BEARS BE DRAGONS

My brothers and sisters in beardoom (uuh!, those final consonants DO sound scary) better then to say that my bear brothers have invited me to a beartastic and fun party to celebrate the end of 2006 (we made it! we made it! we made it!). The question is, how to highlight my concerns about the ice while having fun at the same time? Oh! puppy, puppy no, no no!, what a slippery dilemma! If everything is political, and I mean EVERYTHING, in the sense that every object, every little piece of our modern culture conveys a meaning, a reference, a consideration, a perspective about the world, how to go about dressing up for such a fancy and memorable party? As I was considering this existential concern of mine I saw a bird flying above the clear crisp sky, one of those new species venturing further north. Then the thinking machine clicked on. That feathered flying fratello I was observing was once upon a time a mighty dinosaur! Was I contemplating my own future? I mean my species. Will bears run the same fate as dinosaurs? (a deep growl here) then, better be a bear AND a dinosaur now than never ever ever! So I'm going to the New Year's Eve party wearing a dinosaur outfit. Yeah! there's going to be a dancing bear-dinosaur. Past, present and future in one single act. Evolution, extinction and tragedy in a single act of happiness and désarroi. It will be a Molière's laughter. We the bears, the modern dinosaurs, dancing in their last act. Optimism, where art thou? Yes, bears be dragons.

THE WORLD WILL END BY 2040

1- This place called the Arctic, this beautiful part of the world where we've been living for thousands of years will dissapear by 2040. Therefore, the world will end for us, bears without cars, without a First World lifestyle, without chemical plants, without money, without that human madness to seek always more money and more power in the shortest possible time.

2-As The Globe and Mail reported recently, the gap between Canada's wealthiest families and the poorest has widened. The net worth of the wealthiest families rose 19 per cent between 1999 and 2005 while the poorest strata of families saw their situation unchanged, and this according to a report prepared by Statistics Canada. Another report, by Toronto-Dominion Bank, found that the wealthiest families received almost three-quarters of the total increase in wealth over that time period.

3- Therefore, if humans (including Canadians) loaded with oodles of cash don't feel personally affected by the living conditions other fellow humans endure, if the hyper-rich don't move a pinkie for other humans they can SEE suffering in different parts of the world, what are they going to feel for us, bears that they do not see every day? What are they going to do for the Arctic, other that to worry about little variations at the TSE, NASDAQ, Standard & Poor's or the Dow Jones?

4- If this sound a bit like speechifying, lets read this report about the future of our ice up here. This is a study done in part at McGill University. (Here this bear does a swift cut and paste from CBC news. But before, a little silly anesthesia before the punching paw: Q: What did the polar bear say when it saw the igloo? A: "Oooo! I LOVE these things! Crunchy on the outside - with a nice chewy center!" ) ... and now, the bad news.

5- Arctic ice could disappear in summer by 2040: study / December 11, 2006 / CBC News

Global warming could melt almost all of the ice in the Arctic during the summer months by the year 2040, according to a study to be published Tuesday. If greenhouse gases continue to build at their current rate, the study found, the Arctic's ice cover would go through periods of stability followed by abrupt retreat.

By about 2040 the Arctic may be nearly devoid of sea ice during the late summer unless greenhouse gas emissions are significantly curtailed. One simulation projects that by 2040, only a small amount of perennial ice would remain on the north coasts of Greenland and Canada during the summer months.

This would be a more dramatic change in Arctic climate than anything we've seen so far, according to McGill University professor Bruno Tremblay, one of the study's authors. And it would also have a profound impact on global warming around the world, he said.

"Open water absorbs more sunlight than does ice," Tremblay told CBC News Online. "This means that the growing regions of ice-free water will accelerate the warming trend."

The melting of polar ice creates a positive feedback loop, Tremblay said. Higher temperatures means less ice, and that means more sunlight is absorbed by water, which in turn raises temperatures. This will lead to an accelerated change in climate in a very short time, Tremblay said.

Scenarios simulated on supercomputers suggest sea ice could diminish enough within 20 years to speed the retreat of Arctic ice four-times faster than at any other time in the observed record.

"Right now there is a steady decline. But we're going to reach a tipping point where the decline will happen very quickly and [from which] we can't recover," he said.

Tremblay worked on the study — to be published in the Dec. 12 issue of Geophysical Research Letters — with lead researcher Marika Holland at the U.S. National Center for Atmospheric Research and Cecilia Bitz of the University of Washington.

