Fourth Year

On August 1st, 2009, Sophie and I came back for a fourth year. We had come up a couple of weeks early to go to Pingualuit National Park. Pingualuit is an almost perfectly circular crater made when a meteorite crashed into the Canadian shield some 10 million odd years ago.

The mountains created by the impact are the only major topographical feature in an otherwise flat plateau that dominates the Ungava Peninsula. I can only imagine the first time an inuk, probably hunting caribou, climbed up to the top of these mountains to see what was on the other side. This is what he would have seen:


In 2009, the park was fully operational, and we flew in for a three-day camping trip. The first day was beautiful. We climbed up to the crater and basked in its beauty. The next two days, however, were rainy. One night, it was so rainy and windy that I didn't sleep a wink and actually got out of the tent to check the pegs not once but twice.

As we were getting ready to fly back to Kangirsujuaq, the skies opened up. We were in for a treat.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJvIzVT8rpY

Actually, the more impressive part of the flight came when we flew in the valley of the Wakeham River as we were approaching Kangirsujuaq. Unfortunately, the battery on the camera died en route from the crater, and we have only our memories of its incredible beauty.

That year, I taught social studies. I was able to take my students on a trip to Qajartalik, an island which is home to Canada's only arctic Dorset-era petroglyphs. There are hundreds of masks carved into the rocks at Qajartalik. We set out by boat on the Hudson Strait on October 1st and had an amazingly beautiful day.


We rode in a Peterhead boat named Qilalougak (beluga). We towed a canoe so some of the guides could go seal hunting.

We had fresh seal for lunch. I was a bit apprehensive at first, but found the heart and the ribs to be delicious.

One of the masks.
What a perfect day.

We arrived home after dark, tired and hungry, but completely content. The next day, I was bed ridden with a migraine headache and nausea. I couldn't even move. I think it may have been a combination of to much sun, not enough water, and camp stove fuel exhaust, but whatever, it was still worth it.

After Christmas, Sophie and I didn't return right away. Sophie was due to have Evie on the 17th of January, so I took a leave of absence from work until the beginning of April. I had asked for a shorter leave, but the school board suggested that I take a longer one because it would be easier to replace me. I obliged. By the time we had left, they had hired someone. He contacted me, and right from the beginning, I could tell that he was not going to go through with his commitments. I wrote him no less than 30 different emails, trying to allay his fears about everything under the sun. I even spent an hour and a half on the telephone with him on Christmas Eve trying to explain this and that. Sure enough, on January 5th, he was a no show at the airport.

This is one of the biggest differences between teaching in the South and in Nunavik. When you're sick, there is no one to replace you. If you take a paternity leave, there is no one to replace you. If you quit, there is no one to replace you; and if you don't show up for work, there is no one to replace you.

At one point, I wrote my flake of a would-be replacement an email. I'm not sure if he ever read it. In fact, I'm sure he flagged it as spam and went on with his life. I leave the text to you:

You probably have your reasons for backing out, and I'm not going to question them. I just thought that you should know that those students still do not have a teacher.

"There are two types of people in this world: those who do what they say they are going to do, and then there's everybody else." - Anthony Bourdain.

Sincerely,
James.

My students went weeks without a teacher. Just as this began to weigh heavily on my mind and we began to consider coming back early, the school board found Jacob, who came for the last six weeks of my leave and later stayed to fill another position. Since then, he has become a dear friend to all of us. In the end, it turned out to be a good thing that my replacement didn't show up.

We returned in April to finish out the year. When we arrived, we had no intention of coming back. However, I was outside with Noah on our first day back, and I was staring at the horizon that I had come to know so well. A rush of emotion welled up inside me and it was all I could do to not break down. I knew that Kangirsujuaq and I were not quite finished with each other. When we announced that we were moving to Montreal, the outpouring of support for us was so intense and overwhelming that when another opportunity to stay arose, we decided to take it.

More Goodbyes

Last night, we went to our friend Mary's house for what she called "the last supper" (I wonder who is going to get crucified). Actually, it was also the first at her house, but who is counting.

On the menu was roll-it-yourself sushi, featuring fresh arctic char as the star of the show. I sat at the table and gobbled roll after roll. I think I said "I'm really going to miss this fish," about thirty or forty times last night. I have been stuffing my gullet with country food for the past few weeks, trying to cram in as much as I possibly can before we re-enter the industrial protein chain. Mary and her husband were more than happy to oblige. For the first time in my life, I was also able to eat wild caught eggs.

Lukasi and a group of local hunters had spent the day on the land chasing eider duck, Canada goose, and seagull hens out of their nests in order to steal their brood.

We were able to try each of them. The eider duck egg was mild and rich, as was the goose egg. The most interesting was the seagull egg. I know you all are probably thinking how disgusting (or enticing, depending on your point of view) a McGull egg would be. But these animals do not dine on day-old buns behind the neighbourhood KFC. They eat fish, like you would imagine that something named "seagull" would. The shell was a dark camouflage. The inside was orange and soft-boiled. The yolk was very creamy and tasted of the ocean. With the combination of the texture, the surprising taste, and the temperature (it was cold), a few bites were more than enough. After satiating ourselves on fish and eggs, we walked home and I reflected on this and other dining experiences we've had over the past five years.

