22.10. The Ferry
My days on Fogo are numbered. I'm leaving the island in five days. And I'm starting to feel melancholy and also a certain panic that I haven't really discovered the secret of this place yet and that many questions remain unanswered. Specifically, whether I have enough material for my film and whether I have spoken to the “right people”. With every encounter, more paths open up that I want to follow. It's a bit like archeology: first fly over the entire vast terrain, then scratch the surface in promising places and remove the first layers. Then the time (or the grant) runs out. So fill everything back in, mark the location and hope that you can continue digging there later. Maybe that's the secret of Fogo: at first glance it's manageable, but in reality it's unfathomable.
Before I leave the island again, I have to talk about the ferry. The Fogo residents have a deep love-hate relationship with the ships that transport people, animals, goods, everything you need to and from the island. In fact, ferry traffic is now an essential lifeline. The ferries run all year round, 4-5 times a day. The service is only canceled in severe storms or when there is too much ice. The journey from Farewell to Stag Harbor takes 45 minutes to 75 minutes, depending on whether the ferry stops at Change Island. There are small and large ships, the locals know them by name. The MS Veteran fits around 64 cars and 200 passengers. Exactly how many depends on whether the vehicles include trucks, tankers, log tractors, cranes or cars with boat trailers. There are summer and winter timetables, everything is actually well organized. Nevertheless, there is always a bit of uncertainty about whether and when which ferry leaves. Sometimes one is broken, sometimes one breaks down, sometimes it makes an unscheduled stopover. It is not possible to reserve in advance, first come, first served. But this principle is not always correct either. You drive to the pier and stand in the queue. When the ferry honks, the car ballet begins, especially with the small ones, everything has to be precisely balanced out, which car fits where, sometimes you have to drive backwards on it, sometimes other cars are allowed in front. The locals usually take it calmly. Beforehand, check the traffic website 511. There are also Facebook groups for the ferry, where people ask about rides or whether it's still worth standing at the back of the queue for the 10 am ferry. There is also a site where people vent their frustrations called “Fogo Island Ferry Rants And Roars”.
I'm doing the ferry trip for the seventh time now, I'm actually writing this text in the lounge of the Veteran, 10 am, winter schedule with a stopover at Change Island. I now know my way around and am meeting people from the island again, today the carpenter who has been working on the shed next to my house for weeks, last week the folk guitarist from the island pub. The ferry is purely a functional device, there is no entertainment on board, no coffee, no souvenirs. There is a service counter there, but it hasn't been used for a long time. Nevertheless, the ferry crossings are also informal community meetings. People exchange news, do business, tell each other how many moose they have shot... The one-hour compulsory break can also have something magically meditative about it. I keep watching people sit in a window niche and just stare at the sea. On my crossings I have experienced (almost) all kinds of weather and moods: postcard-perfect sunsets, storms, rain, waves, magical fog banks, beach chair feeling on the sun deck. The ferry service has been around since the 1960s; at first, just 5 cars fit on the ship. I spoke to people who still remember the days without the ferry. Back then, the islanders were truly complete. The only way to get to the mainland was with small fishing boats. The crossing was dangerous and could take two days with stopovers. An elderly woman told how she walked across the frozen sea from Fogo to Change Island in winter. And what to do if someone was sick. For a long time there was no doctor or hospital on Fogo.
The islanders can tell that this wasn't all that long ago. They still have a strong self-sufficient mentality. People stock up for the winter, store home-grown vegetables and potatoes in the “root cellar,” people have chickens or even a pig in the backyard. They collect berries, make jam, pickle cucumbers, salt and dry fish, hunt caribou and elk, seals and ducks. I see the piles of wood growing in front of the houses. Also a preparation for winter. In the past, the men on Fogo only cut the wood themselves, but today you can see large trucks bringing wood from the mainland to the island. As fuel. But also as a building material for the future.
A side business of the Fogo Island Inn is the woodworking shop in a former union hall in Joe Batt’s Arm. The furniture for the luxury hotel was made there. Today, high-quality chairs, tables and kitchen interiors are manufactured there for a larger market. I would like to take one of these chairs with me: the Punt Chair, whose design was inspired by the typical fishing boats on Fogo. This wouldn't be a problem on the ferry, but it would be an issue on the plane to Hamburg.
16.10. Close Encounters & Birds Eye View
I haven't had much time to write in the last few days. Instead, I was on the move from morning to evening with Jörg, who supported me on my film project as cameraman and friend. We met unique people and recorded exciting interviews. The people on Fogo are incredibly open and approachable. And they are born storytellers. They openly share their family stories and life experiences with us, impart traditional knowledge and explain new research projects. Pete talks about his time as a cod fisherman and boat builder, fish factory manager Paul talks about shrimp fishing, a relatively new business on Fogo. Tons of wild-caught shrimp are peeled and shock-frosted every day in the fully automated factory. Fun fact: The sorting machine photographs every single shrimp, approximately one million per hour.
