Why would anyone want to visit this Quebec town? For a dose of healthy living, locals tell LORRAINE MALLINDER
I PICKED A GOOD day to visit Asbestos. It’s raining, so the air should be clear of the needle-like fibres liable to cause nasty lung diseases. At least that’s what I tell myself as I cycle the 10km from the neighbouring town.
Paranoid? Perhaps a tad. It’s hard not to think of popping alveoli as I wheeze into the French-Canadian mining town, past slag heaps and man-made asbestos rock hills. And then there’s my first sight of the factory, grey and dismal in the driving rain.
Asbestos, spiritual home of a pariah industry, believes its eponymous export has been unfairly demonised. With an almost childlike earnestness, the town has launched a surreal tourism campaign focused on healthy living and adventure pursuits.
The centrepiece of Asbestos is Jeffrey Mine, a monster of a pit almost as large as the surrounding town. Viewed from the outdoor observatory in gale-force winds it is literally breathtaking. From up high the hulking orange trucks circling its graduated bowels look like Corgi miniatures. A couple of gangsta-rapper types from Montreal share the view. They look suitably impressed. "C'est gigantesque!"says one. Isn't he worried about inhaling asbestos? Hesitantly, he shakes his head.
With mining about to move underground, developers plan to convert the lunar landscape into an adventure playground, with tracks for all-terrain vehicles and bicycles. “It’s like a great big sandpit,” says Marc Cantin of the local tourist information service.
Should all go according to plan, intrepid holidaymakers will eventually get to drive the asbestos trucks for $50 (€40) a pop before descending more than 750m into the underground pit to feast on local fare such as poutine– chips and gravy topped with cheese curd – at the miners' restaurant.
At the town’s mineral museum I have a close encounter with an asbestos rock. “Tell me what you feel,” says curator John Millen. “It’s silky, isn’t it?” A local curiosity unto himself, the New Zealander, who arrived in Asbestos back in the 1960s, still has a strong Kiwi accent – in French and English. “It’s all about having fun,” he says. “I’m interested in what nature can provide as a festival for the eyes.”
The display of rocks from the local mine, with their deep purple and grey hues and misty gems, is impressive, but Millen is aware that it’s a difficult sell. I ask what people tend to come in for. Often the toilets, he says.
In a town whose identity has been hewn from the rock mined by generations of families, locals feel a deep attachment to the white stuff. I notice my female guide stroking a black, bubbly slab of asbestos roofing material with something akin to love.
The talk is peppered with eye-rolling anecdotes about scared tourists. Millen recounts the tale of the foolish American woman who cowered in a corner while her husband visited the museum, only to go outside afterwards and smoke a cigarette. It’s time for lunch. On my way out of the museum I inspect a lump of asbestos rock in the garden. “Don’t touch it! You might die in 50 years!” yells Millen.
I amble over to Le Fou du Roi – the Court Jester – for a pizza. By now, hemmed in from all angles by pro-asbestos types, I’m starting to feel like the silly American woman. Surreptitiously, I scan my lettuce leaves for white dust, though by now I’m too hungry to be fretting about trifles like asbestosis and mesothelioma.
Later there’s a trip down the road to the lapping waters of Trois-Lacs, a Mecca for anglers in the summer. Tourists come from all over Quebec to catch yellow walleye.
Seen from the shore, the surrounding countryside is lush and verdant, but still the spectre of asbestos looms. Can fish catch asbestos-related diseases? My guide flashes an exasperated glance. The river running into the lake does not run past the mine, she says.
In the lugubrious bar of a local hotel, the Complexe Hôtelier Le Williams, a group of retired miners remember old times. Gérard Camirand says that miners used to play snowballs with the asbestos dust. “Do we look ill?” he asks.
One of the drinkers does look a little poorly. André Brindle, who worked down the pit for four decades, wheezes and splutters between sips of Molson Export. “It’s nothing to do with the mine. He’s been like that for the past 30 years,” says Camirand.
Asbestos might be down there with anthrax spores in public-approval ratings, but you’d never know it here. It’s surely one of the least appealing holiday destinations on Earth, but the town with a dubious legacy is trying its damnedest to put on its brightest face for tourists.
Holiday in Hell, anyone?
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