GRAN FONDO GARNEAU

For those of you who don’t know, I’m a passionate cyclist, and have been for the past thirty years or so. Because of my bad knees, I’m limited to low-impact exercise like cycling and cross-country skiing. I actually got into cycling as a way to stay in shape for skiing.

In 2004, I was invited to join a cycling group called the Over-the-Hill-Gang; OTHG for short. The original members are brothers Ira and Richard Birt, Russ Melanson and Gerry Ridgeway. Gerry and his wife, Phyllis, moved to Wolfville last year after retiring from the provincial public service. Our newest member is John MacQuarrie. Annually, we travel to an off-Island event and, this year, we chose the Gran Fondo Garneau, a 110-kilometre ride along Route 138 from Trois-Rivières to Saint-Augustin-de-Desmaures, where the Garneau factory is located.

A gran fondo is a short to long distance, organized, mass-participation cycling event, typically held annually.

We left Charlottetown bright and early on Saturday morning after loading five bikes and our gear into a seven-passenger van. After an uneventful trip marked by too many pee breaks, we arrived at our destination, the Motel-Miami in Cap-de-la-Madeleine, a down-on-its-luck establishment in the poorer part of town. We never travel first-class, but this place makes any Travelodge look like the Ritz-Carlton! If you don’t believe me, check out the photo below!

After getting settled in, we set out to look for a place to eat, since the restaurant across the street was closed. We eventually stumbled upon a very good Cuban restaurant downtown, the Café-Bistro Le Paladar. After satisfying our hunger, we came face-to-face with a thunderstorm, one of those where the rain bounces off the pavement, and we waited for half an hour for it to blow over. When it became obvious it wouldn’t, Ira made the supreme sacrifice, and ran through the rain to pick up the van. 

After loading up on beer, we returned to the motel and watched a recap of the Olympics, seeing a heartbroken Jared Connaughton take the rap for the 4x100 team’s disqualification. Knowing I might wake myself up snoring, I brought along my best beeswax earplugs just in case and shoved them into my ears before retiring.

Sunday morning, Gran Fondo day, we got up bright and early and crossed the street to the finally-open Café Rétro, hoping to get a bellyful of some decent pancakes and coffee. The café was practically empty except for a few decrepit-looking men sitting at a table, one of whom announced reassuringly that we’d be served tout de suite. Along came the waitress, who’d seen better days and looked like she’d just gotten out of bed. The place was decorated with all manner of 50s memorabilia, including an old juke box, the front end of a ‘57 Chevy, and images of Elvis. The torn leatherette seats had been lovingly repaired with duct tape, which made us wonder whether Red Green had been there! A couple strode in dressed in their best black shirts and jeans complete with bejeweled guitar-shaped belt buckles. She sported the nicest black curly mullet I’ve ever seen!

Our bellies filled with greasy pancakes and good maple syrup, we donned our kit, prepared the bikes, and rode up to the start line. We stood around for a while, and then a reporter from the magazine Info-Vélo took this picture of us. 

Soon after, an official-looking guy came along and told us we’d have to ditch the OTHG jerseys and put on the ‘mandatory’ Gran Fondo ones. So, we pedaled back to the motel and put them on, arriving back at the starting line just in time to take our places at the back of the 30-35 km/hr group.

At 10:00, the 40+ km/hr group got the order to start, and we made our way slowly up to the start line, waiting for our turn. A few minutes passed before the 500 or so riders ahead got up to speed. It was decided that I’d lead out because “You understand the language”; whatever the hell difference that made is beyond me. But, as usual, I did what I was told. At least a dozen riders had mechanical breakdowns before we even got out of town; they looked disgusted as we passed them kneeling on the side of the road. Traffic control was awesome, and spectators lined the circuit.

We stayed to the far left of the eastbound lane, sometimes crossing over into the westbound lane when things got hairy. Bikes were at least three across, sometimes four, and we didn’t want to get boxed in. At every opportunity, we jumped from one group to the next, getting behind someone’s wheel to draft for a little while each time.

