North Pole Legacy

by S. Allen Counter

  He showed the photos of his relatives to almost everyone he met. “These are my cousins from Mahri-Pahluk’s homeland,” he would say with a big grin. “I’m going to go over there to meet them one day.”

  His neighbors were invariably gracious. “Oh, what a beautiful family you have,” they would say, after looking at the photos. “You must be very happy to have such a beautiful family.”

  Anaukaq’s sister-in-law Mikkisuk Minge, now in her eighties, still wore traditional Polar Eskimo clothing, including hip-length, cream-colored sealskin boots. “Of course, I have known Anaukaq since we were very young,” she told me. “Anaukaq has always been known for his very special laugh. No matter how unhappy one felt, when Anaukaq came around and laughed that special laugh of his, your spirits were just lifted in the air.”

  “One day, when we were young,” she went on to say, “I was sitting out in front of the igloo with his wife, Aviaq, cutting some whale meat, when Anaukaq came up and gave her a bottle of wine that he had bought at the Danish trade station. He did not give me one, so I was very jealous. I said to myself, she is married to a kulnocktooko man and he treats her very special. He comes here and gives her some good drink. He treats her special, but gives nothing to his sister-in-law. I was jealous.” She burst into laughter.

  This was an opportunity for me to find out more about the significance of Anaukaq’s and Kali’s racial differences among the Eskimos, especially among the older people, who were not so much influenced by the world beyond. “You mentioned that Anaukaq was a black man, Mikkisuk. Did the Eskimo people feel that he was different from everyone else because he is dark skinned?”

  “Well, yes, of course,” she responded, with a big smile. “Up here we all say that Anaukaq and family are a little different from the other Eskimos. Not in a bad way. But different in a good way.”

  “You mean different because he is darker than the other Eskimos and has curly hair?” I asked.

  “Ha, ha! Different in many ways. We always say that it must be because he is Mahri-Pahluk’s son.”

  “How are Anaukaq and his family different? Give me an example,” I asked.

  “Well, up here we say that his whole family walks different from the other Eskimos.”

  “Walks differently?” I repeated.

  “Yes! You can distinguish a member of Anaukaq’s family walking from a great distance. We say that they walk like they are gliding on ice.”

  Another woman in the room joined in. “It’s true what she says. Up here everyone knows this about Anaukaq’s family.”

  Mikkisuk continued. “Anaukaq and his sons could also dance better than the other Eskimos. When we would have our dances, they were always the best dancers.”

  By now I could no longer contain my laughter. How could these people, who had little or no knowledge of black people, harbor this comical stereotype? I knew they meant no disrespect to Anaukaq and his family. Quite the contrary. They saw these characteristics as desirable traits.

  “Most of Anaukaq’s family can play musical instruments too. When the kadoona missionaries brought musical instruments up here through the trading post, Anaukaq and his family were the only Eskimos to get them and play them well, even his grandchildren.”

  “Do you really think they dance better than other Eskimos, or did you learn this from the Danes?” I asked, jokingly.

  “No! It is true. Everyone up here knows that Anaukaq and his children are the best dancers and the fastest runners among our people—and they walk nicer, so smoothly.”

  She got up to demonstrate. “See, Eskimos walk like this,” she said, taking short, soft steps to imitate their stride and pace. “And the kahdonah walk like a stone—like this,” she said, now moving from side to side taking long, wide, stomping strides. “Anaukaq and his family walk like this.” Her steps were now light touches on the ground, as she glided across the room, slightly twisting her body from side to side, as if riding on a breeze.

  Even in my laughter, I had to admit that her imitation of the Amer-Eskimo Henson’s walk was unmistakably African-American. Could this be true? I wondered. Amazing! I too had observed that some of Anaukaq’s gestures, such as his frequent hand-clapping when he laughed, reminded me of behavior of some older African Americans.

  “What about Kali, was he different also?” I asked.

  “Yes. Kali was somewhat different from the other Eskimos too. He could dance too, but he could not dance like Anaukaq,” she said.

  “Well, how was he different from the other Eskimos?” I inquired.

