by Farley Mowat
Of course, under the law, it was assumed that I would reciprocate to the fullest, and had I been born an Ihalmio I would have given that reciprocity without any thought. Yet as a white man I unconsciously refused it to both Ohoto and Ootek times without number, but never did they feel the need to retaliate by withdrawing any of the privileges of the relationship they had so freely extended to me.
As a man of the People it now became a matter of urgent need that I should learn the language. Ootek and Ohoto put their heads together and for the space of two days they discussed the problem from all angles. At last I grew impatient and seized the initiative by asking the names of objects about me, and by acting out verbs. This, though I did not know it, was what they had planned, though they preferred to let me believe I was setting the pace. One or the other and usually both of my two mentors would attend my efforts with such serious concentration that sometimes we all tried too hard, and finished up the pursuit of a simple word by becoming so completely confused that nothing short of an outburst of laughter could destroy the impasse. Nevertheless I learned quickly, so quickly that I thought the tales I had heard of the difficulties of the Eskimo language were, like so many popular misconceptions about the Innuit, absolute nonsense.
In a month’s time I was able to make myself understood and I could understand most of what was said to me. I became pretty cocky, and started to consider myself something of a linguist. It was not until nearly a year had gone by that I discovered the true reason for my quick progress.
The secret lay, of course, with Ootek and Ohoto, who, with the co-operation of the rest of the People, had devised a special method of teaching me a language that is, in reality, a most difficult one. They had approached the problem with great acumen, first reasoning that a white man probably possesses a rather inferior brain which cannot be expected to cope with the full-blown intricacies of the language. They made a plan and, apparently letting me lead the way, they actually led me by a shortcut invented solely for my personal use.
When I asked the name of an object, they would give me a straightforward answer not burdened with detailed explanations. Deer, for instance, was simply Tuktu, an easy word to remember and one I could include in fairly complex sentences without much trouble. But I did not know that, properly, it has an exceedingly limited usage. It means only deer as an entity, in the largest sense. For specific reference to a deer, as to a two-year-old buck, there is one special word which accurately defines it. Thus it happens that there are dozens of words in the tongue of the Ihalmiut which mean “deer” in some specialized sense. Ootek wisely refrained from overloading my inadequate memory with such a superabundance of shades of one meaning, and he not only allowed me to use the one generic term in all possible cases where I needed to speak of the deer, but the People, in their turn, refrained from using any of the other specific words in their conversations with me.
It was the same with most nouns. The People taught me a root word, shorn of the multitudinous suffixes and prefixes which give their language a flexibility and a delicate shading of meaning that is probably unsurpassed by any tongue spoken today. In effect, they developed a specialized “basic” Eskimo entirely for my use, and they themselves learned to use it, not only when talking to me, but when talking to each other within my hearing. The development of a pidgin tongue is not new, of course. But with most races these bastard languages come into being over many decades of gradual growth, and no conscious effort is involved. But the Ihalmiut deliberately set out to develop such a tongue. It was planned, carefully taught, and spoken solely for the benefit of one man, and he a stranger to the land.
So I learned an Innuit vocabulary, and I was tirelessly drilled by Ohoto and Ootek until I mastered all the subtle sounds of their words. I found I was able to speak about quite abstract subjects, and incidentally give the lie to those who say that these “natives” are unable to think, or express themselves, in abstract terms. I was pretty proud of my prowess, until the truth came out.
A year after I became an Ihalmio, I had an opportunity to talk with a coastal Eskimo near Churchill. Nonchalantly and with perfect confidence I addressed a long-winded remark to him for the primary purpose of impressing some white friends who were present. And the blank stupefaction that swirled over the Eskimo’s face was reflected in mine as it dawned on me that he hadn’t the faintest idea of what I was saying. It was not just that the words were strange (many of the Ihalmiut words are not known at the coast) but simply that the construction and idiom I used with such perfect assurance were mere gibberish to him.
It was a sad disillusionment, but it shed a revealing light on the character of the Ihalmiut. I wonder what other men in this world would have gone to the trouble of devising what amounted to a new language, simply for the convenience of a stranger who happened into their midst. I know of none.
In time I was gradually weaned away from the special jargon to a more exact knowledge of the language. But I must frankly admit that I never came to speak the real tongue of the People. Despite this, I did come to know the Ihalmiut, their life, some of their folk tales, and some of their history, and I believe I came to know these things with truth. That was my gift from the Ihalmiut—the most precious thing they could have given, for it was made under no compulsion other than the sympathy of men for another.
After I had begun to master the problem of communication, one of the first questions I put to Ootek was to ask why the Little Hills area had been singled out from an apparently similar, but almost limitless, expanse of plains to be the home of the Ihalmiut. It was a question that had been on my mind since my first visit to the Little Hills, for I suspected that the location of the camp might have an historical significance which would provide a starting point for future attempts to probe into the past of the People. But when Ootek began to talk about the Little Hills camps, it was to give me an initiation into the hidden complexity of cause and effect which makes the apparent simplicity of the Innuit way of life a matter of deep complications. It was a lesson for me, and I learned then that it is errant stupidity to look for simplicity in so-called simple cultures. I learned that, if I was ever to understand the Ihalmiut, I must be prepared to grapple with a complex of interrelated factors which are essentially as involved as any I might find in civilized lands.