At about 20 kilometres, we came upon three crashes, with riders down on the pavement. We reached the 60 kilometre rest stop, disappointed to say goodbye to a couple of really good riders who’d decided to stop. From that point on, we had to work a little harder, as the groups got smaller and more spread out. We caught and passed a number of lone riders who’d run out of gas, and got into a few nasty little hills. People cheered us on all along the route.

Each one of us took a ‘pull’ on the front and we began to anticipate the end of the ride. It was a perfect riding day: no wind, dry pavement, a relatively flat course, and no breakdowns. We had the road mostly to ourselves for the last half of the ride, and were in the company of experienced riders for the most part, none of whom did anything stupid. The cycling culture is very strong in Québec.

As we got to the outskirts of Saint-Augustin, traffic control tightened up, and we prepared mentally for what we knew would be a nasty little climb to the finish line. As we came around a bend in the road, the wall appeared, at least a 12% grade, short but tough. John took off, with Ira and Richard not far behind, leaving me in their wake. Russ was cramping up, and told us he’d be taking his time. I’m not a climber but I gave everything I had left and, by the time I got to the top of the steepest part, was in range of the front three. I caught up to them before the finish line, and we crossed at just under 3 hours and 5 minutes, an average speed to 36 km/hr. It’s the fastest we’ve ever ridden over any distance.

The fastest riders came in at just over 2 hours and 30 minutes, comfortably over 40 km/hr, and well out of our range. We finished in the top third of male riders and in the top 25% of riders in the 50-59 age range. Russ finished 15^th out of 101 riders in the 60+ category; an impressive result! We passed at least 500 riders along the way.

At the finish line, we ate what little provisions we had left and rehydrated. It had turned into a very hot day as the sun came out. We showered in a trailer unit provided especially for the purpose, checked out the results, checked in our bikes for the return trip, and boarded the bus for the ride back to Cap-de-la-Madeleine. Our bikes arrived safe and sound not long after we did, and we rode gingerly back to the Motel-Miami, not much the worse for wear.

The next priority was to get some food into our famished frames. But first, the boys had to have a few ‘pops’; as the designated driver, I stuck to the Perrier. We made our way along the main drag, Rue Furey, and wandered around until we found a table at a terrasse, the Bistro Bar Fusée. The food was basic but good, and Richard had his first taste of poutine, Québec’s national dish. He professed to liking it. Russ put the moves on a female Elvis mannequin, but to no avail! 

After a couple of pitchers of draft, we headed back to the flashing lights of the Motel-Miami, watched the closing ceremonies of the Olympics, and engaged in male-only contests of the kind that naturally follow consumption of copious amounts of beer and greasy food.

Monday morning, we awoke bright and early and walked down to McDonalds, opting to forego the nearby Café Rétro. We were on the road at 7:45 and had a leisurely eleven-hour drive back to the Island. Our butts were a little sore, but we all agreed that it was a good trip, highlighted by our participation in a first-class event, and one hell of a ride!

À la prochaine!

THE JOBS I’VE KNOWN

　
What I Wanted To Be When I Grew Up

Many people have told me they chose their career path very early in life, and have followed it to retirement.  When I was eight years old, I chose to be what we’d call today a ‘heavy equipment operator’.  I was fascinated with ‘road machines’: graders, rollers, pavers, snowplows, trucks, and, most of all, bulldozers.  As a boy, I hung around every major construction project in Wellington: paving the main street; building the dam; installing the sewer system; and watching the arrival and departure of the Esso oil drilling rig in 1958.

I tried to get to know the equipment operators, harbouring the fervent wish that one would invite me to climb up onto the seat, and watch him move the levers to make the machine go.  As it happened, two men by the name of Bob and Ivan, from Mount Stewart, worked on building an earthen dam to replace the old Barlow Mills structure after it was destroyed by a spring flood.  I don’t know the exact year, but it was in the early 1960s. 

I got to know Bob and Ivan, and I spent hours watching their twin bulldozers move back and forth as they piled the shale ever higher.  And I got my wish!  One day, Bob asked me if I wanted to get on.  I eagerly climbed onto the treads and, from there, up onto the seat beside him.  I watched as the big blade pushed the shale along in front of it, smoothing it out, effortlessly.  It was magical, and I was hooked.

