One of our most interesting adventures was the
time we spent in the Arctic North of Canada, staying with an Inuit tribe in a tented camp. It was early June, daylight for 24 hours, and the camp was on a shingle beach at the edge of the still-frozen sea of Lancaster Sound. Modern
methods of dating ancient garbage had found that this site had been in use as a summer camp for over 2000 years, longer than London Town.The ice was still three or four feet thick, but melting on the surface into
shallow lakes of brackish water. Amazingly there were no insects at all; they were all busy being larvae, waiting for another few days before emerging to fly around, drink human blood and have heterosexual fun.
For
the Inuit the weather was boiling warm, just above freezing, and their shirts were open at the neck. But for us any wind was bitterly cold and we were grateful for our orange survival suits which really did keep the wind out and
the coffee warmth in.
Our tents were much too big and tall, so although we were provided with heating stoves, the heat went briskly up to the top and at sleeping-bag ground levels the snow never quite melted. At
bedtime, it was boots off and hats on as we climbed into the bags snug in all our woollies, after filling mugs with snow to melt beside the stove and allow the morning toothbrushes their chance.
In summer at the
edge of the ice there are fish and birds, seals and narwhals, seaweed salads, even the delicious arctic char, whose pink flesh tastes just like salmon. When the caribou migrate through the area slabs of steak are dried for the
winter.The tribe can spend weeks in the same place., filling empty bellies and drying protein. Worn-out winter furs must be replaced, the best trousers coming from the polar bear whose fur allows the hunter to sit or kneel in
the snow without picking up a snow-clot.
In the old days (that's over thirty years ago) it was another matter in the winter. There were few animals around, and families could feed themselves only by moving from
place to place to find animals for the hunters to kill for food.
Family possessions were strapped onto the dog sleds, the snow-built igloo abandoned and off they went to the next valley or to a stretch of
frozen sea where the seals had not all already been hunted.
Grannies and grandads walked with the family, or clambered on top of the sled for the downhill stretches. Old age and arthritis were no strangers to the
Inuits, and the old people gradually found themselves in more and more difficulty to keep up, especially as the dogs pulled the sled uphill. Hip replacement was not an option. After a while it became obvious that the oldsters
were becoming a serious burden to the family's survival. "Time for you to go on" Granny would say. "No, Granny, not yet."
In the evenings, Granny would tell all her stories once again, being reminded by the
grandchildren about the best ones. She would be spoilt with the best morsels at meals. But the arthritis would get worse, she would fall far behind on journeys. The time would come.
Her son would build her a tiny
igloo with just one sleeping bench. Next morning there would be many tears, many kisses but no laughter. Granny would climb through the igloo entrance in her warmest furs, with a few snacks. Her son would close the entrance against
predators, and the loaded sled would move on, behind the dogs, the children still crying.
Next spring the igloo would melt and the predators, perhaps, would have a well-chilled meal.
When we were
with the Inuit at Lancaster Sound Leacock was pretty sound on his pins, able to walk and even run. Now, limping along on a stick, slowly and getting slower, my tiny igloo would not be far distant. How lucky I am that I live in
Barbados.
