The Totem and the Tourist

It had been raining for three days when Ines decided she couldn't visit another museum. She was spending two weeks in Vancouver, a city that she had wanted to see since she was a child, and so far she had seen it mostly from under an umbrella. On the bulletin board of her hostel, she found a small poster: "Carving workshop for visitors. Community center, Thursday, 10 a.m. Everyone welcome."

The community center was a long wooden building near the water. About ten people were sitting around a huge log of red cedar, which lay on the floor like a sleeping animal. Next to it stood a man with gray hair and strong hands. His name was Thomas, and he was an elder from one of the First Nations whose families have lived on this coast for thousands of years.

"This is a pole that I'm carving for a school," Thomas said. "Many visitors call it a totem pole. But it isn't something that people pray to. It's more like a book. Every figure on it tells a story that belongs to a family."

He pointed at the top, where a bird with a long beak was starting to appear. "This is Raven, the one who stole the light and gave it to the world. My grandmother told me that story every winter." Below Raven was a bear, which stood for his mother's family. "People often say that the figure at the bottom is the least important," he added with a smile. "But on many poles, the bottom figures are the ones that the best carver makes, because they are the ones that people see most closely."

Ines, who had studied art history in Seville, asked the question that had been in her head since she arrived. "Is it all right for a visitor like me to touch it?" Thomas nodded. "That's why you're here." He gave everyone a small block of cedar and a knife and showed them how to cut away from their hands. "Carve something that has a story," he said. "Something that matters to the person who carves it."

Ines thought for a long time. Then she started carving a small fish, the kind that her grandfather used to catch in the river near his village in Galicia. After two hours, the result looked more like a potato than a fish. When Thomas came to look at her work, she felt embarrassed. But he didn't look at the shape for long. "Tell me about the man who caught these fish," he said.

So she told him about her grandfather, who got up before sunrise every Sunday and who sang to the river because he said it brought him luck. Thomas listened carefully. When she finished, he said, "Now it's a good carving."

Today the little wooden fish that looks like a potato sits on a shelf in her living room in Spain. Every time a friend asks what it is, Ines tells two stories: one about a river in Galicia, and one about a rainy morning in Vancouver.