ABOUT

16 March 2019.
The hotel wake-up call broke the black silence. I looked for the Auroras outside my window, but the previous evening spectacle had vanished as dawn approached. The early breakfast was waiting in the dining room, and the waitress bellowed in broken English that the light drifting over the horizon was our boat. In my mind, I corrected her: a ship. A boat can fit onto a ship; a ship can't fit onto a boat, or so they say.
An hour later, under a lightening sky in sub-zero temperatures, we boarded the ship to Kaangamuit, the Inuit village mid-way up the West coast of Greenland: population 350 and shrinking.
Making my way below deck, I walked into an invisible cloud of diesel fume and stale air: ship smell, one of many reasons I love going to sea. A lady and four children ate a home-brought meal in the main lounge. Crumpled tin foil lay on the table under the 'Ship bought food only' sign. The crew turned a blind eye; possibly, the hint of a Crazy Lady onboard made them cautious. I avoided eye contact.
We rounded the last beacon of Manitsoq and steamed north; I layered up with almost everything I brought from home and went up to the outside deck. A lady stood at the railing covered in seal skin: hat, coat, trousers and boots; her glowing red nose the single clue alluding to any human presence in the fur ensemble. I pointed at her, then my camera, and she nodded as I clicked. Thoughts of being grossly underdressed for this trip started to creep in.
By midmorning, the sun warmed the air to -12 Celsius. I stood watching the landscape drift by. A voice from behind broke the crisp silence; it was Crazy Lady addressing me in Danish, switching to English when noticing there wouldn't be an answer. She asked if I knew about the mountain. As there were many, I asked which one? She pointed to a peak and spoke of a young girl who saw her soon-to-be husband capsize his kayak and drown; she took her own life by stepping off that mountain. Musing on our ship that was, at that moment, gliding over a scene of unfortunate misery many years ago, I sensed there was more to the tale. Narrowing her eyes and lowering her voice, she asked if I noticed the red; on a clear day, red is visible on the mountain. I admitted I wasn't looking for red, but I may have seen it had I known. I had a vague idea of where this was heading. The red, she said, was the blood of the grieving girl that has stained the mountain forever.
The voyage proceeded over the next 4 hours, sailing through majestic fjords before arriving at our new temporary home.


17 March 2019.
Sunday, and our first morning in the village. Figuring I would reach more people in one swoop, we attended the church service to make our arrival known.
The first hymn caught me by surprise; I hadn't noticed the balcony above my head as we walked in and where the small choir was gathered. I finally understand the term Angelic. Minutes later, the pastor entered from a side door. We seated as the hymn ended, and the robed figure turned and faced us. The features looked astonishingly familiar; after a few seconds of frantic recall, I found myself again face to face with Crazy Lady. Bordering on cooee, I mouthed a hello. Mercifully, I suppressed the urge to wave. She ignored me. I marveled at her pastor makeover. The ship's signage and crew made sense; this was someone you gave a wide berth.
Thankfully I never saw her again the rest of the day; the urge to apologize for thinking her Red story absurd was gaining strength.


8 March 2019.
The departure of the southbound ship today had me mingling about the jetty. The twice-weekly ship arrivals and departures are a popular event in the village. Like the departure lounge of an international airport in a small country, family and old friends are welcomed and sent off with fanfare.
Along with passengers, small cargo is transferred from ship to shore and vice-versa: large screen TV sets, hunting rifles, bar fridges, and supplies not found in the local general store.
The pastor was among the outgoing passengers and had transformed again into Crazy Lady. Careful not to mention anything remotely related to mountains, kayaks and red, I wished her farewell.