Biologist and adventure guide Lorie Penton takes us foraging. This is what collecting edibles in the wild is called here. You will learn from her that there are more than 30 different types of edible berries on Fogo, many real miracle weapons in terms of vitamin richness and antioxidant content. There are also plants that are suitable for healing teas, such as Labrador tea or wild raspberry leaves. The unappetizing black lichens on the rocks are also edible and have antibacterial effects. The buds of another herb can be roasted and used as a delicious pepper. Much of this knowledge comes from First Nations people. Lorie herself has indigenous ancestors, her grandmother was Inuit, and she learned the language of plants from her. It was also very exciting to talk to Amanda. She wants to set up seaweed farms off the coast of Fogo as a sustainable source of food and a future-oriented business for the islanders. The seaweed grows on vertical ropes anchored in sheltered bays. After harvesting, they are processed into food locally. The nutrient-rich sea plants can be used in many different ways as powder or dried flakes, including as a meat substitute. They bind CO2 and are also suitable as natural fertilizer and plastic replacement. Seaweed can be used to form compostable cups, plates and films that would not further pollute the oceans.
Oh, the fantastic flora and fauna! In a place like Fogo you experience nature much more directly: its diversity, its primal power, its adaptability. I also try to capture that on film. Fogo was formed around 400 million years ago when the African land plate collided with North America. The earth's crust broke, glowing magma bubbled from the earth's interior to the surface, forming the Appachian Mountains and also the rock formations on Fogo Island. I know all this from Steve Morison, a geologist who does research on Fogo. I hiked across the island with him several times; he used a magnifying glass to show me crystals in the granite and the iron content of the dark magma rocks to which magnets stick. Steve also pointed out to me the indentations left on the rocks by massive glacial movements. About 20,000 years ago, Fogo, like much of North America, was covered by a two-kilometer-thick layer of ice. During this ice age, mountains and cliffs were eroded away, giving the island its current shape. It took thousands of years for the ice to retreat. During this time, a new world of plants and animals developed. There were mammoths, giant bears, horses, camels. The first people left their traces between 5,000 and 8,000 years ago. When you look at the landscape, the swampy marshes with their swaying grasses and reflecting ponds, the windswept heathlands and the stormy sea, you can still imagine a prehistoric bear jumping out of the thicket. So far, however, we have only come across one fox sunbathing in the grass.
The most breathtaking images were taken with the camera drone. Spectacular rides along inaccessible coastlines. Only from a bird's eye view do Fogo's unique geological formations become truly visible, as does the wild and romantic nature of this rugged island. At the foot of Brimstone Head, a mighty sea-washed rock, there is a plaque identifying the site as one of the four corners of the Flat Earth Society. If you look from above into the vast blue-grey of the North Atlantic, you could really believe that the world ended here.
4.10. Open Doors & Open Mic
Today I had visitors at the studio for the first time: a tour group from the Inn had announced their presence. They wanted to see what the artists on the island were up to. Actually, there isn't much to see here yet. I've already done a few interviews, but the important filming doesn't start until the day after tomorrow, when my cameraman arrives. The work table in the Tower Studio is already set up, there are photos, moods and a few lists of possible filming locations and interview partners hanging on the walls. At least there's something to look at while I sort through film clips on the computer. I light the stove, it's raining and windy. Nevertheless, at three o'clock in the afternoon, ten friendly Canadians are at the door, one introduces himself as the head of the BMW sales office in Toronto, he often travels to Germany and loves Berlin. The group looks curiously at the photocopies on the walls, two men climb the ladder to the upper floor. It becomes clear to me that the artist residency program also has a tourist purpose: studio visits are part of the activity offerings for the Inn guests, as are berry picking and hiking. No art experts among them though. I ask what's hanging on their walls at home and whether they go to galleries or museums a lot. There are no artist names bubbling up. One woman admits that contemporary art unsettles her. She finds the atmosphere in galleries to be off-putting. Astonishing! Confident people who run large companies, jet around the world, spend 3,000 dollars a night on a hotel room at the end of the world, appreciate fine wines and experimental cuisine, are afraid to enter an art gallery. I encourage them to do it anyway, to ask questions, not to be intimidated, even if the staff acts snooty. A lively discussion ensues about spontaneous art purchases, favorite museums and film as an artistic medium. Then they have to leave again; there is another visit to the studio on the agenda. Later, when I'm completely engrossed in my film clips, I suddenly hear another hello from downstairs. Who's that in my house? I look down the stairs and see a man, bundled up in a checked jacket and earflap hat, grinning and looking around the corner. A serial killer? He stammers an excuse: long hike, interested in architecture, wanted to see what the great tower house looks like from the inside... I remain suspicious. Where I come from, you don't just barge into other people's houses. Then he introduces himself in a friendly manner: Steve York, musician from Toronto, on Fogo for the first time, his girlfriend is sick in bed, he is cold after 3 hours in the rain and wind. In Toronto he runs a well-known open mic club, Free Falls Sundays, and is now on his way to an artist residency with his girlfriend. I decide: he is harmless. That's how it is on this island: people don't even knock, they just come in. (A few days later, a bride and groom show up at the door. They want to take wedding photos at sunset with my studio tower in the background. I let them do it until the buzzing of their photo drones becomes too much for me.)
