Paradise City: The Oppenheimer Park Encampment

Less than five minutes at Oppenheimer Park and I’m holding a knife. Sifting through discarded produce, I am told to use the least insect and mold-ridden vegetables. Chopping away wilted and mushy parts, I salvage a small portion of what is heaped before me. The sun descends behind the forsaken buildings on Dunlevy Avenue and my hands begin to sweat inside latex gloves. A hodgepodge stew is on the dinner menu.

The two cauldrons in preparation won’t be nearly enough food for the estimated two-hundred campers occupying Oppenheimer. But with only three people, including myself, manning the kitchen, it’s unlikely everyone will be dining together. The cooking area, though somewhat unsystematic, is no less sanitary than a family campsite. An array of tables display propane burners, various over-ripened fruits, and loaves of bread. City garbage bins run along the back perimeter. A wash-station is set up for dirty dishes and clean drinking water. The kitchen, a focal point for many campers, is a site of generosity. Everyone is entitled to food regardless of scarcity. Coffee is constantly brewing.

In late July, local residents began putting up tents at the Vancouver Downtown Eastside green space. Raising questions of the city’s inability to provide safe and adequate low-income housing, the encampment is home for many living in “Canada’s poorest postal code.” Located at the intersection of Dunlevy and Cordova Streets, the park stretches a full city block. Tree-shaded pathways, a community centre, softball diamond, and basketball court occupy the landscape. Despite these facilities, Oppenheimer has long been a frequent site of drug deals and hazardous behaviour.

Beginning as a visionary protest, the residents of the park received multiple eviction notices from the City of Vancouver. Regardless, the encampment continued to grow over the coming months. Now, the atmosphere at Oppenheimer is not one of rallying individuals. Instead it is a community, attempting to assert their human right to a home.

By September, I arrived not as a resident, but a concerned citizen and student. Sympathizing with those struggling to find a roof over their heads, I joined the park’s small volunteer crew for a few days. Through this, I gained a vignette into life at Oppenheimer.

“It’s a damn shame not everyone pitches in,” Scott informs me. “They all like being here, but when it comes to helping out, most people are quick with an excuse. Heaven forbid they wash a few dishes or chop some veggies.”

Scott has been living and surviving at Oppenheimer Park since the beginning of August. Originally from Newfoundland, the 52-year-old slouches in his wheelchair beside me.

“Does that bother you at all?” I ask.

“Well someone’s got to take care of dinner, so it might as well be me. I’ve watched this place deteriorate and I ain’t giving up now. We need hope and help. There’s no way I’m quitting on this place.”

Scott’s hands fumble over a potato peeler, as he rests his elbows on his bulging abdomen. The warmness of this late-September evening causes sweat to excrete from his every pore. His clothing is shabby and can hardly contain his girth. Despite this, Scott is beaming. The kitchen prep is visibly hard work for him, but it’s evident he prides himself on it.

“See that wood frame out in front of us? Built that myself today. Nobody even lent a hand,” he explains. “It was going real good until I ran out of nails.”

A skeleton of scrap wood lay at my feet. It is far from resembling a shelter’s frame. Despite the project’s stagnation, the police take note of it. Blithely taking photos with their phones, two cops cluster around the heap of wooden boards. They praise Scott on today’s efforts and ask him what we are cooking. Scott turns to me and shrewdly remarks that the authorities typically show up around supper. The police officers are rather jovial as they wander the park. Regardless of their presence, peace and order are maintained. The cops act as playground supervisors. They passively patrol the scene and only engage with the most precarious of occupants. Many campers refrain from anything illegal if they’re in plain sight. Secrecy seems more out of shame than security. But by no means are drugs under the radar. They are now a condition of the park, not unlike anywhere else in the Downtown Eastside.

Emerging from a nearby dwelling of tarps an unassuming middle-aged man approaches the preparation table. Wholly ignorant or unconcerned with my presence, he yanks a miniature baggie out of his jacket. Grumbling to Scott, he fusses over the quantity of gritty powder he picked up for ten dollars. Scott agrees with the skimpiness and the unknown man ducks into another tent.

This interaction is common throughout the park. Illegal substances are rampant despite the “ZERO TOLERANCE DRUGS/ALCOHOL” banner along the northwest corner fence. The original vision of sobriety failed, but this should not overshadow the good that occurs at the park. Issues of addiction are inherent of Oppenheimer’s constituents. These people are continually coping with suffering and illness. Regardless of personal dependency, drugs and alcohol are apart of their everyday.

Nonetheless the park is remarkably tidy. People repeatedly pick up trash as they meander around. The damage to the landscape is quite minimal. I have seen far more disrespect for property at music festivals.

As Scott and I near completion with prep, I ask him what everyone will do if the park’s eviction goes through.

“There’s no reason to think that way. If we sit around pitying over getting evicted then it’ll happen. It is all about hope my man. If we think good thoughts, then they’ll come,” he says.

“Theoretically though, where do you think you’ll end up?” I respond.

“Well most likely an abandoned doorway somewhere,” he explains. “There’s no place for someone like me in the shelters. I’ve never felt safer than I do here.”

Scott’s situation, much the same as the majority of Oppenheimer occupants, is entirely fatalistic. Living each day off a falsified hope, he seems to comprehend the tenuousness of the tent-city. Most consider shelters and single room occupancy hotels far more revolting than the park. If an eviction goes through, most campers won’t look for a home in a bedbug infested hotel.

“We lack representation,” Scott admits grudgingly. “Most people won’t fight for our place here. There were only five of us in court the other day. There’s a community here, but it isn’t strong enough to take on the government. People from the outside are always donating food and things, but we have to stand up for ourselves in court.”