To begin with, Ootek gave me to understand that the selection of any permanent campsite is based primarily on three major considerations. The first is: “Will the deer, who are our life, approve?” Or, in direct terms, will the site provide the supply of meat which is essential to human life? There is no easy answer to this condition, as you may guess after reading what I have already said about the deer.
The next major consideration is that of a fuel supply. In this part of the arctic, where animals cannot supply fat-fuel for cooking and for heat, the camps must be placed within reach of a good supply of the dwarf shrubs of the Barrens.
The third and most complex factor in the choice of a camp is concerned with the proximity of the dead, for it is not wise to build igloos or tents in a place where there are many graves. The ramifications of this condition are extensive, so I will deal with them at length in a later chapter.
The choice of the lakes under the Little Hills was an old one, for it was by these lakes that the greatest of all deer herds used to pass in the days that are gone and it was believed that here a man might always be certain of making a good kill. As for fuel, there was sufficient willow scrub about, and it grew quickly enough, so that the People never exhausted the supply by the lakes, although often they might have to journey for fifteen or twenty miles from the camps to find a satisfactory stand. As to the dead, this alone of all the once mighty camps of the Ihalmiut had been spared the terrible presence of plague. Death had struck lightly under the shade of the Little Hills, in comparison with the bludgeoning blows he had dealt to the other camps throughout the land. The dead had room by the shores of the lakes, and still left
enough space for the tents of the living.
The location of the Ihalmiut homes had roused my curiosity, but it became even more acute as I examined the houses the Ihalmiut built for themselves. As I grew to know the People, so my respect for their intelligence and ingenuity increased. Yet it was a long time before I could reconcile my feelings of respect with the poor, shoddy dwelling places that they constructed. As with most Eskimos, the winter homes of the Ihalmiut are the snow-built domes we call igloos. (Igloo in Eskimo means simply “house” and thus an igloo can be built of wood or stone, as well as of snow.) But unlike most other Innuit, the Ihalmiut make snow houses which are cramped, miserable shelters. I think the People acquired the art of igloo construction quite recently in their history and from the coast Eskimos. Certainly they have no love for their igloos, and prefer the skin tents. This preference is related to the problem of fuel.
Any home in the arctic, in winter, requires some fuel if only for cooking. The coast peoples make use of fat lamps, for they have an abundance of fat from the sea mammals they kill, and so they are able to cook in the igloo, and to heat it as well. But the Ihalmiut can ill afford to squander the precious fat of the deer, and they dare to burn only one tiny lamp for light. Willow must serve as fuel, and while willow burns well enough in a tent open at the peak to allow the smoke to escape, when it is burned in a snow igloo, the choking smoke leaves no place for human occupants.
So snow houses replace the skin tents of the Ihalmiut only when winter has already grown old and the cold has reached the seemingly unbearable extremes of sixty or even seventy degrees below zero. Then the tents are grudgingly abandoned and snow huts built. From that time until spring no fires may burn inside the homes of the People, and such cooking as is attempted must be done outside, in the face of the blizzards and gales.
Yet though tents are preferred to igloos, it is still rather hard to understand why. I have mentioned the great, gaping slits which outline each hide on the frame of a tent. Such a home offers hardly more shelter than a thicket of trees, for on the unbroken sweep of the plains the winds blow with such violence that they drive the hard snow through the tents as if the skin walls did not really exist. But the People spend many days and dark nights in these feeble excuses for houses, while the wind rises like a demon of hatred and the cold comes as if it meant to destroy all life in the land.
In these tents there may be a fire; but consider this fire, this smoldering handful of green twigs, dug with infinite labor from under the drifts. It gives heat only for a few inches out from its sullen coals so that it barely suffices to boil a pot of water in an hour or two. The eternal winds pour into the tent and dissipate what little heat the fire can spare from the cook-pots. The fire gives comfort to the Ihalmiut only through its appeal to the eyes.
However, the tent with its wan little fire is a more desirable place than the snow house with no fire at all. At least the man in the tent can have a hot bowl of soup once in a while, but after life in the igloos begins, almost all food must be eaten while it is frozen to the hardness of rocks. Men sometimes take skin bags full of ice into the beds so that they have water to drink, melted by the heat of their bodies. It is true that some of the People build cook shelters outside the igloos but these snow hearths burn very badly, and then only when it is calm. For the most part the winds prevent any outside cooking at all, and anyway by late winter the willow supply is so deeply buried under the drifts, it is almost impossible for men to procure it.
So you see that the homes of the Ihalmiut in winter are hardly models of comfort. Even when spring comes to the land the improvement in housing conditions is not great. After the tents go up in the spring, the rains begin. During daylight it rains with gray fury and the tents soak up the chill water until the hides hang slackly on their poles while rivulets pour through the tent to drench everything inside. At night, very likely, there will be frost and by dawn everything not under the robes with the sleepers will be frozen stiff.