In the evening it's open mic night at the Storehouse, a pub in Joe Batt's Arm that also offers bingo evenings and cooking classes. I go there because it's just around the corner and a bit of live music brings variety to my solitary existence. I even take my guitar with me. However, I don't know yet whether I will have the nerve to actually perform in public. It would be the first time. So far I've only played for close friends or family. As soon as I sit down, Nathan, who is organizing the music event, speaks to me. Do I just want to listen or play myself? There are only three names on the list and appropriately 20 guests in the room. Everybody seems to know everybody. Then the surprise guest from the afternoon walks in: Steve sits down next to me, he's a stranger as well. Without the hat he looks better, urban hipster type with a motif cardigan. He encourages me to put my name on the list. I'd rather hear him play first. After all, he's something of an open mic professional. Joining us is Bruce Pashak, the artist/musician I visited in his studio last week. He almost always comes to the open mic sessions, he says. And he plays his own songs and cover versions incredibly well. Too much pressure for me. I empty my wine glass all too quickly and, in a fit of bravado, write my name on the list. Just as quickly, panic arises within me. Nathan puts his hand on my shoulder: No pressure! But if I wanted to play, I could use his guitar, which is already wired, and just play a song. I'll start with Johnny Cash's "Hurt", a song that I can actually perform in my sleep. But my fingers are shaking. Good thing I warned the audience. Then I play Minnie Riperton’s “Lovin You” and top it of with an improvisation of my own – it’s all pretty sloppy. But the audience is forgiving. Applause, no boos. Afterwards, the really good musicians pat me on the back. Nathan says: The most important thing is that you found the courage! Actually, he's right: I know that I am by no means a virtuoso. But Fogo makes me leave my comfort zone. The performance made me vulnerable and strong. So strong that I'm sharing this slightly embarrassing video with you - thanks to Steve, who recorded it that evening.
30.9. Truth & Reconciliation
Today I visited the Beothuk Interpretation Center in Boyd's Cove, a museum and archaeological site dedicated to the study of an extinct indigenous people. The Beothuk and their ancestors lived in harmony with nature on the coasts of Newfoundland for over 2,000 years. They were also called the “Red People” because their rituals included painting themselves with red ochre. This is probably where the derogatory term “redskin” comes from for North America’s indigenous population. The Beothuk were among the first natives that European sailors saw on their expeditions. There are few confirmed facts about their culture. They lived in small communities of 30-50 people and were excellent hunters and boat builders. Their menu included whales, salmon, seabirds, lobsters, mussels, crabs as well as caribou and seals. They made clothing and tarpaulins from their skins. They carved mysterious, symbolic objects from the bones, probably pieces of jewelry or talismans. Boyd’s Cove is one of the most important but saddest places of their erased history. The Beothuk lived here before the arrival of the Europeans.
As I hike through the quiet forest and moss-covered clearings to the former settlement early in the morning, I immediately understand why the Beothuk settled here. Their village was on a tree-free hill above the bay, with a sandy beach in front of it where you can easily land a boat, protective forest all around and a small river with a waterfall next to it, so there was a supply of fresh water and plenty of salmon. One can only speculate as to why the Beothuk left the village in the mid-18th century. But it was the time when more and more European settlers came to the New World and used brutal means to push the First Nations from their traditional places. Historical records state that the Beothuk, unlike other indigenous peoples, did not seek contact with white invaders. On the contrary. Again and again they destroyed the fishermen's camps, burned their boats and stole tools. The British settlers, in turn, were not squeamish and killed the resistant “savages”. There are contemporary reports of massacres, rapes and infanticide. The Beothuk were driven from their hunting and fishing grounds. In 1768 Lieut. John Cartwright reported that the English had taken possession of almost all of Newfoundland's rivers and streams. At the end of the 18th century they fished 550 tons of salmon annually from these rivers. So they deprived the indigenous people of their food resources and, on top of that, infected them with imported diseases. The last Beothuk, two women named Demasduit and Shanawdithit, lived in captivity and died of tuberculosis in 1823 and 1829, respectively. Demasduit saw her husband killed and lost her newborn, Shanawdithit learned English and left behind a series of drawings and reports on the culture of her people, which today are among the few authentic Beothuk traditions. In her honor, a bronze sculpture of a proud Beothuk woman stands in the middle of the forest at Boyd's Cove.