The only way to prevent the rapid loss of polar ice is to implement aggressive measures to reduce carbon-dioxide emissions resulting from the combustion of fossil fuels, Tremblay said.

Previous studies looking at the Canadian Arctic have envisaged similar timetables for the disappearance of permanent ice floes.

In June 2006, University of British Columbia professor Michael Byers said the Northwest Passage would be clear of ice during the summer months in 25 years.

A 2004 study by André Rochon, chief scientist on Canada's Amundsen research icebreaker, predicted the waterways would be clear of ice in 50 years.

LOST IN CYBERIA

This bear lost his bearings. Is mercury in the fish affecting our brains? I don't know. The truth may be that bears are also forgetful beings. The fact is that I forgot the password to access this blog for quite a few days. For many nights I was burning my neurones trying to remember that funguticus, slippery, fishy, sneaky, sly and furtive password. The most relevant news these days is... the weather. Christmas is next week and there is almost no snow at all. Supposedly Santa lives here in the Arctic, or North Pole as he likes to call this landscape. I never saw him. Rest assured that if a bear notices a fat man, dressed in red as a good chunk of seal meat, wandering about in the company of some tasty reindeers, that jolly Santa would make a very good hors d'oeuvre, beard and all. Such portly morcel in red trousers and black boots would really make any bear quite happy at mealtime. I'll keep my eyes open. I say, let bears feast on Santa.

THE CHRISTMAS BEAR$$

In these early days of December, you go to any store, even the dollar store, and there you find them. Fluffy, white, cute little polar bears for sale. Yet I haven't meet a single bear here in the Arctic that got by mail a cheque as royalty payment for the use of our image. If polar bears were a trademark, someone would be making oodles of cash. But, since no bear gets a single penny, or a salmon as payment for the use of our image, everybody else makes money on our furry backs: the store that sells the bears, the bear manufacturer, the factory workers (who probably get paid in sardines), the importers, the exporters, everybody, but us! We bears should go on some kind of strike, take some form of action so we could get a bit of that cash that everybody else is doing using our image. This is a form of cultural appropiation, the appropiation of our nature. With that money we could set up feeding stations when the ice is too thin to go out hunting seal. We could buy decoys so hunters will get confused ("I shot that bear six times, why does it keep looking at my with that funny smile?") I wonder if the Queen of England gets royalties for the use of her image in every stamp, coin and bill used in this country.

BETTER DAYS AHEAD FOR US?

This bear has been glued to the TV, radio and newspapers following the recent Convention of the Federal Liberal Party of Canada in Montreal. More than 5,000 candidates met to choose a new leader. Unfortunately no candidate said "I will represent every bearess and bear of this land". No candidate said "I will bring to Parliament every bear's concern about ice conditions". No candidate said "No bear will go to sleep hungry because of over-fishing or seal depletion". The sad fact is that there was no one speaking for the common bear or the Arctic or the environmental fate of our Inuit friends who like to carve and sculpt beautiful bears in soap stone and yet they chase us with their high-powered rifles.
Yet, three delegates spoke eloquently about the Environment. Kennedy, Brison and Dion. They may no be the best candidates to defeat that funguticus Prime Minister Stephen Harper and Foggy Weather Minister Rona Ambrose, but there is hope. And on thin ice, you cling to everything that can help you. The final tally showed Stephane Dion as the victor, thanks to the support of Gerard Kennedy. Bear hair Bob Rae lost. Martha Hall Findlay lost. Yet both deserve a space to participate in the next Liberal Government. Nevertheless, this bear is not a red liberal, it is white, has white fangs, black claws and a big, green heart. As green as the colour of hope in the defeat of the horrendous Conservatives and the coming of a new government that will take into account our fate in this beautiful Arctic land.

WHEN BEARS CAN'T FALL ASLEEP

It happens. You ate too much seal meat. You turn around inside your den trying to fall asleep. But oh! for the Lord of Fungus!, it's useless. So, the best thing to do is to bring your paws to the keyboard and search for a story to read. Here is one, written in Spanish, and it is about us, polar bears. The story is called "Los osos de Port Churchill". Enjoy it.
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Observaba desde hace algunos instantes la faena de un pequeño hámster que devoraba rápidamente semillas y granos, almacenándolos entre sus mejillas y que en su especie son como unas enormes bolsas donde aquellos roedores transportan sus alimentos de un sitio a otro. En pocos minutos su pequeño cuerpo adquirió la talla y el porte de un diminuto y musculoso gladiador que caminaba hinchado e importante de un rincón a otro de su jaula, dejándose mirar y admirar.

