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Transformations

Rebirth of the corridor's First Nations
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Graduates of the first Capilano College First Nations Tourism Program with former Attorney General Geoff Plant in 2004

The simple fact of change is unavoidable. As people, we can influence, conduct and leverage it. We can regulate and politicize it. We can predict and trace it. Just the same, it doesn’t really belong to us. Systems, whether social, atomic, economic or galactic, simply change, regardless of any effort to freeze them.

As a pre-Olympics theme transforms much of the Sea to Sky corridor, change is clear and present. The usual suspects are crowding the levers: governments, private sector opportunists and activists. At the same time, an unusual profiteer as emerged in the form of the corridor’s First Nations.

Stories of transformers are common in both Squamish and Lil’wat mythology. Large and godly beings, transformers tweak the landscape for the benefit of the people. Sometimes, as around Green Lake, they transform people into stones; that, says Greg Bikadi, is what happened to Squamish natives long ago, when they wandered too far north into Lil’wat territory.

Soft-spoken with a round face and thinking eyes, Bikadi is president of Mount Currie’s Lil’wat Business Corporation. To him, the transformer stories offer a parallel to the nature of change sweeping through both nations.

Squamish Chief Gibby Jacob, larger than Bikadi in both size and volume, agrees. To illustrate, both men point to an economic rejuvenation, cultural renaissance and growth in partnerships.

The Whistler Olympic Park. The Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre. The Sea to Sky Highway Improvement Project. The Legacy Lands Agreement (LLA). The protocol between the two nations. The partnerships with corridor municipalities, the province and VANOC. These are the agents of dramatic, lasting transformation.

“It’s fascinating to watch this culture come back to life,” says Daniel Sailland, senior administrator with the Mount Currie Band.

Then and now

It’s sometimes tempting to herald a shift in relations with this country’s First Nations and the ancestors of their conquerors. Federally, there was Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s apology for the residential schools scandal, and, provincially, there’s Premier Gordon Campbell’s New Relationship, to name but two gestures.

Unfortunately, there are people like Pierre Poilievre, the fledgling Conservative MP who, on the eve of the apology, broadcasted bigoted remarks over the radio. There’s also Canada’s unfortunate membership in the league of four opposing the U.N. Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People. Again, those are only two gestures.

But nothing much changes overnight.

As they were before contact, both Squamish and Lil’wat are Salish peoples. The first group is coastal, and its traditional territory includes a lot of Greater Vancouver and Squamish Valley. They lived in longhouses during the winter and would inaugurate the season with pounding drums and shuffling feet. But the Catholic Church and the Department of Indian Affairs wouldn’t have it — too pagan for their tastes.

The Lil’wat are Interior Salish. Their traditional homesteads were pit houses. There was a time when they lived along the Lillooet River some 32 kilometres north of Pemberton, but missionaries encouraged them to head south, and they eventually wound up in Mount Currie. Before settling there, the Lil’wat worked as porters and canoemen for miners exploiting the Cariboo Gold Rush. Disease decimated three quarters of their population, and with the bodies went some of the culture.

Squamish is the larger of the two nations. According to Jacob, there are about 2,500 members on reserve, and another 1,000 spread across the Lower Mainland. Fifty per cent are 25 and under.

That demographic is ripe among the Lil’wat, as well. There are 1,900 band members, with 500 of those living off reserve. Newborns are plentiful — about 30 so far this year. But the flipside of that is the loss of elders — 11 passed away in the first 14 weeks of 2008. And that means more culture lost.

The road to change

That the Squamish and Lil’wat nations struck a protocol to leverage Olympic opportunity is not without precedent. The two did live side by side in the long ago village of Spo7ez, which was 16 kilometres south of Whistler at Rubble Creek. A volcanic eruption triggered a rockslide, which obliterated the community. While the village was never rebuilt, the nations continued to co-exist in relative tranquility. According to Bakari, there’s some territorial tension between the two nations. But a peaceful path to their resolution, one whacked with the blade of inter-communal tradition, was forged at least as far back as Spo7ez.

The current protocol between the two nations dates back about 10 years, when the revered Chief Joe Mathias led Squamish Nation.

“When the announcement came that Vancouver and Whistler were going to pursue the opportunity to bid on the Games,” remembers Bikadi, “there were some short discussions on what we would pursue. Working together would create a lot more synergy and a lot more benefits for the two nations than working independently.”

They identified common concerns. Whistler, where Squamish and Lil’wat territories overlap, figured high in strategic interests. The Callaghan Valley was also a point of interest, as was the Elaho Valley, the Games themselves and the Land and Resource Management Plan.

In 2001, Mathias passed away, leaving Squamish Nation first to mourn and then to find a new leader. Jacob found himself filling that void. The following year, Leonard Andrew became chief of the Lil’wat, starting anew a tenure he began in the 1980s.