  “Kali?” she said, as if rethinking my question. “Kali was a very funny man when he was young. He had a great sense of humor and loved to tell jokes. He also loved to brag about being a good hunter. But he was a good hunter. When he used to have a drink, he would sing and try to dance like Anaukaq.”

  “What about Kali’s children?” I asked. “Were they good dancers and runners like Anaukaq’s?”

  “Not really. Kali’s family is very nice, but they are different—maybe not as friendly as Anaukaq’s family. I think when Kali was young he was not as popular as Anaukaq. But everybody up here liked Kali and thought that he and his family were very nice.”

  When Anaukaq learned of my plans to travel up to Qeqertarsaaq to visit Kali, he reminded me that he too would like to see his “cousin Kali.” “We haven’t spent any time together since we were fifteen years old,” he said.

  I offered to take Anaukaq to Qeqertarsaaq with me, but then thought better of it when I remembered that Kali’s island home is not accessible by helicopter. We would have to travel about seventy-five miles over the frozen bay to Qeqertarsaaq. Although Anaukaq appeared in good physical condition, he was still walking with a cane and could tire over long distances. Kali, on the other hand, was in excellent condition. He still frequently traveled by dogsled with his son and grandsons. And yet, I thought, it would be great to see the two old hunters together again after so many years. The stories they could tell would be fascinating, and I could learn much more about their growing up half-Eskimo in Greenland, one half-black, the other half-white.

  Anaukaq solved the problem for me. “Why don’t you tell Kali that he is welcome to come back with you to visit me? I have plenty of food and tea.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Growing Up Eskimo

  Kali and his son, Talilanguaq, welcomed me back as warmly as had Anaukaq and his family.

  “Did you have a good trip?” Kali asked.

  “Yes. It was a long but safe trip,” I replied. “I flew in the big military cheemeahktoe [man-made bird] to Thule. I didn’t realize it would be so cold up here until we landed. It was warmer the last time I was here.”

  “Oh, it’s only cold outside the igloo,” he said with a chuckle. “You just have to stay inside the igloo as much as you can.”

  “Then I must build my own snow igloo, like in the old days, so that I can really keep warm,” I said to his obvious delight.

  “Did you find Cousin Anaukaq’s relatives over there where you live?” he asked.

  I told him that I had located several of Anaukaq’s relatives and that they were pleased to learn of their Eskimo relatives.

  “That is very good,” Kali replied cheerfully. “Does he have many relatives over there—any brothers and sisters?”

  “He has many relatives all over the United States, mostly cousins, but no brothers or sisters,” I replied.

  “I hope they are well,” Kali said.

  “They are well indeed,” I said. “I only met a few of Anaukaq’s folks personally, but I talked with most of them by phone. I hope to meet more of them when I return to my country.”

  There was a long, pregnant pause before Kali posed the inevitable question, “What about my people? Did I have any relatives over there?”

  “Yes!” I answered, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as I could in my voice and smile. “I located several of your American relatives, and they all wished you well.”

  Kali smiled but sa
id nothing.

  I told him that I had not met any of his relatives face to face yet, because they all lived in different parts of the country, but that I had talked with some of his nephews by telephone and learned from them that he had an eighty-three-year-old brother living in Maine. “That is in another territory, north of the place where I live,” I explained, “and I have not had the opportunity to meet him yet.”

  “Eighty-three years old,” Kali repeated. “We are about the same age.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “He is your second big brother.”

  Kali laughed. “Eeee [Yes]! He was born between Hammy and me. What is his name?”

  “Robert Peary, Jr.,” I replied. “He was given the name of his father.”

  “He was named for Peeuree?” Kali asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “That is a common practice in my country. He has a son named Robert Peary III and a grandson named Robert Peary IV. He has several children and grandchildren, just as you have, but I can’t remember how many. He lives with his wife and son in Augusta, Maine, Peary’s old home area.”

  “I hope that he is in good health. I would like to meet him,” Kali said. “But we are both getting old.”

  “I hope you will have the chance to meet soon,” I replied.

  Since I had received no gifts for Kali from his American relatives, I had brought along a few of my own. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a Swiss Army knife, and handed it to him.

