Travel to Canada began on Tuesday, 7 May 1957, as noted on immigration records. The good-hearted Senhor Laudalino met him at the pier to act as chaperone. Other men were lining up for orientation before embarking on a ferry ride. All were processed like they were in a conveyor system. They took group photos and were addressed in large assemblies. Some lectures acclimated them to Canadian customs like being polite and taking shoes off while indoors. Sessions were kept short since most of their insight would come from lived experience. Men anxiously awaited their fate as they moved along the queue. There was excitement in the air with some discernible suspense.
This is an excerpt from The Portuguese Immigrant: Atlantic Heritage Story
“I hear they have good whiskey there,” a jovial man said, cutting some of the tension while waiting in the lineup.
“I also hear that it’s as cold as Antarctica,” Vovô added, being friendly among the cluster of younger men and farmhands. He stood out like a sore thumb as one of the few older guys decked in a suit. His peers did a double-take as if they were hallucinating before responding in kind.
“Enough to freeze your bolas off!” the man affirmed.
Laughter broke out in his proximity. The man was chipper, unreserved, and loud with a good sense of humour. He introduced himself as Sandro from a village in the north region, Rabo de Peixe. He appeared rustic and spoke with an interesting accent.
“So, you know your job yet?” Vovô asked.
“Something or another on the railroads. As soon as I find the booze and women, I’m good to stay put!”
“You married?”
“Yeah, but nobody knows that in Canada!” Sandro cackled insidiously. “What’s with you and the outfit, anyways? Are you going to be my supervisor?”
“No, sir. I will be working with my hands, just like you.”
“Well, good luck, sir!” he scorned.
Vovô was perceivably an odd man out. Throughout the stages of onboarding, he was verified twice over and given documentation for departure. Senhor Laudalino saw him off with a firm handshake as well as some others that he had sponsored. That man’s goodwill was limitless, and he changed many lives. The group of them embarked on the vessel that took them southbound to Santa Maria Island. Arriving later that day, a fleet of taxis took them directly to the airport.
The drama intensified at the sight of their wings on the runway as they realized the significance of their next mode of transport. Until recently, liner ships would span six days with migrants across the Atlantic. Now the voyage was merely twelve hours. Passenger aviation was introduced within the decade. The first Azorean airline company was formed by a group of investors that included associates of Senhor Laudalino and owners of the hotel chain. They initially started with service between the islands, eventually expanding overseas.
While some were nauseated from the ferry ride, swaying side to side as they stepped forward, the men were quickly transferred on the stopover. The imposing aircraft stood overtop as they stared down its nose on their way towards the ramp stairs. Adaptable to the ever-changing elements with perseverance, they boarded steadfastly. It was an anxiety-provoking yet exhilarating adventure for the simple islanders.
They entered a plane operated by Canadian Pacific Airlines. It carried roughly forty passengers with space allotted in the rear for livestock — a far cry from what air travel would look like once domesticated. As it gunned down the runway for takeoff, the flock aboard sat in total suspense. They gripped the edge of their seats as if that could stabilize their trajectory, collectively forming a murmuration, like how birds fly in a synchronized movement. They were off the ground, going a mile a minute. The flight lasted over ten hours before touching down in Newfoundland to refuel. It took to the air once more towards the final destination in Montréal, Quebec, landing at the Dorval Airport, which was later renamed Pierre Elliott Trudeau Airport.
The voyage was certainly exhausting. No amount of cigarettes could have made it any less uncomfortable. Vovô could have kissed the soil he found himself on after arrival. It was surreal to see it in real life when stepping onto an expansive tarmac that stretched over many kilometres far into the skyline. Numerous airliners were parked along the apron, one after another. He would never look at planes the same again. The group was then escorted inside to the large terminal that echoed with thousands of travellers moving in all directions. The clamour was exactly as he had envisioned as seen in the movies.
Proceeding through customs and the baggage collection, he was greeted at the gates by a representative from his new employer, R.F. Welch Ltd. The railway construction firm was founded by two Italian immigrants. Employing mostly European labourers, they played an important role in their employee’s permanent settlements in Canada.
A surly fellow extended his arm for a handshake. He then referred to his clipboard to ask, “Nom et prénom?” initially speaking in French. Vovô was dumbfounded until they reframed the question in English, “Last and first name?”
Luckily, having been asked so many times throughout the trip, he understood what was being requested. “Manuel de Lima Meireles,” he calmly responded.
The man corroborated the name on his list with a checkmark. “You’re getting sent to the West Coast. Stand over there and wait,” they pointed towards a cluster of multinational men that were already tagged for deployment. Others from his flight were being sent to work on farms, waiting in different sections of the hangar.
“Obrigado.”
He stood by for further instructions. The job was prearranged, but the assignment was disclosed at that very moment. He would be travelling to British Columbia in the company of the men that he had just met, and ensuing travel expenses were covered by the employer. Sandro from Rabo Peixe was among them. More travel had them follow the sun, many miles westbound, to arrive a few days later. Eventually, they showed up for work as agreed to in the contract.
The group was stationed in the north coast region of the province in Kitimat. Translated from the Tsimshian language, the namesake refers to the Haisla First Nation as the “People of the Snow.” For generations, the Indigenous inhabitants had lived in the small fishing village at the head of the Douglas Channel, a deepwater inlet. Earlier in the fifties, Alcan, a mining company and aluminum manufacturer, had planned to build a new city there. At that time, the development was considered the most expensive project ever attempted by a private industry. They supported the construction of a reservoir, transportation tunnel, power station, and community buildings like a post office and railway terminal.
