I was down in Vancouver recently, for the Union of BC Municipalities annual convention; my first time in Vancouver since UBCM in 2019, which came as something of a surprise to me as I worked out the dates on the drive down. Apart from the time I lived in Britain in the 1990s, it’s the longest gap between visits there in my life, and I idly wondered what differences I’d spot.
The answer was far more brutal than I could have imagined.
I came off Highway 1 at Boundary and decided to take a straight shot down Hastings Street, figuring that as it was 8 p.m. on a Sunday traffic would be light. As I stop-start-stopped my way through a series of red lights, I saw nothing out of the ordinary, until I got just west of Jackson Street, and everything changed.
What you don’t see — from snippets on the news — is that the homeless population on Hastings Street is not confined to a block or two; it’s not just a “Woodwards” thing. The homeless, the challenged, the desperate or forlorn, those with mental health or addiction or physical health issues (or some crushing mix of the above) are strung out along eight or so blocks, starting at around Jackson.
The crowds along the sidewalks — both sides of the street — start out sparse, but swell quickly as I head west, towards the epicentre. People sit, stand, sprawl, stagger, sleep surrounded by a sea of garbage that spills over the curb and laps at the wheels of cars.
No one can want to live like this, if it can even be considered a viable way to live, or indeed “living” in any humane sense of that word. No one pictures this for themselves when they are growing up; no one pictures it for their child or brother or aunt.
At Richards, however, the homeless … disappear. Now you see them, now you don’t, as if someone drew a line and said “You shall not pass.” We’re into the tourist area now, a place of boutiques and high-end hotels and pricey restaurants, its sidewalks packed with tourists, all eager to document their trip. It would seem, however, that others are eager that the homeless population not form part of anyone’s vacation pictures on Instagram or Flickr. I’m staying at the Fairmont Waterfront, and during my entire stay I don’t see anyone in the area who looks remotely homeless.
The Jack the Ripper murders of 1888 were shocking to many at the time: not only because of their brutality, but because they shone a light on a dark corner of London that many preferred not to think too hard about. People were shocked by the squalour and filth, the darkness and depravity and despair that they suddenly discovered existed less than a mile from glittering squares and sumptuous residences — from actual palaces — in the wealthiest city the world had ever known.
In Vancouver, nearly 140 years later, I saw this same dichotomy playing out: wealth and splendour and prosperity only two or three short blocks from despair and hopelessness. The hotel I stayed at offered in-room dining, with a simple breakfast of two eggs, bacon, toast, and hash browns costing $34 (plus taxes, a service charge, and mandatory 18 per cent gratuity). Riley’s Fish and Steak around the corner offered an eight-ounce tenderloin for $64 (add butter-whipped potatoes and charred broccolini for another $25; garlic prawns are $26). It’s a world away — in every way — from what you see a few blocks east.
While I was stopped at a red light at Carrall, the opening notes of “Here Comes the Sun” played on the radio. “It’s all right,” sang George Harrison.
It’s not.
We have to be able to do better. What’s playing out on the streets of Vancouver, and elsewhere, is a tragedy of epic proportions, and anyone who claims there’s a simple or easy answer is lying. But we need to find answers, for the sake of those lost souls who can no longer help themselves.
