Canada: The land beyond the rainbow

A missive from the mother country

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[Canadian PM Trudeau in the House of Commons. A rare(?) symbol of British heritage in country culturally detached from the Commonwealth.]

Canada is a curious country, half myth, half once whispered rumour. Of old we are told of its wealth. And its freedom is the stuff of legend. Yet it exists somewhere far beyond the rainbow and of its splendour we are denied all knowledge. It lives in a land beyond stereotype, for stereotype suggests crude knowing and uncouth generalisation. But how may we speak in broad strokes about a painting unglimpsed? It is there, in the corner of our perception, seen in passing, but unspoken of. An Iranian beauty behind the veil.

Canada is like Heaven. The eternal land. The perfect land. The Divine gem across the sea where hungry seek to flee and the downtrodden hasten to find rest. Many have been the adventurers who have made the perilous trip across the ocean, but none have returned to tell their tale. It is a mythical place of which we no nothing. That it is glorious, of that there is little doubt. But evidence? Empirical data? Peer-reviewed fact? Personal experiences recounted? Silence child, ye of little faith! This is the sacred ground of priesthood upon which trespass is forbidden. All that is asked of you is belief. The sacred sacrament of questioning is reserved to the chosen ones alone.

According to the Holy Texts, this land was the undiscovered country, happened upon by one of our own. It formed part of our great Union, painted garishly in red; but whilst the exotism of India drew us into her bosom, and Kenya beckoned us on, the red of Canada stood for danger. One must not venture ye hither. For there the bears stalk in the darkness and the cold grasp of Northern wind leaves you wasted. What do they eat there? What are their customs? What languages do they speak? These were the questions that no soul dared ask.

We knew it was cold. So very, very cold. And big. The biggest bigness you could imagine. Infinite incarnate. So big, so cold in fact that the settlers dared not stray too far from the border, lest one day they need flee. One bitter morning, the mighty, dark beast could emerge from the snowlands beyond to chase them out. They had to be prepared. Their suitcases remained opened by the fireplace, but the great day of reckoning never came. Yet frozen in anxious attendance, none came back to Britain to speak of what they saw.

The rumours came flying back from all corners of the Empire. We knew of India, her richness of cuisine, her diversity of culture, her sheer exoticity. We spoke endlessly of Australia, that latino England in the Sun; that relaxed paradise where the locals said “G’day” and the children could run free in the yard. The parties in Barbados were legend. The rum flowed free in St Lucia. And with the Chinese Dragon emerging from beyond the horizon, we feared in Cantonese as if their struggles were our own. Yet from Canada we heard no word. We sent telegrams by the dozen load and called wistfully through the forbidding blizzard. But all to no avail.

[Image: From the Commonwealth wtih love. Curtly Ambrose, Phil Simmons, Brian Lara and Ian Bishop in Adelaide. A cricket match between the West Indies and Australia. Where’s Canada?]

As we ventured to the nations, so they ventured to us. The Windrush generation made landfall, enriching our grey land to a reggae beat. The foods of India adorned every high street. Soap operas beamed in from the colonies and became our way of life.

The adventures of Karl Kennedy streamed in from Melbourne and united our culture with theirs. Their actors became our icons: Kylie Minogue, Jason Donovan, Natalie Imbruglia, even Russell Crowe; they started in Neighbours, but ended up in our hearts. Though they came from the ends of the Earth, in a land beyond the farest peninsulas of China, they were only estranged by distance. For those that we cast away, condemned to rot as convicts in the desert, returned to us in love. Australia was our Australia.

But from Canada, radio silence remained. What became of them?

[Image: Pop stars Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan in the Australian soap opera Neighbours, a hit on British TV. Where are the Canadian soap operas?]

And sport. Glorious sport! The heaven-kissed sound of leather upon willow resonated from Kolkata to Durban to Christchurch. No independence movement couldn’t dampen the love for cricket and the beloved sport of Jawaharlal Nehru marched on. Sachin Tendulkar became an international icon. The Ashes: a festival of summer sport played to the roar of the GABBAtoir mob. West Indians became English heroes. Brain Charles Lara, Curtly Ambrose, Sir Vivian Richards: the greatest sons of the Caribbean became our sons too. And how we relaxed, jerk chicken in hand, to the sound of bajan beats mixed seamlessly with the soothing tones of an Ian Bishop commentary.

But from Canada, we still await news. Fearfully we cower by the wireless for signs of life, losing hope by the day. It is said that the settlers took to ice skating and began to speak in American tones. Even baseball entered the national lexicon. Horrors! Isolated from the mother country, they hugged close to the heavily-gunned terrorists in Jeffersonland. Or so it is said. But I will not believe it. I must not! Those holdouts in St Vincent remain our kindred. The Grenadians our brothers in love. If these small islands could stand firm against the Boston rebels, how could Canada - the land of British Columbia - not resist. These are but rumours, mere tittle tattle, but gallic intelligence is getting similar worrisome reports. The French say that their explorers, lost centuries ago, are speaking American; Pierres with a twang. And though the French hear more information than we, they are struggling to translate, so infiltrated is their tongue by “local” ways.

[Image: Indian food. The UK national cuisine. What is Canadian food and where is it in the UK? ]

Many years ago, we took our boats to spy on the snow lands of the North. Perhaps our people could have ventured towards the swirling lights, cricket bat in tow and upper lip still stiff? There was still hope. But as we foolishly passed through the Northern Passage, destiny played upon us a cruel trick. Our arrogance was captured by unimaginable winter and our hopes never unfroze. Our ships, the pride of the Empire, the glory of the fleet, stood there unproud in permanent congelation, and our men were trapped on the dishonourable ice fields, left to die in petrified agony.

Survivors say they saw signs of life; habitations given the appellation of igloo and a sparse native populations. So Canada is capable of human habitation! But of the settlers, we have given up all hope of news.

So what became of the lost Canadians? Are they well? What languages do they speak? What sports do they play? How do they govern themselves?

What is their national identity? What is their national uniqueness? What is their national narrative? What do they stand for?

The religious say that Canada is a real place, where the spirits go after death to live in abundance. The ambrosia of England realised in embodied immortality. There you lack for nothing. There harmony reigns and to each man his portion. Or that is the dogma. But is it true? We must know! We must know now! For we have learnt never to listen to priestly incantations and with empiricism as our guide, we ask for evidence. Hard evidence. We, the Brits, the Australians, the Indians and the Jamaicans, even the French; we want to know if you’re real.

Canada, we yearn for you. Our love is not yet lost.