At the Beothuk Interpretation Center, excavated artifacts, arrowheads, bones and other tools can be seen, including a replica birch bark canoe in a diorama with life-size figures of the Red People. Today about 20 people gathered with orange T-shirts and drums. September 30th is Truth and Reconciliation Day in Canada, a relatively new national holiday commemorating the injustices committed against Indigenous people. The orange T-shirts read “Every Child Matters,” a protest slogan that refers to the terrible conditions in residential schools. In these schools, indigenous children were forcibly stripped of their origins, their language was banned, their indigenous names were erased, they were mistreated, abused and killed. The last of these schools were only closed in the 1990s. Forensic archaeologists are now searching for children's bodies on the school grounds. This serves to find the truth. But how can you ever forgive something like that? In Boyd's Cove, a pastor with indigenous roots gives a short speech, then the head of the Beothuk Institute lights a bowl of medicinal herbs - sweet grass, tobacco, white sage - and waves the smoke over the bodies of those present with an eagle feather. This ritual is called smudging. It is said to cleanse and drive away evil spirits.
26.-28.9. Studio Visits
Fogo is far away from the trendy art centers. It is all the more astonishing how many artists have settled permanently on this island. This is certainly also a credit to the Fogo Island Arts Foundation. When you meet artists on the island, it turns out that the reasons for working here are as diverse as the works created on Fogo. I had already met Bruce Pashak last year. He has a beautiful studio in Deep Bay, a more remote location on Fogo. He's a bit shy, I think. But when I knocked on the door, he welcomed me warmly. He moved to Fogo from Vancouver eight years ago, partly because he liked Zeta Cobb's idea of giving the island a future through culture and community spirit. In his enigmatic paintings, finely drawn animal figures meet lettering, handwritings and patterns. Some things are reminiscent of Robert Rauschenberg. He is an excellent draftsman, appreciates Anselm Kiefer and finds references in music, literature and poetry. He is currently working on Gustav Mahler. He shows me his latest artist's book, which deals with circular shapes and poetry. He is also known on the island as a musician, plays the guitar, composes his own pieces and writes song lyrics. In the singer-songwriter tradition of Bob Dylan, he says when I ask about his style of music. I haven't heard him play yet, but I'm sure he's good. The Fogo Island Inn often books him for performances, most recently for a private concert for an exclusive hiking group that meets once a year on Fogo to hike.
Erin Hunt came to Fogo from Brooklyn. She had previously studied architecture in Halifax, went to London to work, then to New York, where she started a family with her husband, a fellow student from Halifax. Like so many people there, they struggled with rising rents, high costs of living, small apartments, the classic New York story. When Erin's husband finally got the offer to work as an architect on Fogo, it seemed both tempting and frightening. Until then, they had never heard of Fogo, there was hardly any information about the island, only a few headlines that a tech millionaire wanted to start a visionary program to revitalize the island and build a luxury hotel. But what is it like to live on Fogo, what are the schools like, are there daycare centers, who are your neighbors? Erin wondered all of these things as a mother with two children, one just five months old. She has now lived here with her family for eleven years. Being on an island was a challenge at first, she says. No friends and family for support. On the other hand, the offer of your own house was too good to refuse. At first they saw it as a temporary adventure, quiet island life in intoxicating nature - a nice break from New York. Finding a studio on Fogo and more importantly a new artistic route took a little longer.
I first saw Erin's work at the Bonavista Biennale. Apparently she has found her artistic language. Organic shapes and lines overlap on the slightly washed-out canvases. The starting point for her composition are found objects that she collects on the beach: a rotten child's boot, faded plastic parts, cords, packaging. From these chance finds she builds small environments that find their way into the pictures as abstract shapes. It is not a strictly conceptual process, nor is it a copying of objects, but rather a lyrical transformation. A kind of musical score that she puts together in her pictures. You don't necessarily have to see it that way, but her works have a magic that reflects the rough, introverted mood of the island. When I visit the studio, Erin tells me that she sometimes spends hours studying flowers. To do this, she sits in nature and lets the flowers work their magic on her. In addition to her painting, she makes flower essences. As an artistic practice and also for healing purposes. She even trained as a flower therapist. In the back room of her studio, she sometimes advises people who seek healing through flowers. Sounds esoteric. But on Fogo, this very special place, it doesn't seem so crazy to me.
25.9. From Away
Last week I attended a talk by Fadzai Veronica Muchemwa, a curator from Zimbabwe and also artist-in-residence on Fogo. Its topic was about feelings of foreignness and belonging, about being “from away” on a small island with only around 2,000 inhabitants, almost all of whom white, of Irish or English descent. Fadzai talked about her research and her search for connections to Africa. And the surprise of meeting people from Zimbabwe here, of all places, and from her neighborhood in Harare: Liberty and Pamela Mataeibire! They are the new pastor couple on Fogo. They cooked sadza, a traditional African cornmeal dish, for the curator. It suddenly felt like home, says Fadzai. They also came to her talk. Over tea, cookies and cucumber sandwiches - thanks to the chef at Fogo Island Inn - a lively conversation about the strange and the familiar, the local and the global ensued. It turns out there is not a single native Fogoer among the talk guests. Everyone moved here, some 50 years ago, others just a year ago. I would have liked to talk some more with Fadzai. But her residency is over, she is flying back the next day. But Liberty and Pamela are here to stay. They invite me to their home. Liberty is the minister at United Church of Fogo Island. He and his wife applied from Zimbabwe. The position was vacant for years, the church very quiet. Now the new pastor and his family of six are bringing life back to the community.
