Anaukaq himself seemed to have thought little about how different his life might have been if that had actually happened. As it was, he felt fortunate that his Eskimo stepfather had adopted him and reared him. Even after Akatingwah died, Kitdlaq had continued to be a “kind father” to him. Anaukaq loved and admired his stepfather, who taught him how to be a good father and a peeneeahktoe wah [great hunter], skilled in the ways of the Eskimo people.
CHAPTER THREE
The Amer-Eskimo Hensons
“I was married to Aviaq for fifty-four wonderful years, and we had seven children. My wife died in 1975. She is buried over there.” Anaukaq pointed to a small graveyard just beyond the settlement. “I miss my wife dearly. I have been very lonely since her departure.”
Like most modern-day Eskimos, Aviaq is buried in a plot marked by a white Christian cross rather than in a traditional Eskimo surface-stone grave. In the past, Polar Eskimos buried their dead by covering the entire body and a few cherished possessions with stones. Men were typically buried fully clothed in their animal-skin garments alongside their sled and lead dog, strangled and tied to the sled for travel in the afterlife. Women were also clad in traditional sealskin attire and were buried with an oil lamp and ulu at their side. It is said that before the arrival of Christian missionaries at the turn of the century, a dead woman’s youngest infant would be strangled and placed in the grave out of fear of possible disease and because an unnursed infant was a burden to a wandering band of Arctic hunter-gatherers.
Since Aviaq’s death, Anaukaq’s sons and grandchildren help to look after him, stopping by his house whenever they can to make sure that he is all right.
“It is still not the same as having a wife for company,” he told me. “She used to go on hunting trips with me, and some years we traveled by dogsled hundreds of miles up and down the coast.”
On more than a few occasions, Anaukaq remembered, he and his wife had come close to death while out on the ice.
“I shall never forget the time Aviaq and I were out on a hunting trip, many days north of here, and I left her and the children behind at the igloo while I headed out to hunt seals. I located several seal breathing holes and a few seals on the ice, basking in the sun. As I crawled across the ice behind a white cloth screen, stalking the animals, I decided to climb up on a large hummock of ice to get a good aim. I never noticed that the ice was slowly shifting. After a few minutes, the ice hill cracked under my weight, and I went tumbling into a gaping crevasse, about two-men high. When I didn’t return to the igloo, Aviaq became worried. She left the younger children in the care of the older ones and set out looking for me. I heard her calling my name and I yelled back ‘Aviaq, my wife! Aviaq, my wife! Here!’ She found me and helped me out of the crevasse. I was so happy with my Aviaq. She saved my life.”
Some of the women of Moriussaq commented that Anaukaq and Aviaq had a model relationship. In fact, Aviaq had confided to several of her friends that she and Anaukaq had had only one fight in all their years of marriage. One old woman, Kayqeehuk, reminisced about her first meeting with Anaukaq:
“When I was a young girl of about fifteen, living with my parents near Savissivik, some people visited our settlement and stopped to speak to my father. There was a young boy, also about fifteen, with them named Anaukaq, who looked unlike any Inuit I had ever seen. He was very dark with the most beautiful curly hair. I wanted to touch his hair. I had never seen anything like it. I thought he was such a handsome man, the handsomest man I had ever seen. I and several of the other girls in my settlement wanted to marry this boy. Years later, we were a bit jealous when we learned that he had chosen Aviaq as his wife.”
Matthew Henson was sixty-two years old and residing in New York City when, unknown to him, his first grandson was born on December 3, 1928, in polar Greenland. Anaukaq, then about twenty-two, and Aviaq, about seventeen, named their first son after Anaukaq’s beloved stepfather, Kitdlaq. This, Anaukaq said, was his greatest tribute to the man who had accepted him as his own blood-kin and had been a wonderful father to him.
Anaukaq took great pride in teaching his firstborn son to become a peeneeahktoe wah. Like most Eskimo men, he wanted his son to learn to be a good provider for his family and his village and to earn the respect of his peers. Early on Kitdlaq proved to be a quick learner and a skillful hunter. Like his father before him, he killed his first polar bear at the age of thirteen. By the time he was sixteen, he was a master kayaker and had developed an excellent reputation as a walrus hunter. He would approach the walrus prey by kayak and thrust his harpoon into the lung area from a few meters away. The injured walrus would then dive deep, carrying the harpoon tip and attached rope with it. A ballooned sealskin float attached to the other end of the rope prevented the walrus from diving too deep and served to mark its location. After a prolonged struggle, Kitdlaq and his companions would kill the walrus with their harpoons or guns. One large walrus could feed a family and their vital sled dogs for many weeks.
