“Westender? Never heard of it.”
So goes my first attempt at chatting with one of the residents of Sugar Mountain, the six-week-old tent city that has sprouted up at 1131 Franklin St. It’s a large, vacant, city-owned lot tucked behind the Powell Street overpass on the edge of Strathcona. Across the street is the towering old Sugar Refinery, hence the camp name.
I cycle past the camp every day and I read the banners: “homes not shelters,” “we are people, we need answers,” and “support the ten year Tent City 2007 – 2017.”
Curious, I showed up at Tent City last week. The entire camp is contained within a chain link fence, with the only access being through a heavy, rolling gate. Tarps cover most of the fencing for privacy. About 30 tents are placed neatly along the inside perimeter. The grass is brown, like the rest of the city, and the camp is tidy. There is no natural shade. There’s a communal kitchen in the middle of the lot. Two porta-potties sit near the entrance, along with a row of large cans for recycling, compost and garbage. It feels well organized. When I arrive, a man is working on a bicycle. A few other bikes surround him.
From outside of the gate, I wave to a trio sitting at what appears to be a front desk of sorts; three chairs and a table under a pop-up canopy near the centre of the lot. I ask if I can come in. They beckon me forward and I squeeze myself through.
I introduce myself to J-Dog, a big, younger guy, and Dennis, an older fellow in a red baseball cap. Both are polite but guarded. A young pregnant woman sits between them and glares at me. She doesn’t shake my hand or offer her name. When I inform them that I’m a member of the media, my visit inside Sugar Mountain Tent City ends quickly.
“Get out,” states the woman, simmering with anger. “You twist our words. You are not allowed here. Leave now.” I try to explain that I’d like to chat with some of the residents, to report their stories, her story. “NO!” she shouts. She seems to be in charge. J-Dog rises from his chair and leans in. “Did you hear what she said? Go! Get out of here!” I look down at Dennis, who lightly shrugs his shoulders. Later, through the fence, Dennis tells me that he’s worried that if he talks to me, he’ll be kicked out.
I wander across the street to Rising Sun Motorcycles, a cool independent motorcycle shop run by Samson Lang, a born-and-bred Vancouverite. “It’s not that bad, to tell you the truth,” says Lang, when I ask him how it’s been, operating a business across the street from Tent City. “The construction site up the way has been broken into, but we haven’t had any major issues. The fire department and the police stop by daily, monitoring the safety of the camp and all that. People from over there have asked me for water and electricity, but I’ve turned them down because it’s just not feasible for me to provide that kind of stuff.”
Just as I am about to pedal off, I meet Amanda, who is leaving Sugar Mountain, also on a bike. She’s friendly, and tells me with a wry grin that she, too, thinks the press is a bunch of lying scumbags. I persist. As we pedal downtown together, she explains that she’s only slept within the confines of Sugar Mountain for about five nights. She really likes it though, because it’s safer than the streets, it’s fenced in, and there are strict rules, which include no fighting, no garbage, and even a “bed time.”
Amanda is a mother of two and once owned a home in Chilliwack. According to Amanda, when her husband sold it, he took the money and the kids, and now she’s homeless in Vancouver. Despite all of that, she thinks Vancouver is a beautiful city. Amanda also says that the answer to the crisis is “homes not shelters,” just like their banner reads. Back at Rising Sun Motorcycles, Samson Lang agrees. “There’s a housing crisis, yet there [are] vacant lots all over the place. The city is sitting on its hands.”
As if to prove their point, I couldn’t help but notice one other sign hanging on the fence of Sugar Mountain: “Absolutely no vacancy.”