I go to church on Sunday. The United Church is right on Main Street. There are only a handful of cars in the large parking lot. Perhaps 20 believers gather in the bright church, many of them of retirement age. The three Mataeibire girls and their little brother Junior are the only children. For me it is the first church service in a long time. The United Church of Canada sees Jesus as its guiding figure. Founded in 1928 as a merger of Presbyterian, Methodist and Congregational churches, it is organized on a grassroots democratic basis, inclusive and LGBTQ-friendly. What is perhaps even more remarkable is that the church apologized to the Canadian indigenous people as early as 1986 with these astonishingly self-critical words: “Long before our people traveled to this land your people were here, and you received from your Elders an understanding of creation and of the Mystery that surrounds us all that was deep, and rich, and to be treasured. We didn't hear you when you shared your vision. In our aim to tell you of the good news of Jesus Christ we were closed to the value of your spirituality. We confused Western ways and culture with the depth and breadth and length and height of the gospel of Christ (…)” I got all of this from the “Manual”, the church statutes, which are published on the Internet - as are the annual balance sheets, by the way. The service is subdued, prayers and hymns are whispered more than blared. Five sprightly ladies in purple robes form the choir. Pastor Liberty preaches a sermon about envy, hardship and fair wages for the workers in God's vineyard. The believers' most benevolent smile goes to his youngest daughter, who tumbles through the church in her socks and plays around in front of the pulpit.
The next day I'm standing in the living room of the pastor's house in Seldom in my socks. There are children's bicycles in the front yard. Liberty and Pamela sit on the sofa and tell me openly about their new life on Fogo: the friendly welcome, the initial difficulties in understanding the strong Fogo dialects, their fear of the sea, what it was like to eat moose meat for the first time... Every now and then their two little ones come running up, snuggle up to their parents, and draw in my notebook. The two older girls are still at school. Here is a small excerpt from the conversation.
20.9. Gardening
Gardening on Fogo is a challenge. You could call it an art form. The island is barren and windy, the warm days are numbered, and in April icebergs are still floating by. You can only start to sow and plant in May or June and the frost comes as early as September. Nevertheless, the vegetables in Norm Foley's garden are thriving. The farmer works a plot of land in Olivers Cove, just a stone's throw from the sea. The soil is black and fertile. Norm grows potatoes and carrots, beetroot, parsnips, chard, lettuce, peas, beans, onions, fennel. The garden is small, fenced in with wooden sticks to protect against hungry caribou. Here Norm continues the tradition of his Irish ancestors. After 20 years spent as a construction worker in Toronto and elsewhere, he has returned to Fogo and now makes a living from what he grows, fishes and shoots. Like every year, he wants to hunt a moose in October. The garden is his great passion. He avoids artificial fertilizers and pesticides. Instead, he fertilizes with seaweed that washes up in the bay in autumn. He composts it over the winter and mixes it with the soil in spring. The plants seem to like that. Norm gives me a selection of his harvest to try. Everything tastes really amazing: the beetroot is so tender you can eat it raw, the carrots have an intense, slightly salty aroma. It comes from the seaweed and the salt water in the air, Norm explains. The chef at Fogo Island Inn, where star-rated cuisine is served, has also taken notice of his vegetables. He now supplies the hotel and regularly cooks for guests there. He doesn't own a car. But he has the perfect root cellar, a traditional underground storage for potaoes and root vegatables. He travels through the terrain on a quad bike and, in winter, on a snowmobile. If the people at the Inn need me, they'll send a driver, he says. Now he wants to go out again and pick blueberries. The sun is shining and he knows the best places.
