I was careful to ensure that whoever accompanied me was socially acceptable to the various people with whom I wanted to speak. Even the best interpreter in the community would be severely handicapped if, for example, the person I was meeting had a history of animosity with a member of the interpreter’s family. I almost blundered into a situation where I was about to have a conversation with an old man who, as a youth, was a camp slave (the polite term is servant) to the father of the interpreter with me at the time.
Knowing or having a feeling about when to back off from a line of inquiry was important. The approach to conversations was critical to what transpired during them. I began by explaining what I was seeking and why I was interested in the subject. At times I said to the person, I have heard such-and-such from so-and-so and would like to know more about the subject, and I asked the person if he could help me. I was often asked, “What will you do with what I tell you?” To this I replied, “I will never repeat the things you want me to keep to myself. The things that can be repeated to others will be written down as I understand them, and that is why I ask you to be patient with me during our conversation.”
I explained to my interpreter and the person with whom we spoke that we would not interrupt each other’s thoughts with translation. I would say whatever I had to say, and the interpreter would then say to me, “That is what I understand you to mean.” Any further articulation was made at that time, before the question or thoughts were transmitted to the elder.
The same held true for the elder speaking to me. Often, we would speak for long periods without breaks in the conversation for translation. The thing we would frequently say to one another was, “I understand you to mean... Is that so?” The reply was either, “Yes, that is so,” or “No, you don’t really understand what I have said, and I will try to explain it in a different way.” Before leaving the community, if necessary, I would meet once more with the elder who had spoken to me, along with my companion interpreter. We would recount our understanding of the conversation we’d had, and only when the elder was satisfied would the notes we’d taken be considered complete.
My desire to show respect extended to how I carried out field research. When examining a location of significance, I consciously avoided touching any object or disturbing, in any manner, anything at a site. Partly, this was due to superstitions handed down from my own family. I remember Simeonie smiling approvingly when he noticed me whistling softly while passing nearby a grave. On the other hand, I often made copious notes, took general measurements, and captured many photographs at the sites I was taken to. I gave my records back to the community and deposited them in the local schools where, from time to time, Inuit teachers invited me to share my stories with their students.
Every major site I observed and documented in southwest Baffin was revealed to me by an elder who often accompanied me. When I planned to travel extensively photographing the landscape or revisiting sites with elders, I’d write to the Community Council of Cape Dorset to seek permission, and I received a formal letter signed by the mayor of the community.
When I had the opportunity to travel by helicopter throughout the Sikusiilaq region, I made it a priority to take elders back to the camps were they had been born and to areas where they had hunted. Such helicopter trips were useful to the community as well because it was possible to survey the freshwater supply, waste lagoons, road construction, and potential sources of gravel. Strange as it may seem, gravel is often a scarce commodity near most communities in the Arctic. Gravel is needed for constructing pads for houses and repairing roads and landing strips. Often very old sites are located on gravel beds and, unless protected, bits of artifacts can be scooped up and find their way into road and runway surfaces or house pads.
LEGENDS AND REALITIES
As I gathered and recorded accounts from elders about their beliefs and experiences, I wondered how best to separate myths and legends from realities. Did I really need to know what was real or not real? After all, one person’s myth could be another’s reality. And why would I want to separate these perceptions in the first place? Was the monster that hid under my bed as a child as real as the elders’ belief in Qugalugaki, that wee imp that lives at the back of the sleeping platform?
The question of what is true and what is not true was posed to various elders. In response, they offered ten words and expressions that ranged from things known not to be true to things believed to be absolutely true. The expression I found most enlightening was ukpirijaujut, things which are believed.
The first of many storytelling sessions that I experienced occurred in a tent, lit by the warm glow of a Coleman lantern. It was at Sapujuaq, where entire families go to fish for Arctic char. Sapujuaq is an ancient site where you can see the signatures of many generations on the landscape: old tent rings, caches for storing food, the faint outlines of sleeping platforms, and nappariat, the little inuksuk-like figures that were used to dry filleted fish. Like all who came here before us, we gathered sometime toward dusk to eat and drink strong tea made fragrant by the smoke of an open fire.
Eventually, someone began by telling a story of some personal adventure on the land or of a folly and others soon followed, at times drawing gasps of wonder or gales of laughter. Stories told about life on the land were often brief and without embellishment. Some had no conclusion, which left the listener stranded as it were on the story’s edge.
Simeonie Quppapik shared one such account. “When I was still a boy, my father and his hunting companions came back to the camp with walrus meat. We were joyful. But no one in our family ate any meat; we were full. The next day, those who had eaten the meat were sick, dying, or dead. In a rage, my father took up his rifle and shot each lump of meat... and each piece began to move!”
The storyteller elders expected me to collect their tales and so they were written as told and retold without embellishment.
CENTRE OF THE WORLD
About 100 metres off my left shoulder lies that part of the Arctic Ocean known as the Foxe Channel, named for Luke Foxe, who sailed into these treacherous waters in 1631. Some believe that ships shaped like seagoing monsters sailed these very waters 400 years before Luke Foxe. As I look toward the sea it is difficult to comprehend how anyone could entrust his life to a small wooden ship, sail across an ocean, then enter a sea choked with ice that never ceases moving. Here, tides rise and fall anywhere from six to nine metres, causing riptides and whirlpools and changing the profile of the entire coastline every six hours. This is where the Inuit elders I knew took to the waters in little boats made of sealskin and driftwood to hunt walrus that could destroy their kayaks with a single lunge. Buried in the Inuit legends of Sikusiilaq are accounts of huge and fearsome creatures that plied these very waters long before the arrival of the qallunaat.
Across from me and hidden below the horizon lies Southampton Island, known to the Inuit as Salliit or Shugliaq. If I look carefully in that direction, I can make out a faint and distant cloud that behaves as if tethered to some invisible body. Its unmoving presence tells us that below the horizon and within its very shadow lies Salliit.
Looking north, I face into the prevailing wind. It drives down the length of the Foxe Basin, moving enormous slabs of ice around in the sea as if they were mere snowflakes. Far beyond my line of sight lies the ancient settlement of Igloolik. Inuit have lived there long before the coming of wooden ships, some people believe as far back in time as 4,000 years.
Turning slightly to my right, I look straight along the western edge