19 March 2019.
We stumbled over Grethe Benedikte Ulrikke Barbara Lyberth Villadsen's christening party in the town hall. We hovered at the entrance hoping to get given the nod of approval. It wasn't long before a middle-aged lady clad in traditional Inuit clothing motioned us to step inside.
There were three lines of tables running the length of the room; two were for seating, and the middle was for food. It was the middle line that got my attention. At the head of the table was one Pilot Whale pectoral fin on a large platter. A plate of raw seal meat followed by a plate of Caribou ribs and then a plate of Caribou stomach was next: stepping and repeating the room's length with various lumps of meat and fish species on offer.
With precious little English around, I asked a local to explain the flipper on the platter. A lady said the name in her Greenlandic dialect and swooshed both arms across her bent knees in what was supposedly a whale tail. She insisted we try a piece. Being on the conservation side of Cetaceans and a vegetarian, I avoided the offer by creatively changing the subject. It was tough to see whale parts on platters. A cell phone was passed down the row of seated guests. A young voice on the other side explained that she was calling from Greenland's capital, Nuuk, many miles south. She said her father, who was in the room, insisted we help ourselves to the huge feast. It was getting tricky as most of the room was now watching our reaction to the voice on the phone. I noticed a smaller table in the corner and was relieved to see this would be our salvation. It was piled with cakes and sweets, also tea and coffee. I crossed the room and heaped a plate with chocolate cake. I went back for thirds thinking if I ate as much cake as humanly possible, it would relieve me of any social responsibility at the meat table. It was also a great chocolate cake.


20 March 2019.
Self-doubt manifests in my step each time I pass the open-air butchery on the main road. I'm convinced it is the only place on the planet where I've seen a butchered seal on Google Street. The gathered men always seem gruff. A tremendous amount of concentration is needed not to slip on the icy road; there'd be nothing worse than backbreaking cartwheels past those guys, and I think nothing better for them.
I greet the men each day, but there's little in return. After the first week, I gave up the idea of being on friendly terms with the local butchers. Being a vegetarian, I'm not too concerned, but this being a small village means not getting to know a large chunk of the populace.


21 March 2019.
Last night I noticed a fearfully awkward man on the dance floor at the town hall party. I'm no dancer for reasons displayed by this trooper. My heart went out to him; I felt we were kindred spirits. While admiring his grit through each performance, I noticed he was one of the village butchers. As they say in the classics, the snow boot was firmly on the other foot. Dialing the flash to full bore so he would notice me, I took a picture.
I passed the butchery today and looked out for my new friend. The newfound acceptance was short-lived; I was once again invisible to them.


22 March 2019.
With the onset of the North Wind, the village is hunkering down. The general store is busier than usual.
A few feet in front of the hot bread oven and slightly to the right of the alcohol section, ammunition of numerous calibers is sold. To the left, a white sheet is pegged onto a makeshift rail draped over the hunting rifles for sale.
I detected a slight urgency in the checkout lady's voice as she packed our supplies. Listening to her speak worried me. I am easily worried in gale-force winds; a frightening 37 hours in the Southern Ocean many years ago has scarred me for life.
Early evening and the storm has enveloped the island. I quietly hope Greenland enforces strict building codes; our little wooden house will be taking a beating over the following hours, probably days.
As fearful as it is, the soft snow falling through the shafts of streetlights is hypnotic.


23 March 2019.
At daybreak, rain has replaced snow, and the village is in what looks like a lockdown. I get the feeling the Inuit who face anything the elements lay in their path have an aversion to rain; when rain falls, they stay indoors.
The daily 7:30am traffic of 8 people who cross the 10-meter wide channel in an unofficial water taxi to the fish-packing factory has been cancelled. Quiet and deserted, the village has vanished under the alternating rain, snow and wind.


24 March 2019.
Day 3, and the lockdown starts to suffocate. A local drunk dancing on the street dressed in underwear was hastily escorted inside before he injured himself or froze. The rain has turned the road to slush rendering the village quite ugly.


25 March 2019.
Day 4, and the worst is over. Smokers are again smoking outside their homes. The water taxi has ferried its 8 passengers to work this morning and has come back to wait for 4pm to bring them home again. There's a break in the storm, and our home still standing upright is a relief.
We are gearing up to walk to the supply store to recharge our tiny pantry; we have consumed just about everything while watching the storm wreak havoc outside our windows.


26 March 2019.
The village power and water plant utility is operated by three men. They have graciously offered us the use of the washing machine and tumble dryer. We now have fresh clothes once a week.
A Polar Bear came ashore last year and was shot at the village dump by the father of one of the utility men. The father's arm was severed during a whale hunt that went horribly wrong several years back. I wondered how a man with one arm holds a hunting rifle upright.


