Written by Brendan Kane

Photography by Brendan Kane and Ryan Monty

What I was able to gather by the halfway point of my first cab ride in Portland went beyond the knowledge of how busy the night was for the driver or if it was supposed to rain later in the evening.  It was the opening night of MFNW (Music Fest North West) in the city and my friend, Monty and I were on our way to a place called the Kennedy School to watch Deer Tick perform three sets in a gymnasium. That was all I needed to know. An hour earlier, an eavesdropping Buffalo Exchange clothes-fetcher overheard me talking them up to a fellow employee as I tried on a pair of women’s jeans. He said the show was free and affiliated with the festival; however, it was dubbed as a halfway to St. Patrick’s Day bash.

The cabbie shot dialogue like a cannon when I told him the Kennedy School address, “Oh yeah, that’s a McMenamin’s,” he began. This was the second time I had heard this phrase; the first was the night before. We were in Centralia, Washington and about to see Deer Tick (but they had to reschedule). Suffice to say, becoming fond with four Olympia cool cats, drinking absinthe from a crystal chalice, and proceeding to close down their McMenamin’s haunt built a strong first impression.

According to the cabbie, the Kennedy school is an elementary school from 1915 that the McMenamin’s franchise revived from abandonment for the sole purpose of filling it with as much cool shit as possible. You feel like you’re in a school and it creeps you out right up until point when you realize that every classroom is a bar, restaurant, cigar room, theatre, micro-brewery, pool or suite and a wicked band is playing all night in the gym to a dinner crowd. The mere sight of seeing a mother swinging her young daughter upside down by the ankles (to the delight of the child) as Deer Tick ripped into a Hank Williams tune triggered a sense that community in Oregon was of a deeper essence than much of North America. This seemed special; this was new; and Portland is the place to be for art in September.

Our home base for the festival was the artist-friendly, Ace Hotel. It was easy to feel at home since the place was stacked with a youthful (and like-minded) clientele and staff. We were also within walking distance from many of the venues and a block away from the enormous, Powell Bookstore. After the Deer Tick anthology and before Will Sheff, Jill arrived to meet us outside Ace and the four of us strolled to see the Okkervil River front man take the stage at Berbati’s Pan – a pub that also makes Greek food and neighbours the psychedelic Voodoo Doughnuts (maple glazed topped with bacon anyone?).

Sheff’s voice, I have often found (wait for the cheese…) is kind of like a river; the lyric delivery is rolling, unpredictable and, at times, looking like it’s going to fall right off a cliff or out of the song. His range, tone and mostly, his attention to romantic detail seem to address every whimsical thought in the mind of someone young and in love. Portland, he mentioned, was a groundbreaking spot for his career – it was only fitting that the kick-off event belong to Sheff, his acoustic guitar, and the small brigade of cellists in the encore.

Day two started with an early-morning skateboard to the nearby market for some juice and muffins. If the earmark of a truly logistical city lies in its non-motorized transport options, every throughway in downtown Portland included a painted bike lane. The morning rain was also enough to extract the city’s trademark weather comment from my barista: “Do you know why they say Oregonian’s refuse to wear umbrellas? Because it’s never going to rain enough to get you wet!” Really? Bastards.

We were dining at the Clyde Common (attached to Ace) when Lindsay arrived. Seating is at long, Euro-inspired tables that encourage talking to strangers,goblet sliding and - during happy hour - pints are $3 and popcorn is a featured entrée. We hailed a cab to take us to an early performance from Philadelphia’s, Dr. Dog at the Wonder Ballroom. Yet another historic venue, packed to the brim with around 800 in broad daylight and a set-piece of harmonies from Taxi, Tables, Text, Trouble and Thanks. Soon to be Indie cult-classics like The Breeze and Hang On, both from their summer record, Fate got a rouse from the crowd.

