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.
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.
posted by catherine at 2:54 pm
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