Virgin Protesters

Going to your first anti-globalization protest can be a scary experience. Protesters tell you to bring goggles, vinegar-soaked bandanas, liters of water, even gas masks. But is it over-blown hype? Do we really think cops will use tear gas on citizens? And what is an affinity group supposed to do at these protests anyway? Geoffrey Chan followed seven curious twenty-something friends to Quebec over the course of three days and came back with this diary.

Friday 6:30 am.

We arrive at Laval University after a back-aching nine-hour bus ride, and immediately feel the cold in our bones. Half asleep, we stumble to the gym which is to serve as our sleeping area. As we enter the large building, Cheyenne shoots me a worried look. She's looking at this -- 3,000 sleeping bags lined wall to wall, full of snoozing protesters, filling what looks like every inch of space available. That could mean a large radius of snore pollution. "I feel like I'm in a refugee camp," says Ann. "This is so disorienting."

10:30 am.

Boredom sets in as we wait for the Carnival against Capitalism march to get going. We've been waiting for an hour now and people are getting grumpy. "Let's go!" shouts Ayse, who's had 6 hours of sleep in the last two days. While waiting, we make our first two decisions as an affinity group. One -- stick to green events, and two -- pick a name. Mark suggests something symbolic, like the Emiliano Zapata's or the Rosa Luxembourg's. The group settles on Lasagne -- simple, yet multi-layered, with a slight nod to Oka's most famous militant.

5:15 pm.

The march goes off smoothly, but begins morphing into something less predictable when we hit rue Charest and Dorchester. Protesters are heading up the hill toward the wall, where riot cops are lying in wait. The determined crowds march upwards. Lasagne members, dying with hunger, stop to eat instead. And proceed to miss all the action at Rene Levesque and Claire-Fontaine. Instead, we become glued to the live tv footage at the cafe where we're eating. By the time we've finished, the skirmishes are over. "Will we get another chance?" wonders Cheyenne.

3:00 am.

Back at Laval, I'm woken up by a thud against my right side, and turn to see a 300 pound guy, reeking of beer breath, spread-eagled at right angles to my hip. He's passed out and probably nowhere close to where his own sleeping bag should be. I'm more concerned about Ayse, though, who looks like she's been steam-rolled.

Saturday 2:15 pm.

We're on the official People's Summit march, which is buzzing from euphoria and celebration after the packed public forum attended by Maude Barlow and Jose Bove. Soon, however, we reach the street where it branches off towards the wall. Six of us decide we want to go up and reach the fence. Then we catch our first whiff of tear gas wafting down from the hill, and the mood immediately changes from one of festivity to one of fear. Not everyone is down with heading that way anymore. Half of the group doesn't have goggles and vinegar bandannas. "We're not comfortable doing that," say Ayse, Sanaz and Hon, who want to split and follow the green march. The group agrees to meet up later in the day.

2:40 pm.

We're walking up a tiny side street above rue D'Agarnon near the wall. The cops are tear-gassing the area like crazy. I have this eerie feeling that I'm in a war movie, as if we're heading up a dangerous flank towards an unseen enemy. Mark, who doesn't have goggles, starts bawling, and he decides he can't go further. We push on ahead, and finally reach Rene Levesque. Huge crowds are spread out between the wall and rue St Jean. We keep ourselves close to an easy exit but it's no use when the sky suddenly starts raining teargas canisters. We scatter like flies down the slope. Richard is blinded and starts panicking, and we lose Ann. Cheyenne gives his eyes a flush while a stranger offers saline solution. It's not enough to save him from extreme nausea later, though. "I was overcome by this horrible sensation, where I couldn't see or breathe," he says later.

5:00 pm.

In the middle of another gas attack, Cheyenne gets a call from Sanaz, Ayse and Hon, who are quaffing beer at the green festival in Victoria Park. They say hi.

9:30 pm.

Reunited, we head to the overpass at Charest, where dozens of young protesters are banging on metal objects in defiance of the cops. Outrage fills the air as tear gas canisters spill into this green zone. "What the fuck are they doing?" screams Mark "Look at that!" Later on, a small group of youths start a bonfire, and before long, the wooden fencing nearby is being ripped up to feed it. "They're acting like this because they don't feel they're being heard," says Ayse.

Sunday 11:00 am.

Laval U. is emptying out fast as protesters return to their cities and towns, while jail solidarity vigils start at D'Orsainville. On the bus back to Toronto, we reflect on the two days just passed, not really sure whether it's all been just one bad dream. "Something like this happening in Canada? It's surreal," says Richard. Cheyenne: "I try to imagine what it would've been like if I hadn't come and I had to rely on media like the dailies to get information. It was important to see it with my own eyes. I felt I had to be a witness. And what I saw of the police actions was shocking and sick."