  “This is a gift for you,” I said.

  “For me?” Kali responded.

  “Yes, it is for you,” I said. “A great hunter always needs a good hunting knife.”

  “Kooyounah!” Kali said with a big smile.

  “Iddigdoo [You are welcome],” I replied in my best Eskimo.

  “Who is this gift from?” he asked.

  “It is a gift from me,” I said.

  “Kooyounah,” he said again as he examined the knife. I suspected that he would like this gift because such knives are prized among the Polar Eskimos, especially the hunters.

  “I have another gift that I brought from America for you,” I said, handing him an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph. “It is a photograph of your father, Commander Peeuree.”

  “Commander Peeuree,” Kali repeated, as if imitating my English.

  He studied the photograph for a while. “He looks like he is growing old in this picture.”

  “I think he was only in his fifties when this photo was taken,” I responded, leaning over to look at the photograph again.

  “Mmmm. This is my father, Peeuree,” Kali said thoughtfully. “It is a good-looking photograph of my father. But I don’t remember how he looked. He left when I was a small child. I do remember my mother saying to me that when I was a child, I would hit him about the legs whenever I was near him. I don’t know why I would do a thing like that, and I don’t remember hitting him,” he chortled. “I also remember something else my mother told me many times. She said that when Peeuree was worried, he would take himself like this.” Kali grasped the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb as he bowed his head over a closed fist and swayed from side to side. “I think maybe I do that, too, sometimes.”

  Kali continued to stare at the photograph. I wondered whether he could see the remarkable resemblance to himself that was so clear to me. I wondered just how many times during his eighty years he had thought about his real father, or imagined how different his life might have been had Peary claimed him as his son and contributed to his upbringing. I wondered, but I did not ask.

  I told Kali that his cousin Anaukaq hoped that he would return with me to Moriussaq. Much to my delight, Kali accepted the invitation. Joined by his son, Talilanguaq, he crossed the bay to Qaanaaq, where he boarded a helicopter. Kali was at first skeptical of the chemeahktoe, but once aloft he seemed to enjoy the ride. He grudgingly admitted that this form of travel had its advantages, even if it lacked the adventure and romance of traditional dogsled travel. Even by the fastest dogsled, the trip from Qaanaaq around the mountainous coast to Moriussaq normally took a day. By helicopter it took only an hour.

  When he landed in Moriussaq, Anaukaq was there to greet him. As Talilanguaq helped his father from the helicopter, the two old friends began laughing joyously. They shook hands, grabbed each other’s shoulders, and stared each other in the eye, chuckling all the while like two young boys.

  “Hinaynukwhonay [Hello, how are you], my cousin? It is good to see you,” said Kali.

  “Aheewhoghia [I am fine],” Anaukaq replied. “It is good to see you, too, my cousin. Welcome to Moriussaq. You look great!”

  “I am good for an old seal hunter. It must be that shot of whiskey that I take once in a while,” Kali replied. Again they broke into laughter. “You look well to me,” Kali continued. “I had heard from my children that you had been very ill a while back.”

  “I was very ill last year, but I am much better now,” Anaukaq replied. “My granddaughter Malina acts as a nurse for me, and my sons hunt for me. So I am well fed and very peeshahhah [strong] today.”

  “Good,” Kali said, as we hurried from under the whirring blades of the departing helicopter, which was blowing swirls of snowflakes all around us.

  We collected the bags and headed off in the direction of Anaukaq’s igloo. Together for the first time in many years, the two men chatted away. They were a striking sight walking together, proudly leading the small entourage of villagers toward the center of the settlement, ever conscious of my camera recording their interaction. As I watched them step surefootedly over the packed snow—one dark in complexion, the other much lighter—I could imagine that I was looking at Matthew Henson and Robert Peary themselves, hiking together across this frozen land nearly a century ago.

  When we reached Anaukaq’s home, his sons came out to greet Kali and Talilanguaq and invited all of us into the central room of the house.

  “Aah, keyettoe [warm],” Kali said. “Irriahnocktoe [beautiful] igloo.”