Then tragedy struck. Hunting alone, Kitdlaq one day approached a large bull walrus that appeared to be sleeping on an ice floe. Creeping up on the animal in the silent kayak, he got within a few meters before he raised his harpoon and prepared to hurl it into the animal’s body. Just as he let go of the harpoon, the animal was aroused by another walrus, and it turned its head toward Kitdlaq. The harpoon missed its mark and only grazed the beast’s neck.
The bull quickly slid from the ice floe into the water, where walruses can move with incredible speed. Kitdlaq tried to flee as fast as he could, but the wounded walrus overtook him and struck his kayak savagely with its head and tusks. The mighty blow split the kayak in half, sending Kitdlaq flying into the frigid water, head first. Some say that the walrus then struck Kitdlaq with its pointed tusks, killing him instantly. Others believe that he simply froze to death in the icy water. In any case, Kitdlaq, the first grandson of Matthew Henson, died a terrible death when he was sixteen years old.
The loss of their first child devastated Anaukaq and Aviaq. Not since his stepfather, the first Kitdlaq, died had Anaukaq felt such pain and sadness. According to Polar Eskimo tradition, a death should not be openly mourned for more than a few days. But the deceased’s name is not to be uttered again in the settlement for an indefinite period. During this time everyone in the community bearing the name of the deceased must give up his or her name until a new child is born in the settlement. The child is then given the name of the deceased, at which point all others may resume using their original names. Anaukaq told me that he had mourned his son’s death for years and still had not gotten over it fully.
In the weeks that followed, I met most of the other members of the Amer-Eskimo Henson clan: sons, grandsons, and great-grandchildren. We talked at length about the family heritage, and they made it clear that they felt very special to be the progeny of Matthew Henson, about whom they knew much more than I had anticipated. Like Anaukaq, many expressed a desire to visit the United States and meet their American relatives. Like Anaukaq, too, they found it difficult to believe that I was not myself a Henson. They questioned me incessantly: Would their relatives look like me? Were they all kulnocktooko? What did Mahri-Pahluk’s wife look like?
For the moment, I had too few answers.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
A loud, frantic noise at the door of my little wooden hut awakened me from a sound sleep around 2 A.M. I poked my head out of my sleeping bag and tried to orient my senses. “Allen! Allen! Come, Allen! Avataq! Ahvuk! Avataq! Ahvuk!” the voice at the door was shouting excitedly. Dogs behind the hut were barking wildly and growling at each other. I could hear a gruff voice yelling at them, as if trying to bring them under control. The door flew open and the freezing air rushed into my already cold room, causing me to shiver as if I had been splashed by icy water. In the doorway stood Nukka, Anaukaq’s grandson. He hurriedly beckoned me to come outside with him. “Allen, Avataq. Ahvuk.” As I rushed to put on my boots and down parka (I had been sleeping fully clothed
because of the room’s cold temperature), I realized that Nukka was calling the name of Avataq, Anaukaq’s oldest son. But the other word, ahvuk, I did not understand.
At first I thought that perhaps Avataq had taken ill or been hurt, and they wanted my help. Then, as Nukka and I dashed off toward Anaukaq’s house, I began to worry that something had happened to Anaukaq. Just behind the house, I could see the silhouette of a broad-shouldered, stocky man trying to untangle his sled dogs. Moving closer, I saw that he was dressed in a thick, thigh-length leather parka with a fur-lined hood to protect his head and face. His knee-length trousers were made entirely of polar bear fur and his boots were traditional high-top sealskin kamiks.
It was Avataq. He had just returned from a hunting trip and was working by the light of a kerosene lantern, tethering his dogs and preparing to remove his quarry from the sled. He turned to me and smiled. “Ahvuk,” he said proudly, pointing to his sled. I walked over to the sled and removed the deerskin cover to reveal three large walrus heads with long ivory tusks, as well as slabs of bloody meat stacked two feet high, filling the entire eight-foot sled. To the Polar Eskimos, who prize the walrus particularly, it was an impressive harvest.