This lies at the essence of why the occupation is fated for ruin. The campers are disenchanted and discarded. These are not protesters, but survivors. A representative body cannot establish itself here. Each resident of the park lives everyday illegally and inconsistently. Individual interest drives most occupants’ everyday.

“Kicking us out won’t solve anything. We got no place else to go. Either we sleep on the ground in a shelter or in our own tents,” Scott explains. “Most likely we’ll end up back on the street.”

Shouting emerges from a nearby canvas enclave. Brutish movement thrashes the tent and trash bags are heaved through the doorway. Miscellaneous garments tumble onto the pavement. Two men, one shirtless holding restaurant takeout and the other clutching the shocks of a bicycle, gash through the tarp walls. The aggressor angles the bike component high above the other guy’s gaunt body. My hand clutches a dulled culinary knife.

“Take the food then,” shrieks the shirtless man.

“I don’t want your fucking food. I want the money you owe me for speed,” the armed man yells. Intensifying his grip on the forks.

Scott whispers towards me, “This is really rare.” I don’t trust his words.

The enraged man shoves the other to the ground. Fried rice and vegetables fling through the air, wasted on the concrete. The aggressor half-thrusts the shocks into the shirtless individual. The attacker returns to his tented home and the victim flees on his foe’s bicycle.

Nearing the fire circle, I see a groggy man slouched over a twisted stump. Attempting to wedge-out a busted axe-head, he seems defeated. Prying at the steel stuck inside the log, his fingers are covered by soot and callouses. His face hides beneath a tattered 90s era Vancouver Canucks hat. Standing over his baggy frame, I pull out two cigarettes.

“Looks like you need a smoke, my friend,” I say.

He tilts his head skyward. Gazing up at my hand, his eyes, mere jaded fissures, seem to enlarge.

“Damn right I do,” he replies.

Passing both smoke and lighter into his pudgy palm, he asks my name and I respond.

Breathless, he says, “That’s my brother’s name. I’m Peter.”

Fumbling over my own cigarette I manage to ignite it. I hadn’t picked up smoking until this very moment, out of courtesy’s sake. The offering of a cigarette is an instant form of companionship at Oppenheimer. As an outsider you need something to give or else you’ll fall victim to suspect gazes and gossip. Cigarettes are empathetic in their way of opening your heart and lungs. Serving as currency for stories, a smoke can liberate one’s past.

Peter, initially from Vancouver Island, has been persisting on the street after various hospital and jail terms. Although his skin seems to suffocate his lanky frame, Peter carries his body with vigour. His voice is calm, but his limbs restless.

“Before any of this even started I slept on that bench over there,” he says. “You could say I am one of the founders.” His comment brings a smile to his weathered and grim complexion. “Once this is all over, I’ll probably end up right back on the bench.”

“So you’re not going to look for shelter space?” I inquire.

“Probably not, hard to trust anyone at those places. But I guess things are getting pretty bad here. Something of mine gets stolen almost every night. Who can you trust, right? Nobody cares.”

Peter speaks of a son and wife, but they remain nameless. His stories of family fishing trips and work camps are mere ephemera of his past. He deliberately diverts details as his heart traces back his steps.

“This place might not look like paradise,” Peter remarks. “But at least my life isn’t reduced to a fucking shopping cart here. I got myself a roof over my head. There’s a lot of people who are trying to heal by being here. I like to sit by the fire and carve all day. The native elders, they help clear your head even if you’re not one of them. This is a place for recovery.”

Despite the raggedness of Oppenheimer’s appearance, cooperation and healing are at its roots. The lives of these men and women will not be built-up simply through housing developments. More low-income accommodation is not the final solution. It is a starting point.

“Its kind of the worst too though,” Peter says, after smoking his fourth successive cigarette. “Not everyone looks after each other. Some people are bringing this place down. It stresses me out.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well my bike, with two flat tires, got taken from me. And sometimes they won’t even talk to me at the kitchen.”

“Why is that?”

“How should I know? I’m starving, but they won’t give me anything. Whatever. I better get back to fixing that axe-head.” I ask to lend a hand, but Peter is resilient in finishing the job.

Approaching Oppenheimer days later, I’m drawn to a cacophony of cries and cursing. Along the main pathway, I notice someone’s possessions sprawled out in disarray. A man is bellowing obscenities at another person. Stumbling around the pile of trash-like goods, he pauses mid-motion. Blankly gazing in my direction, I notice an empty yet recognizable face.

“Peter. What’s going on?”

“You remember me?” he responds as if through a haze. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how you’re doing.”

“Well obviously not good. I’m all strung-out on heroin. Do you got any of those smokes?”

Only remnants of Peter are before me now. This man is deserted. I pull out a single cigarette.

“Bunch of rats,” Peter says staring off. “Everyone’s ruined this place. Camping out for drugs. Hoarding food. Nobody gives a shit about anybody else. They just snitch on each other, these rats. That’s why I’m selling everything, so I can get out of here. It’s all for two bucks. Not much is it?”

“Where are you going to go?” I hesitantly reply.

“Probably Main and Hastings. But more likely a body bag.”

Only a muddy field remains. Massive construction bins sit full along Powell Street. The abandoned store-fronts opposite to Oppenheimer Park are now littered with tents. Some campers have found their homes on the sidewalk across the street. Scott and Peter are nowhere to be seen. Somewhere they are dodging the downpour of this autumn nightfall. Whether under an established roof or not, is unknown. Lost to the catacomb streets of our city, it is we who must search for them.

———

Curtis AuCoin is a current University of British Columbia Creative Writing BFA. His published work is found primarily in Western Canadian print-based music magazines. Working primarily in poetry and non-fiction, he finds inspiration in those living on the margins.