We were steadfast in snatching up a cab, and destined for Saburo’s Sushi for our fill of cheap rolls, each with the median size of a balled fist. The girls and boys respectively (and respectfully) ditched one another for Girl Talk and Explosions in the Sky/Dirty Three - the latter’s shocking awesomeness took (approximately) one week to truly sink in. It was in San Francisco while talking to the clerk at Recycled Records on Haight-Ashbury; a classical instrumental band crackled in the speaker next to his face as he ate a wrap and wrote down directions for me to find a vintage record player.  The band was Mono and they are Japanese. Quickly we talked about Explosions and Dirty Three synonymously. When I said that I saw them back-to-back, he had to swallow whatever sandwich and say, “That’s life-affirming shit, man.”  I responded with something to do with my mind being blown, and in handing me the directions he said, “Everything has to happen.”

Explosions in the Sky played in my third visited McMenamin’s establishment - the massively multi-tiered and diamond orientated Crystal Ballroom. The old hardwood floor panels in this venue flex bounce and shift with every kick drum, bass line or hopping audience member, extenuating every thunderous breakdown that makes them the premier instrumental act in the west. They were, however, only a precursor for the Dirty Three of Melbourne, Australia. Warren Ellis plays the violin, sometimes the piano and tells stories in between songs. He does not sing; his violin does, and I usually catch myself calling him the ‘lead singer’. All of the songs deal with specific subject matter and he lets the audience know this. One song was simply about “when your girl tells you to go get fucked, and you know she’s right” and another dealt with “what it’s like to do so much amphetamine that your brain is literally the size of a pea and you can’t move from off your back for three days.”

We sat on the cast iron fire escape back at Ace that night and (hours later) watched below as Ellis marched down the empty road with tremendous pace in his stride – a true mad scientist, always at work. The girls stumbled in drunker than 40 cats, so I went downstairs and crossed the street to the Roxy Diner to get everyone some replenishing grub. The entryway was partially blocked by a young girl making out with a transvestite; the bathrooms were soaked in graffiti; there was a gigantic crucifix; there was an incredible jukebox; and best of all, there was Warren Ellis eating a salad with a friend and talking to about the state of America.

Friday was my first Urban Outfitters experience; in that, aside from getting some nice things, I felt genuinely jealous to have not come up with many of their gimmicks. We ate at the Rams Head – another McMenamin’s to further that feeling and arranged to interview John McCauley (Deer Tick singer) before their show at the quaint, Mississippi Studios.  McCauley had been drinking when we spoke in the afternoon and things didn’t happen to stop being fun for him. He called me an hour and a half before their set with a voice like a bucket of rusty nails, asking to postpone the conversation.  I bumped into a few other members of the band in the pub across the street who told me they had never seen him like this – as his voice was reeling from several consecutive multi-hour sets.

Sure enough, big John and the Deer Ticks emerged from the back room with McCauley dawning a plastic bag on his face, a pleated red miniskirt, camouflage t-shirt and had sharpie dicks drawn on his thighs. McCauley apologized for his voice to the crowd - but what he lacked in his typical Cobain/Hank tone, he made up for in escapades – leading the band members off stage mid-way through Dirty Dishes to get beer from the bar and scaling the balcony to walk it like a tightrope. These very escapades also inspired those of us in the crowd (me included) to push our drunk – never a negative.

It was Saturday, so we woke up and drove to the ocean. Portland seems like an ocean town – it did before I knew the geography and it did on this visit. However, it takes just under two hours to drive to the coast. This day journey was to greatly overshadow our Sunday adventure, which originally was to be Crater Lake (6 hours was too far) but ended up being Mount Hood (2 hours and much to the dismay of the girls). We were all informed by Monty that the Timberline Lodge on the mountain was actually the Overlook Hotel from the Shining. But when we arrived, the girls saw no sign of verification of this from the tourist stands and a mutiny began to brew. Apparently a secondary crew shot the Timberline for “a few exterior shots” in the Shining – not good enough.