18.9. Participating Observation
When I visit Bonnie McCay in Tilting, she is baking blueberry pie. Sorry, it has to go in the oven quickly, she apologizes. But we could still talk. We do this for two hours while Bonnie jumps back and forth between the table, the stove and the sink, making tea in between, serving a delicious chard soup and accidentally burning the toast. When the smoke alarm goes off, we both have to laugh. The conversation was just too exciting. Bonnie is a well-known anthropologist, member of the United States National Academy of Sciences, head of the Department of Human Ecology at Rutgers University, advisor to government departments on fisheries policy and marine conservation. Studied at Berkley and Columbia University. 17 books, countless scientific papers and articles. Her CV is an impressive 65 pages long. She completed her Ph.D. on the topic of Appropriate Technology and Coastal Fishermen of Newfoundland. She is a profound expert on the social and economic structures on Fogo. In 1973 she came to the island on a research grant to study the fishing economy and community organization. She planned to stay for two years. She settled in Tilting, the most northeastern fishing port on Fogo with strong Irish roots to this day. Why Tilting? Because she could understand the Irish dialect better than the other dialects on the island. She observed people's lives, not from a distance, but by living among her subjects. “I attended baptisms and funerals, I went out with the fishermen, watched the fish being processed and took notes along the way,” says Bonnie. Participatory observation is the term for this scientific practice, which is also used by anthropologists to research indigenous peoples in the Amazon or Papua New Guinea. It took some getting used to for the islanders: a young woman from far away who wanted to observe their way of life and go fishing with them. Unheard of! Brings bad luck! But Bonnie won their trust. And the California native fell in love with the island. She bought a house in Tilting and has lived on Fogo for 50 years. At least temporarily. Our conversation was about traditions and changes on the island, the role of women, the function of the fishing cooperative and also the feeling of still being a stranger after all these years. Here is a small excerpt from the interview.
17.9. Meeting the neighbors
Yesterday I visited a special food business: the Living Water Hydroponic Farms in Stag Harbor. Not just for research reasons. There's no Isemarkt on Fogo, so where can I get good greens and fresh herbs to eat? Farmer Jarrod has a bushy beard, tattoos and piercings and grows lettuce not in the field but in a former schoolhouse. From the outside, the farm looks unspectacular, like an old shed, but inside it is bubbling and shining, the walls are painted yellow, plastic pipes hang vertically under bright lamps, lettuce, parsley, chard and beetroot sprout on the top. The plants are in small perforated tubes, their roots grow through, and water with nutrients flows at the bottom of the tube. The whole thing is called hydroponics. It takes about 45 days from seedling to fully grown plant. Then Jarrod picks individual leaves, not the whole plant. This way the lettuce continues to grow and can be harvested several times. All year round, even in winter, when Fogo is covered in snow and icebergs float by on the sea. Some chard plants or beetroots are over a year old, explains Jarrod. He packs the lettuce leaves in portions and sells them through a supermarket chain throughout NF, including in Foodland on Fogo. The bag of mixed salad costs $5.79, not cheap, but the salad actually tastes like it was freshly picked from the garden. Business is going well and he even wants to expand the indoor farm. For watering, he recycles condensation water from the dehumidification system. He also wants to invest in a process that extracts water from humidity in order to become completely independent of groundwater. Pretty innovative for a fishing island at the end of the world. By the way, the perforated tubes for the plant roots he manufactures himself using a 3D printer.
Today I hiked to The Great Auk, a trail along the coast to the northern tip of the bay, where a bronze sculpture commemorates an extinct seabird. The great auk, a type of penguin, was once widespread along the coast of Newfoundland and Fogo. But when the European settlers came, he was in trouble. As a flightless bird, it was easy prey. In 1844 the last pair were killed, not on Fogo, but in Iceland, where the great auk was also native. Artist Todd McGrain dedicated a monument to him at Joe Batt's Point. On the way back I stop at the small fishing museum that Brent Coffin runs at the start of the trail. He comes from a family that emigrated from southern England around 1830 and has made a living from fishing on Fogo for five generations. Now he is retired, the cod fishery has been going downhill for a long time. In his mini-museum he wants to explain to people how his family and all the other fishermen on the island did their work for centuries. He shows the tools of the trade, nets, baskets, hooks, the table on which the fish are gutted, where they were salted and dried. Then he shows me the thick book in which the fishmongers meticulously listed the fishermen's debit and credit accounts. The fishermen did not sell their goods to the end customers themselves, but delivered them to the merchants. They set the price depending on quality and taste. The fishermen almost never received cash; they were paid in kind: flour, sugar, rum, bacon... everything they needed to live and couldn't produce themselves. When the new fishing season began, they were usually in debt again. Brent opens to 1929, with the name Coffin written at the top in finely squiggly script. This is his great-grandfather's account. I should take a closer look: the value of the fish delivered was always exactly the same as the debt recorded by the merchant. Strange, right? says Brent. The well-known exploitation system that makes merchants rich and rips off workers. It was no different on Fogo either.
14.9. Welcome to Fogo
I landed on Fogo Island, took the ferry across in bright sunshine, light winds and a pleasant 23 degrees. Over the next few days I will explore the island and set up in the Tower Studio. From the upper floor you have a spectacular view across Shoal Bay. The studio is close to the water, accessible via wooden walkways, surrounded by nature. The rocks are covered in lichen and look like whale backs. Whales actually roam here. With a bit of luck I might even see them from land. At the moment my neighbors are terns, sea snails and all sorts of interesting weeds. The residency also provides a cozy house in Joe Batt’s Arm. The fishing village in the north has around 800 inhabitants, making it the largest community on the island. The Fogo Island Inn is also located here. I'm fascinated by these names: Who is Joe Batt and what's with his arm? Initial research reveals the following: Joe Batt is said to have been quite a daredevil. As a sailor on Captain James Cook's ship, he went overboard off Fogo, whether as a deserter or accidentally is controversial. In any case, he made it to shore and became so popular that the Fogo people broke him out of prison and celebrated the event with lots of beer. A pint of lager is also known as a “arm” in Newfoundland. But maybe “arm” just stands for the elongated shape of the bay. There are a lot of idiosyncratic place names here: one community is called Seldom, the towns next to it are Little Seldom and Seldom Come By. The neighboring island is called Change Island and on the way I passed Sunnyside and Come by Chance.
