Ice Culture

After walking by the ocean yesterday I have figured out why the Inuktitut word for 'Hello' is 'Ai' and 'Yes' is 'Aa'. It is because that freaking wind blowing down from the north is so cold, my jaw freezes within seconds. It also probably explains why the Inuit speak so slowly, and are not what one would call excitable.
I have cable, which is a godsend, in part because often they air Indian and Pakistani music videos. Great music and dancing, and lots of beautiful saturated colours in the clothing. Everyone here dresses in the gray spectrum, and even I, who veers towards black, am craving colour.
An occupational hazard is dressing for the cold, which means a parka and snow pants. When I am making a home visit, I often end up kneeling on the floor, as is local custom. A linoleum floor. In snow pants. I am not blessed with physical grace, less so when swaddled in winter clothing. I can only imagine what I must look like trying to get up again, and comfort myself with the knowledge that I have provided one family, at least, with a good laugh.

Saturday

This morning I went for a walk with the temp nurse along the atv tracks up by the dump. To do it, we had to scale a high-ish hill, from the top of which we could see out across the water to Digges Island. The tundra looked as if someone had sprinkled it with icing sugar, and the sea was a cool shade of navy blue. It is much more beautiful up here in the winter. The landscape is less hostile and its easier to believe that I am in the north.
We found ptarmigan tracks, and fortunately the ocean is free of ice so polar bears are not a threat at this time. A pack of barely domesticated dogs followed us, and for once I did not mind their smelliness, as they are the early warning system for wolves. I could really be persuaded to adopt a pup from the next litter. I think the life of a dog up here is bleak and short, and I would love to bring one back down south with me to live as my pampered 'companion animal'; however, a huge sled dog in a 5 1/2 apartment in urban Montreal would not be fair either. Plus I am sure my cat would not be in agreement with the whole deal.
I spent an exciting evening in front of the television, knitting and watching the Canadians get trounced. Before going to bed I peeked through the blinds of my living room window and was mesmorised by the sheets of blowing snow being whipped past by the wind. The shed 20 feet away was pretty well obscured. I thought, 'Ya gotta be freakin'kidding me!' and began mentally pleading with any potential crisis clients in the town to not take actions that would require my involvement until morning. Fortunately the on-call walkie talkie that I schlepp around has been quiet so far, but it would be just my luck that it would ring in the middle of a blizzard.

Remembrance Day

Thursday, November 9. Today I attended a meeting for residential school alumni who are about to be recompensed for being sent away from their families back in the 1950s and ‘60’s. There were about 15 Inuit and 2 southerners (me and the government lawyer.) This is the first time that the government has ever sent a representative to this Inuit community for the express purpose of discussing residential school issues. There is a lot of pain, even after all this time, for the elders. The lawyer droned on for a good hour about the scale of compensation and who will get what and when. Near the end, I became aware of an elderly woman further along my row, who began to sob and then to wail. The other attendees did not move to console her. Having no idea what was culturally appropriate, I went over and sat beside her. The meeting was still in progress so I just sat there and rubbed her back.
I walked out of there feeling extremely conscious of my ethnicity and the baggage that comes with it here in the north. As a man had said in the meeting, 'All that pain didn't need to happen.'

Going Up

Montréal, Wednesday, October 18, 2006, 5 p.m.

I have just received confirmation from my long-suffering friend Y.(brave and noble soul) that she is willing to care for my cat while I commit to another contract as a social worker in Nunavik, this time from November to February. I briefly pause while considering the ramifications of going north yet again, this time in the dead of winter and over Christmas, before pure excitement kicks in and I call my supervisor in Puvurnituq to say I am ready to go. We agree that I will fly on the 1st of the month.

Montreal, November 1, 2006, 7 a.m.

I am in the taxi going to Dorval airport, driven by the emigré from Prague who drove me to the airport the last time I went north. He feels comfortable enough with me now to audibly question my sanity for going to Nunavik in winter. I relish a moment of feeling superior to the hapless masses not willing to work in an Inuit community thousands of miles from nowhere, then guilt kicks in, as part of the reason I wanted a job up north was to be able to justify buying fashionably rugged winter clothes. And a laptop.
12:30 p.m. Kuujjuaraapik. We are grounded due to a mechanical failure. The Dash-8's landing gear is locked, fortunately in the 'down" position, and they have called for a mechanic to come from Montreal. This will take at least 3 hours.
I have only ever seen its airport, yet I like this town. It has 3 names, reflecting the cultural makeup of the region: Kuujjuaraapik ('Little Great River")/Great Whale River and Whapmagoostui ("Place of the Beluga,") yet all I see from the airport window are industrial buidings and the occasional ATV. It turns out to be a good thing that I like it. I am to be stuck here for 6 hours.
Finally, at 6:30 p.m. in the pitch black, the other stranded passengers and I are herded through the blowing snow and onto a WWII -vintage Twin Otter. I did not know these suckers could fly at night, but apparently this one will take us at least as far as Puvirnituq, 2 hours away.Unfortunately for my peace of mind, the guy who will be flying the plane is the spitting image of that wack-job pilot from 'The A-Team', except this one is speaking French. I sit in the very back, on a single jump seat, and wedge my feet around boxes of medical supplies destined for one of the northern nursing stations.
As the plane's props begin to kick in, I quickly run through and confess to any outstanding sins that may prevent me from getting into Heaven. We accelerate along the gravel landing strip and somehow manage to take off. Even though the plane is rocking from side to side, we miraculously remain airborne.The young man sitting across from me, obviously not a keen flyer, is moaning and rocking. I can see in the dim light that his eyes are screwed tightly shut. I resolutely stare straight ahead and gnaw my way through a complete bag of hallowe'en chocolates.