Saturday evening I took in crusty punkers, the Dillinger Four who got me back to basics – straight forward punk - no bull shit and tons of ranting. First, front man Patrick Costello ripped vegans who move to Brooklyn and start punk bands without a bass player by saying that they will: a) Never get laid and b) Are directly insulting Otis Redding. He then focussed his afflictions upon Christians, saying that he intends on burying Batman comic books with the hopes that someone in the future will dig them up and start a religion based upon them. 

Modest Mouse might be the perfect headliner for a bar hopping music festival – their credibility is enough for casual music fans, yet they’re small enough to not attract said fans. Your parents haven’t heard of them and what the hell, they’re from Portland! The show was at the Crystal Ballroom, so the floor was shaking and we got the pleasure of standing next to the most fun people ever that were also on the most fun drugs ever - it all seemed to just trickle down.

As my first MFNW came to a resounding close, so much of the experience can be traced back to that very first cab ride. When the cabbie proudly spoke of the Kennedy school, I wished badly for a piece of that kind of history and community back home – where you can be enriched in community and not just shuffled in and out. The Portland he explained from a decade ago sounded a lot like Calgary – a downtown to work in and then scurry away from at quitting time. He said everyone had enough – they wanted markets, shops and a bustling nightlife. They wanted to take back the metropolis from vagrants and make people confident for their safety – committed to leisure. We were in the middle of Seattle and Sanfrancisco and that didn’t matter; I told him, “we want that in Calgary” and he said, “Do it then.”

For the record, it was a busy night because it was supposed to rain.

By: Julia Jungwirth 

For a total of six months I wandered with a truly amazing soul around the United Kingdom and Europe.  When home people will ask: how was your trip?, what did you see? and where did you go? All of these questions are valid, but more importantly how did the person you travelled with inspire and shape your journey?  

The invitation for travel came up over a few pints.  I responded with pure guttural instinct: the answer was yes without hesitation (even though she told me to sleep on it and respond the next day).   Think I did and the answer was still the same.  Little did I know that setting off into the unknown with someone would morph into a beyond beautiful experience.   

Danielle and I were friends prior to our departure and by friends I mean we worked together and frequented pubs together.  I quickly learnt that just because you drink together does not really mean you know each other well.  We went from knowing fragments of each other to knowing every facet.  This undoubtedly happens when you spend mass amounts of time together.

We became so familiar with each other that we knew when to give the other space or a solo day, because no one is meant to spend every waking moment together - lest this lead to insanity and sheer madness!  I was able to read her body language and her mine; it was comforting knowing someone knew me that well.  You’re not just hanging out with each other all the time either, as you’re discovering and meeting so many new people daily.

Meeting new people provides an opportunity for a little bit of a break from just chilling with your travel partner.  I was astounded by how many amazing souls I met with giant hearts and expanding open minds.  Backpacking becomes a breeding ground for practising the fine art of starting up random conversations with strangers and probably divulging life stories within seconds.  “What are your hobbies and interests?” comes to mind, as a prime starter example.  

The co-existence of a travel team relies heavily on each other’s strengths and weaknesses.  A couple sets of these goodies are bound to come in handy some where along the line.  Danielle was exceptional at quick grocery store, hostel, and transit math.  By quick I mean BAM shika BAM you owe this J!  On the other hand I was exceptionally good at cutting bread, which is an essential ingredient when making a proper sandwich.  As a whole we both did our fair share of deciphering exit strategies for shady situations.  Ultimately you feel damn lucky to have that person watching your back when an old creepy man is awkwardly staring you down in a dorm room, whilst wearing only tight black manties. (For the record that means man panties.)

Life became so simple jumping from place to place. With limited Internet access and no mention of a cellular device time seemed endless and I always had moments to write thoughts, formulate crazy ideas and live in the now.  When you cut out distractions it is amazing how focused one can be.

Everything and anything became about personal connections and communication.  When you’re with someone everyday, honesty is key.  We are but human and sometimes, we are just emotional for no reason.  If you’re up front about how you feel and what’s on your mind, people will know that it is not personal. For example if you received little sleep due to a rambunctious evening of Swedish hostel mates getting ridiculously busy right close to your bunk: you’re going to feel a little tired, odd and possibly scarred the next day. Or perhaps turned on…?