27 March 2019
This morning I met an elderly gentleman stumbling about on the main road. I offered to help carry some of his supplies up the many steps to his house. Sensing his good fortune, he loaded me with everything he had: three shopping bags and a 20-litre Jerry Can of fuel; he also had me share the weight of the loaded beer crate. At this point, besides his half of the beer crate, I was carrying everything.
Surmounting missing sections in the rickety stairway and crossing a small snowfield, knee-deep at times, we arrived at his front door. I was sweating in the cold air; getting there was a pain in the arse, but his view of the village and the far reaches of the Davis Strait were spectacular.
I put the supplies down and turned to get my breath. Apprehensively I watched him light a cigarette and connect the Jerry Can to the house's central heating supply line. It was midmorning, and now clear to me he was tanked; it's what some out-of-season hunters and fishermen do to pass the time in the village.
He said I was a strong old man; clearly, one of us was misreading our apparent age gap. I asked how old he was, and he mumbled something that sounded three years younger than me. Entering the house, I noticed a rifle propped in the corner with a broom leaning against the ironing board. It was his favourite rifle; the one he shoots whales with.
With the language barrier set in stone, we both mimed a whale hunt to be sure we were on the same page. He aimed the rifle, and I steered a small speedboat amid a pod of imaginary whales. Until this point, besides the nightmare that happens each year in the Faroes, the whale hunts I know are done from large whaling ships with exploding harpoons. I was suitably impressed and a little depressed.
He slipped a cartridge into the breach and slammed the bolt home. It was 10 am, and I had just finished my Greenlandic morning ritual of a bowl of 3 Minute Oats with a handful of Marie biscuits and two cups of coffee. The men gathered in the suffocating smoke-filled house were on their 2nd, possibly 3rd crate of beers. I thought this was how domestic gun accidents happen. Another pull on the bolt had the round popping out and scuttling across the floor. Laughing wildly, he showed me the empty barrel. My neck muscles relaxed.
He took me down to the unheated frozen basement. Musk Ox and Reindeer bones and antlers were strewn across the floor. The remains of a Pilot Whale hung from a nylon rope off a crossbeam; I inwardly winced at the sight of what was left of the beautiful silky black skin. This is where he creates his art: minutely hand-carved hunting scenes in bone and antlers. He gifted me two pieces, one incomplete antler and one in stone. I took this to be his gratitude for the groceries I had just hauled up the side of the mountain.


28 March 2019.
Last night we were invited to a family farewell in the community centre; they were part of the slow migration from the village to the bigger towns in Greenland.
The folks gathered were quietly sipping tea and nibbling pastries. Finding two empty chairs’ we sat down and joined the subdued get-together. Moments later, everyone gathered at the head of the table. A game was explained and then played. The room erupted. The raucous laughter continued until the game ended, and the contestants were back in their seats with fresh tea and pastries. This sequence was repeated over the following hours. Excepting the 8-year-old girl who had unfortunate and uncontrollable giggles as she mowed down the fruit centrepiece, there was a slightly uncomfortable silence between games.
The more riveting event of the evening was the mildly suggestive women standing with paper towel rolls jammed between their thighs on one side of the room and their partners walking from the other with wooden spoons protruding from their crotches. The aim was to insert the erect handle of the wooden spoon into the waiting paper roll core without using hands. A bit edgy, I thought, once I understood the rules. This was clearly the evening's highlight, as all contestants loved it, the adults who understood the score and the young kids who hopefully didn't.


29 March 2019.
Other than the single municipal snow plough, a snowmobile belonging to a young man blasts up and down the narrow main road all day long; an angled cigarette perched on his lip and sometimes a rifle slung over his back, he has fashioned himself as the village dude; its stuff the average Harley rider on any Sunday breakfast run aspires to be. He said he makes good money working on deep-sea commercial fishing ships, a few months on and off.
Today he offered me a ride home. There were three of us onboard, which didn't stop him from riding like a lunatic. Familiar faces on the side of the road flew past my watered eyeballs, and babies in prams were hurriedly pushed out of the way; I felt a little embarrassed, as I may have been the cause for the more than-usual wild performance. It is a village, and the journey took less than a minute.


