An Ode to Haida Gwaii

“Who are you staying with?” Matt, my hitchhiked ride from the Ferry asks. “Jamie?” I reply, expecting little recognition from this limited piece of information. “Jamie McDonald?” He knows? How does he know? My city-based brain not yet accustomed to the familiarity of island life. He continues: “I left something at her house, I’ll come pick it up with you.”

Before I know it, we’re on a tour around Daajing Giids, each food or beverage establishment in the town named along with their owner. Of course, Matt knows them all. The local Chinese? Oh, that’s Tony’s. I’ll meet him later at the pub, delving into bottomless bags of his own restaurant’s leftovers.

It was the perfect introduction to Haida Gwaii (Xhaaidlagha Gwaayaai), an archipelago located off the Northern coast of Canada. A place friendlier than anywhere I’ve been. One that, as of this year, legally belongs in title to its indigenous peoples.

In a “first-of-its-kind” agreement between British Columbia and the Haida Nation, nearly half a million hectares of Crown land will be returned to the Haida people. A remarkable tribute to their determination in reclaiming the land they have lived on for up to 19,000 years.

A determination that has had to fight for its survival. Like many other Pacific Northwest communities, the Haida nation faced extreme population loss after the arrival of Europeans. Numbers fell from tens of thousands at first contact to around 600 by the late 19th century. The devastating result of introduced diseases including smallpox, measles and cholera.

In that context, it is remarkable where they are today. A population now standing at around 5000, with Haida people making up just under half of that.

As a visiting Brit, I often feel conscious of this history. Wary of my presence in a place torn apart by my people. It’s hard to avoid when they colonised a third of the world. But the only feeling on Haida Gwaii was one of welcome.

It’s easy when you’re staying with one of the locals. To feel like a local. To sit in their kitchen as neighbours wander in and out with little introduction, just dropping off a kayak or picking up a tool. A place where doors never need to be locked.

I wasn’t Jamie’s only visitor. Henri and Maci, a French couple, were staying in the trailer. Kimi, a Japanese student, in the yurt. It was a house full of workaways, bonded in travel and the sharing of linguistic differences. A little family.

Haida Gwaii is a beautiful place. There is no denying that. I could sit here and wax lyrical about the natural wonder that is this group of islands. The bioluminescence, the bears, the birds. But my experience was one of people, more than nature.

People who would pick me up off the side of the road within a couple minutes. People who wanted to talk, not shut off into their insular screen-focused lives. People who perhaps needed a talk. The reality of rural life making human contact a rarer occurrence. Not taken for granted as in cities.

No wonder the bar at the local restaurant, Blacktail, was an explosion of activity. Each guest waited to hear your story and bare their own. The expatriated Bella Bella resident to my right, the Irish wildlife volunteer to my left and the Brit behind the bar. Each competing for my not so valuable attention.

I recognised the speech of Fred, the Bella Bella man. A dryness to it. It was hard to read. It matched another resident of the town I had met a couple days before. Well, met? More like watched England’s Euros semi-final victory on his phone, exchanging occasional pieces of footballing knowledge as we did.

Fred was more chatty. He told me of his home, that of the Heiltsuk nation. How he had met a girl from Haida Gwaii in Vancouver. They ended up moving back and it wasn’t long before he was in love with the place. She had suggested going back to the big city. There was no way. He had bought a boat. And, you know, once you have a boat…

Just as we were about to dissect his role as a logger and his feelings towards that, Stu the Irish guy butted in. Before I knew it, Fred was gone, and the conversation I dreamt of having disappeared.

It was back to football and England talk ahead of the final the following day. There was no where to watch it. No bar open at 12pm. I hoped Howie, our English bartender, would offer me a glimmer of hope. But as conversations went on, no invite arrived.

It was time to depart. Next stop? The bar next door. I said my goodbyes and walked down the street. “Mate, mate!” Howie, with the most British of calling cards, ran after me. The sun setting behind rolling hills perfectly placed across the bay as he did. Romance.

“Do you want to come to my mate’s house for the game tomorrow?” There we go.

“Yeah, sounds good.” I said nonchalantly.

He disappeared back into the restaurant, I skipped all the way to the bar. Something I would not be doing the following day (England lost).

It was “Dress like a tourist” night at Ocean View Pub and Grill. The workaway crowd, En Famile, were waiting by the window. Stu would join us, along with a strangely conspiratorial friend. A man who spent 40 minutes explaining to me why they tried to kill Trump to stop him releasing the Epstein files.

All I could focus on was the strange shape of his beard, a black goatee that expanded downwards before extending sideways in grey tufts? Honestly, I can’t explain it.

As he chatted away, I watched the show in the background. The locals had filled up the bar and it was pulsating with activity. One man’s body was quite literally pulsating to the beat of the DJ set, each limb vibrating to every swell of bass.

Other swarmed around the pool table or bar, shouting and flirting with each other as if they did this every Saturday night. They probably did. Bodies swayed back and forth. More drinks were poured. The dancefloor suddenly filled up, as did my intention to join it.

In a moment, it was 3am. I was chatting away to every person possible. White shirt man. Indonesian man. Logging man. I had become part of the swarm. A friendly chatty swarm not instantly resistant to conversation as in Vancouver.

Everyone knew each other, it was the same as any village pub back home. Albeit this one quite a bit more diverse…

That was the other thing about Haida Gwaii, it was a mix of people. Haida, Japanese, Chinese, British, Canadian, Irish, Indonesian. It was a place where people ended up who didn’t quite fit life on the mainland. People who are a bit different, see things differently.

Perhaps people who have more of a care for each other and nature than the swirling busyness of everything around them. I know I’m romanticising. I know the islands have their problems. Problems I’m not knowledgeable enough to speak on. But the idea of life on Haida is tempting.

The community that exists is tempting. The people that welcome you so keenly are tempting. I’m just not sure I’m there yet.