Cuando le confirmaron desde la oficina de empleo su próximo traslado a una remota población del norte, más arriba del paralelo sesenta y a la cual sólo se podía acceder por avión, creyó que le sería posible llevar consigo todas sus pertenencias. Sin embargo, la carta, aunque escueta, especificaba que él haría solamente un viaje de ida y que podía llevar consigo no más de dos grandes valijas. En cuanto al resto de sus cosas, en la carta simplemente le decían: "Deshágase de todo cuanto no le sea posible traer consigo".

Estuvo dos noches empacando y desventrando de nuevo sus maletas, poniendo y sacando cosas que le parecían importantes según las horas que le quedaban antes del viaje y luego de muchos esfuerzos y grandes renuncias, concluyó que le sería imposible llevar con él sus libros, al menos todos cuantos creía necesarios, ¿cómo?, ¿dejar el Diccionario de Bierce?, ¿el Manual del Ajedrez de Borges? Imposible partir hacia aquellas blancas y frígidas estepas sin aquel buen texto El camino del Araya de Arguedas, y entonces éste, pero luego aquel, y este otro...

No pudo continuar de lamentar la previsible ausencia de tantos buenos libros. Sabía que allá en Port Churchill, un remotísimo paraje en el norte, muy cerca de los hielos polares, sólo había dos grandes ocupaciones durante el invierno: ver pasar por la calle a los osos polares durante su migración en la cual a veces se enfrascaban en enredos amorosos que acababan despanzurrando casas enteras y... leer. O hacer las dos cosas a la vez. Imaginó una de aquellas largas noches de invierno, una sola que dura seis meses y se vio a sí mismo, echado en su cama luego de la jornada de trabajo como profesor de lenguas, sin más libros que leer, escuchando afuera el rezongar y los aullidos del viento puliendo la superficie helada de los techos e imaginando que en lugar de contar ovejas para vencer el insomnio, no le quedaría otra que contar osos blancos volando llevados por el viento ártico y que en lugar de rugir, las blancas bestias balaban y luego se ponían a comer focas negras y brillantes como la tinta china.

Sentado frente a una taza de té, su mente se distrajo observando los menudos hábitos gastronómicos de aquel pequeño hámster que acabó siendo suyo de la manera más curiosa y nunca vista cuando un buen día alguien decidió dejárselo en el fondo de un calcetín que apareció colgando de un clavo en la puerta de su apartamento en un barrio al este de Montreal.

En medio de sus devaneos librescos, súbitamente le vino a la cabeza una idea tan absurda que hasta parecía magistral. Durante una de las calurosas tardes del verano, él había ido a visitar a los indios en sus tierras de Kahnawake, al otro lado del puente Jacques Cartier durante las fiestas del Pow-Wow anual. Allí conoció a un mohawk viejo y arrugado como un billete antiguo quien le ofreció a la venta un collar de semillas secas y brillantes en cuyo centro colgaba un pequeño frasquito del cual, le aseguró el anciano, podría beber unas gotas y así convertirse en lo que él más quisiera, en una nube, o en lluvia, en un lobo o en un salmón.

Por supuesto que no creyó ni por un segundo en las argucias del viejo vendedor de collares y pociones. Como un hombre salido de las universidades, ateo, bien plantado en la lógica cartesiana y con simpatías marxistas, la única razón que le llevó a comprar aquel collar fueron las pupilas de su interlocutor. De un brillo pálido y distante, tenían el fulgor de un cirio que proyecta una luz antigua y silenciosa. Nunca había visto nada semejante, lo cual le llevó a la conclusión de que aquella no era una mirada de este siglo, de este mundo y esto lo supo no sólo por instinto sino también por conocimiento.

