Where the Indigenous Don’t Call the Shots

The following is a series of excerpts from ‘Where the Indigenous Don’t Call the Shots’ (translation from the Portuguese version named ‘Lá, onde os índios não mandam), a book recently released by a former Portuguese immigrant to Canada. The author has requested to remain anonymous until the book is released in Canada, at the end of November, 2024. The book tells the story of the author’s challenges and successes as a new immigrant to Canada, in the 1970s and 1980s. These experiences will certainly resonate with many Portuguese who arrived in Canada illegally, especially during the earlier decades of our presence here. The English version is a translation from the original, in Portuguese.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in the following article are the sole responsibility of its author and do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of lusocanada.com and Luso Canada Media Corp. Although, as per request of the author, the name of the author remains anonymous for the time being, we will collaborate with any parties that may communicate an expressed conflict or misrepresentation by the author and his writings presented below.

First Impressions of Canada

The first major shock was interacting with people on the streets and on public transit. I would greet them, but they wouldn’t reply. My behaviour seemed strange to them.

I was also surprised to learn that on Sundays, bars were closed and couldn’t serve alcohol, even when the patrons ordered a meal. Only in the late seventies alcohol was gradually permitted. It felt strange and disgusting to witness the degrading show that crowds of drunk people displayed outside these establishments after they closed. Only after making a few friends and frequenting those bars, I realized the reason behind that behaviour.

At 23h00, the waiters would announce ‘last call’. At the warning, the customers always took the opportunity to purchase one or two more drinks. I concluded that the consumption of these drinks in a such a short period of time was the cause of such drunkenness.

I also quickly realized that Canadians were not concerned with fashion. They would prefer Comfort over style. However, I began to notice a gradual change as the years passed. I believe that this change was due to a large-scale migration from Quebec to Toronto, because of the political instability in the province. In fact, I arrived at a time in which the Canadian army was forced to patrol the streets to ensure safety.

When I returned to Portugal, in 1994, Toronto was already a modern and cosmopolitan city.

The Beginning

On my way to Canada, I met a friendly Canadian couple that, by chance, had crossed my path before, in Portugal. I took their contact on the plane. When it was time to say goodbye, once we arrived in Canada, they asked if they could give me some advice, which I welcomed. They said:

“You can’t trust anyone here. Be careful!”

I was coming from a university environment that was sociable and trustworthy. I expected to experience a cultural shock, but not this fast. We agreed that once I established myself, I would call them to let them know where I settled. I was slated to work in the tobacco fields. They promised to find me a job after the tobacco season ended. Meanwhile, they would call me to ascertain that all was going well.

I couldn’t expect better friends. They were fantastic! We still maintain contact.

When I arrived in Canada, I had 232 dollars in my pocket, which would have to last until I found my first job. A brother of two of my acquaintances was waiting for me at the airport to take me to Kitchener, which is about one hundred kilometres from Toronto, where he lived. Two days later, we left for the small town of Straffordville, about 200 kilometres from Toronto, where we would embark on an rough adventure that would last one and a half months.

Picking tobacco was a very difficult job. Gigantic machines moved along large rows of tobacco plants. Each one carried six men, seated on a bench equipped with a large aluminum receptacle that resembled a garbage bin. At each plant, we cut two leaves, one with each hand, and placed them on those metal containers.

On the morning of the third day, the receptacle that the farmer gave me had a large tear on the side to which I had to turn most often. I hadn’t noticed the tear and when I rotated to the left to deposit the leaves in the basket, I cut a finger to the bone on my right hand. Fernando, my colleague to the very right of me, yelled for the driver to stop. I tried to get up but the pain was such that I passed out. It was the first time in my life that I fainted.

Every morning, after breakfast, I would protect my finger with a gauze. The sap released by the leaves was too abrasive and once the gauze became wet, the pain became unbearable. I remember praying to the saints of the universe all week long.

All my colleagues were there illegally, just like myself. Therefore, looking for treatment at a hospital was out of the question. Interrupting work for a week was also not an option because it would disrupt the routine for the rest of the workers. It was a painful week, until the finger finally healed.

Meanwhile, another individual arrived at the farm and I moved to another farm that belonged to an Azorean gentleman. He was an honest and tireless man, with many years of experience and well defined working routines in the harvest of tobacco. We had breakfast at seven in the morning, started working at seven thirty and only stopped when we filled a whole compartment with leaves.