I remember once Sophie and Noah were in Montreal and I was here. The school's Centre Director came up to me just before lunch and asked me who was cooking for me. I motioned to myself, and he immediately insisted that I go home with him for lunch. "We don't want you to starve now," he said, matter of factly. Obediently, I followed.

We arrived to a spread of beluga muktuk (skin and fat) and arctic char. I sat down on the floor (the table in his house is covered in stuff and doesn't look like it gets used) with him, his wife, a couple of his grandchildren, and Adamie Inukpuk, who once played Nanook of the North in the movie Kabloonak. I remember thinking, "this is the coolest thing ever." I have had several similarly interesting culinary/cultural experiences over the past five years, and I am truly grateful for having lived each of them.

As much as I like to reflect on northern cuisine, I've spent an equally substantial amount of my time here thinking about what I'm going to eat when I get to Montreal. Near the end of every four-to-six month stint in Kangirsujuaq, my mind begins to wander and inevitably ends up fixating on one thing, and one thing only: Bangkok. I can't wait to go to Bangkok. I know, it's just a food court vendor, but over the past several weeks, I've again developed an obsessive craving for some squid with eggplant.

In Kangirsujuaq, we don't have access to a lot of the things that make city living agreeable. There are no restaurants. The produce comes in intermittently and often arrives in an already inedible and expensive state. They don't carry my type of razor blades at the Co-op Northern doesn't carry razor blades at all. A few weeks ago, I saw that they finally started carrying contact solution. My glasses are currently being held together with a piece of a twist tie because there are no opticians within 1000 km who could supply one of those little screws that holds the arms onto the frames.

But the protein... oh the protein. Fresher fish than you can find at any market. Organic, lean, and socially responsible caribou, fowl that lives outside and actually flies, and the freest of free range eggs.

I am going to miss that fish. I am going to miss that fish. I am going to miss that fish.

Day Care

For the past two years, I have sat on the Board of Directors at the day care. Let me tell you, when the school secretary called me in September 2009 to ask me if I wanted to be nominated, I was touched. However, I never expected that being on the day care committee would be such a tough gig.

The day care itself is a Southern concept, just like the school or the fire hall. After moving into villages and starting the 9-5 life, it only made sense for the Inuit villages to start day cares. Unlike the school, however, the day care is run and staffed almost exclusively by Inuit women.

Shortly before I started my two-year term, we had a group of five educators graduate from a CEGEP-level programme in Early Childhood Education, and not a moment too soon. Before that, the educators tried really hard, but most were really not trained well enough to know what to do to keep a group of 13 kids busy. It was often hard for us to send our son there.

After the educators graduated, the day care started to function more smoothly on a day-to-day basis. However, because it's such a small village, and such a difficult job, there are only just enough qualified educators to cover each of the classrooms. When your kid's educator is not there, they are often taken care of by someone who doesn't know what she is doing. I'm not being condescending or mean here. The replacements are just not trained. So, because I have a view of the day care from my kitchen table, my morning routine includes sitting at the table with baited breath, hoping to see my daughter's educator's car and my son's educator's Honda. When both are there, a smile spreads across my face.

Working as an educator in a day care is an extremely difficult job. If you have an office job, no matter how hard you work, these ladies are working harder. Have you ever taken care of 12 three-year-old kids at once? Would you? Not me, thank you very much. I couldn't take more than two years of looking after a dozen 11-year-olds, and had to move to teaching at the secondary level.

My term on the day care committee has been chock-full of small town drama. In-fighting between staff members, bickering between the staff and parents, and battles between parents themselves. When you are working with people's children, the expectations are high and the emotions are raw. When something happens, there is plenty of complaining and even more passion, and that's understandable. Two years ago, I had several issues with the day care, and that's one of the reasons why I joined the board.

Let me give you and example. At our meeting last week, we re-hired someone who we had previously fired because there was an opening and we realized that the kids needed her back. During the same meeting, we banned a parent from entering the day care for his transgressions. Both of these people had grown angry because of something that had happened to their child, and ultimately had to pay a hefty price for it.

As I was sitting there in the meeting, I realized that I was the only non-Inuk in the room (there are actually two qallunaat on the board but my colleague had to leave early). I was sitting there with five Inuit ladies. I scanned their faces and realized that three of these five women had buried their full-grown children during my 5-year tenure in Kangiqsujuaq. One of them had been beaten to death, another was killed by a drunk driver, and yet another committed suicide. On top of that, one had just buried her one-year-old grandson who died of poisoning. What is truly telling is that their experiences are not the exception, but rather the rule around here. There is enough pain and suffering in these little villages to fill a town ten times their size with paralyzing grief.

I couldn't imagine the pain that these women must have suffered and were in the midst of suffering. Yet amazingly, they continue to function and work hard to ensure the safety and happiness of the village's children.