Hanging around the same city or town for several days we noticed we would frequent the same favourite food venues and hang out haunts.  Sometimes we would crave the familiar, subconsciously maybe it fulfilled our ‘we miss home’ quotient.  Telling stories was vital.  Telling stories on bunk-beds prior to sleep defined our existence.  The stories spanned everything: life, family, friends and the ones we missed and loved.  Life is one giant story. You meet someone new, they share a story about travel and then you share a story right back.  The exchange indefinitely begins!  

Over time we started writing little notes to each other for birthdays, holidays and events marking specific achievements.  It was a way to encourage each other and express our appreciation for one another through words.  In Berlin, Danielle got a nasty cold.  While we were just hanging out in the room, I decided to see if I could make her some tea without her knowing, however the kitchen was directly in front of her bed, which she was on.  I proceeded and ended up boiling the water and borrowing some tea and honey from the cupboard.  She had no idea until I walked it over.  Seeing the look of surprise on her face was comparable to getting a giant hug from a massive friendly man bear. 

Being sneaky then became a skill we both suddenly acquired.  How does one sneakily purchase a birthday gift for your backpack sidekick, while they are with you all the time?  Anything goes from hey check out these items over here, while I purchase this thing hoping the teller will wrap it discreetly and do it in warp speed time before anyone specific finds out.  Little things made all the difference. 

We came back to Newquay, Cornwall near the end of our trip before heading home.  We returned to familiar faces and met some new faces too.  One evening we were getting our lunches ready in the communal kitchen.  Danielle did not like cutting bread, so I was about to go ahead and cut some for our sandwiches, when suddenly I had the urge to pee.  Off I went and then quickly returned to find Danielle had cut the entire loaf of bread by herself.   As silly as that may seem, I was overcome with pride.  Cutting bread was no longer an issue.   You may not realize it, but the people you choose to have relationships with teach you endless astounding things.  

Traveling with someone can help you make leaps that maybe seemed unattainable on your own. You realize that you can really do anything.  Something about being outside all the time moving your body, your vessel, around the earth is such a rush.  I look back and sometimes think it maybe did not even really happen.  Like a dream.  So this one goes out to my platonic spiritual soul traveller: one giant high five to you my dear.  All the words in the universe cannot express how this all surmounted into one magical heap of greatness.  Each day I long for the simplicity that travel provided and the connection of countless warm souls.

By: Jennelle Anderson

I stood awkwardly in a room with a small Indian woman, wondering if I need remove any of my clothing.
She held out a small loincloth.
I see.
Why not? We’re all friends here… now.

A traveller has two options in responding to the world around them. The first: anxiously refuse participation. The second: dive in.

And so I dove, into a long awaited ayurvedic massage I had heard so much about during my Indian travels. After watching me strip down, the masseuse… applied(?) the loincloth and sat me on a small stool. Pouring oil onto my head she went to it, scratching madly, fingers and hair whipping me wildly in the face. I tried not to burst out with laughter as I was obviously caught off guard by this bold and unexpected first move. It became harder to suppress giggles as the next technique involved was, and I’m being serious here, repeatedly limp-hand slapping my head and face. Had I not been receiving the same treatment, I would have sworn I heard my travel partner being slapped with fish in the room next to me.

Finally it was time to lay myself on the solid oak table. As madness of movement ensued, lips pursed tighter to keep my smile at bay, and openness of mind fought hard to find relaxation. I then discovered a new definition of “struggle”. That is, the scene that follows instructs me to turn over while lying exposed on a polished wooden surface drenched in oil. It is best not to try picturing it. All I could think about was how I would remove myself from said table without providing a show of naked acrobatics or sustaining serious slip and slide injuries. She at last laid down a final round of full body limp-hand slapping, and that was that. That was that… until she directed me to what I had thought was the linen cupboard and told me to climb inside. I then discovered an even fresher definition of “struggle”. That is, being loinclothed and stuffed into a small cupboard pumped full of hot steam during a sweltering Indian summer. Near death, I swear that my skin looked up at me pleadingly. This is our life now, I told it. This is what we are here for.

