A college senior, Indra, introduced me to photo expeditions to the Himalayas. But I was grateful to his father, who taught me how to enlarge photos. The process was simple. A black-and-white negative was placed on a projector to expose photo paper. It was then fixed in a hypo-filled tray, where the image came alive. However, the real magic was in the dodging and burning. These techniques, involving selective exposure and shading, were crucial in creating a high-quality print. Playing with the fingers under the light for a few seconds was an art. The shadows helped selectively vary the exposures in different areas of the print. Exposure variations enriched the print with an infinite range of shades of grey. I often thought of Bharatanatyam Mudra when I saw these enchanting hand movements. I learnt that great pictures were not just snapped at sites but were born in the lonely wombs of darkrooms. Indra’s father scoffed at 35 mm cameras, and I knew why. The film grains in a small format degrade the print during enlargement.

At the American Library in Kolkata, I was utterly captivated by the masterpieces of Ansel Adams and Yousuf Karsh. Their works, captured with large formats, were a testament to the power of view cameras. The thought of owning such costly gear was a mere fantasy. However, it didn’t stop me from daydreaming about Ansel Adams guiding us with a Linhof Technica in Yosemite Valley.              

I joined the university camera club, where I met Joe. He was a second-year engineering student who inherited the hobby from his father. He taught us darkroom tricks. We became friends because of our shared interests. I would contact him when I saw an ad for a garage sale. We collected valuable antiques, including two legendary cameras: a Rolleiflex twin-lens reflex and a Leica rangefinder. I still own these.   

We practised Ansel Adams’ famous zone system in the darkroom. As summer approached, Joe suggested a photography trip for a nature photo competition. Ansel was primarily focused on the South West, a region extensively photographed. However, Joe was drawn to the less explored Canadian North. The prospect of snow in summer and a million lakes was enticing. I joined him for more than just photography. I wanted to travel to Alaska and the Pacific coast for a while. I suggested splitting the rent of a camping van, but I planned to go our separate ways on the Alaska Highway to head further north. Joe’s friends, Bruce and Sebastian, undergraduate engineering students, joined the team.

Renting a suitable van from a location far away in the North was time-consuming in those days. Seb took charge of logistics. In the library, he saw a newly published hunting magazine, Outdoor Canada, and wrote to its editor, Sheila Kaighin. I didn’t expect it, but Sheila responded promptly. She took pains to collect the phone numbers of several agencies in Prince George, our starting base. Seb contacted them and arranged for a Volkswagen Camper for two weeks. We joined to raise the advance and sent it via Western Union.   

They planned to take the Continental Trailways bus to enter Canada at Buffalo to visit the Niagara Falls. My situation was different. I needed a Canadian visa, so I started a week early for New York City. I stayed at an uncle’s place and applied for a Canadian Visa. After the visa, I headed towards the same route and reached Niagara via Buffalo.  

Contacting before the cellular age was complicated. After reaching Niagara, I called Joe’s girlfriend in Oklahoma. I told her I would be at the Bus Terminus tomorrow morning at nine. She passed on the intel when Joe called her at night. I met the team the following morning. Even in the same town, it took us twenty hours to meet.           

They were staying in a youth hostel, which I joined. Joe’s father loaned him a Calumet 45NX view camera. Label 45 indicated that the film size was 4 x 5 inches. It was a monster piece of equipment. In addition, he had film packs, lenses, filters, bellows, and a stout old-fashioned tripod. At least two people were required to manage such a set. The desirable print size for an exhibition would be approximately 2 by 2.5 feet. The negative would then be multiplied by six times during the enlargement process. Defects would also be multiplied by a factor of six. Therefore, such a bulky set was inevitable for serious photography in those days.     

Rainbows in the black and white photo are challenging. Ansel pulled up one in Yosemite Valley. Ansel’s photo, Nevada Falls Rainbow, was one of his classics and was displayed at the Art Institute of Chicago. Joe had a more demanding challenge. He would attempt for the moonbows.    

Rainbows are caused by the refraction of sunlight, and the same could also happen with moonshine. Typically, moonbows, also known as lunar rainbows, are rare. However, the best place to see them is near a large waterfall with permanent mists. Moonbows were an attraction in Victoria Falls, Zambia. Niagara presented a complicated challenge. The area’s lighting interferes with moonbow visibility, but it can also be an opportunity. Niagara was lit in multiple colours, which changed hues slowly. Lamps in waterproof housings were placed close to the water.