What I Actually Did

But, I guess I got off track.  I’m on my seventeenth job!  How this happened, I’m not sure, but it did.  I’ve saved my business cards in a folder, and here’s the story they tell of what happened after I graduated from UNB in 1975 with a Bachelor of Science in Forestry:

·                     Market Development Representative – CIBA-Geigy Canada Ltd.

·                     Agricultural Chemicals Inspector – Dept. of Agriculture and Forestry

·                     Weed and Pest Control Officer – Forestry Branch

·                     Development and Research Director – Forestry Branch

·                     Operations Director – Forestry Branch

·                     Director – Forestry Branch

·                     Director of Employee Relations – Treasury Board

·                     Director of Planning and Development – Dept. of Agric., Fisheries and Forestry

·                     Acting Executive Director – Veterans Appeal Board

·                     Chair – Federal Task Force on the Feed Freight Assistance Program

·                     Executive Secretary – Round Table on Resource Land Use and Stewardship

·                     Senior Advisor Resource Land Use – Dept. of Agriculture and Forestry

·                     HRA – Consultant and Partner

·                     Project Manager PEI Field Unit – Parks Canada Agency

·                     Director Human Resources Eastern Canada – Parks Canada Agency

·                     Executive Secretary – Commission on Land and Local Governance

·                     Member – Veterans Review and Appeal Board

So, seventeen jobs in thirty-seven years!  The shortest lasted one year and the longest, my time with the private sector firm, HRA, eight years.  Included in this, from 1988 to 1990, I was on educational leave, doing an MBA at Université Laval. 

But, not one of them involved operating heavy equipment.  In fact, the joke among my colleagues in the Forestry Branch was that I was named Director by default, because I showed the least aptitude for the operational side of things.  In other words, I didn’t understand machinery!  They were right…

I’ve given a lot of thought to the jobs I liked best, and why.  Here are my top three: Director of Forestry, Executive Secretary of the Round Table on Resource Land Use and Stewardship, and Member of the Veterans Review and Appeal Board. 

The Good Ones

I wasn’t ready for the position of Director of Forestry.  I was 29 years old and caught in the whirlwind of a major restructuring.  The previous Director had left under a cloud, and the new Minister was not at all fond of our program.  I had to oversee the work of thirty permanent staff and as many as two hundred seasonal employees.  None of us had any job security.  I was told that the job was to be mine only until a more experienced person could be found.  Five years later, mission accomplished, I left to do my MBA.

I learned more about myself in that challenging position than in any other.  I learned to respect diversity, to promote initiative, and to admire those who did their best with the skills they were given.  I learned about teamwork, not just at work, but away from work.  For example, I jumped at the chance to play goal for the Forestry Branch hockey team.  I wasn’t that good, but the guys admired me for standing up to their slap shots as they whizzed by my head during the warm-ups, and they knew I never gave up.  We had a lot of laughs, and we shared a few pops together after the games.

When my mother was killed in 1990, I had to drive my family home from Québec City, where I was attending Université Laval, to look after the arrangements and attend the funeral.  All of my former colleagues from the Forestry Branch called at the funeral home or attended the funeral mass.  One of my most vivid memories of that sad time is seeing them at the church, dressed in their uniforms, as we walked down the aisle behind Mom’s casket.  You can’t buy that kind of comradeship, and you never forget it.  This afternoon, I stood in line at a funeral home to pay my respects to a former Forestry colleague whose wife died far too young.  Joining me were many old friends I worked with thirty years ago…

I remember the day my Deputy Minister, Rory Francis, introduced me to the Chair of the Round Table on Resource Land Use and Stewardship, Elmer MacDonald.  I was in awe of the man, but he didn’t know me from Adam.  During the eighteen months we worked together, we never disagreed about anything, and he learned as much from me as I did from him.  We were fortunate to work with fifteen other sterling citizens.  All of them were determined to come up with strong recommendations for government on how to improve the state of our primary resources, and to strike a better balance between the agriculture and forestry industries and the environment.

