a short flight of stairs where we spied a wooden turntable at waist level set into the wall to our right.  We heard a hidden garbled female voice on the other side of the wall.   Suddenly the turntable began to move, stopping in front of us.  The table top held a menu with the name, description of available wines, and prices (about US $8).
After making our choices, we pushed the turntable back to the invisible waiting Sister(s).  They pushed back our invoice; we pushed back our money.  The final spin carried our order of wine.  The transaction was wordless; we never saw the nuns.

     At the night market in Phuket, Thailand, my husband ate insects, now considered a viable protein substitute to meat. The largest crowds gather around the fried insect stall.  So popular is this stand there is a sign in English stating photos can only be taken if you purchase the crunchy little morsels. Crickets are caught in the wild while grasshoppers and silkworms are raised on insect farms in northeast Thailand.

     Back in Canada, one of our best health foods, wild rice, is a gift from the Ojibwa culture. Not a grain but a grass, wild rice is popular in haute cuisine. In addition, it is used in folk medicine remedies as a treatment for burns, heart problems or digestive complaints. And it’s gluten free!
     Also well known abroad as one of Canada’s best-known health foods is maple syrup.     When we’ve given it to friends in foreign countries, recipients quickly comment after tasting it, “oh, it’s too sweet!”
     Does any reader out there know of another Canadian food we could pack as healthy gifts to foreigners? I've heard  poutine is a prime example!

     I’m struggling to write something original about Canada.  After all, our country  celebrates her 150th birthday on July 1st and already glowing platitudes are pouring forth.
     When I think about this land, I compare it with other countries where we have wintered.  We are travellers so living three months in a foreign land does offer a rare reality check.
     My dominant memory is mentioning to our new neighbours in Thailand, Colombia, Ecuador, Panama, Nicaragua or Mexico that we are Canadian. Amazed by their warm reactions, we see spontaneous smiles and hear wistful comments like: I’d love to visit/live there; or Can I go back with you?  Those moments make me proud to be Canadian.
     And when we lived in Ohio for five years, our Canadian friends asked us time and time again, what is the difference between Canada and the U.S.?  Our answer: Canada seems more gentle, more civilized.

     Even the late actor/comedian Robin Williams expressed the same sentiment in his own style: You are a big country.  You are the kindest country in the world.  You are like a really nice apartment over a meth lab.
     Still, time has wrought definite changes.
     Living in Ottawa during my teen years, I attended Lisgar Collegiate, a high school located close to the Parliament Buildings.  It was natural for my friends and me to walk freely into Parliament after classes and watch the House of Commons in session from the visitors’ gallery.  Sadly, you cannot do that today.
     Because we lived in the capital city, we attended special Canada Day celebrations with thousands of others on Parliament Hill.  On one occasion after the planned program, then-Prime Minister Jean Chretien walked unaccompanied on the front lawn through crowds of spectators whose friendly shouts and outstretched arms offered a rousing and enthusiastic greeting.  He continued to walk alone among the throng along Wellington Street where we, along with a crush of others, shook hands and chatted with him face-to-face.  No Security detail was visible….it was merely a spontaneous people mingling event probably not possible today.

     Before we began international travelling, we drove to the Maritimes and then west, through the Rockies.  Our land is beautiful.  Fresh. Stunning. Raw.   We still want/need to experience the farthest east and west points: Haida Gwaii in the Pacific; Newfoundland in the Atlantic; and our Canadian North, before it disappears.

     Today we live in Burlington, Ontario, where city libraries are currently recognizing local authors and their books as part of Canada’s 150th.  A travelling exhibit, it will appear in a different branch  each month.

     I am fortunate to be included in this display with Ode to a Flattened Toad, co-edited with the late Peggy Fletcher. Ode showcases the adventures and misadventures of a talented Sarnia-Lambton writers’ group.

     When we live abroad during Canada’s three coldest months and return home: often worn out, always cranky, definitely miserable after a long flight, I light up with gratitude---and moist eyes---when I see our maple leaf flag.  I am delighted to be back on home soil.
     So the emotional joy at returning to this great country is my personal glowing platitude, nay---my sincere salute---to our incomparable Canada.