On the other hand, moonbows are created in the mist ahead of the lamps. In the right situation, both can be seen distinctly. Joe had to catch that moment. There were excellent coloured photos of moonbows in Niagara. However, Joe had to catch the same essence in shades of grey. He had to plan the camera location to achieve the desired perspective. Joe had to wait from dusk to dawn for the right lights. He needed some ambient lights to make the skyline exciting. He planned for the adjustments to his bulky gear. Ansel aptly described these as “to engage in a protracted ballet with the tripod—forward, sideways, backwards, and raising and lowering.” Luckily, we faced cloudless nights with a nearly full moon in Niagara. Moonbow dutifully appeared in due course. It was then Joe’s business to net it in films. Joe and Seb waited all night at the location. I returned to the hostel to catch a nap. Seb reported at the breakfast table that Joe was happy with his shots. The rest had to be nurtured in the darkroom.

The next day, we arrived at Union Station in Toronto. We switched buses for Prince George, which was three thousand miles away. Canadians typically travel such a distance by air. We were carrying old-style tripods, for which additional airfare would be charged. So, we were on the road through the vast plains of Canada. We switched buses multiple times over two days to reach Prince George.

When I left the bus station, I thought, “Finally, to the land of the Red Indians.” It would not have been very respectful to say that aloud. “Indian” was an acceptable term in the fifties. It is now shunned due to its connotation with the colonisers. After all, Columbus made a mistake and referred to them as Indians. Canada even has an Indian Act to define an Indian. There were terms like “Indians,” “natives,” and “indigenous people,” among others. Finally, the term “First Nation” was invented.  

I faced further issues! I learned in pre-school that Eskimos live in igloos. They were neither Eskimos nor had lived in Igloos for generations. Eskimo, in fact, is a derogatory term. So, who were these people I was heading to? Inuits would probably be a better name for the tribes living in the Far North. Inuits are not generally considered within the First Nation. Why so? It was a complex business of legal provisions that I needed to grasp. I should not even use the term white people because the word is supposed to be racial. I should rather say colonisers as I did before. Words were more than words in Canadian history.         

Prince George was traditionally the base camp for expeditions to the Far North. When I visited, Simon Fraser had established the outpost only half a century ago. They even named a river and a university in his memory. It is in Vancouver, about a thousand miles away. Why was Simon Fraser so famous in North Western Canada? Because he was a fur trader. This would show the importance of fur trading in Canadian history.

Fishing, trapping, and Christianity went hand in hand in developing the North. Europeans were well-versed in fishing. The northern rivers provided a sufficient bounty for export to Europe. Fishes took two months to dry. In the interval, they learnt about trapping animals. Beaver and fox pelts were in high demand in the European fashion industry. Increasing amounts of money were generated from the North. For business, they needed friendly Indian communities. Spreading Christianity took care of that.

Our renter arrived in his pickup. He could easily spot us from our gear. We dumped the luggage at the back and squeezed into the cabin. He advised us to get supplies like cooking gas from camping stores and rest in the evening. We pitched our tents in his garage compound. We collected bannocks from a bakery for our dinner. Bannock exemplifies its thickness if ‘Roomali Roti’ represents the dough’s finesse. Bannock is a thick Inuit bread; it has an earthy taste but is delicious with jam. We also bought some bacon glazed with maple syrup. Bacon is usually salty, but it became sweet with the maple syrup glaze. We finished dinner with a mug of hot cocoa and started early the next morning.

Seb was behind the wheel. He had already named the camper “Quint.” In the morning, he scribbled it in the front with blue chalk from the garage. Quint was a character from the blockbuster Jaws. He was an antihero who ultimately had a tragic end in the jaws of the great white. I thought, “Rudolph, the lead reindeer of Santa, would have been more appropriate.” After all, we are near the Arctic Circle, Santa’s neighbourhood. Joe said, “You missed the point, Jimmy. We are on a hunting trip, right?” I nodded. Photography is often called ‘sustainable hunting’; both have similarities.” Joe continued, “Quint took all of them after the beast. This VW is also taking us for elusive hunting moments. Isn’t it?” I had to agree. I said, “On second thought, Rudolph was a cliche.” Sebastian smiled, “And Santa doesn’t go hunting.” Joe added, “I hope this Quint won’t have the same fate in an accident.” We all laughed at his joke.