“Avataq, peeneeahktoe wah, huh?” said Nukka admiringly.
Avataq stored most of the ahvuk meat in a small wooden shed, similar to a chicken coop, just behind his house—a natural, year-round refrigerator. Other slabs were placed on racks some four feet above the ground, high enough to be beyond the reach of the dogs.
Born in 1933, the second child of Anaukaq and Aviaq, Avataq is about five feet four inches tall, with a stocky build, dark complexion, and straight black hair. His big, warm smile is a bit comical because of a missing front tooth. With his high cheekbones, Eskimo eyes, and straight hair he reminds one of a Southeast Asian, perhaps a Javanese. As a child, Avataq briefly attended a Danish missionary school, where he learned to speak some Danish and do simple arithmetic. Yet in most respects he has remained faithful to the traditional Eskimo way of life. Registered with the Greenlandic authorities as a full-time hunter, he earns his livelihood by hunting narwhal, seal, and rabbits in the summer, and walrus, polar bear, and seal in the spring and winter. He is, in fact, the most celebrated hunter in the area, renown for his courage and expert techniques. Walrus hunts are his specialty, but he is equally adept at hunting seals and polar bears.
Avataq and his wife, Minaq, have five children: three girls, Malina, Louisa, and Cecilia; and two boys, Jakub and Magssanguaq. Though he is only ten years old, Magssanguaq, the youngest, is already an accomplished hunter in his own right. During my stay I saw him return from the hunting grounds with four large seals and numerous birds.
Our vigil on the rock-strewn, desolate mountainside had been long and uneventful. Rising up from the shoreline of Wolstenholm Sound to the craggy peak where we sat, the terrain reminded me of a moonscape or the surface of some unknown, lifeless planet. Not far from me, a man wearing polar bear pants and an anorak sat atop a large rock, peering through binoculars out over the distant waters. Suddenly the quiet was broken by the roar of a huge iceberg thundering down a nearby glacier and hitting the water with the force of a bomb. The sentry did not stir. He had been there many times before, and he knew that when nature spoke, all a man could do was listen. He was searching the bay for schools of kahlayleewah [narwhal]. He must not lose his concentration. The vigil could go on for hours, even days. One must be patient.
Below us, just above the shoreline, sat a fifteen-foot kayak made from a light wooden frame and covered with off-white tarpaulin material. A few decades ago this kayak would have been constructed from whale and walrus bones and covered with stitched sealskin. In the center of the kayak was an opening, just large enough to accommodate the slightly built Eskimo. At the stem was a neatly coiled nylon rope connected to the removable tip of a seven-foot wooden harpoon, which lay parallel to the line of the craft within reach of the pilot. Attached to the other end of the rope and placed behind the hunter’s seat was a large, balloonlike sealskin float that looked like a stuffed seal with feet when fully inflated. To the left of the seat, a high-caliber rifle sat on the flat part of the stem, balanced precariously and pointing forward. Lying perpendicular to the long axis of the boat, just behind the seat, was the kayaker’s distinctive double paddle. Although even the slightest swaying motion of the boat can cause a hunter to lose his rifle and gear, the expert Eskimo kayakers can travel long distances at impressive speeds with remarkable balance and stability.
There were only three tents on the mountainside, including my own. The sentry, and the leader of our expedition, was Ussarkaq, Anaukaq’s third son. Like his brother Avataq, the fifty-year-old Ussarkaq is a full-time hunter, best known for his skill as a hunter of narwhals and for his ability to handle a kayak. In fact, he is the kayak-racing champion among the Polar Eskimos, often competing with young men in their teens, twenties, and thirties. A respected leader within his family, he is also well known for his sense of humor.
“Do you want to become a great narwhal hunter?” he asked me, seemingly serious. “Then take off that red parka. You’ll scare off the narwhals.” I looked at him incredulously, having no intention of taking off my parka for any reason. But Ussarkaq just laughed. “Come over to the tent for some tea, and we will teach you some funny Eskimo words.”
