Diary of a journey to Greenland: melt day and ice childhood
Among the scenes that polarjournal.net witnessed this week were the sudden melting in April, the first signs that winter is ending, and an outing in the fjord with a group of children we met at the ILLU Science and Art Center.
For two weeks, polarjournal.net sent two reporters to Ilulissat to portray the inhabitants, to report on certain issues and changes that are occurring there. Below are a few scenes they witnessed to paint a picture of the trip.
Melt day
Crouched on the warm rocks at the foot of the kennels or perched on the wooden boxes stamped with their names – Tito, Russ, Nusnus – there are those who doze. Sleep is for those who have nothing to lose from waiting. The others, mouths open, let out hoarse barks and non-threatening whines. They circulate between the kennels, rise and fade. The clattering of Caterpillar chains on the gray asphalt drowns out the chorus of the city’s dogs.
The sun hangs in a clear and distant sky. The temperature is 10°C. Winter is giving back what it took. Slowly, the ice gives way, revealing the gravel on the side of the road, the cigarette filters, symptoms of a city that coughs. The road fills with water, the tires push it back, the processions of taxis cut it without haste. The cars slow down so as not to spray the people walking, bundled up in down jackets, behind the strollers, near the gas station, the supermarket, around which are clustered schools, hotels, gyms and shops.
Some teenagers come out of school. “I’m Philippe,” says one of them. “What’s the dish from your country?” The croissant… “Bonjour la France! Bonjour la France,” he laughs with gentle irony as we head off to the supermarket. The city revolves around a pool of water that has formed in front of the large Brugseni store. Careful passers-by are wearing ankle boots. They test the ditches with a stick or by sinking, despite their best efforts, up to their knees in the snow that gives way underfoot.
The entrance to the Ice Cap brewery is submerged. Two Filipinos peel out the puddle, standing on pallets as if on a raft surrounded by waves. Store 56 brings out its pump – perhaps the same as last year, stored somewhere behind the tills – so that customers can get in dry.
The rock glistens, the mosses come back up to the surface and people come out of their homes. A kid takes in the air shirtless in the playground. The children are busy in the melted snow: making it fly or playing ball. The bikes come out again and the snowmobiles look for the last patches.
The ice is cracking in the harbor water, and a few small boats are bobbing in the open water channel. Last week, some managed to catch narwhals; if not, there’s halibut. The rest of the fleet is waiting on the ice. Orange buoys, orange vests, fluorescent orange glasses under the cap. The fishermen prepare their lines. The ducks dive between the thin sheets of ice formed during the night. And we watch, we learn to say: it’s spring. C.L.
The iceberg walkway
We’ve been here for six days.
April light. Every evening, the sun lends long minutes to the surface of things. By ten o’clock, the bench in front of the old Zion church, near the doctor’s house, has become a favourite place for watching the dusk appearing.
Spring has sprung.
The sledges can no longer cross the ice. Maybe it’s because we always want to witness things, but you’d think we’d notice that the dogs have been barking less loudly for the past few days. No doubt they know, by instinct and repetition, that their season is also over: they used to bark for the race, the whip, the distance; now they only bark for the bowl.
It can never be repeated enough that here, at the top of the world, the sky heats up four times faster than anywhere else.
Today’s opening.
The venue opens its doors. Adults were expected, but children arrive.
They run between the tables and sing American rap songs from their phones. To hear them, a blind person would be fooled: YouTube, Spotify, West Coast culture – all topped off with a “bro” that punctuates almost every other sentence.
We suggest they go for a walk.
A few steps later, with his feet already in the snow, F. says his legs hurt and limps up the path to join us. This doesn’t stop him, a few minutes later, from jumping from the top of a rock into the snow.
We walk side by side.
H. takes photos with our camera.
We tease them a little about their fascination with American culture. They get (slightly) annoyed and very seriously reply that they are Greenlandic. There is no “bro” at the end of this sentence. But we had to wait until the end of the day to hear them speak their language. It’s funny but, for a reason that can probably only be explained by the passage of history in the wind (the spirit of the wind here is called Asiaq), the bright blue sky or the presence of the old Inuit cemetery that runs alongside the Yellow Line that we followed all afternoon, at that precise moment, in front of this language, silence fell between us.
The two worlds communicate, but the two are probably as inaccessible to us as the misery of a poor country is inconceivable to children from a rich country.
It’s not always the case, but these two kids don’t speak Danish.
These young people obviously know that Denmarks time is running out (or has it been for a long time?). But why should that mean the Americans have won? They’re not bitter yet, the children here (are children ever?), but I wonder how many of them are holding back from telling us that we’re bugging them with our questions about the United States; that they simply want to live, like all children in the world, attracted by what attracts others but not fooled by what we’re feeding them.
In his second preface to Bajazet, Racine wrote: “The remoteness of countries somehow makes up for the too close proximity of times.” A.C.
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