The process turned out to be just as important as the outcome, and although we nearly lost a couple of members along the way, all sixteen signed the final report.  Sadly, fifteen years after the Round Table reported, few environmental indicators have improved, and many have regressed.  We still have fish kills regularly, because of landowners’ greed, and their inexplicable ignorance of the sound land stewardship practices advocated by the Round Table.  But, I’ll never forget those fascinating moments spent with committed people, determined to arrive at a consensus despite their differences.  I remember how proud we were the day the report was made public, and it is truly one of the most enriching experiences of my career.

I was reluctant to apply to become a member of the Veterans Review and Appeal Board when the ad appeared in The Guardian.  But, I wasn’t enjoying my HR position with the Parks Canada Agency, and spending my weeks in Halifax didn’t compensate for the good money I was making.  So, I decided to enter the competitive process, not knowing where it might take me.  I made it through the initial screening, the written test, and the interview.

One day, I got a letter telling me that my name was on a list of potential members and that I might be contacted if an opening occurred.  Eighteen months passed, and then I got a call from the Privy Council Office asking me if I’d accept the position if it were offered to me.  Duh!

Because of my previous experience with the Veterans Appeal Board in 1994-1995, I had some idea what I was getting myself into, and some of the staff were known to me.  But, as with all new members, I had to get comfortable with the legislation and the process, and I had to learn to write good decisions.  The thing that makes this one of my top three favorite jobs is that I felt respected from the moment I walked in the door.  For the first time in my career, I didn’t feel the need to prove myself.

The Not-So-Good Ones

I’ve gained something from each of the fourteen other jobs I’ve known but, in truth, several of them were real stinkers.  They weren’t the right fit for me, or vice versa, or they fell short of my expectations.  Other times I learned, to my great disappointment, that I was working for an incompetent manager.

My first job was the worst.  I am not cut out for sales, and learning to work and live in Toronto proved too great a culture shock.

When I returned from Laval in 1990 with a hard-won MBA in hand, I expected to be given a challenge.  Premier Joe Ghiz had promised me that, but I wasn’t expecting to be named Director of Employee Relations, the provincial government’s chief negotiator with the nine public sector unions.  In my seven previous years as a manager, I had never opened the collective agreement and, suddenly, I was expected to live and breathe collective bargaining, and endure all the crap that goes with it.  Three years was enough, and I was damn glad to get out.

My time with HRA was a learning experience, my first foray into private enterprise as a part owner.  When the company president invited me out to lunch one fine summer day in 1998, I’d had enough of the provincial government.  I wasn’t satisfied with how the Round Table’s recommendations were being implemented, and I needed a change.  I jumped in with both feet, but on condition that I wasn’t to work in the company’s bread and butter business, employee relations.  This meant I had to start from scratch, without too many client prospects.

Looking back, I think I gave a pretty good account of myself as a consultant.  But, when I was asked to invest a considerable sum of money to become a partner, I did so with the expectation that I’d be compensated for taking the risk.  While I loved the work, the return on my investment wasn’t up to my expectations.  So, as we say in French: J’ai décidé de rouler ma boule ailleurs!  In truth, my experience with HRA convinced me that I’m a public servant at heart, not a businessman.

I got a call out of the blue one day in October 2008 from a senior official of the Prince Edward Island government.  He asked me if I was interested in working with Ralph Thompson, head of the Commission on Land Use and Local Government.  The Human Resources job with Parks Canada was killing me: I had staff in three locations; was on the road over 100 days a year; flew 95 times in a twelve-month period; was travelling from Charlottetown to my Halifax apartment most weeks; and wasn’t getting along with my boss.  Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity.

Ralph and I worked very hard and put out what I consider to be a damn fine report, in French and English, in less than twelve months.  I loved working with him and we remain good friends.  The report was made public in January 2010 and has been sitting on the shelf ever since.  Yesterday’s Guardian editorial chided the provincial government for failing to act on the Commission’s recommendations.  I am disappointed that this is so, but I was well paid for what I did.