We stopped for lunch between midday and one in the afternoon, and the day usually ended at around three o’clock, which always afforded me the opportunity to meet with my friends. The sap released by the leaves painted our skin in a dark brown tone. We were only able to remove it by scrubbing hard with sandblasted soap. This routine was repeated daily before each meal and at the end of the workday. We would often talk about the potential effect it had on the lungs of smokers. Today, I realize that people were not aware of such harm.

At the end of the day, I would walk seven kilometers to meet my friends. On my way back, my friends’ boss usually gave me a ride and would often complain about their work ethic before asking me to have a talk with them. I quickly realized that I built credit with the man and took the opportunity to work a few hours at his farm, as a part-time.

One day, as I was walking to meet my friends, the police stopped to question me. They wanted to know what I was doing.

“What are you doing here?”

“I Harvest tobacco.”

“What’s your name?”

“Joe.”

“Are you Canadian?”

“No, I’m Portuguese.”

“Portuguese? Portugal? Revolution? Get in.”

I felt the world falling on me. I hadn’t even made enough money to cover my flight to Canada, much less to buy a pair of socks, and there I was about to be deported.

To my surprise, they began asking about the situation in Portugal, why the turmoil, etc… When we arrived at my destination, we spoke for a few more minutes and, from there on, they would give me a ride every single day.

Although that first month was hard, it was also very calm. My boss was happy with my work and asked me to return the year after.

There was no way I would return to such a tough job!

My colleagues lived a very difficult month and a half. The boss would complain that they were lazy. In turn, they would complain about the food and the long working hours.

When it was time to get paid, I was given exactly what was owed to me. My colleagues received a little more than half of what they were promised.

Inácio

Many nights, I could not sleep, especially after hearing news or accounts of other illegal immigrants like me who were caught by the police.

One day, either because it was part of a routine inspection or we were reported to the authorities, the facilities of the company where I worked were surrounded by the police and a number of agents entered the premises attempting to identify the workers.

The scenes were fit for a movie. Some jumped out of the windows, others hid in attics of the facility, and many others climbed up to the roof and began jumping from building to building. About a half dozen, deliberately or not, left calmly through the main door.  

That group was composed of four colleagues who had their documentation in order, along with myself and Inácio, who was about 190cm tall, a former Portuguese paratrooper and very peaceful. I never saw him have an argument with anyone and he always had a smile on his face. All was always well with him.

A half-dozen agents questioned the group. One of them grabbed Inácio by the arm and asked that he identify himself. However, Inácio reacted and pulled away so hard that the officer jumped off his feet. The other agents intervened quickly and tried to apprehend him. I was left there amazed at how easily he evaded the officers.

While this was happening, a neighbour called me over to hide in his house. I hid in there, in a shed at the end of the backyard. Later, I was joined by Inácio.

The incident caused us major turmoil. We needed to lay low for a few days.

Both our employer and a few Portuguese families that resided in Mississauga and that had experienced similar challenges, supported us during this trying period. As such, were able to take a few days off work. When it was safe to leave, the owner of the house in which we hid took us to a friend’s home, in Toronto. The following night, those who had not been caught met to discuss strategy for the upcoming weeks.

We were all aware that Inácio was in trouble because he was now known by the police. He would have to hide for a bit longer. He would eventually be caught. The question was how long it would take!

Three of us had influence over the rest. I suggested that we stay in hiding at a friend’s house for one or two months while we waited for the opportunity to cross to the United States at the One Thousand Islands border. Near Brockville and Cornwall, there were established corridors for smuggling illegals between Canada and the United Statess through an Indian reserve. They would happily do it for a few dollars. This would help Inácio return to Portugal without being deported, which would allow him to come back to Canada with a clean slate. If he was deported, he would not able to return.

The other two, including Inácio, suggested that he shaved his head, grow a beard and move to North Bay where we could find a job in a construction site. Personally, I found it unrealistic and bound for failure. Hiding in a remote location with such an appearance would certainly cause suspicion. 

However, the group agreed on this strategy and, within a week, the RCMP arrested Inácio. They beat him senseless, threw him on muddy ground, ripped his clothes and took him to Montreal. At the end of that day, I picked up the phone and learned from the RCMP that Inácio was being deported to Portugal within the next two hours.  