“Obviously,” says Jacob, “2010 was going to be the lead agenda item. Over three months, we developed the protocol and had our chiefs and council review it, make edits and those kinds of things.”

Economic development as a result of the Games was key. As far as employment goes, the Lil’wat were in outright agony, especially given their proximity to an economy as lush and bountiful as Whistler’s. There was a time when 80 per cent of the Lil’wat Nation was unemployed. In the past two years, that rate has fallen to 50, a dramatic shift given the timeframe.

“I was very sceptical at first in regards to being involved,” says Andrew. “My people had not indicated that they wanted to be involved, other than the core group that was working on the bid project. So what I did, along with my council is I said, ‘Let’s bring this to a referendum.’ And we did.”

Seventy-five per cent of voters favoured involvement in the Olympics.

Squamish Nation, meanwhile, had a contemporary tradition of employment in forestry and the fisheries. They suffered the demise of those sectors, just as everyone else did, but have had a more difficult time restructuring than have non-native communities. And yet, they’ve faired better than most of their First Nation counterparts.

“Our nation has been very progressive,” says Jacob. “We were the first First Nation in this country to negotiate our own leases and collect our own revenue.”

That money goes into a general account and is spent on programs and services, all of which employ hundreds of nation members. Just the same, there was a real need for further, sustainable economic development.

“I call it chipping away at a mountain of dependence,” says Jacob. “We had a great number of meetings with our membership. During the bidding phase, we kept our members up to speed as best we could.

“We need to succeed. We need to develop a sustainable economy. We need to get the kinds of businesses that would employ the right kinds of people.”

Transformations

“This is just the beginning,” says Andrew, who, like Bikadi, speaks in quiet tones.

It’s been as productive a start as any. The LLA was negotiated in 2002 between Squamish, Lil’wat, VANOC, the Resort Municipality of Whistler and the province. It entails seven parcels of land in Whistler, three of which are moving through the early stages of the development process. Under the LLA, the two nations secured 452 market bed units, which will be spread across two parcels of land, one in Alpine North, above the Rainbow development, and the other across from Alta Vista at the former highways maintenance yard. The third parcel is at the mouth of Function Junction, and a service station has been proposed for the site.

“We’re just taking it a step at a time, or one rezoning at a time,” says Leonard. “We still have to deal with the process through RMOW. We’ve got a team together working on the objectives of those three lands. That in itself is a big step of the entire Legacy Lands.”

In 2005, the Lil’wat struck a $2.1 million deal with highway contractor Peter Kiewit Sons Co., an agreement that brought about Lil’wat Concrete and Aggregates, the company that manufactures the barriers used for the highway upgrade.

“It’s kind of an instant transition when you hear a story like that,” says Bikadi.

That same year, Lil’wat and Squamish, as well as the Musqueam and Tsleil’Waututn nations, inked a deal with VANOC guaranteeing their inclusion in planning and hosting for Olympic events. Skills development was also a part of the deal.

As the Nordic centre in the Callaghan Valley went up, those commitments bore fruit. According to Gary Youngman, VANOC’s consulting director of Aboriginal Participation, $45 million in contract dollars has gone to the Lil’wat and Squamish.

“Joint ventures with Lil’wat were involved in our original clearing and construction work for the Nordic centre,” said Youngman in a February interview with Pique Newsmagazine , “and one of the joint ventures with Squamish Nation and Newhaven has built our Day Lodge in the Nordic Valley, so they played an early role in construction and they’ve done a great job.”

The value of that work is immeasurable. After the Games leave town, the physical legacies will remain as a source of pride for the builders. During the Games, Bikadi imagines his people tuning into their TV sets and chuckling with friends over the personal experiences that peppered the construction phase.

Daniel Saillard is the senior administrator for the Mount Currie Band. A white man, he watches this renaissance from an interesting perch: On account of his job, he is necessarily involved; because of his ethnicity, he’s a few degrees removed. Regardless, he’s the band’s respected statistician, among other things, and he sees an employment trend taking shape.

“I think we’ll see that over a long period of time,” he says. “When you look at the amount of people learning skills right now — they work for companies. Later, in 10 years, they might be owning companies. They might be entrepreneurs.”

The heart of the transformer

Economic development is only part of the story. Cultural rediscovery is equally paramount. The Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre, which celebrates its grand opening this week, is ground zero for that reawakening.

“Getting rid of ignorance has always been something we’ve tried to do,” says Jacob. “You can’t calculate that value in dollars and cents.”

A seedling in 1997, the idea for the centre first experienced promising growth with the protocol between Squamish and Lil’wat. Federal, provincial and municipal governments all came to the table with advice, finances and land concessions. Bell Canada and RBC Financial, both Olympic sponsors, also provided support.