30 March 2019.
When Elizabeth introduced herself, she slipped her sealskin mitten off to shake my hand. Distracted by the ease with which the mitten came off and how bare her hands were inside them, I asked her to repeat her name. I pulled off the outer layer of my high-tech glove and shook her hand with my inner thermal layer still on. I felt feeble. A few minutes exposed to the Arctic air left my African-born hands burning with intense pain.
When greeting Elizabeth each day, she would ask if we had seen the 'Beeg Eegul'? It got to the point I would say yes even though we hadn't so as not to disappoint her. The eagles, one of many creatures that form part of the Inuit psyche, are regulars in the village sky. Elizabeth is a guardian of Inuit tradition, occasionally travelling to far-flung places, performing Inuit drum and mask dancing at cultural get-togethers.
One bitterly cold afternoon on top of a mountain, Elizabeth exhibited how as a kid, she would trap wind in her jacket, which was slung over her head, and attempt to lie parallel to the ground: balancing wind and gravity.
An eagle appeared in the distance. Leaning at a 45' angle, she called out to the bird. At first, nothing happened. A few more fake eagle shrieks had the bird slow and change its course our way. My left eye tracked the bird's movement as the right eye vaguely tried to focus on Elizabeth through the camera, now resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa. My ever cynical self thought it crazy: the bird was undoubtedly gliding toward her. Once the bird detected it had been duped, it changed its arc back to the original flight path through the grey sky.
We were excited; it was really close, and the bird seemed to heed the fake call. In fact, it did. Elizabeth was a little surprised but tried to hide it.


31 March 2019.
Elizabeth taught me how to beat an Inuit drum and to skate on frozen water in hiking boots (sprinkle the ice with fresh snowflakes: boots become skates). She also showed us how to ride sealskin.
Taking us to one of the highest points on the mountain, she gave us a quick to-do list and disappeared down the side on her pelt. I silently apologized to the previous owner of my pelt and followed her down the side. Soon, I was blinded by encrusted snow from the wake of my boots. The last 10 or so meters, I was flying blind. I shot over a ledge and crash-landed in an unseen snow-covered trench on my back. For a few excruciating minutes, I thought I'd never walk again. Elizabeth thought this was hilarious; the Inuit lady had a dark sense of humour.


1 April 2019.
There's another Greenland flag in the air, only one today. Sometimes there are a few. A house with a flag outside means it is the occupant's birthday. Throughout the day, the villagers will drift in and out. Once the outdoor clothing and shoes are stripped off and money handed over to the birthday boy or girl, all are welcomed at the bottomless table of food; any sign of it diminishing and more platters are brought in.
When Elizabeth collected us to attend our first birthday party, I was concerned we'd be gate crashing. She asked how much money we had and carefully picked through our local currency in hand, making three neat piles of coins: two for us and one for her. We would apparently be very welcome.


2 April 2019.
A man who has been peeking behind his curtains each time we walked past his house startled me this morning when he suddenly appeared standing before me. At last, he had found the courage to introduce himself. He was awkward, maybe shy, possibly something else.
He mentioned he likes American people. Frequently, I get mistaken for being an American when off the beaten track; I told him I'm South African. He asserted it impossible, as I'm white, adding he likes black people. I recalled a rumour that some village folk were a little disappointed I was white; getting whiter the longer I stay in the cold climate with minimal sun. He changed tack and said he likes American music; with The Violent Femmes hit briefly thrashing through my head, I agreed.
He invited us into his home and gave us a tour of the framed family on the walls. A house plastered with framed family snaps is the norm in the village. I came across a picture of a buff young man dressed to kill. On closer inspection, I noticed it was our host clad in a karate suit held fast with a black belt. This was a few years before when he was a master of Taekwondo. Something had happened; I didn't ask, but I gathered those days are a distant memory.