  Everyone exchanged pleasantries and talked about the two families. Kali was particularly charmed by Magssanguaq, Anaukaq’s ten-year-old grandson, who had just returned from a hunting trip wearing his traditional polar bear fur pants and carrying a rifle.

  “This is my grandson, Magssanguaq,” Anaukaq said proudly, rubbing the boy’s head. “He is a peeneeahktoe [hunter] at age ten.”

  “A peeneeahktoe already?” asked Kali, making an obvious effort to show the boy that he was impressed. “Maybe he will grow up to be a peeneeahktoe wah like his grandfather.”

  “I hope so,” Anaukaq said. “I think he will be a great hunter when he grows up.”

  Young Magssanguaq smiled, shyly proud at this praise from his revered elders.

  Anaukaq served cobve [coffee], and the two old-timers sat across from each other, drinking and talking. Later, as a special treat for his guest, Anaukaq brought out their favorite delicacy.

  “Cheemeahk [Birds]!” Anaukaq announced, displaying a pair of white kittiwakes. These birds, which look like moderate-sized seagulls, are stored in closed sealskin pouches under a rock pile for about a year. During that time they become fully fermented, allowing the Eskimos to eat them raw.

  “Aah, cheemeahk,” Kali exclaimed. “Kooyounah. I haven’t had any cheemeahk since last summer.”

  “Iddigdoo,” Anaukaq said. “There is plenty, so eat much. My grandson Magssanguaq shot them.”

  “Oh, that is wonderful,” Kali responded. “That grandson of yours is really a good peeneeahktoe.”

  Anaukaq and Kali skillfully peeled away the birds’ feathers and skin, much as one peels an orange, to expose the red, fleshy meat. Eventually each retrieved from his bird a walnut-sized, membranous sac that looked like a small plastic bag. The sacs were filled with seeds eaten by the bird and stored in its crop. They held the sacs up and commented on their size and contents, which told the old hunters many things about the origin, health, fertility, and general condition of the kittiwake population.<
br />
  “Here,” Kali said to me. “Smell this.” He opened the top of the little sac and held it to my nose. It had a fragrance similar to that of fresh flowers, or maybe jasmine.

  “It smells very pleasant,” I said.

  Anaukaq then got up and found a small string of sealskin. He tied one end of the string around the top of the membranous sac and attached the other to the timber in the ceiling. “It will make my igloo smell very good,” he explained.

  “That is wonderful,” I said, once again amazed at the resourcefulness of my hosts. “You have taught me so many things about the Eskimo ways.” Both men chuckled with pride.

  With their pocket knives, they began to carve their birds in much the same way that we slice apples, putting slivers of the raw, bloody meat in their mouths in between words. Before long their mouths and hands were stained a deep red.

  “Mahmaktoe,” Kali said with a grin, as he handed me a small slice of the delicacy.

  Actually, the meat was quite flavorful—somewhat vinegary, but not bad. “Kali. Anaukaq. Which one of you was the better peeneeahktoe in your younger days?” I asked. The two men continued eating in silence for a moment, thinking over my question.

  “This one!” Anaukaq said, pointing at Kali. “This one! He is probably the greatest hunter of all the Inuit people.”

  Anaukaq had barely finished when Kali pointed at him and said, “This one! Anaukaq. He is the greatest hunter of all the Inuit people. Before he injured his eye cutting a seal, no one was better.”

  “Ooh, no,” Anaukaq protested. “You used to hunt pooeehee [seal] and kahlayleewah much better than any of us. You enjoyed it so much.”

  “Oh, I really enjoyed hunting kahlayleewah more than anything,” Kali said. “I can remember when I got my first kayak. I was so happy because then I was able to take care of myself. I could be on my own. I liked to sneak up on the kahlayleewah by paddling silently,” he continued, dramatically imitating the twirling motions of a kayaker. “Then I would lift my harpoon and thrust it into the kahlayleewah, like this.” He demonstrated. “All of a sudden, the rope attached to the harpoon tip would start to unwind, and the sealskin float would jump from the kayak into the water as the big kahlayleewah struggled against me. We would fight until one of us won. Oh, that was the greatest thrill. I enjoyed that very much.”