We parked at a stunning waterfall with a hard-to-pronounce French name. While I fixed lunch with bannock and blueberry jam, Joe set up his tripod. He spent an hour taking only a few shots of the fall. It was like a scientific procedure. He had a Minolta one-degree spot meter for measuring light intensity in small segments. Then, he measured the overall light on the lens with a Sekonic meter. Joe had to worry about many variables, including light, film, and haziness, to interpret the water speed in the photo. He fished out a Kodak booklet to combine all variables for optimum camera settings. Joe attached a light yellow filter to distinguish the sky. He then attempted a red filter to darken the sky.  

When he packed up, I was on the wheel and ended up in Dawson Creek campground at six in the afternoon. The sunset would be around ten, and we gossiped with fellow campers. Someone kindly let us use their portable barbecue pit, which was still flaming. We ran to the campground store to buy sausage and bison slices. We bought two six-packs of Molson cans. We presented one to our host and gulped down the stakes with beer.  

After a day of riding, we liked Quint. It was a 1973 VW camper with only thirty thousand miles. At the time, it was just an ordinary microbus. Hippies often used them, and people even nicknamed these campers Hippie Vans. It was a tumultuous time following the Vietnam War. Saigon fell less than a year ago. The US had a compulsory military conscription rule. Many young people fled to Canada to avoid the draft. Some of them were turned into hippies.  

Even in the far North, we saw a hippie van. It was outrageously painted in shocking pink and electric green. Peace signs and heart logos were drawn everywhere, even on the windscreen. In another one, I saw a Swastika and an Om sign. They must have lived in India. The USA needed a policy for draft dodgers. Hippies could not return for fear of prosecution; instead, they drifted around the Canadian countryside. Finally, President Carter granted them amnesty in 1976.                

There were reasons why hippies preferred the VW. It was spacious and durable, making it a timeless classic. A restored piece would be a fortune today. Its advantages were evident. It had an air-cooled engine, similar to a Volkswagen Bug, which made it easy to start in cold weather. Expensive campers, such as Winnebago, often required an electric radiator heater in the morning to warm up. Quint never needed one. The spare tyre was placed on the front, which was unfashionable but provided more space in the cabin.

We started the following day for Fort Nelson. The fertile agricultural land gave way to woodlands. The ever-present grain silos vanished. Pine forests were taking over the landscape. We were heading towards Yukon. Joe was at the wheel. He crossed a curved bridge but suddenly screeched to a halt on the gravel shoulder. We just crossed the historic Kiskatinaw Bridge.  

I never thought that a highway bridge could be constructed only using timber. Both the road surface and the structure were built using wood. The timber grains of the road surface did give a photo opportunity. Tripods were unloaded, and we spent an hour at the bridge, even in a drizzle. Joe was excited because raindrops created reflections and patterns on the road surface. He could catch these varieties in his photos. I was the unlucky guy holding an umbrella over Joe’s Calumet 45 for protection.  

We heard about a forest fire on the car radio. It could lead to highway closures, but we became excited for a rare opportunity. After twenty miles, we saw smoke. Fortunately, the wind changed direction away from us. We parked at a rest area and walked on the gravel shoulder. There were police cars with their lights flashing. They ordered us to leave the shoulder and not go further. We set up our tripod and took snaps. However, officers were impatient. We had to return. By afternoon, we arrived at a campsite in Fort Nelson.

The next day’s highlight was an unlikely incident in the Liard River Hot Springs Park. The pool could be accessed from a curved deck via several steps. As we set up our old-style cameras, we noticed people staring at us. I vividly remember the beautiful, mysterious woman, but I never knew her name. She seemed to be around fifty, with dark hair approaching us. She was tall and was wearing black cargo pants with a fluffy jacket. She inquired about our photography equipment, but seemed knowledgeable about the hardware. She opined that a browny steaming pool would be engaging with a subject. We nodded in agreement.  

She wondered who among us would be the model. Joe said something unexpected and blushed immediately, “Would you be a model, mam?” It wasn’t very respectful, but the lady laughed merrily. She called her partner, “Paul, These gentlemen are offering me a modelling job.” Paul, a handsome, muscular man, was approaching us. He asked with a wink in mock surprise, “Nude?” Joe blushed again and stammered, “No, No, only silhouette. Not even the face.” The lady said, “That’s a deal then; no face”, and gave a high five to Joe. She seriously said, “Think about your composition now”, and left with Paul. We saw them walking back to the parking lot on the boardwalk.  