He called down to his eighteen-year-old son, Massauna-Matthew. Ussarkaq had been on watch for three hours; it was time for his son to relieve him. Massauna-Matthew, named for Matthew Henson, emerged from the tent. He is much darker in complexion than the other Eskimo Hensons and has spirally curled hair. Anaukaq says that he is “my favorite grandson because he and I have the curliest hair in the family.”
Ussarkaq gave Massauna the binoculars and returned with me to the tent for some hot tea that his son had prepared. After drinking a cup, he rubbed his eyes, now aching from the long watch, and promptly dozed off. But not for long.
“Kahlayleewah! Kahlayleewah!” shouted Massauna-Matthew, running down the mountainside to the sea. Ussarkaq sprang from his deerskin mat, rushed out of the tent, and headed down the slope to his kayak. There he met Massauna, who was pointing in the direction of four large narwhals in the center of the bay, breaching the surface like dolphins. Ussarkaq and Massauna quickly but carefully lifted the kayak and carried it to the water’s edge. Ussarkaq slipped into the tightly fitting seat and pulled a rubber sealer over the remaining open space surrounding his body. Massauna then gave the stern of the kayak a shove, and Ussarkaq pushed off with his paddle.
Once in the water, Ussarkaq paddled rapidly with the classic, rotating movements of the Eskimo kayaker. He moved with grace and speed through the bay, gliding toward the narwhals. The kayak moved through the water so quietly that it slipped up on the school of narwhal before they could detect it. Ussarkaq tried to head the single-tusked mammals off before they could reach the mouth of the bay. The hunter and kayak became smaller and smaller in the distance, soon visible only through the binoculars. When he reached the narwhals, they appeared confused as they scattered about the kayak, their blowholes spouting water and air all around him.
Ussarkaq selected a large male that had breached right in front of his kayak. His harpoon found its mark in the animal’s head, causing it to thrash about wildly before submerging. The attached rope lying on the kayak uncoiled in seconds as the animal dove deep into the water, trying to free itself. The sealskin buoy flew off the kayak into the bay when all the rope had run out. The buoy disappeared beneath the surface, then reappeared, traveling away from the kayak at high speed. This was a good sign and meant that the harpoon tip was fixed securely in the narwhal’s flesh. Ussarkaq paddled frantically after the moving float. When it changed direction, he changed direction. After about forty-five minutes of chasing the buoy, Ussarkaq was exhausted. His strokes became slower and more labored, but he could not stop to rest. Finally, the buoy, too, began to move more slowly, and Ussarkaq moved in on it. He picked up his rifle and steadi
ed his aim in the direction of the buoy, waiting for the narwhal to surface for air. Moments later the big, gray-black mammal broke the water’s surface, its spouting blowhole marking the spot. Ussarkaq fired two rounds. The water all around the thrashing animal turned bright red. Then the movement stopped. Ussarkaq quickly paddled to the narwhal and plunged a metal pipe down its throat. Placing his mouth around the open end of the pipe, he blew air into the animal’s lungs and stomach, bloating it so that he could keep it afloat and tow it more easily behind his kayak.
The half-ton narwhal would feed Ussarkaq’s family for more than a month. Ussarkaq and his wife, Simigaq, have seven children—four boys and three girls—ranging in age from seven to twenty-four. The girls are named Arnakitsoq, Aviaq, and Eqilana. The boys are Massauna-Matthew, Thomas, Avatak, and Peter. The family lives in Siorapaluk, the northernmost settlement of Greenland.
Anaukaq’s fourth son, Ajako, is a part-time hunter who lives near his father in Moriussaq. Forty-eight years old, about five feet seven inches tall, with dark curly hair and deep brown skin, Ajako is considered very handsome by the villagers. The manager of the local government-run general store, he serves as a sort of unofficial mayor of the settlement. His store, which also functions as a post office, bank, and transport service, is restocked once each year when a Danish ship laden with food and dry goods comes to Moriussaq during the summer thaw.
Ajako and his wife, Puto, have five children: three girls, Nadi-ketchia, Sabina, and Aviaq; and two boys, Jens and Nukka. Like good parents everywhere, Ajako and Puto try to provide as much as possible for their children and take great pride in their children’s achievements. One day, for instance, I found them out on the frozen bay, commemorating Nukka’s first polar bear kill by preparing the skin so that it could be made into trousers for their son.
North Pole Legacy Page 3