Recordó una película documental que narraba las peripecias de dos hermanos, especie de Pizarros o Almagros contemporáneos, un par de ingleses o australianos que se embarcaron en un viaje por Nueva Zelandia en busca de metales preciosos y aparecieron como salidos de la tierra de los muertos en medio de poblaciones indígenas que hasta entonces nunca habían sido interrumpidas en el curso de sus días por este tipo de encuentros nefastos. Les dieron cosillas a cambio de sus pequeños fragmentos de metal dorado y conchas de moluscos a cambio de largas horas de trabajo forzado. Varios de ellos fueron fulminados con el fuego negro de los tiros en nombre de la disciplina y la obediencia y todos acabaron siendo incorporados a este caótico mundo de dioses económicos y mundos yuxtapuestos. Uno de ellos, que se parecía en mucho a los maoríes, hombre moreno, arrugado del rostro, sin embargo fuerte y con una diestra lanza, miró por un instante al ojo de la cámara filmadora, y en aquel fragmento temporal quedó grabada para siempre aquella primera mirada que, en un salto de siglos enteros, ponía en contacto dos universos diferentes. Eran unas pupilas que habían conocido los territorios que están más allá de la sorpresa y de la incredulidad. Así debieron ser los ojos de Lázaro después de volver del mundo de los que no sueñan. En la mirada de aquel hombre uno podía leer la distancia más absoluta, como cuando nuestros propios ojos contemplan nuestros sueños más fantásticos e imposibles. A la vez, esa era la mirada más humana y la menos mortal de la que había sido testigo. Aquellos ojos le recordaban la imagen que produce la mirada tranquila del agua que desde el fondo de una noria, mira el espacio negro de la noche, contemplando la danza de las estrellas, reflejando en su líquida faz la pupila blanca y brillante de la noche lunecida.

A esa hora de la noche, en la calma ártica de Port Churchill, los osos debían meditar en la blancura de la luna, sabiéndose de un modo inconsciente y sin embargo profundo, hijos toscos y blancos de aquella otra blancura colgada sobre la punta de sus hocicos nocturnos. Pensó esto, pensó en su próximo viaje, en su absurda hipótesis, en sus buenos libros, en su pequeña mascota que calmadamente almacenaba sus provisiones en los costados inflados de sus pequeñas mandíbulas, y con la sencillez de un acto cotidiano, buscó en la caja donde guardaba las cosas inclasificables aquel collar que le compró a un viejo indio de mirada de montaña y agua primera. Hirvió un poco de agua, se preparó un mate de coca al cual añadió un par de gotas del frasquito.

Al día siguiente, el profesor de lenguas pudo finalmente deshacerse de todo lo que le era inútil. Durante la noche había logrado acomodar con hermosa calma sus mejores libros en el interior de sus mejillas. Había abierto la boca de un modo absoluto, capaz de tragarse todas las posibilidades del lenguaje y devorar al mundo entero. Tomó su avión y partió hacia el ártico con dos maletas y un par de enormes mejillas que le caían sobre los hombros y el pecho repletas de palabras y textos.

Los osos de Port Churchill estuvieron perplejos por largo tiempo, preguntándose qué tipo de animal era aquel que podía acomodar dos oseznos en los costados de la boca. Miraron a la luna que aquella noche mostraba una ancha y discreta sonrisa mientras cruzaba el aire polar y se quedaron así, sin poder encontrar una respuesta.

THE PROBLEM WITH YOUNG BEARS AND THE MEDIA

This 104 year old bear was telling his young little bears that they should learn how to go about getting their own food. You have to be patient if you want to fetch your seal. But no, they wouldn't listen. They like to hang out with their cellphones trying to order a delivery of smoked salmon and pizza. Young bears! They are all hip-hopped and drink Coca Cola and they don't want to learn how to be self-reliant. I told them the story of the little pigs. Once, a long time ago, pigs were roaming free until someone left corn on the cob for them. So one little pig ate it and the next day he returned to see if there was more of it and voilà! he found more corn. So he told his friends about this amazing place where they could find lots of tasty corn. So he went there with his friends. They went once, they went twice, they went ten times. They got their bellies full and fat and wondered aloud if it was really necessary to keep searching for food as their parents did when they had access to this magnificent place to come and eat at their entire satisfaction. One day they went to eat, and when they wanted to leave, all swell and happy, they found themselves enclosed in a pig pen. Forever. So that is how they lost their freedom in exchange for comfort. And ever since then, they live in pig pens until they get slaughtered. I was telling the bear cubs that television works exactly the same way. One day they feed you an idea, an image, then you get used to it, and then you're fed another and another until one day you discover that you can no longer imagine things beyond the repertoire of images and ideas you were spoon-feed by the box. Instead of a bear with the power to imagine, you become a prisoner of someone else's imagination. And that's why humans don't do much about the Environment. Everyday they eat the corn of ideas fed by mainstream media.

