The Harbour

In the spring of 1778 Captain James Cook became the first person to set foot in what's now British Columbia, and selected the site for Fort Victoria, named after his Queen. Two hundred years later, this is what it's become.



On the Inner Harbour the sidewalk is lined with venders and street preformers, people selling their handcrafted items, musicians and artists and jewellers. Children run through the crowds with over priced hot dogs and ice creams dripping down their hands and stare in awe at the never ending array of magicians and fire jugglers. People mill about aimlessly taking in the sun and the sights: the myriad of museums, the ferry boats that sail people away across the harbour every few minutes and the totem poles on every street corner (the native influence of this place, mingling respectfully with the sometimes overbearing British one, is nevertheless inescapable and beautiful). Even the lofty rich folk venture down from their million dollar yachts to take it in. Old couples sit hand in hand under the trees, perhaps having grown up here and seeing it turn into what it is now, watching tourists from everywhere in the world point their cameras and snap at everything from the Parliament Building to the potted flowers hanging from the street lamps. Flowers, everywhere. Can't throw a rock without uprooting one.

When dusk starts to fall, and Country Joe packs up his coin filled guitar case, he's replaced by a man in dreadlocks with congo drums and wooden instruments. He sings songs with such melodies such that I can't quite place their origin, but it seems as though they've travelled across the ocean from some distant time and place and have somehow found their way here. A rythmic hush falls over the harbour as the sun sets behind the masts of the sleeping ships.



It's impossible to be sad here amongst this. It's impossible to be lonely. Even the bums have a look of contentment on their faces that says at this moment they wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

How can one not love it here.