Ah, the different pairs of glasses that a traveller may wear! The risky part is that not all who choose lenses of acceptance and adventure will be met with such humorous outcomes. Not every experience will reward with a new appreciation of foreign ways, nor will discomfort always pale in comparison to gained understandings. At times the traveler looks into their weary reflection and asks to be reminded of what seemed so romantic about trotting the globe in the first place… But the world beckons us to take a chance; to get oiled up in a loincloth; to try our hand at something new and uncomfortable. And those who have fallen in love with travel know that there is only one way to respond: Dive in!

[View with PicLens]

Written and Photos by: Brian Mitchell

We live in a world of constant change. We can find information about anything and anywhere at our fingertips. Yet, the only way to get an unbiased, true experience of the world is to go and see it yourself.
In most Brazilian cities, there are areas littering hillsides that normally are not inhabited. The homes are built out of whatever is available and placed with no exact order. Meaning “shanty town” in Portuguese, favelas are large settlements of people living illegally on land or squatting. They have to steal power from the local grid and their plumbing, well, it is what it is.
The drug lords have figured out that these areas are a prime place to carry out their business finding solace in the ever-present chaos. Because favelas have a poor and eager youth population, locals are willing to do anything for money and even shoot the police for entering the neighbourhood. The people here prefer drug gangs over police who try to get them to leave.
At my hostel in Ipanema I found a poster advertising favela tours. I called them up and got on the next available tour.
A minivan drove several other backpackers, and I to the Neighborhood of Rochina (pronounced: Haw seen nah). Rochina is home to over 200 000 people and covers only a few square kilometers. After exiting the van, our guide arranged to have the local motorcycle taxis take the group to the top of the area’s only road. The road is a series of switchbacks and pot holes the size of the bike and drivers occupy whatever side of the road has the least amount of other vehicles and potholes.
At the top we received a small safety briefing which basically said do not take photos of drug activities or gang members. Other than that everything else is safe. You will see kids with kites, cardboard tubes filled with fireworks and walkie-talkies to warn other gang members of police or rival gang activity.
Main Street is a narrow walkway with little shops cropping up among the small multi-family, multi-generational shacks. We soon found ourselves surrounded by a dozen or more kids ranging from toddler to teenager. They greeted us without any fear or inhibitions. This was such a nice change from the mass paranoia surrounding North American kids causing what seems like fearful anti-social distrusting of humanity. To me, these children seemed so free so happy and not bogged down by the weight of the world. I saw such a free spirited joy in their eyes that I wanted to be a kid again and hang out here for a few years.
The cameras all came out for pictures and the kids had a blast looking at themselves on the screen. The guides will discourage you from giving out money, as they don’t want to promote begging. The kids however have found an entrepreneurial spirit and will try and sell you anything that they have found discarded. I bought tacky painting of Jesus in a gold frame, which I latter left to be recycled into the local economy.
Noticing several interesting pieces of graffiti I had to ask its significance. They serve to identify a gang’s territory with the gangs name followed by machine guns painted to say rivals will be shot if caught. This brought back the reality of the place. A young boy came by as we were leaving and I got him to pose in front of the graffiti short of as a statement that this may very well turn out to be his future, a life with less poverty for him and his family (a life that may not be longer then 25 years). Just then our guide appeared shouting “no photos, no photos.” He was followed by three guys carrying machine guns and hand grenades. I slung my camera over my shoulder, nodded and said hello politely as they passed. They nodded back and were on their way.
On our way out of the neighbourhood we passed a few gang members doing their watchful duties and around the corner sat a truckload of heavily armed police on the perimeter. I will say that they were the meanest looking cops. Apparently the military had the Rochina on lock-down the week prior to my visit. A gang stole five high-powered machine guns from an armory and the military wanted them back. The guns mysteriously showed up in a building on the edge of Rochina and the authorities were tipped off to avoid the search.
I took away from this experience a greater appreciation for the simpler things in life, an opportunity to live more in the now and less in the next. Being in a place where life has a less definite end lost in the uncertainty of tomorrow people value friends, family and every moment of now as it is all they have.
If you’re planning a trip to Rio de Janeiro, their web site is www.bealocal.com, you will love it. They provide a tour that is really able to integrate you with the environment and not show you the Favela in a safari style vehicle.
Knowing that the tour proceeds are being used to provide the children of Rochina with better options and a brighter future has inspired me to make a difference. Where ever you go, enjoy the simple things and open up to any possibility.