3 April 2019.
The boy was throwing his mother's butter knife at a block of polystyrene held by his younger sibling. I thought of William Tell.
His perfect English surprised me. I learnt he is the son of the toilet man and is home from boarding school in the capital Nuuk. The toilet man, fondly known by us as Poopie Man, collects the black toilet liners twice weekly. Besides the nursing home, there is no running water in the toilets in the village. Thick plastic bags are placed into the toilet bowl and splashed with a disinfecting liquid after each use. It gets skanky a day or two before 'toilet day'.
He is a large, strong-built Inuit hunter with a gentle demeanor. Other than being the resident volleyball coach, toilet collection is his off-hunting season task in the village.
Initially, I was self-conscious, ducking and diving each time he walked into our cabin; the front door permanently unlocked meant he had free reign. Earlier, I would go for long walks hoping it would be done by my return. But soon, I noticed nobody gave a shit, so to speak. I now welcome him inside on collection mornings while buttering my toast or making porridge. A fresh toilet in Greenland is like slipping into clean, ironed linen after a challenging day. I'm afraid to ask where it all goes after the day's collection is done.


7 April 2019.
The winter wonderland that was the village the weeks before is fast becoming a mess as snow turns to slush. The seasons change rapidly in the north. The time difference between sunsets on arrival to sunset near our departure a month later is two hours, three if you count the daylight savings. The melting snow runs off the mountain in rapid steady streams; small dams built by the kids overflow and wash away within minutes. There is a new energy in the village. The arrival of Snow Buntings adds to the bird population; the ever-present Ravens and Eagles have new company in the sky.
In a village of 350 inhabitants, the sudden appearance of strangers was puzzling. On closer inspection, they are the same folk but in a state of undress as the temperatures rise. The specialized arctic clothing I was accustomed to seeing them in is replaced with slimmer fitting outfits; the village is losing weight overnight.
After weeks of layered clothing, my body craved freedom. Gearing up is an average 10-minute ordeal each time I step out the front door. Yesterday when the temperature reached an acceptable 1'C, I peeled down to baggies and a t-shirt and stepped outside for my first beer under a blue Greenland sky. I pushed it for an hour before making a careful dash for the heated cabin interior. Flip-flops on beach sand aren't pleasant; flip-flops in the snow are masochistic.
The changing season means the whale hunt is about to start, at midnight on 1 April, to be precise. I want to be far away when dead whales start pilling on the village slipway. The opening season is taken seriously; I notice an increase in shouldered hunting rifles on the village streets during the last days of March.


8 April 2019.
A Narwhal was killed and butchered at sea last night, the night before our departure. A boatload of whale meat was brought into the village. Personally, any dead whale is a tragedy, but thoughts of a dead Narwhal, the magical unicorn whale, are sorrowful.
We departed our small cabin earlier today, walking on the iced main road and stepping over trails of frozen blood; we made our way down to the jetty.
Marie phoned her father to rush home as we were waiting to say farewell. Marie's parents, Efraim and Charlotte, own one of the oldest houses in the village. While I waited, I perused the framed family photographs on the walls. The Inuit characteristics grew stronger as the pictures got older.
Moments later, the door swung open, and a breathless Efraim stepped inside; I noticed beads of sweat on his forehead. I was honoured; this big bear of a man ran home in the sub-zero temperature to bid us a bon voyage.
He slipped into a back room and reappeared moments later, cradling a large accordion. Efraim is the proudly self-taught church organist on the island. Marie handed her mother a pair of spoons. I knew there wasn't any sign of food in the offering, so it could only mean one thing. I was delighted, as I've never seen spoons played in real-time. With the first expansion of the accordion bellows, notes started to waft into the small lounge, followed by the animated chink of spoons. Honestly, I didn't expect to hear this sound in Greenland.
Efraim vigorously worked his choice of weapon, and Charlotte's hands rapidly fired the spoons. She was gazing serenely at the view outside the window across the bay as she made music with the family silverware. I wondered what she must have been thinking; earlier, I heard she had been diagnosed with cancer. They belted out several songs while I gathered myself; either find the perfect frame or rest the camera and absorb the moment, an eternal question for many photographers.
A few hours later, I was standing on the upper deck of the departing ship. As we sailed passed the village, fireworks shot into the twilight sky. I stayed as long as I could stand the cold air, sorely watching the houses disappear into the Greenland landscape.