13.9. Natural Boutique
The biggest surprise in St. John’s, the capital of Newfoundland: There are actually still shops here that sell everything made from seal skin: boots, sneakers, jackets, coats, gloves, backpacks, even hot pants made from seal skin! The friendly saleswomen wear stylish seal slippers and explain to me the advantages of the material: dirt and water-repellent, extremely warm and absolutely sustainable. Unlike fake fur, which is made from petrochemicals and pollutes the environment. The seals are not bred in captivity like many other pelt animals, but only caught in the wild. There are more than enough seals, the shop girl says, an “overpopulation”. And the seal meat is also processed. You can buy this in the supermarket. I ask what it tastes like. Fat, a bit oily, not to everyone's taste. But it is very healthy. They also offer seal oil capsules, very popular in Asia. One of Newfoundland's national dishes is "Flipper Pie", a dish made from seal fins and cartilage. All 100% Natural!
10.9. Good Hosts
Das ehemalige Gewerkschaftshaus in Port Union dient gerade als Hauptquartier der Bonavista-Biennale, einem regionalem Kunstfestival, das sich über die ganze Halbinsel erstreckt. Unter dem Motto „Host“, also Gastgeber, zeigen 23 kanadische Künstler ihre Arbeiten in verlassenen Fabriken, alten Kirchen, aber auch an schroffen Küstenstreifen oder im stillgelegten Schiefersteinbruch. Ich gehe zuerst zu Megan Samms, einer Textilkünstlerin mit strahlendem Lächeln und eindrucksvollen Ganzkörper-Tattoos. Sie gehört zum Volk der Mi’kmaq, ist Expertin für alte Web- und Färbetechniken. Im FPU Arts Center lädt sie zum „Indigo Social“, eine Art Kaffeekränzchen mit Batik-Action. Auf einem langen Tisch liegen die nötigen Utensilien: Baumwolltücher, Gummibänder, Wäscheklammern, Nadel, Faden, Schere. Dahinter zwei Plastikbottiche mit schlammig-brauner Brühe. Nach kurzer Anleitung geht’s los: Tücher falten, abklemmen, Muster sticken, verknoten, vorsichtig ins warme Indigo-Bad tauchen. Aus stillen Kunstbesuchern werden aufgekratzte Kreative, die Färbeerfolge beklatschen, über blaue Hände lachen und sich nebenbei ihre Lebensgeschichten erzählen. Die Indigo-Pflanzen baue sie auf ihrer Farm im Cordroy Valley selbst an, erzählt Megan. Und mahnt geduldig, dass die Indigo-Lauge nicht durch hektisches Geplansche aufgewühlt werden darf. Alles mit Ruhe, sonst klappt das mit dem Färben nicht. Draußen hat sie mit ihrer Fahnen-Installation noch eine klare Ansage hinterlassen. Auf dem rot gefärbten Leinentuch steht in fein applizierten Lettern: WE ARE STILL YOUR HOSTS. Soviel zur Frage, wer hier Gast und wer Gastgeber ist.
Many of the artists have indigenous roots and address the expulsion of the indigenous people and the overexploitation of nature. One of the most haunting works that I discover on the tour of the various Biennale stops is Billy Gauthier's sculpture The Earth, Our Mother, carved from the skull of a fin whale. The weathered bone, which weighs about a ton, is a found object. Gauthier has cut a face into the smooth front; the hole in the spinal canal is now the mouth of Mother Earth. Elements that are sacred to the Inuit are engraved all around: sun and moon, clouds and wind, sea, seal, feathers of a snowy owl. Everything is extremely detailed and developed organically from the skull shape. The sculpture appears like a mysterious totem in the former hardware store in Elliston: majestic and fragile, delicate and powerful. The large fabric banners that AK Maston attached to a steep wall in the slate quarry also have a magical effect. The enlarged images of rare fossils from the area and a ghostly giant moth are picturesquely reflected in the water.
Perhaps the best thing about this biennale is how elegantly it weaves contemporary art with local history. Before I view Wally Dion's shimmering Grass Quilts in the old salt warehouse, I stroll through the Ryan Premises, a fishing museum housed in historic buildings on Bonavista Harbor. I listen to Cynthia G.Renard's sad story of a sperm whale named Thryphon in the impressive meeting hall of the Loyal Orange Lodge, once the seat of an influential Irish brotherhood. Compliments to the curators: Ryan Rice and Rose Bouthillier. Discovered exciting artists and learned something about Newfoundland's history!
