Opinion

Partway down my well-beaten path from West Broadway to The Forks, three boys bouncing along ahead of me, I feel a bit like Dorothy navigating Oz. The path ahead is lined with Winnipeg’s version of dancing poppies and flying monkeys: hazards, confrontations and ghostly spectres to which we’ve become perhaps far too accustomed.

We pass the park behind the Granite Curling Club, the one with Tyndall-stone shards of the original main branch of the post office, chipped and spray painted, upon which sits a shirtless man, smoking and disassembling a bike among the skeletons of several others.

The encampment there has spread up from the riverbank toward Granite Way. More campground than encampment, at what point do we declare something permanent?

We pass the parking lot at the centre o

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