When he arrived at the airport, in Porto, with ripped and dirty clothes, he was so embarrassed that he hid until nightfall. When he found the courage, he walked to Aguçadoura, his hometown.

In those days, such cases were frequent, although very few involved violence. However, they were traumatic, especially for those who had to leave their belongings in Canada and were prohibited from returning.

Although he had been unlucky, Inácio also found stints of good fortune. 

At some point, I convinced Inácio to open a joint bank account so we could be ready in case one of us were deported. This allowed him to save fourteen thousand dollars. A few months after his deportation, he used that money to fly to Venezuela. There, he worked at various jobs and, two years after his arrival, he decided to invest in an ice cream parlour.

The business became very popular until, one fateful weekend, a group of men robbed his store. In the process, they shot Inácio twice, leaving him to die.

He was a superb human being, but luck wanted nothing to do with him!

Leaver Muhrooms

Leaver Mushrooms, located in Mississauga, in the outskirts of Toronto, was the largest producer of mushrooms in Canada. Many new immigrants from Portugal, especially from the Azores, found work here.

The company had a separate building, near the production facility, that it used for housing and feeding the employees. This area, maintained by Mestre Juvenal, was always in impeccable condition. He was a peculiar individual, always ready to help. However, he demanded respect. I had an excellent relationship with him and his family the year I lived there.  

His wife was a saint. They had four children, three boys and a girl. Frank, the eldest, was effusive and had a contagious optimism, as did his sister, who attended university. Jesse, who was my age, only wanted to party. Peter, two or three years younger than I, was very intelligent and an excellent keyboard player. For many decades, I lost contact with them. At the start of last summer, as I planned to visit Canada, I began to search for them through social media. First, I found Jesse. A few months later, after we reconnected, he died of a heart attack.

The news hit me hard and, as a result, I desisted from searching for the others, even though I later also learned that two others had passed.

I felt that part of my youth had died with them.

At Leaver Mushrooms, I was hired to work in the logistics department. The supervisor was a short and harsh Japanese man. He treated the other two Japanese who worked there worse than dogs. The work, however, was light.

During the first year, my role was to receive boxes from production and store them in carts with five double shelves. Each shelve was able to accommodate eleven boxes, which made it easy to do the math at the end of the day because each cart would have 110 boxes in total. These carts would then be stored inside the large refrigeration facility.

As I spoke English, and since the logistics supervisor recognized my abilities and competence, I was promoted to his assistant. The reaction from the majority, mostly Portuguese, was not very favourable. Envy was immediately manifested.

I quickly realized that they began to whisper, “this individual just got here and he got a promotion.” However, it quickly got quiet again.

One of my Canadian colleagues, who was younger and about 180cm tall, did not like me and spent much of his time complaining that he was the one who deserved my job. He also frequently added that I was not only new there, I was also not Canadian. I made a conscientious effort to ignore the provocations, but mumbled to myself: “Am I ever lucky. I just got here and I’m already dealing with discrimination!”

For two weeks, I resisted the personal attacks. The other colleagues would ask him to stop, but he would not listen. As we worked seating down, he would stand over me and provoke me. It lasted for weeks.

One evening, tow of my friends, illegally in Canada, informed me that another, in the same situation, had been reported and was arrested by the police. In such situations, the police would place the person on the first flight to Portugal with whatever he had on at the time.

I wasn’t able to sleep and was always worried during the day.

As I was seating doing my job, he came back to provoke me. He wouldn’t listen to our colleagues pleading for him to stop. At some point, I got up and punched him straight in the forehead, right above his nose. He stumbled toward the stairs but I got to him and kicked him down the steps. When he got up, he ran out of the door and never returned.

In those days, such behaviour would result in dismissal, but I never understood why I wasn’t fired, although later I thought of some reasons.

This company, due to its accommodation facilities, provided the perfect conditions for illegal immigrants to assemble. I had information on who had arrived, where they were, who needed help and who needed to be taught a lesson. Once I acquired permanent residency, at the smallest prospect of trouble, the funds that belonged to an illegal immigrant would be deposited into a joint bank account so he wouldn’t lose his money. This also happened when we realized that someone was unable to resist the temptation to gamble, specially at a card game called ‘lerpa’, which was very popular at the time.