9.9. Utopia
Port Union has a unique history. The sleepy town was once an important fishing port - and a revolutionary model town. What remains are a few empty residential buildings, abandoned factory buildings and a green villa. The harbor facilities and residential buildings were built by the Fishery Protective Union, or FPU for short, the once powerful fishermen's union and its boss William Coaker in 1918. I keep stumbling over his name as I tour: There's the Coaker Lodge, the Sir William Coaker Bridge, that Coaker Museum... An enthusiastic tour guide rattles off the whole crazy story of this man in a hard Newfoundland accent: Coaker, clever businessman, charismatic networker, fisheries minister, ardent socialite, wanted to free the fishermen from the servitude of the traders, fair prices and appropriate ones Create housing for union members. To do this, he bought land, built power plants, modern factories with electrically operated elevators and fish drying systems, decent houses for the fishing workers, he founded co-op stores, carpentry shops, and brought electric light into households even before the lights went on in New York. And he published his own newspaper, The Fisherman’s Advocate, to tell the world about his achievements. The mighty printing press and lead typesetting machines are still there, as are the motors and saws of the woodworking shop, now museum pieces. At the end of the 1970s, the socialist dream ended with the decline of fishing. The trade union houses fell into disrepair and the factories closed. Today the city is a historical monument, the houses are being renovated, and Coaker is celebrated as a visionary hero. I wonder how it all goes together: social workers and factory owners? Sailing yacht, plantations in Jamaica and union booklet.
8.9. Bonavista ahead
My first destination is Bonavista, a peninsula in the northeast. By car up the Trans Canadian Highway heading east. Less than five minutes from Gander Airport I'm in the middle of Newfoundland's wilderness. Messy conifers, thick fog, everything damp, the sky gray. Below, the highway winds like a gray-brown ribbon through the unspectacular landscape. No house, no rest stop, no traffic. Yellow-green lichens grow on rocky ridges. Sometimes a panorama opens up with a dark lake, a fjord with wooden houses and boat docks. But mostly everything is deserted. I arrive in Port Union in the early evening. From the window of the Harbor Inn I look out over Bonavista Bay and the disused fish factory. In the guesthouse, a pretty wooden house from 1918, you are supposed to walk on socks. Luckily I've had enough of it now. Getting something to eat in the evening is a challenge. The Fireside Dining Room, the only restaurant on site, closes at 8 p.m. So get there quickly. The only other guests are already eating desert and the waitress is clearing the cake from the display. I order fish cakes. Simply prepared, but good. I ask the waitress about the ingredients: mashed potatoes and cod. Is there a connection to Spanish croquetas, which are also made from potatoes and bacalau? She doesn't know, but she would like to write down the name of my perfume.
6./7.9. Lost & Found
The adventure begins with a breakdown: the thick suitcase that contained everything for my two months on Fogo is gone. In Toronto I actually just wanted to change to a regional airline. Now the suitcase is missing. Stayed in Dublin, says the woman at the counter. It would be sent after me, she assures me. But to which address should she send it, since I'll be on the road for the next few days. The plan was to do a little exploration of Newfoundland before crossing over to Fogo Island. At 110,000 square kilometers, Newfoundland is almost as big as Greece and much more remote. And everyone I meet has a horror story about lost luggage. So new plan: rebook connecting flight, kneel on baggage people, fill out forms, hang on telephone loops, check into the airport hotel, emergency shopping: socks, underpants. Airport chaos instead of wilderness, purgatory for modern travelers. It's 30 degrees in Toronto, I got off the plane wearing hiking boots and a thick cardigan. From the hotel window I see the planes arriving and pray that my suitcase comes with them. I take the shuttle bus to the terminal several times and try to catch someone from the airline. I'm slowly getting to know my way around. At the back, hidden in the Domestic Flights arrivals area, I find the Swissport office. They are there to reunite lost suitcases with their owners. Not an easy job either. I besiege the ladies (apparently only women work in the lost suitcase office), offer coffee, and talk to them until they seriously look for my suitcase - presumably to finally get rid of me. Don't worry, we'll get your suitcase. Go and take a walk, enjoy the sunshine, says one. The suitcase is on the way and she will personally ensure that it is sent to the hotel as rush delivery. So I drive into town. a little. Look at art, think differently, thanks to Brian Jungs. His couch monster in front of the Art Gallery of Ontario makes me smile, inside there are comforting pictures by Wolfgang Tillmans, who has a large retrospective at AGO. Back at the hotel: no suitcase. But customer service from Dublin calls in the middle of the night. The next evening a messenger shows up at my hotel room door with my suitcase. I almost fall on his neck with joy. The luggage ladies kept their word. The road trip can begin!