Final Thoughts

So, as I near the end of my career, I look back with great satisfaction on the things I’ve done and the many fine people I’ve met.  I’ve been very privileged to get to know my Island province like few others.  I’ve worked in a variety of fields and, while not expert in any, can discuss many matters of public policy with some degree of knowledge.

One of the worst bosses I worked with told me once, as he neared the end of his career, that he considered a couple of infrastructure projects he was working on to be his legacy.  The use of the word ‘legacy’ struck me as very strange, coming as it did from a public servant, and I considered it most improper in this context. 

My legacy is the many relationships I’ve had with co-workers, and it’s the people I meet as we go about our everyday lives, sharing memories of good times and bad.  Each positive working relationship was an accomplishment, and it provided all the satisfaction I ever needed.

Most importantly, I’m thankful for the support of my best friend, Elva, who has had to endure these career changes.  Many times, she wondered why I was leaving a good job.  She had good reason to question my decisions, but she always accepted them in the end.  Not every partner would have stood beside me, and her unfailing encouragement gave me the confidence I needed to succeed at most of the assignments I’ve been given.

In a way, I envy those whose career path was clear from the beginning.  But, for me, I’ve never quite known what I want to be when I grow up.  I hope I never will…

RELIGION FOR ATHEISTS

　
I read an interesting book lately, called Religion for Atheists, by Alain de Botton. It poses the question: What if religions are neither all true nor all nonsense? The author states: "... rather than mocking religion, agnostics and atheists should instead steal from it, because the world’s religions are packed with good ideas on how we might live and arrange our societies." This made me reflect on my own experience with organized religion, the Roman Catholic faith, and on how I’ve managed to piece together my own philosophy of life from science, experience and observation.

According to the dictionary, an agnostic is "a person who believes that nothing is known, or can be known, of the existence or nature of God, or of anything beyond material phenomena." An apostate is "a person who renounces a former belief", meaning a person who has abandoned the Catholic faith in favour of another, or who has abandoned organized religion altogether. An atheist is "a person who does not believe in the existence of God or gods."

De Botton’s book begins with the following paragraphs:

"The most boring and unproductive question one can ask of any religion is whether or not it is true — in terms of being handed down from heaven to the sound of trumpets and supernaturally governed by prophets and celestial beings.

To save time, and at the risk of losing readers painfully early on in this project, let us bluntly state that of course no religions are true in any God-given sense. This is a book for people who are unable to believe in miracles, spirits or tales of burning shrubbery, and have no deep interests in the exploits of unusual men and women like the thirteenth-century saint Agnes of Montepulciano, who was said to be able to levitate two feet off the ground while praying and to bring children back from the dead - and who, at the end of her life (supposedly), ascended to heaven from southern Tuscany on the back of an angel."

So, where does that leave me? Well, I’m not an apostate, since I still attend Mass from time to time but, I admit, not always for the right reasons. I attend more out of a sense of community and tradition than a spiritual need. I find churches to be peaceful, beautiful and enriching places, I enjoy the ritualism of the ceremony itself, and I enjoy a good sermon.

As for the Catholic Church, I still have the same problems I had as a child over its rules and teachings. For example, I don’t agree with the Church’s ban on contraception, its position on homosexuality, not allowing women to be ordained to the priesthood, and not allowing priests to marry. Just as importantly, I don’t, and never have, accepted the Church’s position on sin. I refuse to accept that I must feel guilty most of the time, and that the only way to relieve myself of guilt is through confession to a priest. I’m far from perfect, but I choose to deal with my failings in my own way, and to strive to better myself through my own efforts. I don’t believe a priest can absolve me of wrongdoing.

The Church’s recent trials and tribulations do not surprise me in the least. They’re just another reminder that we’re all human, and that none of us has the right to feel superior to another, regardless of how pious and upright we may appear to be.

That I’m not a fully practicing Catholic cannot be blamed on my upbringing. My mother certainly tried to set me on the right path, but I resisted her attempts from an early age, as I did the attempts of all others who followed. For example, in elementary school, the teacher taught us catechism, a summary of the principles of the Catholic religion in the form of questions and answers. Fortunately, I was smart enough to remember the right answers to the questions but, from the very start, I questioned them. Being asked to demonstrate my new-found knowledge by a priest who didn’t understand French didn’t help to strengthen my faith in the whole system.

