A Short Visit to the Magdalen Islands | Îles-de-la-Madeleine
Wandering at the heartbeat of time.
The scene at Montreal-Trudeau International Airport was tranquil. A contrast to the sprawling protest that was taking place at downtown Montreal. Earlier that morning, as I was having breakfast (some crackers and an overripe banana ), I watched, curious rather than perturbed, from the dusty oblong windows of my studio apartment the undulating mass of people inundate nearby streets. The night before I had texted my friend, N, who would be traveling with me for the next few days, Do u think this will affect us? with a snapshot of an email from our university that read:
In anticipation of the climate change march and the crowds expected in downtown Montreal tomorrow, some of the routes on the STM, RTL and EXO bus systems will be cancelled in the afternoon. Other lines may be delayed or redirected […].
Hmmm Maybe not cuz ppl still need to take plane…? I read his reply, slightly assured, and texted back, Yea, worst case scenario is to take Uber.
Since our flight was in the early afternoon, we didn’t think our trip to the airport would be disturbed. We were wrong.
Nibbling listlessly on the blueberry muffins we had bought from a food stall near our departure gate, we ruminated over the morning’s vicissitudes which had left us drained. In hindsight, the unforeseen hazards of reaching the airport could easily have been predicted and thereby avoided had we been more dutiful engaging world citizens.
A week before our spontaneous short retreat to the Magdalen Islands (French: Îles-de-la-Madeleine) — an archipelago located in the middle of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence — we learned that a protest in relation to the ongoing global climate strikes would be held in Montreal on 27 September, the day we had scheduled to leave for our trip. During that week, unlike many of my classmates who were profoundly passionate about saving the planet (I had overheard some of them ardently discuss making glittering signs and other accessories for the demonstration), our main concern was if it would rain during our 4-day visit to the islands. N and I religiously checked the weather forecast every day, yet did not bother to educate ourselves on the upcoming climate change protest. We were acutely aware that a semi-serious hurricane had recently hit the islands, but we weren’t informed that Greta Thunberg would be leading the Montreal rally in which Justin Trudeau would participate.
Blissfully ignorant about the scale of the event, we set off without a worry for the airport in the morning of the 27th only to find the metro and buses to the airport out of service. With most of the roads blocked, we had to make several detours just to secure an Uber to get to the airport. It was a blessing that we did not miss our flight.
To minimize her carbon footprint, Thunberg refused to fly and sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to speak at the 2019 UN Climate Action Summit. A 3,000-mile journey over the span of 13 days. Her trip was announced as carbon neutral. Ours was not.
We were traveling by plane without any significant purposes to an archipelago while, back in Montreal, over 500,000 people were taking to the streets, demanding that action be taken to fight against climate change. The irony was not lost on us. Our mode of transportation did not put us in a good light and the timing did not help either. In the end, we convinced ourselves that we too were, in a tangential way, taking part in the movement — we were visiting a place that is largely affected by climate change.
It was already well past 11 p.m. by the time we arrived at the islands. We drove in the ink-dark night to our Airbnb, the serene silence in the autumn air palpable as light in darkness. The few cars hurtling past us and the sparse streetlights graciously granting us vision lowered our suspicion that we had landed on a deserted archipelago. Under the guidance of Google Maps, we reached our destination — a two-story house resting on a gentle hill.
Waving to us from one of the dimly-lit windows was our Airbnb host, Suzanne, a middle-aged woman with a ginger-brown pixie cut who would diligently prepare abundant breakfast for us each day during our stay. Suzanne’s place was clean and orderly. A grand piano stood in the living room, lending a touch of sophistication to its surroundings. After giving us a short tour of the house, Suzanne left for her bedroom in the basement, leaving us alone in our courteous guest room on the second floor.
Naturally, as exhausted travelers do when they find themselves stuck on a foreign archipelago at midnight, N and I began to fabricate conspiracy theories surrounding our trip, many of them inspired by “Hansel and Gretel.” It was nearly 2 a.m. when fatigue finally commandeered our minds and quietened our unbridled imagination, plunging us into sleep.
Less than four hours later, we had ventured into the purple-washed night, resolute to see the sunrise. And in less than an hour, we managed to fail our first task of the day.
The expressive sun had already risen to eye-level when we finally spotted it at a harbour where two fishermen were angling in harmony. Processing their catches effortlessly on the spot, they would fling the remains of the fish back into the water, a nutritious breakfast for the voracious birds. The early-morning light had splattered gradations of colour between cherry-pink and ocean-blue across the sky while a hazy portrait of the growing sun was imprinted on the water, embellished with breezy, floating seagulls. Working in such a picturesque frame, the fishermen’s every movement made for an organic performance art that felt, at once, sacred and familiar. And perhaps that was its charm — an approachable divinity.