Over the weekend, the drama with the parent we suspended had continued, so when I heard that we were going to have another meeting last night, I wasn't surprised. I was, however taken aback to discover upon arrival that all of the staff and board were throwing my family and I a going-away party. Each one of them took turns thanking us and telling us how much they love our kids.

Over the past few weeks, I've been thinking that one of the things I won't miss about Kangirsujuaq would be the day care. I stand corrected. I won't miss the drama, but I will miss the people.

Nicknames

Inuit leader, philosopher, and former politician Zeebedee Nungak once wrote in his excellent tongue-in-cheek article "Qallunology: The Inuit Study of White People" that "qallunaat were born to be nicknamed when they are living among Inuit". The practice originates from a time when there were few qallunaat here, and virtually no Inuit spoke English.

A few days ago, I got my nickname. I was sitting in the staff room with several Inuit teachers and another qallunaaq, and everyone was speaking in Inuttitut. As usual, I was sitting there with no idea what was going on. When this happens, I just sit there and passively listen, completely lost, soaking up every last minute of something that I won't get to experience in 10 short days. At some point, I clued in that the younger teachers were asking an elder how to say my colleague Jacob's name in Inuttitut. Apparently, it's Jakupusi. Then, they moved on to me. I've heard "Jaimisi" so many times that I knew what was coming. However, the elder didn't say "Jaimisi", she said "Kayuapik". Then I realised what was happening. She was giving Jacob and I nicknames.

Jacob had clued in too. "How do you decide on a nickname?"

"Well, in the old days Inuit couldn't say qallunaat names, so we made up a name by looking at their faces. I remember there was this old missionary that everyone used to call "umigaaalaq" (forgive/correct me if I'm wrong), because he had a huge beard."

In "Qallunology," Nungak adds that "it was not mere inability to pronounce English or French names, which gave rise to this custom. There was an attitude of ‘During your time in my space and environment, I will call you as I see you’ about it."

"So, what's mine again?" I asked

"Kayuapik," the elder replied.

"What does that mean?"

"Ummm.... brown." Later, I found out it actually means "little brown". Wonderful.

"So, does everyone have a nickname?"

"No, we don't do it that much anymore. We can say all of your names now."

I had read "Qallunaology" several times before that, so I knew very well that this practice was in the process of dying out. Nungak writes, " [Qallunaat] are now so common in such great numbers all over Inuit Nunangat that they have ceased to be the novelty they once were. Besides, the Qallunaat turnover rate is such that it is literally impossible to get a ‘feel in the bones’ handle on a subject sufficient to rate him or her with a decent atinnguaq [nickname]."

It only took five years for me to get my atinnguaq; just in time for me to become another statistic in the turnover rate.

The Red House Dance Club

On Thursday, we had a garage sale.

We didn't make signs or take out an ad in the paper (actually, I made signs, but Sophie just laughed at me. She was right). Rather, the day before and the day of the garage sale, I simply called the local radio station, known simply as the FM.

Ever since complaining that white people don't speak enough Inuttitut, I've thrown off my shroud of shame, and have been flaunting my pathetic vocabulary just to make people smile. Now, I'm repeating it to impress you (actually, it's totally the only reason I wrote this whole post). I called the FM and announced the garage sale. "Ullumi, garage salelangnaju, illu aupartuk iliniatitsiji Sophielu Jaimisilu, 4:00-6:00. Nakurmiik. Bring your money!"

Almost immediately, I got a call from the school secretary telling me how well I did. "You sounded just like a missionary!" He told me. I was touched. You see, years ago, when the missionaries began coming to Kangiqsujuaq, they all learned how to speak Inuttitut. They had no choice.

Well, let me tell you, if you want to throw a party in Kangiqsujuaq, just announce it on the FM. At 4:00 sharp, the red house was packed. It was seriously just like a dance club. We actually had to turn sideways and put our arms over our heads just to get from place to place. As the bartender, I didn't even have a chance to understand what was happening.

I felt like a bookie at the Kentucky Derby who was giving great odds. Everything was really cheap. Some things were so cheap that people actually giggled and made big eyes at each other.

At one point, an elder was eyeing up a glass bowl. Sophie had actually bought it at her daughter's garage sale five years ago before she moved to Montreal. She insisted that the elder take it for free. At another point, a woman tried to buy a little vase with flowers on it and a little poem about friendship that her husband gave me three years ago for my birthday. I also had to let it go for nothing. Only in a small village.

Anyway, the point wasn't to make money. It was to get rid of our stuff, and get rid of it we did. Then, all of a sudden and altogether too soon, it was over and our house was empty. I felt like a prostitute who had just had sex with a rich, teenage boy (whoah, slow down... hey... oh... that's it? Where are you going? Where did all of this money come from?). In twenty short minutes, a Sophie-James-Noah-Evies's-stuff-diaspora had spread throughout the village. Hopefully, people will think of us from time to time when using our old forks, binoculars, and unopened cans of shaving foam. If not, at least our stuff didn't end up in the dump.