Not without its controversy, residents disputed the repurposing of provincial resources for private profit. Unbeknownst to the men, they arrived ready to work but found themselves in the middle of the debate and unwittingly perpetuating what the Haisla First Nation was fighting against. However, from Vovô’s perspective, he was simply there for a job until it was time to leave.
The surrounding area was a marvel of nature. He found it to be truly magnificent. The landscape was earthy, like back home, but the temperature was poles apart. Taking in sandy beaches, forests, lakes, mountains, and rocky coastlines, the beautiful geography with a diverse ecosystem contrasted anything he ever laid eyes on. A paradise in its own right. Its large population of wild animals, including grizzly bears, roamed the woods. The bear’s growl heard in the boonies sent shivers up and down his spine. For him, working along the Pacific Ocean was quite literally the other side of the world — uncharted territory for a Portuguese man.
The climate was tolerable to start. Spring was crisp, but the summer had a decent temperature to slog all day outdoors. Conditions were demanding both physically and mentally all year round. They were always on alert for bear sightings, and they stuck close together in a buddy system. Gangs of twenty to a hundred men performed intense labour, installing track extensions, laying rails on planks, and drilling them down with spikes.
They represented a new generation of the Navvies (railway construction workers) that built the train networks. At that time, a national railway was already used to transport containers of finished goods. Passenger fares could also move Canadians from coast to coast, though domestic automobiles and airfare were emerging as competitive alternatives. The industry introduced modern luxury in travel to sustain itself.
Men worked tirelessly to fabricate the innovations. Every now and again, they were redirected to other sites depending on human resources. Turnover could often be plenty. Sick benefits covered illness and injury except for mental health. Some men broke down and opted to go back home. Many struggled with the pressure of the work, not to mention being away from home. Much like Vovô, most were resilient in the face of adversity. Calloused souls with hardened hands.
The employer provided scanty accommodations. Living quarters were on encampments far from the work site. A train ride carried the workers back and forth every day. Some even slept on the carriages. Amenities were in short supply, and laundry was done collectively in the spring mountain lakes where they also bathed. Grooming deteriorated, and they got scruffy and grizzled in a short time, cutting each other’s hair every now and again.
Although they needed more food to be towering men of strength since the job inherently demanded it, catered meals gave just enough nourishment. So they purchased their own non-perishables and convenience items at the local tuck shop to satisfy their munchies. Alcohol and cigarettes were unsurprisingly hot commodities. They drank and smoked for leisure, like sailors.
“Save água, drink cerveja!” a man with a strong accent slurred while off the clock.
“Shut up! You’re drunk again,” their bunkmate hollered back.
Patience was short when inhibitions came out. Disagreements were ten a penny, and alcohol was the solution and cause for many of their problems. Vovô partook in a glass of wine with his dinner, but that was the extent of his vinocity. Keeping his composure was like a badge of honour. He was not fully straight edge but close enough. Among the more animated personalities, he was a monotonous creature of habit.
On Sundays, they were given free time from working duties. To boost morale among the Catholic bunch, an Italian priest would visit to say Mass and bless them. Vovô refrained from participating since service was not offered in his native tongue. Views on organized religion were also shifting. His mind was becoming his own church. Instead, he independently prayed with the rosary that Maria da Luz gave him; it provided strength at his most vulnerable times.
Reflecting on memories back home, he found the deepest meaning of saudade, a feeling of something lost. He mourned the nostalgia of yesteryears and yearned for the happiness that once filled his aching heart. He missed his family terribly. In those moments, he could be deeply depressed, but an unfailing motivation kept his head above water. His sentiments were relatable among the others, but everybody understood and dealt with saudade differently.
“Manuel, you’re not collecting any rain with that frown!” Sandro teased one day. He was as boisterous as the first day Vovô met him. Since landing, they had met expectations to consume plenty of whiskey and danced with temptation. Local women were thirsty for companionship, while men like him were easily seduced.
Vovô didn’t say much about the remark, embodying his non-confrontational stance. Puffing on a dart, he could not see the heckler in a cloudy haze of smoke. He was playing it cool like a wild frontier in the face of jeopardy. Respect was lost for such shameless men. He brushed off their ignorance with indifference.
He rather took comfort in his own skin, similar to a lone wolf in the forest. He occasionally aligned himself with those who shared homogeneous attitudes. Kindred spirits that sang the blues together. Men with saudade took comfort in each other, easing the pain with a swig from the same canteen. Their solitude was harmonious.
They developed camaraderie, Portuguese compatriots and all. Phonetically related ethnicities formed bridges in short order, while different backgrounds bonded to assimilate at once. It was a melange of nationalities with the same objective: learning, teaching, and growing in unison. Their cultures translated to a mutual understanding.
“Fumatore?” an Italian asked with a jittery hand-to-mouth gesture.
“Sim,” Vovô kindly answered, reaching into his pocket for a distinctive red box. Opening the contents, he turned it over to offer them what lay inside.
The man helped himself to a cigarette. He was in some apparent distress. A conversation with their fellow countrymen had him all torn up. There was loud talking before things suddenly turned quiet and flailing hands desisted. The adjacent gang could sense that something was off but carried on working.
“Grazie,” he thanked before following up with, “accendino?” Plausibly not a routine smoker, but the mood called for a release. He put the stick to his mouth.
“Sim.” Vovô understood what they were getting at with their thumb-flicking motion. He reached back into his pocket for a stainless steel lighter, a flame was ignited as the man cupped his hands to light the other end.
He took a long drag and exhaled, “Grazie.”
Vovô put down his mauling hammer to join in a smoke break. He empathized with rainy days. Whatever their affliction, it was left unspoken. Men grappled with saudade every day. That was the common vernacular aside from an assembly of broken English.
“De nada, no problemas.”
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