Drinkable Rivers

By Li An Phoa and Maarten van der Schaaf

As a young child in a densely populated suburb of Rotterdam, Li An Phoa is amazed by the wilderness around the house – the moss between the pavement tiles and the herons in the ditches. As a twenty-something, she ventures into the real wilderness for the first time. On a canoe trip through the Canadian Subarctic, she discovers that she can drink from the river. But when she returns three years later, she can no longer do so: the river is polluted, the ecosystem disturbed. That experience stays with her. Ever since, Phoa has been drawing attention to drinkable rivers and urging people to take action.

In this book – a rich tapestry of travelogue, memoir, reportage, philosophical musings, and poetry – Li An Phoa takes the reader on her adventures along rivers on four continents. On foot, she covers over 15,000 kilometres and experiences the deep interconnectedness of all living things. She encounters bears, rattlesnakes and dragonflies and speaks with farmers, writers and ecologists. With her original perspective and disarming approach, she continuously asks the question: how can our rivers become drinkable again?

'Ecologist and adventurer Phoa is like a female Indiana Jones. Not on a quest for lost treasures, but for a future with drinkable rivers.'
- DE VOLKSKRANT

WWW.DRINKABLERIVERS.ORG

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drinkable Rivers
• Release date: Oct 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9789045050096

Book preview

Drinkable-rivers_cover_DEF.jpg

How the river became my teacher

As a young child in a densely populated suburb of Rotterdam, Li An Phoa is amazed by the wilderness around the house – the moss between the pavement tiles and the herons in the ditches. As a twenty-something, she ventures into the real wilderness for the first time. On a canoe trip through the Canadian Subarctic, she discovers that she can drink from the river. But when she returns three years later, she can no longer do so: the river is polluted, the ecosystem disturbed. That experience stays with her. Ever since, Phoa has been drawing attention to drinkable rivers and urging people to take action.

In this book – a rich tapestry of travelogue, memoir, reportage, philosophical musings, and poetry – Li An Phoa takes the reader on her adventures along rivers on four continents. On foot, she covers over 15,000 kilometres and experiences the deep interconnectedness of all living things. She encounters bears, rattlesnakes and dragonflies and speaks with farmers, writers and ecologists. With her original perspective and disarming approach, she continuously asks the question: how can our rivers become drinkable again?

‘Ecologist and adventurer Phoa is like a female Indiana Jones. Not on a quest for lost treasures, but for a future with drinkable rivers.’

– DE VOLKSKRANT

www.drinkablerivers.org

Li An Phoa and

Maarten van der Schaaf

Drinkable Rivers

How the river became my teacher

Translated by Laura Vroomen and Anna Asbury

© 2021 Li An Phoa and Maarten van der Schaaf

© 2023 English translation Laura Vroomen and Anna Asbury

Cover design Herman Houbrechts

Lithography Bert van der Horst,

BFC

, Amersfoort

Author photo Fjodor Buis

Illustrations David Wade

E-book Crius Group, Hulshout

ISBN

978 90 450 5009 6

D

/2023/0108/715

NUR

320

www.drinkablerivers.org

This ebook was based on the first edition, 2023,

ISBN

978 90 450 4931 1

For Sam, Boaz, Peekay, Maui, Noukio, Isabel, Emma, Levi, Miguel, Rui An and Di An and for all other children of all other lifeforms

Rupert

At first, I thought Nemaska was in Hawaii. But when my mother and I checked an atlas to see exactly where I was going, Nemaska turned out to be a small settlement in the Canadian Subarctic. Not that it bothered me – I wasn’t desperate to top up my tan – but it was good to know while packing. In embarking on this adventure I was following my intuition, more than anything. It was Gail Whiteman, a Canadian lecturer at the Rotterdam School of Management, who’d pointed me in this direction. She’d carried out research into big forestry and mining companies that extract raw materials from territories inhabited by Indigenous people, from the Amazon all the way to the Arctic Circle. I was eager to find out more. Maybe I’d be able to build on her research – for a PhD, perhaps. When I asked her about it in the summer of 2005, Gail told me about a canoe trip that had been organised in protest against plans for a new hydroelectric project, in a wild river in Indigenous Cree territory. It would be happening in a few weeks’ time. ‘Then that’s where we need to go,’ I blurted out.