It did not take us long to realize that the fishermen did not speak English, and the two semesters of French we took were in vain. Deprived of language, the presence of both parties was amplified. And yet, a common respect for each other’s roles rendered us at ease during this serendipitous encounter. Before we left, one of the fishermen gestured for me to photograph a tender piece of fish he had just exquisitely filleted. I took the opportunity to ask if he wouldn’t mind being in the picture as well, to which he generously agreed. Holding his craft gingerly in his calloused palms, he grinned rather timidly, a page from his morning routine journaled in a visitor’s camera.
Daylight had diminished our paranoia from the night before, and we decided our chances of being held captive on the islands were quite low.
After having breakfast at Suzanne’s, we set out once again, determined to make the most out of the hospitable yet expiring natural light.
We met an old couple sauntering along the chiseled coastline with their travel companions — two winsome Westies who followed instructions better than most two-year-olds. The retired couple was from Montreal and has traveled all over the world in their lifetime. But it was the Magdalen Islands that they ended up returning to annually. Their designated vacation spot. September is the most ideal month to visit the islands, the husband explained, because there are fewer tourists and the weather is still agreeable. The couple shared with us some of their favorite spots on the islands while the Westies performed for us a couple of dazzling tricks with aplomb. N and I weren’t able to reciprocate in kind, as we were newcomers to this archipelago and did not possess the skills that could match the ones we had just witnessed — repetitive sitting-downs, deft paw-shakings (both paws), and furious rolling-overs on command. So instead, we offered to take a family portrait of them in which the Westies proved they were more than unparalleled, talented entertainers; they were also handsome, photogenic models.
The Magdalen Islands was like a gift we carefully unwrapped in our two days of exploration. We unwrapped the Mars-like cliffs and the granulated dunes, the napping water birds and the grazing cows, the androgynous hill and the cacophonous wind, the bright-red house and the wooden swing set, the neighborly cafés and the reticent lighthouses. We unwrapped most when we unwrapped small.
Since our attempt to see the sunrise on our first morning at the islands was to no avail, we resolved to redeem ourselves by watching the sunset on the last evening of our trip. At 4:30 p.m., we were heading for Borgot Lighthouse from the northernmost point of the Magdalen Islands. A drive of approximately 60 kilometres. Racing down the spine of the archipelago, voluble gales pulsed against our rental car, nearly lifting it up from the compliant asphalt. Haphazard reeds grew loyally on both sides of the singular road, wavering soundly in the arms of the placid sea. The relentless waves surged forth, almost hopeful, before dissolving in the body of water, never arriving at the shore, forever homeward bound. By the lighthouse, we watched the setting sun siphon hues from the sky, an addendum to the day, a gentle pause in the world around it.
As I entered my twenties, a burgeoning sense that time was running out had settled foursquare in my mind, looming spectrally in my consciousness. The world had less than eight years to achieve near-zero emissions, class of 2020 had less than nine months to enjoy college life, and I had less than ten days to finish my first paper of the semester. But at the islands, that inchoate fear of being outpaced by time was imperceptible. Life was unhurried; the residents lived their days devoid of the hustle and bustle of large cities. It felt as if time existed at the periphery of their lives, or rather, they resided at the heartbeat of time.
I brought my super 8 camera with me to document moments from our trip. Here they are.
A mere visitor, I was oblivious to the unprecedented threats that climate change has brought about to the islands. The decreasing ice cover has rendered the archipelago vulnerable to the intensifying winter storms. Per year, sea level is rising at 4 millimetres while erosion of shoreline is amounting to 46 centimetres. Roads crumble as land recedes. How much longer the Magdalen Islands can remain a synonym for home to its residents is uncertain. Which is to say, the land where time felt abundant was, in fact, short of it.
The residents are not ignorant about the challenges of staying at the islands. However, many of them believe that the charisma of the landscapes, the sea, the lifestyle — their home for generations — is worth the risk.
To knowingly inhabit a region destined to disappear seems like an act of resistance. But perhaps, more so, it is an act of acceptance. An acceptance of living with transience, of preserving beauty on the rim of nothingness.
Upon returning to Montreal, N and I were welcomed by a semblance of normality. The roads were open once again, the metro and bus systems were up and running, and the people were back to juggling their busy lives.
Before we left the islands, I had wanted to photograph Suzanne in front of her house. To my delight, she accepted my request willingly without hesitation. Grinning widely, she did not flinch despite the raging wind. The air was crisp but her smile was genuine. I wonder how many times she has posed for the people she prepared breakfast for. The COVID-19 pandemic cropped up less than six months following our trip. On the last morning of our stay, Suzanne shared with us proudly that she has been playing host to travelers for over two decades. It occurs to me now that 2020 may have been the first year in quite a while that Suzanne’s house was without a visitor.