When I arrived at École régionale Évangéline at the tender age of 11, I was placed under the guidance of the nuns. They had their own idea of how a young, apparently bright child like me should behave. Again I resisted, and things did not go well for me. I subjected myself reluctantly to their control over everything we did, just to get through high school and relieve my mother of that burden.

One time, in Grade 11, we were asked to pick a topic for a class presentation. For some reason, I ended up with the last pick, and the only topic left was La théorie des singes, essentially, Darwin’s Theory of Evolution. Secretly, I hoped that no one else would choose the topic, because it was the one I knew the most about. When my turn came, I stood up and explained how science shows that species, including our own, have changed over time, and that this does not necessarily contradict the Bible story of creation. After all, who among us could know what God considers to be a day? Six days to God may be fourteen billion years! My classmates looked at me like I had three heads!

In my first year of university, I was finally exposed to professors who were able to relieve me of the burden of my earlier, almost fraudulent, teachings, and I’ve been a more complete person since then.

I’m neither an agnostic nor an atheist. There is something in me that wants to believe that some higher being was present at the time of the big bang, some fourteen billion years ago when the universe began. In other words, I’d like to believe that something beyond material phenomena is present in the universe.

In order to better understand this, I’ve read extensively on cosmology, including Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. Cosmology is the academic discipline that seeks to understand the origin, evolution, structure, and ultimate fate of the universe, as well as the natural laws that keep it in order. Modern cosmology is dominated by the big bang theory, which brings together the disciplines of observational astronomy and particle physics.

As for the afterlife, I’m reminded that we’re the only species on Earth that believes there’s some purpose to our existence other than the imperative of passing on copies of our genes to as many descendants as possible. In other words, we’re the only species that dares to believe in life after death, perhaps because we have the capacity to do so.

The Catholic Church is especially big on the afterlife, as the following example will demonstrate. In former times, the Church encouraged the faithful to buy ‘indulgences’. One indulgence purchased from the Church was equal to one day less in purgatory. ‘Purgatory’, according to the Church, is the place between heaven and hell where one’s spirit resides temporarily, while awaiting forgiveness for venial sins. When I was a kid, people still believed this stuff. What a crock! Is it any wonder I have a problem reconciling scientific knowledge and religious teaching?

Do I believe my spirit will survive my body? Nobody knows the answer to that question. But, if it does, I’m not sure I’d want it to end up in heaven. Many of the people I know who think they’re going to heaven are dull and uptight. Theirs is a black-and-white world, dominated by rules, obligations, judgement of others, and unfathomable beliefs. I’ve always lived in the grey world, preferring to figure things out for myself. So, since purgatory is not an option, perhaps hell would be better. The souls residing there would, I’m sure, be far more interesting to spend time with!

THE BAMBOO DRUM

THE STORY OF SIBA AND ALOÏ

Context

On March 28, 2009 my wife, Elva, and I were walking along a jungle trail on the island of Basse-Terre, Guadeloupe.  We were nearing the end of a two-week stay there, renting a cottage from Reggie Arsenault, formerly of Abram-Village.  I was well ahead of Elva, so I stopped to wait for her.  While standing next to a bamboo tree, I began tapping the trunk with my knuckles.  To my great surprise, the hollow stem made a very clear sound.  Not only that, since the stem sections were of varying lengths and diameters, I could generate different sounds, depending on where I struck.

Eventually, Elva came along, and I made her listen to my discovery.  She didn’t seem impressed in the least!  So I asked her: "Aren’t you ever curious about things like this?" She answered: "It never would have crossed my mind to tap the trunk of a bamboo tree to see what sound it would make."  And thus was born the story of the brothers, Siba and Aloï.  To quote a well-worn disclaimer: "The names have been changed to protect the innocent."