SEND THE NINJA PENGUINS TO OTTAWA!

So madame Ambrose says that the French have no business "meddling in Canadian affairs" after they criticized Canada's record on the Environment. She should know that since we are all in the same boat, even the last one of the ants or the bears on this planet has a legitimate right to voice its concerns about our sorry environmental conditions. There is no difference whether you're human, a bear or a plant. The overheating of our planet, (check my ice!, check my ice!... ) affects all of us. So, unless she doesn't see that we are in this together beyond species discrimination, she's speaking pure fungus when she says that "the French have no business pointing fingers at us". This bear reports that her Conservative government has dropped any pretence of reaching the Kyoto targets. Ambrose has set a new goal of cutting emissions by 45 to 65 per cent from 2003 levels - but she only promises to do that by 2050, a time frame that has earned the Tories mockery at home and indignation abroad. So, penguins, do what you must do. Go to Ottawa and lobby for the right to vote for all animals!

LET'S INVADE CHINA!

This bear was very moved by the speech by Defense Minister Gordon O'Connor. In Vancouver he said yesterday "We cannot allow the Taliban to return to their former prominence, to take over Afghanistan and resume their regime of terror and tyranny, to flaunt their disregard for human rights..." blah, blah, blah. Following such logic, shouldn't we invade China too? In the same way we bears need our ice thick and solid up here in the Arctic, Chinese folks need also a bit more of human rights. (Should searching Wikipedia qualify as a human right? This bear strongly believes so.) If we don't invade China, or North Korea, at least let's invade the USA (there's also plenty of folks there who lack basic human rights, like health, education, decent and healthy food, and fair trials in Guantánamo). If we don't invade these countries then Minister O'Connor is speaking pure fungus. He should put those billions to work for the environment instead of buying bullets and military airplanes to fight in Afghanistan. Canada will never win militarily there. Simply because you can't force people to love and accept Western values at gunpoint. Good, respectful NGOs are better than armies in these situations. They are more effective and cost much less.
As I mentioned few days ago, Environment Minister is now a certified dinosaur in Africa, and that stains the good name of all Canadians who want Kioto now. I wonder if she will be around in 2050 to verify the goodness of her own tricky little plans to save us bears from dissapearing. I propose Rona be a bear from Christmas to March. Let's see how she survives the melting of polar ice.

RONA AMBROSE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND ME!

She looks so cool, so calm and relaxed on TV that she could be a bear. But what she's doing as minister for the environment is going to boil the bollocks of all the polar bears, simply because the planet is getting too hot too fast and our ice is melting. I guess I understand. She's more of a dinosaur than a bear. Does she think that I can wait until 2050 to see the first attempts, the first signs to chill the planet and reign in the unBEARable polluters? I'll be dead by then! I wonder if she would be capable to put her cat on the oven, on slow heat. (That's what she's doing to us, including the penguins) Perhaps then she will understand how I feel about this barbaric business of polluting and melting MY space

IS RUMSFELD GONE? CAN I EAT HIM NOW?

Well... maybe not. He may be poisonous. After all, he is a very very bad ass fungus. He would rip open the guts of his own little bears and eat them alive, or send them to war with lies. He says that he knowns the unknowns, but he doesn't know fungus what his own bedeviled country is achieving by destroying Irak. (Few people benefit form war, but they benefit big: arms manufacturers, bankers, oil plutocrats and, of course, coffin makers) I think that even starving hyenas would refuse to eat Rumsfeld. I'd rather chew my old tire. Let the fungi take care of Rumy.

WHERE IS THE ICE?

It's none of my business, the business of politics. Some people are worried about sending Canadian kids to Afghanistan to be converted into ground meat. The same happens with some latinos in the States, forced by the circumstances to get their papers by joining the Marines. This is unBEARable for their loved ones. Me, I'm worried about the ice. Nowadays it's becoming as thiner as a waffer, which means no more lunch for me, I mean, no more tasty seals. Will the democrats make the ice thicker? Will Stephen Harper help the bears' case against the overheating of the planet? I'm tired to chew old tires. (Mmmmh!, I wonder if humans are tasty as lunch. You have to have a Plan B, you know.)