The lady took a long time. After half an hour, we began to wonder whether it was a prank and concentrated on shooting the bubbly swamp. They returned to the deck draped in towels. She changed her earrings to a large black top, probably to contrast with her pale skin. She unwrapped herself. She had a striking body with small boobs like a model. She wore a gorgeous, one-piece, but backless, shining black costume with a shoestring neck strap. She said, “I am sorry for the delay. I returned to the RV to find this swimsuit for this session,” and gracefully walked down to the bubbly pool.    

Joe was getting ready with his Minolta spot meter when she announced, “Nope.  Your camera is high. It won’t be good. Come to water level.” Joe was hesitant to walk down to the pool. He fumbled, “A four-by-five had to be on a tripod.” The lady became impatient and rolled her eyes, “Oh, come on! The antique beast you have can sit in water. These timbers are seasoned enough to stand here for a year.” We had our trunks and a T-shirt on top. We threw our tank tops to Seb and walked down carefully with the camera mounted on the tripod. The camera was set hardly a foot above the steaming water. The lady nodded. Seb called out the light meter readings, and Joe set up the controls. The lady waited patiently.

Seb pulled out his Olympus rangefinder for a casual shot. The lady raised her finger, “Nope! Stick to the deal.” We realised she was helping out of the way but wanted to remain discreet. Seb put back the camera. She explained in a business-like manner, “I would turn around and give poses. At the shutter click, I would go neutral. When you are ready again with the controls, say ‘ready,’ then 1, 2, 3. I would go to a pose. Got it?” Joe nodded. She turned around and steadied herself carefully with the water level at her nipple line, I guessed. Paul also took a position with his Nikon on the steps. He switched to a specialised viewfinder to take snaps from a low level. He must be a professional.  

In the first pose, she raised her hands above her head like a ballerina, which was so graceful. I observed her silky smooth armpits. There were no signs of stubs at all. It’s no surprise that she needed a long time to return. She just shaved her armpits. She created profile poses but artfully covered her face. I noted that she was changing wristlets between shots for variations. Extra wristlets were kept in her cleavage. In one profile shot, she appeared to push up her breast with her other hand underwater for a perfect composition. We were spellbound to work with a pro. I reasoned that she was retired and didn’t want to publicise her Pro Bono work. She was helping us, the rookies. After half a dozen poses, she turned around and said, “Now give me some peaceful time with Paul. He is already bored.” We knew the session was over, so we left them alone.        

At dinner, Joe thoughtfully asked, “Did you know why she was turning around for poses? I didn’t, but ventured, “Maybe that’s what the pros do”. Joe said, “Nope! She was churning the pool to release steam. We didn’t notice, but the shots should have a veil of steam”. We all agreed that she was a retired pro. I wondered if we were only a decoy and she was posing for Paul, who must be a pro. We debated how much she would charge in her prime for today. We decided arbitrarily on a minimum of ten grands. It means our trip became free after a ten-grand gift, and we went to sleep peacefully.

We chose to camp at Watson Lake the next day. Joe planned a long session here. Private Lindley of the Army of Engineers was injured while working on the Alaska Highway in 1942. He was given light work duty to paint directional signposts. Out of boredom, he added one for Danville, Illinois, his home town. Others started to post their own. Soon, it became a forest of signposts and continued to grow. Joe spent almost the whole day taking shots. He was happy at the end.              

I was loitering in the parking lot for a ride the next day. I actually stocked a truck the previous evening because of a sticker on its windscreen. A Khanda logo, which consists of a double-edged sword with twin Kripans, is the symbol of the Khalsa, the Sikh sect. I saw several Sikh families in Prince George’s, but none on the route. I hoped that a desi bhai might help me get a ride.   

I saw the young man with a black turban. I ventured, “Can I have a ride, please?” He was about to say something. I expected him to deliver the standard refusal response that truckers routinely say: “The company prohibits hikers.” But he stared at me. I waited. He said something like, “Ki tusi Indian Ho?” It must be Punjabi, I deduced, but it was close to Hindi. My response was, “Ji Han.  A graduate student from Calcutta.” I saw a smile through a bush of beards, “Uth Jao,” meaning “Get up.”

I ran to the other door. I forgot the hours of waiting yesterday and climbed into the truck. This was the joy of hitching. Sometimes, you get rides; sometimes you don’t. It is similar to the foraging of indigenous groups. Some days, you get food; some days, you don’t. When one takes the time factor out of travelling, life becomes stress-free. He buckled up, then searched through dozens of music cassettes until he found one and loaded it into the dashboard player. He steered the vehicle to the road. By then, the cabin was filled with loud Bhangra songs.

