He even gave us a hyperlink to a recent New York Times article on quebequoise cuisine and told us about the local specialty: poutine. “This highly prized dish is made from French fries, cheese curd and beef gravy. It has its own dedicated Web sites and, apparently, millions of fans,” he reported. Just thinking about what this trip could do to my hips, I packed my running clothes and shoes. But nowhere in the report did it say anything about tear gas and water cannons.
I should have known better. I knew that protesters besieged the World Trade Organization meeting in Seattle, and that they would be waiting for us again in Quebec, where free trade was at the top of the agenda. I have never covered a war-unless you count the war on drugs. But as a foreign correspondent in Mexico, I spent time in the state of Chiapas, where an indigenous uprising persists, and, as a national correspondent, I covered several hurricanes. On those trips, I’d wear my waterproof boots with reinforced toes and a backpack, which held water bottles and Powerbars in case I got stranded somewhere.
But last weekend, despite all my diligence, I was caught entirely unprepared. Just about an hour after we arrived at our posh hotel in the lovely walled city of Quebec, protesters started throwing chunks of cement and bottles at police. They eventually pushed past the “perimeter,” a chain-link-and-concrete fence that separated them from us. Clearly this was a more engaging story than some long-winded discussion about tariffs by a lot of guys wearing translation devices. I whipped open my suitcase to get changed and get down there, only to find myself staring at two business suits just right for schmoozing diplomats. For footwear, I had ostrich-skin cowboy boots (yes, the ultimate suck up to the Texas-style White House, but I actually like them).
I dug through my bag to find my jeans and running clothes. I laced up my tennis shoes, threw on my T shirt and headed out to the protest. I didn’t think too much about the fact that my T shirt had U.S. MARINES written all over it. It beat the alternative: a silk blouse. Let’s just say I didn’t get very far in my attempt at intrepid reporting. The wind was whipping the tear gas back toward the police, behind whom I was stuck. They had on black gas masks. I had on … nothing. Even though I was pretty far away from the front line, the residual gas went straight into my eyes, up my nose and down my throat like finely ground cayenne. (How would I ever savor the poutine now?)
I realized I needed something, anything to cover my face. Many of the protesters-and the TV cameramen and still photographers-who have to be in the thick of things to get the photos-were incredibly well prepared and brave. They can’t ask questions later from a safe distance. One photographer for Time, in fact, was arrested and remained in solitary confinement-accused of assaulting an officer (which he denies)-when we left on Sunday. A few of these pros had gas masks themselves. Some had surgeons’ masks. Others had goggles. One protester I saw even had a scuba mask on. Most just had bandannas, which they soaked in water or, better still, vinegar, and tied over their mouth and nose. As usual, the entrepreneurial spirit caught hold. A few stores started charging five Canadian dollars for a tiny bottle of vinegar.
The next time I went out, I brought a hotel hand towel and some bottled water. Fortunately I didn’t have to pack them in my fancy leather Coach bag; the Summit had loaded us up with the typical ton of literature (including four maps of the city), which came in a nylon bag that did the trick. In the one nod to environmentalism-what many of the protesters were mad about-they gave us a reusable coffee cup along with our nonrecycled paper products. The bag, of course, has the insignia from the Summit stitched on it. It was the ultimate symbol of the globalization this crowd opposed. I decided that I needed to see the action from the protesters’ side of the perimeter. It was getting warm, and I took off my sweater. But I forgot that I was still wearing my summit credentials-large plastic photo IDs we had to wear around our neck to get in and out of the secured area. “Hey! You’re on the wrong side of the fence!” one protester yelled at me.
Most of the demonstrators, however, weren’t hostile. They offered me colored chalk so I could write messages on the asphalt. They shared their vinegar. They stuck paper flowers with messages in French like EGALITE on the chain link fence. They spray painted CUBA LIBRE on the concrete base of the perimeter. (Cuba was the only American nation excluded from the summit because it is the only remaining socialist country in the region.) I wasn’t sure if the Spanish graffiti, meaning “Free Cuba,” was meant to tell us that Cuba is truly free or that we should free Cuba from Fidel Castro.
Demonstrators were dressed up as Starbucks coffee cups to protest chain stores. They carried signs that said AGAINST FTAA, FOR MUMIA! Translation: no free trade, but free Mumia Abul Jamal, the accused Philadelphia cop killer who sits on death row and has become a cause celebre on college campuses. The causes blurred, and many protesters were there just for the anarchy of it all. One girl held a sign that read: BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.
In end, I had a few comic-serious chats, inhaled a little tear gas (my clothes still reek of it) and stayed clear of the water canons. I didn’t want to get my only pair of jeans soaked.
So that I don’t get caught unprepared again, I have put together my own presidential-summit packing check list:
Boots: preferably waterproof and with reinforced toes. Avoid brand-name tennis shoes as they symbolize globalization.
Backpack: again, no designer names stitched on outside. Leave expensive leather bag at home.
Water bottle: good for drinking and dousing tear-gassed eyes.
Bandanna: tie-dye optional
Bottle of vinegar: Bring extra for sharing.
T shirt: Solid black preferable. White could be inconvenient if wet. No military insignias!