On Sunday 17 July 2005, I fly from Amsterdam to Montréal, and four days later I board a small Air Creebec plane to Nemaska. There are only three other passengers on the aircraft. During our descent, I press my nose to the window. Rays of light pierce lonely clouds that cast shadows on the ground. That ground is covered with a cool, green ocean of trees. I scan the vast landscape below me for a landmark, a clearing in the forest, a pylon for all I care, anything that betrays the presence of people. But all I see are trees.

Shortly before we land, the ocean of trees parts to make way for a road of sand and gravel. The pilot sets the plane down with a hell of a lot of noise. As soon as I step outside, the fresh scent of spruce and pine needles fills my nostrils. It’s the height of summer, but there’s still a wintry chill in the air.

Lillian is waiting for me on the makeshift runway. Some kids are lingering behind her. Gail had introduced us via email. The two of them had met during Gail’s research, and Lillian had offered to put me up. Like me, she’s dressed in jeans and a hoody. And she wears her black hair in a long braid, like I do mine. When I’m standing in front of her, I notice that we’re also more or less the same height.

‘When did you leave here?’ she asks, laughing.

I look over my shoulder. What? I’ve only just arrived.

I look at her, confused, but she doesn’t pursue the matter.

I say nothing. Perhaps I misunderstood.

Together with two of her children, Neebin and Sebastian, we drive from the airport to Nemaska. ‘This is the Rupert,’ Lillian points out as we cross a bridge.

I look out the window, excited to see the river.

‘The Rupert is fed by Lake Champion, on our left here. Nemaska used to be on its banks, but if the dam is built, that whole area will be under water. Everybody has left Old Nemaska.’

I don’t say anything for a while.

‘What does the name Nemaska mean?’ I ask as I gaze out of the window.

‘Place of plentiful fish,’ Lillian says.

Slowly we enter the village. A solitary dog crosses the road. Lilian waves at a passing car. ‘That’s Cheryl, my sister-in-law.’ And a moment later: ‘There’s my daughter Tera in her car.’

‘It sounds like everybody here is related.’

‘You’re not far off,’ she laughs. ‘There’s a couple hundred of us here. I’ve got eight children. And six grandchildren, too!’

I hadn’t really given much thought to what the place would look like, but without realising it I had an image in my head of a picturesque little village with authentic wooden houses where the Cree still live and fish in the traditional way. Perhaps they used to, in Old Nemaska, but the new village looks more like a trailer park, with mobile homes randomly chucked down beside gravel roads. Big American off-road vehicles and pick-up trucks are parked everywhere you look. The door to Lillian’s house is unlocked. Neebin and Sebastian lean against the door-frame to take off their shoes; Lillian and I follow suit. Underneath the coat-rack lies a pile of leather snow boots, sturdy hiking shoes and colourful children’s trainers.

Inside, the house is bigger than it looked from the outside. A huge fridge occupies the centre of the open space. Tom is chasing Jerry on the TV. A toothpaste commercial interrupts the failed pursuit. There’s a long dining table in the right-hand corner and a bookcase behind it. The walls are decorated with paintings of geese and bears alongside photos of yet more geese as well as children and grandchildren. A small goose crafted out of spruce twigs hangs above the table.

‘I’m baking bread,’ Lillian says. ‘Bannock, a traditional recipe. It's a bit like cake. I’m sure you’ll like it. But wait, let me show you to your room first, so you can drop your bag off.’

I follow Lillian down a flight of stairs. ‘You’re sleeping in Sebastian’s room. The bathroom’s here, and the towels are in there.’

Back in the living room, Lillian serves tea and rolls a cigarette. The tea smells of pine needles and is full of flavour.

Lillian smiles broadly. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, delicious! What kind of tea is this?’

‘Labrador tea. It’s made from the leaves of the wild Labrador bush that grows in the swamps of Québec. I picked them myself. Back in the day, when the hunt was tough, our ancestors survived by drinking this tea in the bush.’

I ask her about the many geese in the living room.