He was nodding along with the beats, and so was I, but the lyrics were beyond me. I realised something that had happened to me before. He must have been a British Columbian raised only among Sikh immigrants. Sometimes, such people think that Punjabi is spoken all over India. I said in Hindi that not all Indians speak Punjabi. He obviously didn’t follow Hindi and looked at me with a blank stare. I gingerly explained the issues in English. He was about to turn off the cassette, but I exclaimed, “No, please, this is like Bollywood songs.” The word “Bollywood” probably soothed him. I saw his smile again through a bush of beards. He quickly changed the cassette to one loaded with Lata-Kishore duets. I recalled a textbook comment that Indian culture was bound by Sanskrit. The saying should now be replaced with Bollywood.     

The position was probably reversed then. Gurveer enjoyed the music but needed to follow the lyrics. I recalled the song playing, “Bheegi bheegi raaton mein,” a Rajesh Khanna superhit. I talked about Rajesh and Zeenat in English. From then on, the language barrier broke, and we talked a lot, but only in English. I planned to reach Whitehorse, a larger settlement, by following the Alaska Highway. Gurveer would take a detour to Carcross, a small community, to deliver his consignment. He knew someone there with whom he would rest a day before returning to Vancouver. He offered an alternative, “You can come with me. Don’t worry. My folks will like you. Most likely, there are coaches from Carcross to Whitehorse.” Then, he winked, “Otherwise, who cares? You would have so many cars on the road.” The joke seemed a veiled taunt to a pauper, but who cares? I was enjoying my freedom from time bars. We reached Carcross in the late afternoon.                 

His folks knew I was accompanying him after he called from a rest stop. They were a large Sikh family with a lumberyard and probably other businesses. The elderly ladies invited me to the dining table and spoke clear Hindi. One of them went to Kolkata as a teenage girl. She was amazed to see the New Market. There was nothing like it in Punjab at the time, she said. She was telling me about her folks in Kolkata. She even recalled how to say ‘I love you’ in Bengali.  

I told them about Hemkund, where I trekked in the Himalayas. It is said that the tenth Guru of the Sikhs, Guru Govind Singh, meditated there. It was a must-do pilgrimage for the Sikhs. During my travel, the trek proved arduous. The lady listened to my account of my trekking experience. After dinner, they offered Desi sweets with Punjabi tea brewed with ample milk and spices.  

Gurveer’s cousin, Agam, asked the following day at the breakfast table, “Are you a non-veg Jimmy?” I nodded; he grunted and left for work but returned quickly. He took Gurveer and me to a sand dune. This trip was mainly for me. The locals fixed up a signpost, calling it Carcross Desert. It was some natural oddity. A tiny pocket of desert-like sand dunes was out of the lush green landscape. One might imagine that a Hollywood set designer poured sand over a square mile for a movie. Locals call it the world’s smallest desert. The volunteer in the reception centre claimed that it is very unique. Decades later, I noted another one in India. There are similar sand dunes in Hunder Valley, Ladah, where tourists ride on Bactrian camels.      

A signpost explained that the sand was the remains of a glacial lake from the Ice Age. Strong winds from a nearby lake continuously moved the sand, preventing roots from holding. It remained barren. The wind constantly changes the dune profiles. On weekdays, it was almost deserted. We rented boards for sandboarding. The Sikh cousins knew how to board, but I couldn’t. I fell repeatedly. They were trying to give me the introductory lesson. It was tiring but good fun for two hours.      

We returned to their backyard barbecue pit. We had dinner rolls, sauces, and caribou ribs, accompanied by beer. Agam explained that Caribou hunting is illegal, except for First Nation hunters who have a quota. Commercial harvest is unlawful. Agam’s First Nation friends gave him prized cuts as a gift. Caribou tasted more or less like beef but with a sweet aroma. We had fun with all kinds of stories till evening.   

The discussions zeroed in on Sikh politics in India and abroad. Jagjit Singh Chohan was a Sikh politician who went abroad after losing an election. In 1971, he published an advertisement in the New York Times. He claimed that a Khalistani Government in exile had been formed. During my time in British Columbia, Chohan was again in the news. He was above eighty at the time. He declared he would return to Punjab soon to retire. Gurveer and Agam were fans of Chohan and wanted Khalistan. I was tempted to discuss the fragility of such a state, but I had to restrain myself. I recalled the golden rule of hitching. A host had picked me only for quality time. Arguing with him would be unfair. More so, in this case, because they already had two cans of Budweiser each.  We finished the party, and I went to bed.