Meanwhile, a foundation was being laid. A First Nations tourism program was established at Capilano College; it produced 15 graduates in 2005. Around the same time, the Aboriginal Youth Ambassador Project was launched, a program that produced a slew of envoys to work the centre floor, interacting with visitors and explaining the finer points of the nations’ cultures. Basket weaving, canoe carving and Salish weaving programs all came together at around the same time, each one training young minds on dying traditions.

“It’s about getting our story out there,” says Bikadi. “Not only here we are, but here’s who we are, and here’s why we are.”

The story begins with an easterly entrance, as is tradition in First Nation structures. Pictographs and carved figures characterize the walkway. The first few metres of the 30,400 square foot building are marked by two giant spindle whorls, each carved with the specific iconography of the nation that used it. Weavings hang off of doweling suspended from the 22-foot ceiling. The floors are printed with flowing water, rugged mountain tracts and lush forest paths. Carved canoes sit at the foot of window bays, the panes of which are fashioned after the shingles of longhouses. More carvings are mounted behind glass, and a 250-seat theatre screens cultural films. Outside, there are nature walks, a fire pit and an expansive patio. Wending their way through all this are the ambassadors, some of them with traditional fish carts, which will act as snack wagons for visitors. And, of course, there’s a gift shop. At the same time, the centre is open for bookings. Banquets for 150 people are available, as are receptions for 300. Traditional food, drumming and singing texture the whole experience.

“This particular facility lies in the past, the present and the hopes for the future,” says Jacob.

To get to the facility from outside Whistler, a journey up the Sea to Sky Highway is necessary. Aside from the obvious physical overhauls, the highway will be getting something of a cultural makeover, as well. Paddle-shaped signage will spring up along the roadside, and all non-safety signs will be redesigned with Salish themes. To boot, there’ll be seven pull-offs, each with a shelter and 84 interpretive panels spread throughout.

Influencing future change

“Let’s not forget,” says Bikadi, “that it wasn’t that long ago that this community would put up a roadblock for any reason. When you talk about resentment, yeah, it’s alive and well. And it’s our young people, and I don’t think sometimes they know why.”

Resentment has interesting properties. Felt passionately enough, it can become genetic, travelling from generation to generation with mounting intensity, even as the contributing contexts shift — in this case, for the better.

Still, resentment exists on both sides of the ethnic fence. Comments like Poilievre’s may make headlines, but primarily because of their source and timing. Even without acknowledgment from the news media, that kind of vitriol is still quite common. People from both nations hope the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre will create new mentalities, both within and between Canada’s indigenous and transplanted communities.

“The outside world,” says Andrew, “because we are dealing with their lands also, the biggest fear the outside world has is what are the Indians doing? Are they going to establish a reserve next to my land? That’s a misconception we have to overcome and explain to the outside world that we’re not here to do that.”

And so the forward nature of change is still in flux. Another future factor not often considered is the desire for all nation members to regain and practice their culture. It’s easy to dismiss those people as white-washed, but, as with members of any tradition, some simply do not relate.

“I don’t care what they look at me as,” says an anonymous Squamish Nation member. “I like the culture, and I used to go to pow-wows, and I used to go the longhouse, where they do a lot of the traditional stuff.”

But now he doesn’t. That disposition might just be a part of life in multicultural societies. Whether or not you buy into the idea of cross-cultural harmony in Canada, the fact of a multicultural presence is beyond debate. A slow process of integration takes place, and all citizens move towards a common ground, one that incorporates small parts of innumerable sums, each with a different global or cultural flavour.

“It’s a split,” he says, “just like in any community or any race. You get people who attend, and you get people who don’t. I’m not a die hard, like with a religion.”

But ask him about the cultural centre and that flavour can suddenly be tasted.

“The Olympic factor, the chance for the world to see our cultures, it’s the best time. And where the cultural centre is is the best spot for the world to see. And it’s well done, and it gives a chance to show a little bit of everything. I don’t think it’ll do anything bad for our nation. It’ll benefit big time.”

This member’s two minds complicate the end game. And, frankly, there aren’t many people with a sure concept of just where all this change is going, of what the end game will look like and when, if ever, it will unfold. For example, ask Andrew, and he says a lot of his people are comfortable on the reserve. For now. Meanwhile, there are still countless rights issues and treaty processes left unresolved.

Ask Bikadi, and he makes an intensely pensive face. “You could have a large debate in the community as to what the end game will be,” he says, adding that the benefits accrued so far are necessary for that debate. “When you have those tools, you can foster health and strength. You create strength in a community.”

If strength is the end game, the direction all this change is heading towards, the shape all these transformations are taking, then it seems a sure course, one bolstered by economic opportunity and cultural awareness. The whole experiment could even prove a case study for other First Nations, where the prospects of bettering education, health and employment aren’t nearly as promising.

“It’s that sense of independence at its essence,” says Bikadi. “Real, economic independence.”



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