‘Geese play an important role in our traditional way of life. Every May, we celebrate Goose Break. During those two weeks, families head out into the wilds in white canoes to hunt migratory geese.’

‘Why white canoes?’

‘That way you don’t stand out too much when the ice is melting and there’s still snow everywhere. We also have a Moose Break in November – that’s when we go hunting for moose.’

The next morning, Freddy pops round. Freddy is a close friend of Lillian’s and spends a good part of the year living in and off the wilderness. They give me a ride to the village centre, where the town hall, the school and the library are right next to each other. The village is small, yet I don’t see many people walking. Everybody here takes their car everywhere. I spot a few children playing.

‘Hey Gramps, can you spare a dime?’ Two kids, not much bigger than the tyres on our car, hold out their hands.

Freddy rolls down the window, rummages in his pockets and with barely a glance at the little ones gives them a few coins. ‘Thirty years ago, the concept of money was unknown round here,’ he sighs when we pull away.

The village has a small supermarket with a very limited selection: hamburgers, crisps, sweets and, in summer, ice cream. For your big grocery shop, you’ll need to set aside at least a day: the nearest town of any size, Chibougamau (population: 8,000), is more than a five-hour drive away. When we get out of the car in front of the shop, Lillian lets the engine idle.

On the way back, we pass a building that’s remarkably big.

‘What is that?’ I ask in amazement, as we drive by slowly.

‘The hockey rink,’ Lillian says proudly. ‘We got it in part compensation for the James Bay Project.’

I’d read about this project on the flight to Montréal: a multi-billion-dollar hydroelectric project, started in 1971 and still not finished. Three rivers – the Eastmain, Opinaca and Caniapiscau – were diverted to the appropriately named La Grande Rivière. And in that river, three gigantic reservoirs were constructed behind a dam that’s four kilometres across; all with the aim of generating clean energy. As a result, the Cree and the Inuit saw 11,500 square kilometres of unspoiled territory disappear under water. That’s more than half the size of Wales. Entire villages had to make way. And not only that, mercury, which had been used in silver mining, was released into the water. According to a study I read, this led to changes in the shape, size and flavour of the sturgeon, a common fish in these parts. It caused extensive contamination of the aquatic environment and killed off massive quantities of fish. The Cree, who are big fish eaters, were regularly falling sick too. Consequently, the government advised people to eat less fish.

Let’s face it, everybody could have seen this drama coming; the James Bay Project was controversial from the beginning. When the prime minister of Québec announced the plans, the Cree immediately voiced their protest. They hadn’t been consulted, and yet the government acted like it was a done deal. Eventually, in 1975, Cree leaders signed an agreement with the government of Québec: in exchange for the exploitation of their land, the Indigenous people received 225 million Canadian dollars and retained the exclusive right to fish and hunt in the area. Hydro-Québec, the state-owned utility company behind the hydropower plant, sold much of the electricity to New York, New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine. Twenty years later, the then-governor of New York decided to terminate its contract with the Canadian supplier, because the US state could get a cheaper deal elsewhere.

Lillian has arranged for me to borrow a tent for the canoe trip from a guy called Jimmy. He suggests I come and pick it up that evening while he’s having a party at his house. The low rumble of the hip-hop bass greets me when I arrive. Just as I’m about to open the door, a woman with a bloodied face walks out. Startled, I ask where Jimmy is.

‘He’s hammered, man,’ she snaps at me.

She doesn’t strike me as completely sober herself.

I go in and see some people dancing in the living room. Three men on a sofa have to shout to make themselves heard. The sweet smell of popcorn wafts through the house, and someone’s cooking hamburgers in the kitchen. I feel self-conscious as I wander around, trying to find Jimmy. I can’t remember how it started, but all of a sudden people are fighting; a young couple, right in front of me. At first they’re just yelling at each other, but before I know it, they’re hitting each other, and not just lightly, but full on, fists and all. My stomach turns. Let’s go. But I’m rooted to the spot and look round. The party continues as if nothing’s happening. A few party-goers get involved, but most of them ignore what can’t be ignored. Everyone’s drinking way too hard. Screaming from the kitchen, another fight; this time it’s two young women tearing each other’s hair out. I’d better go. That tent can wait till tomorrow.

