Read Online In the Empire of Ice by Gretel Ehrlich - Free Book Online
Authors: Gretel Ehrlich
Ads: Link
dogs to help transport their things from camp to camp; and along the way told stories, sang songs, and made carvings. “We hunted and were hunted by weather and spirits and polar bears. Accidents occurred and death was frequent. But we expected nothing less. We weren’t looking for salvation. We just lived.”
Late in the afternoon a young woman, Metrona, comes to visit Joe. Inuit people still have famine in their stomachs. They have memories and stories like the one from Barrow about the girl and her brother who were eaten by wolves and subsequently became caribou. “We were warriors and we were cannibals,” Joe reminds us, smiling.
Metrona: “You could say that we Inuit are always looking for something to eat. You might see a pretty hillside: We see it as a place to look for berries.”
In her 30s, she’s bright and self-possessed and not one to pass up an opportunity to make a little money. She has come to sell us her crocheted hot pads, mittens, and caps.
“Not many people live here,” she says, her eyes sparkling, “but it’s home. I can’t wait for summertime. We pick a lot of greens. When they’re real young, wild potatoes, onions. Shusha greens, eviks, sour docks, putnuqs, koonaliks, evalunks, and many more. Those are just the ones that grow here. There are others on Little Diomede. We preserve them in seal oil in big glass jars. They stay good all winter. We also pick a lot of berries, cranberries, blackberries, blueberries, and salmonberries, and make jam. We pick them up on the mountain and go over to the other side. But last winter, the weather was strange. It rained a lot and froze some, and the flowers blew away and the leaves froze, so we didn’t get many.”
She shows me her arms. “I got my tattoos here. A friend did it. In the old days, women in Wales had their chins tattooed, using the soot from the blubber lamp. On St. Lawrence Island the tattoos went all over the face, arm, and shoulder. I try to remember all of what my grandparents told me. Like eating little orange snails raw to prevent getting cross-eyed. They taught me that when the wind blows northwest, the ocean color changes to brown, and that’s what brings the clams and snails in. We are always watching the weather and how it can bring us food, because starvation is still real.”
Joe’s stomach growls and he suggests we see if anyone in the village is cooking. We tromp up a snowy hill to visit Betty, who, at age 82, lives alone in a clapboard house at the top of a hill. She’s small and soft-spoken, and so shy at first that we sit in silence for a long time.
Outside, wind winnows a snowdrift into an elbow that leans against a shed. An empty bird’s nest rests in the eave. Finally Betty smiles. “A long time ago we were strong and fast young people. Now I’m not doing so well. Back then we were healthier. We had only the Eskimo diet and greens.”
Betty came from a reindeer-herding family. Christian missionaries brought domestic reindeer to Alaska in the late 1800s. Men who had been marine mammal hunters for something like 20,000 years—the exact date is still contested—were being “retrained” to herd domestic reindeer. The training came with a hearty dose of Christianity.
“You could get a herd of reindeer if you converted, or put another way, food came with religion,” Joe says. “It was a clever idea, but not clever enough.” The reindeer project failed, was restarted, and failed again. But religion stayed.
Betty’s father was one of those retrained men. He learned to herd and managed reindeer for the resident missionaries, the Lopps. “We lived in a sod house with our in-laws. Then my husband built this house. It’s almost ready to fall down now. He built that birdhouse so I could watch the snow buntings come and go in the spring. We didn’t go whaling much. We just had the reindeer. My mother wouldn’t let us go to the village celebrations or visit the shamans. Her religion said those dances in the
Late in the afternoon a young woman, Metrona, comes to visit Joe. Inuit people still have famine in their stomachs. They have memories and stories like the one from Barrow about the girl and her brother who were eaten by wolves and subsequently became caribou. “We were warriors and we were cannibals,” Joe reminds us, smiling.
Metrona: “You could say that we Inuit are always looking for something to eat. You might see a pretty hillside: We see it as a place to look for berries.”
In her 30s, she’s bright and self-possessed and not one to pass up an opportunity to make a little money. She has come to sell us her crocheted hot pads, mittens, and caps.
“Not many people live here,” she says, her eyes sparkling, “but it’s home. I can’t wait for summertime. We pick a lot of greens. When they’re real young, wild potatoes, onions. Shusha greens, eviks, sour docks, putnuqs, koonaliks, evalunks, and many more. Those are just the ones that grow here. There are others on Little Diomede. We preserve them in seal oil in big glass jars. They stay good all winter. We also pick a lot of berries, cranberries, blackberries, blueberries, and salmonberries, and make jam. We pick them up on the mountain and go over to the other side. But last winter, the weather was strange. It rained a lot and froze some, and the flowers blew away and the leaves froze, so we didn’t get many.”
She shows me her arms. “I got my tattoos here. A friend did it. In the old days, women in Wales had their chins tattooed, using the soot from the blubber lamp. On St. Lawrence Island the tattoos went all over the face, arm, and shoulder. I try to remember all of what my grandparents told me. Like eating little orange snails raw to prevent getting cross-eyed. They taught me that when the wind blows northwest, the ocean color changes to brown, and that’s what brings the clams and snails in. We are always watching the weather and how it can bring us food, because starvation is still real.”
Joe’s stomach growls and he suggests we see if anyone in the village is cooking. We tromp up a snowy hill to visit Betty, who, at age 82, lives alone in a clapboard house at the top of a hill. She’s small and soft-spoken, and so shy at first that we sit in silence for a long time.
Outside, wind winnows a snowdrift into an elbow that leans against a shed. An empty bird’s nest rests in the eave. Finally Betty smiles. “A long time ago we were strong and fast young people. Now I’m not doing so well. Back then we were healthier. We had only the Eskimo diet and greens.”
Betty came from a reindeer-herding family. Christian missionaries brought domestic reindeer to Alaska in the late 1800s. Men who had been marine mammal hunters for something like 20,000 years—the exact date is still contested—were being “retrained” to herd domestic reindeer. The training came with a hearty dose of Christianity.
“You could get a herd of reindeer if you converted, or put another way, food came with religion,” Joe says. “It was a clever idea, but not clever enough.” The reindeer project failed, was restarted, and failed again. But religion stayed.
Betty’s father was one of those retrained men. He learned to herd and managed reindeer for the resident missionaries, the Lopps. “We lived in a sod house with our in-laws. Then my husband built this house. It’s almost ready to fall down now. He built that birdhouse so I could watch the snow buntings come and go in the spring. We didn’t go whaling much. We just had the reindeer. My mother wouldn’t let us go to the village celebrations or visit the shamans. Her religion said those dances in the
Similar Books