Written by: Kevin Chapman

atbt magazine issue 02

Awake before China, I emerged from the bar strip in Suzhou, an attractive canal city located in the Jiangsu province.
Our hostel was located in a beautiful but touristy region of the city. In its own way, it rivaled the dream catchers and fudge factories polluting Banff Ave. They would be serving bacon and eggs for breakfast and I knew it would be quite some time before I had the privilege of such an indulgence again. It was right there and then that I caught myself. This mere decision to go for an arbitrary early morning walk rather than retreating to the comforts of bacon grease made for one of the best travel experiences I’ve ever had.
Suzhou’s foreigner friendly smoke and mirrors diminished early in the jaunt. In no time, I was navigating through rubble piles, open sewers, and dilapidated homes. The cars and buses gradually filled the streets and the clanging of steel shutters indicated that the shops were opening for daily business.
It was about 5:30 am when we came across an alleyway that seemed no different than any other; but nonetheless, it was territory worth investigating. As we wound through private residents, there were communist fashion brick houses dating back to the “Liberation period” of China. The alley eventually opened up into a canal filled with makeshift houseboats and stone bridges that had to have been hundreds of years old, we had stumbled into the backwaters of Suzhou!
The local reality unraveled around me as shop keepers put out their fresh produce for chickens and ducks that were stuffed into cast iron cages. I curiously peered into buckets full of live turtles and thousands of dark, erratic, soul destroying eels. At first it felt disturbing to see how all the animals were kept before they went to slaughter (except for the eels) but I came to appreciate the honesty of it all. All the animals being sold were simply food, that’s the bottom line.
As I walked through the market locals extended their hospitality offering up free baked goods just on the mere fact I was an outsider. I probably had more money in pocket than most of them saw in a month, yet their generosity had no limits. Sadly, it’s hard to imagine the same hospitality being offered to a newly landed Chinese immigrant in Canada.
When I thought my cultural quota for the day had been filled, I asked myself, ‘Can it get any more visceral than this?’ I turned the corner to find yet another chicken cage stuffed to exhaustion; however, business was now picking up. I watched as the shopkeeper made exchanges then proceeded to pull the live chickens from the cage and weigh them in front of all the other hysterical hens. After a quick approval he took the chicken over to a table to behead it…with a pair of scissors.
For the grand finale he dropped the headless chicken into a big blue barrel whereby it would spasm for 10 seconds spraying blood everywhere. He noticed me - a city boy mystified by the process - and called me over. I stepped behind the shop and he handed me the scissors with a giant grin that said, “So you want to know the real China? Here it is.”
I gripped the blood drenched steel scissors as he reached in the cage for another chicken. He must’ve been selling them for nothing; people swarmed his stand waiving money and shouting. There was no time to hesitate, he held the live chicken in front of me and gave the sign. ‘One quick snip and it’ll be over,’ I thought while compressing the rusty and dull blades.
It must have taken five or six cuts to get through the neck. Finally, it was over. I dropped the hen into the blood bin and stood watching as it convulsed its last half living moments. I helped complete the transaction and headed back out onto the market as I let the experience wash over me. The day was in full swing now, but mine was drawing to a close. I opted for yogurt and toast for a late morning breakfast before I jumped on the bus home.