Agam dropped Gurveer off early in the morning at the truck park. After breakfast with Alu Paratha (Handmade bread with potato fillings) and Punjabi tea, he gave me a ride to the bus station and bought me a ticket. I opposed and showed him my traveller’s cheques. He said he understood very well that I was hitchhiking not to save money, but to feel a part of Canada. The ticket was only a gift from his family. We shook hands firmly. I said, “Goodbye.” But I added to myself, “Take care, my Khalistani friend.” I boarded a minibus for White Horse.

Sikhs are now part of Canadian history. The first batch arrived before 1900, and many more have moved there since then. They did not always have an easy time, and racism was rampant. Komagata Maru was one such example. A shipload of Sikhs travelled to Vancouver by chartering the Japanese ship Komagata Maru in 1914. Entry was denied, and the boat returned to River Hoogli. They were allowed to disembark at Budge Budge. The authorities tried to arrest them even in their own country. A riot broke out, and a few lives were lost. Some Sikhs settled in Budge Budge, where a sizable Sikh population remains. A memorial was built near Budge Budge. The Sikhs slowly established their position in Canada. Still, Gurveer confessed that an undercurrent of racism existed.  

The White Horse Transit station was on Main Street. I had to walk a mile to find a hostel. In the lobby, I met a dozen budget travellers. A British couple and a German female student were discussing a car rental. They had issues with the rental company regarding international bank cards. My Mobil gas card and US driver’s license would allow me to rent a car. I barged in. We went to a mushing or dog sledging camp in Muktuk the following day. At the time, I didn’t know, but in the Arctic Circle, Muktuk refers to raw whale skin consumed as food, which was once a vital part of their diet.   

The mushing season is in the winter. At other times, the camp organised canoeing and camping trips. The kennels remain open year-round to the visitors. The breeds are mostly husky, but there are many varieties. The mixed-breed mutts are often the best kind. Each dog’s temperament is different. Those who adopt teamwork are often the best suited for mushing. The lead dog is again remarkable. It must have the inclination to lead the pack. Each dog has a name. They recognise it clearly. Humans use one-syllable sounds that dogs follow during mushing. We were amazed to find that ‘Haa’ means left, ‘Gee’ means right and ‘whoa’ means stop in dog-human mushing language. After about six years of racing, the dogs were retired from competitions. They enjoyed a retired life in the kennel. Some still insist on sledge harnesses when they see one. They do light duties in the winter.              

The German girl, Lina, told us about the rough side of hitchhiking in British Columbia. While hitchhiking alone, she was bothered twice within two weeks. Luckily, things did not go too far to the extreme. She learnt in the hostel that a blonde was killed a few years back on Highway 16. There were such incidents even earlier. She chose not to hitch again without a mate in British Columbia. She was heading east, from where I came from. I learnt decades later that the local administration put up prominent signs for girls on Highway 16. They termed it the ‘Highway of Tears’ and admitted that serial sex offenders are on the prowl on Highway 16.               

I soon discovered that the US border at Poker Creek near Dawson City was the ‘Border of Tears’ for international backpackers. A Turkish graduate student from Canada was denied entry to the USA despite having a valid tourist visa. The officers advised him to enter the USA via the Niagara. They said the border did not have facilities to check out his credentials. He wanted to wait for a day or two. They did not give any hope.  

Qadir was mad at the US administration. This afternoon, he returned to White Horse from the border. Luckily, a student gave him a ride from the border to the hostel. He stormed into the lobby and vented his anger. Everyone chirped in.  They complained that even drivers were reluctant to pick up hitchhikers near the border. The fellow hitchhikers were an all-white crowd. The manager was a First Nations lady who listened to our conversations. She fixed her gaze on me and solemnly said, “I think you should fly.” What she didn’t say, but meant, was that a brownie with a third-world passport had a slim chance of crossing the border.  

I nodded and went out for a walk. To vent my frustrations, I began swearing aloud in Bengali, my native language. After a solitary stroll, I returned to the lobby. Qadir had left the lobby. I noticed a coffee machine. I sipped the stale coffee and chose to fly. Juneau, Alaska’s state capital, was an hour flight time.