The next morning Gail arrives in Nemaska. She’s brought her husband Thaddeus and their two young sons along, Max and Brix. It’s been a long time since her last visit and her family have never been here before. They’re sleeping in the room opposite mine and when they’re settled in, we go together to see Linda. Gail lived with her when she did her research. When we arrive, Linda greets us from the sofa, as she has trouble walking these days. There are black and white photographs on the wall. The Cree in the old photos appear to be fierce, lean and strong, totally different from what I’ve witnessed in the past few days. Now it looks as if everybody here is born overweight.

At home, I’d resolved to learn as much as possible about the Cree, about their way of life, their traditions and their rugged territory. And of course about the changes that are happening and what the experience is like for them. I imagined myself recording my conversations in Nemaska and transcribing them later, but I soon realise that the Cree aren’t too keen on that idea. Linda also looks uncomfortable when I grab my notepad. I can almost hear her thinking, What does this young woman want from me? I quickly put the jotter into my bag. Back at Lillian’s, I share my doubts.

‘The Cree have an oral tradition,’ she tells me. ‘Our ancient stories have been passed on, from generation to generation. They’re not written down.’

I decide to change tack. ‘Maybe somebody would like to go canoeing with me, in preparation for the trip down the Rupert?’ I hope to hear a story or two about the Cree while out canoeing without a sound recorder or a notebook. James, Lillian’s ex and the father of her first seven children, is happy to go paddling with me. Like virtually everybody in Nemaska, he too is Cree. In the car on our way to the river, I ask James what he makes of the changes in the area.

‘Is this an interview?’ he asks, while keeping his eyes firmly on the road.

‘No, no, I’m just curious to hear what those changes are like for you.’

James doesn’t say a word.

An uneasy half-hour later, we’re slowly paddling down a tributary of the Rupert. A thick branch of a big tree hangs low over the water. I slowly slide down and lean back as far as I can to avoid it. As the canoe gently glides under it, I try to raise the branch so it won’t bother James. What was I thinking? It knocks me back and the boat rocks. I laugh at my clumsiness and scramble up again.

‘How did you avoid that branch?’ I look awkwardly over my shoulder at James who’s sitting behind me.

He bends over and sticks his head between his knees.

Ah, right.

Now he’s laughing too, clearly amused.

‘You know,’ James says a moment later, ‘I’m not afraid of change. There’ll always be change.’

He pauses and sighs.

‘The Cree have no concept of land ownership. In fact, before the Hudson Bay Company arrived in the seventeenth century, we weren’t even called Cree. The Cree refer to themselves as eeyou. It means something like the living. We use the same word for the river, the fish and the trees. The land is eeyou istchee, the land of the living.’

That night, on the eve of the expedition, Freddy comes over again. Outside in the street, he and Lillian roll cigarettes. I notice that they both pluck out a bit of tobacco and scatter it before they light up. They seem to do it without thinking.

‘Why do you do that?’ I ask.

Lillian smiles. She’s used to my curiosity by now.

‘It’s a sign of respect. Before the Cree take anything or embark on a new venture, we make a little offering.’

She hands me a pinch of tobacco. ‘Here, take this. You can use it to thank the river and ask the spirits for protection.’

The canoe trip down the Rupert is organised by Révérence Rupert, a local action group led by Nicolas Boisclair. In early June, I had emailed Nicolas, introduced myself as Gail’s assistant and asked if I could come along as part of my research. His reply came the very next day – ‘Sure’ – accompanied by a list of essential things to know. Nicolas advised me to take out insurance with Paddle Canada, the Canadian canoe and kayak federation, for 25 dollars, in case we had to be evacuated by plane or helicopter. He highly recommended it, because otherwise I could end up paying thousands of dollars for such a flight. He also mentioned that I’d need to chip in 20 dollars for the rental of a satellite phone, so we’d be able to alert the rescue services in case of an emergency, and attached a form on which to fill in my blood type and any medication I was on. Finally, he told me in this introductory mail that I would need a watertight barrel and a harness so I could carry my own belongings as well as the canoe.