With the end of the spring rains, the hot sun dries and shrinks the hides until they are drum-taut, but the ordeal is not yet over. Out of the steaming muskegs come the hordes of bloodsucking and flesh-eating flies, and these find that the Ihalmiut tents offer no barrier to their invasion. The tents belong equally to the People and to the flies, until midsummer brings an end to the plague, and the hordes vanish.
My high opinion of the People was often clouded when I looked at their homes. I sometimes wondered if the Ihalmiut were as clever and as resourceful as I thought them to be. I had been too long conditioned to think of home as four walls and a roof, and so the obvious solution of the Ihalmiut housing problem escaped me for nearly a year. It took me that long to realize that the People not only have good homes, but that they have devised the one perfect house.
The tent and the igloo are really only auxiliary shelters. The real home of the Ihalmio is much like that of the turtle, for it is what he carries about on his back. In truth it is the only house that can enable men to survive on the merciless plains of the Barrens. It has central heating from the fat furnace of the body, its walls are insulated to a degree of perfection that we white men have not been able to surpass, or even emulate. It is complete, light in weight, easy to make and easy to keep in repair. It costs nothing, for it is a gift of the land, through the deer. When I consider that house, my opinion of the astuteness of the Ihalmiut is no longer clouded.
Primarily the house consists of two suits of fur, worn one over the other, and each carefully tailored to the owner’s dimensions. The inner suit is worn with the hair of the hides facing inward and touching the skin while the outer suit has its hair turned out to the weather. Each suit consists of a pullover parka with a hood, a pair of fur trousers, fur gloves and fur boots. The double motif is extended to the tips of the fingers, to the top of the head, and to the soles of the feet where soft slippers of harehide are worn next to the skin.
The high winter boots may be tied just above the knee so that they leave no entry for the cold blasts of the wind. But full ventilation is provided by the design of the parka. Both inner and outer parkas hang slackly to at least the knees of the wearer, and they are not belted in winter. Cold air does not rise, so that no drafts can move up under the parkas to reach the bare flesh, but the heavy, moisture-laden air from close to the body sinks through the gap between parka and trousers and is carried away. Even in times of great physical exertion, when the Ihalmio sweats freely, he is never in any danger of soaking his clothing and so inviting quick death from frost afterwards. The hides are not in contact with the body at all but are held away from the flesh by the soft resiliency of the deer hairs that line them, and in the space between the tips of the hair and the hide of the parka there is a constantly moving layer of warm air which absorbs all the sweat and carries it off.
Dressed for a day in the winter, the Ihalmio has this protection over all parts of his body, except for a narrow oval in front of his face—and even this is well protected by a long silken fringe of wolverine fur, the one fur to which the moisture of breathing will not adhere and freeze.
In the summer rain, the hide may grow wet, but the layer of air between deerhide and skin does not conduct the water, and so it runs off and is lost while the body stays dry. Then there is the question of weight. Most white men trying to live in the winter arctic load their bodies with at least twenty-five pounds of clothing, while the complete deerskin home of the Innuit weighs about seven pounds. This, of course, makes a great difference in the mobility of the wearers. A man wearing tightfitting and too bulky clothes is almost as helpless as a man in a diver’s suit. But besides their light weight, the Ihalmiut clothes are tailored so that they are slack wherever muscles must work freely beneath them. There is ample space in this house for the occupant to move and to breathe, for there are no partitions and walls to limit his motions, and the man is almost as free in his movements as if he were naked. If he must sleep out, without shelter,
and it is fifty below, he has but to draw his arms into his parka, and he sleeps nearly as well as he would in a double-weight eiderdown bag.
This is in winter, but what about summer? I have explained how the porous hide nevertheless acts as a raincoat. Well, it does much more than that. In summer the outer suit is discarded and all clothing pared down to one layer. The house then offers effective insulation against heat entry. It remains surprisingly cool, for it is efficiently ventilated. Also, and not least of its many advantages, it offers the nearest thing to perfect protection against the flies. The hood is pulled up so that it covers the neck and the ears, and the flies find it nearly impossible to get at the skin underneath. But of course the Ihalmiut have long since learned to live with the flies, and they feel none of the hysterical and frustrating rage against them so common with us.
In the case of women’s clothing, home has two rooms. The back of the parka has an enlargement, as if it were made to fit a hunchback, and in this space, called the amaut, lives the unweaned child of the family. A bundle of remarkably absorbent sphagnum moss goes under his backside and the child sits stark naked, in unrestricted delight, where he can look out on the world and very early in life become familiar with the sights and the moods of his land. He needs no clothing of his own, and as for the moss—in that land there is an unlimited supply of soft sphagnum and it can be replaced in an instant.
When the child is at length forced to vacate this pleasant apartment, probably by the arrival of competition, he is equipped with a one-piece suit of hides which looks not unlike the snowsuits our children wear in the winter. Only it is much lighter, more efficient and much less restricting. This first home of his own is a fine home for the Ihalmio child, and one that his white relatives would envy if they could appreciate its real worth.