The bamboo drum

Siba and Aloï, two brothers of the Arawak Tribe, lived on the island of Karukera.  Their father, Komaka, was a great hunter and fisherman, and their mother, Orehu, was the most beautiful woman in the village.  They lived near the ocean and got everything they needed from the waters and the forests around them.  They lived peaceful lives.  It was in the time before the white people came.

Siba was two years older than Aloï, and he never let his little brother forget it!  Although he listened to his father, Siba liked to show the boys his age that he was the strongest and the fastest runner.  Aloï liked to play close to the grass hut where the family lived, and to stay near his mother and grandmother, and listen to their stories.

Komaka had begun teaching Siba how to hunt and fish, and had made him a small bow and a fishing rod.  He would take Siba with him when he went into the forest to hunt for small birds and animals, and Komaka would show Siba how to hold the bow and to aim the arrow.  After they came back from the forest, Siba would practice shooting the arrows at trees for hours on end, until his mother told him to come home for the meal.

When Siba turned twelve, Komaka gave him permission to go into the forest alone to hunt with his bow and arrow.  It wasn’t long before Siba returned with his first kill, and his father and mother greeted him with great pride, saying: "You will be a great hunter, and will be able to feed a large family one day."

Aloï looked on and listened, but couldn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about.  His grandmother explained that, one day soon, his father would teach him to hunt and fish.  But Aloï looked at her and sighed: "I just want to stay here in the village, listen to the stories and learn how to play the drums".  Komaka complained to Orehu that she and the grandmother were spoiling the child and making him soft.  But, Orehu answered that it was his nature, and that Aloï would find his calling in his own time, and in his own way.

As was the custom, when Aloï turned twelve, his father tried to teach him how to hunt and fish.  But Aloï had no patience for fishing.  His line was always tangled and, when he caught a fish, he was too scared to take it off the hook!  In the forest, Komaka spent as much time looking for Aloï as he did teaching him how to hunt.  Aloï made too much noise, and he couldn’t shoot the arrow straight when he tried to kill an animal.  Komaka began to think Aloï didn’t want to hurt the fish and the animals.  This made him worry all the more about what Aloï would do when he grew to be a man.  "Surely, no young woman will want our Aloï", Komaka complained to Orehu late one evening after the boys were asleep.

Siba and Aloï fought over everything.  They were like night and day.  Siba played all the games the way he was taught by the other children, but Aloï wouldn’t.  He always wanted to make his own rules and, when the others didn’t agree, Aloï would run home crying to his mother.  Try as they might, Komaka and Orehu couldn’t find one single thing the brothers liked to do together.  To stop them from fighting, they even had to build separate rooms for Siba and Aloï to sleep in.

One day, Komaka told Siba to take Aloï into the forest with him to see if the older brother could teach the younger to hunt.  Siba didn’t like this idea at all: "But, Father, Aloï will scare away all the animals, and I won’t be able to bring any food home for supper".  His father said he understood, but he asked Siba to try.

Soon after they entered the forest, Siba had already lost track of Aloï.  He turned back on the trail and found Aloï tapping the trunk of a bamboo tree with a small stick. "What are you doing, Aloï?" said Siba.  "I’m listening to the sounds of the bamboo", answered Aloï: "Didn’t you ever try?  You walk past many bamboo trees every time you come into the forest.  Didn’t you ever want to hear the sound they make?"  But Siba just shook his head: "Why would I ever want to hear the sound of the bamboo when I’m here to catch something for our supper?"

Siba didn’t bring home any animals for his mother’s campfire that day, and he complained all that evening to his father about Aloï’s antics, and how he never wanted to take him hunting ever again.

Aloï spent all the next day telling Orehu and his grandmother about the wonderful sounds that came from the bamboo tree.  The women had never heard a story like this.  There were drums in their village, but they had always been made of animal skins.  No one had ever heard of making music with a stick and a bamboo tree.

So, Aloï asked his father if he could come to the forest and listen to the sound of the bamboo tree.  He wanted to make the sound again for the others in the village.  Komaka answered: "Aloï, you must stop this foolishness and learn how to hunt and fish like the other young men.  Do you want to spend the rest of your life alone around your campfire?"  But, Aloï wouldn’t give up.  He begged and he begged and, finally, his father took him to the place where the bamboo grew.

Komaka took his best stone axe, and cut down the tree Aloï had found beside the trail.  Then, he cut off a couple of sections of the stem, and Aloï showed him the sounds he could make by striking the stem with a stick.  Komaka heard with his own ears that the boy had been right.  Music did come from the bamboo, and it was different than the sound of the drum from the village.  Not only that, the boy showed him that different sounds came from different sections of the bamboo stem.

"How did you know this, Aloï?" asked his father.  "I’ve been sneaking into the forest to learn the sound of the bamboo when you thought I was practicing my hunting", said the boy.  "I know I’ve disobeyed you, Father, but I just had to learn."  "Very well", said Komaka.  "If you don’t want to become a hunter or a fisherman, then you must learn this new skill, and perhaps others will provide for you."

So, every morning, Aloï took out his bamboo pieces and his stick, and he went off into the forest to practice, far away where no one would hear.  He’d spend whole days away from the village, returning only at nightfall.  He asked his father to cut other pieces of bamboo for him, some smaller and some larger than the first ones, and he learned how to make many different sounds.  He learned how to tie the bamboo stems together so that he could strike different ones at different places.  Then, he tried to make them sound like the songs the men and women sang at special occasions.

While Siba got better at fishing and hunting, Aloï got better at making music.  It didn’t take long for the young women to notice Siba’s hunting skills, or his striking good looks.  They gathered around him when he returned to the village with fish and animals from the hunt, and each one kept an eye on him, hoping he would notice her when the time came.  But none of them noticed Aloï, although he was now fourteen.  Why would they?  He knew nothing of hunting and fishing.  A woman would go hungry around his campfire, and never be able to feed her children.

Once every year, the village held a great feast to celebrate the equinox.  It was the time of the year when the days were longest, and the cooling breezes from the waters around the island made it seem even more like paradise.  People from other villages were invited to share in the great feast, and it was a time for old and young to renew acquaintances.  Young men like Siba looked forward to the feast because it meant meeting young women from other villages.  Komaka and Orehu watched their oldest son carefully, because they knew it was time for him to choose a bride.

As for Aloï, finding a bride seemed hopeless.  But, Aloï had a surprise for all of them!

The old village shaman arranged the entertainment for the feast.  Aloï had begged him to listen to the new music he was making on the bamboo stems.  Finally, the shaman agreed.  At first, the shaman didn’t believe what he was hearing.  Surely, this wonderful sound couldn’t be coming from a tree.  Although bamboo trees were everywhere on the island, no one had ever thought of using one that way.  Aloï played a tune on the instrument he’d made, and the shaman heard that it sounded a lot like the songs the people would sing at the great feast.  So he told Aloï: "After the drummers have finished playing, I will ask you to play the sounds of the new bamboo instrument."

When the time came, Aloï went to his parent’s hut and returned with his strange-looking instrument.  The people laughed when they saw it, but when Aloï started to play, they suddenly fell very silent.  No one had ever heard such beautiful sounds, and they couldn’t believe they were coming from bamboo.  Aloï played all the familiar songs, and he played them with such great skill that the people began to dance.  And they asked him to play the songs over and over again, long into the night, until Aloï could play no more.

From that day on, Aloï was hardly ever alone.  People would come from all over the island just to hear him practice.  Whenever there was a celebration, the village people would send for Aloï.  He taught others how to make and play the bamboo instrument, and he learned how to play with the drummers.

And, just as Komaka had predicted, Aloï was provided for.  He never went hungry, and neither did his family.  A young woman from a nearby village fell in love with Aloï’s music the first time he played, and soon she fell in love with him too.  Her name was Esa.  They married and had many children.  Some became hunters and some became musicians.

As for Siba, he too married and had many children. 

Although they were so different, Siba and Aloï became very close.  The two brothers put aside their differences, and they looked after their parents until Komaka and Orehu passed on to the next life.  Soon, they became the new leaders of their village on the island of Karukera.