The Essential W. P. Kinsella

by W. P. Kinsella

  The kids use running shoes for footballs. We use them for fillers on the corduroy road across the slough. We tie laces together and toss them in the air until the telephone and telegraph lines along the highway decorated pretty good. For years there was faded and rotting running shoes hang from those lines like bird skeletons.

  Me, Frank and Bedelia put in applications under the Indian Nation Cultural Exchange Program to visit Pandemonium Bay Reserve, Northwest Territories.

  “Pandemonium Bay has the worst climate and the worst economy in Canada,” say Mr. Nichols, my teacher and counselor at the Tech School in Wetaskiwin, after I tell him where we’re going.

  He go on to tell me it is almost always below zero there, and in real temperature too, not this phony Celsius nobody understands. And he say it snow in July and August, which is their nicest weather of the year.

  “The ground never thaws, ever,” say Mr. Nichols.

  “But I bet the nights is six months long,” say Frank. “I don’t mind that at all. In that country when you talk a girl into staying the night, she stays the night.”

  It is the better part of a year before the money comes through. We are the only people ever apply under the Indian Nation Cultural Exchange Program, so everybody make a big deal out of it. There is a picture in the Wetaskiwin Times of some suits from the Department of Indian Affairs, present Bedelia with the check. Me and Frank are there, me looking worried, my black hat pulled low, my braids touching my shoulders. Frank grin big for the camera. And of course Chief Tom is there, stick his big face in the picture. He discourage Bedelia every step of the way, but when the time come he take as much credit for what she done as he dare to.

  Bedelia is serious about almost everything. She belong to so many organizations I don’t know if she can keep track. There is Save the Whales, Free the Prisoners, Stop the Missiles, Help the Seals, Stop Acid Rain, and I bet ten more. If there is anything to protest within 200 miles, Bedelia is there. She is stocky built, with her hair parted down the middle; she wear jeans, boots, and lumberjack shirts, and she thinks I should write political manifestos, whatever they are, and that I should put a lot more social commentary in my stories.

  “My motto is ‘Piss in the ocean,’” Frank tell her when she start on one of her lectures.

  In a joke shop one time I found a little button that say “Nuke the Whales” and that about turn Bedelia blue with anger. But she means well even if she’s pushy. And she’s a good friend.

  People is sure odd. Soon as everyone knows where we’re going, they start to say, “Why them?” and “Aren’t there a lot of people who deserve to go more?”

  “If people had their way they’d send two chicken dancers and a hockey player,” says Frank. “And how come none of them ever thought of applying to go?” It is true that none of the three of us dance, sing, make beadwork, belong to a church, or play hockey.

  To get to Pandemonium Bay we fly in a big plane to Yellowknife, then make about ten stops in a small plane, been made, I think, by glueing together old sardine cans. The plane feel like it powered by a lawn mower motor; inside it is as cold as outside, and there is cracks around the windows and doors let in the frost and snow. The pilot wear a heavy parka and boots, have a full beard make him look a lot like a bear. And he only growl when Frank ask him a lot of questions.

  Pandemonium Bay is like the worst part of the prairies in winter, magnified ten times. Even though it is spring it is 30 below.

  “Looks like we’re on the moon,” says Frank, stare at the pale white sky and endless frozen muskeg.

  “Looks just like home,” says Bedelia, sarcastic like, point to some burned-out cars, boarded-up houses, and dead bodies of Ski-Doos scattered about. There are gray and brown husky dogs with long hair, huddled in the snowbanks, puff out frosty breath at us, while a few ravens with bent feathers caw, and pick at the bright garbage scattered most everywhere.

  Though the Government make a big deal out of our going, pioneers they call us in some of their handouts, and send about twenty pounds of propaganda to Pandemonium Bay, with copies to each of us, Chief Tom, Mr. J. William Oberholtzer, Premier Lougheed, and goodness knows who else, there is only one person meet our plane.

  But when we see who it is, it explain a whole lot of things, like why Bedelia has told us at least a hundred times that we don’t have to go with her unless we really want to, and that she could get a couple of her demonstrator friends to travel with her, or even go by herself.

  “There won’t be much for you guys to do up there,” Bedelia said, like she wished we weren’t going.

  “Hey, we make our own fun. I never been arrested in the Northwest Territories,” said Frank.

  The only person who meet the plane is Myron Oglala.

  Myron, he is the only man Bedelia ever been interested in. He is a social worker and she met him at a Crush the Cruise demonstration in Edmonton a year or two ago, and bring him home with her for a few days. Bedelia never had a boyfriend before, so that sure surprise us all. “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” is one of Bedelia’s favorite sayings.

  Myron is soft and wispy, have a handshake like a soft fruit, and, though he claims to be a full-blooded Indian, is going bald. If you ever notice, 99 out of 100 Indians, even real old ones, have a full head of hair. That is something we is real proud of. We call Bedelia’s friend Myron the Eagle, which we lead him to believe is a compliment, though Bedelia know the truth.

  She was as proud of Myron as a mother cat carrying a kitten by the back of its neck. And she explain to us when we get too nasty with our teasing that her and Myron have an intellectual communion with one another.

  “I bet you can’t buy that kind at the Catholic Church,” I say.

  “Right,” says Frank, “that’s why you and him spend fifteen hours a day in your bedroom with the door closed.”

  Bedelia just stomp away angry. “No reason you shouldn’t have sex like everybody else,” we say. “But with Myron?” And we roll around on the floor with laughter.

  Bedelia did admit one day not long after that that if she was ever to have a baby she’d name it Margaret Atwood Coyote.

  We knew Myron was up north somewhere, but we didn’t know where, or guess how badly Bedelia wanted to see him again.

  “Well, if it ain’t Myron the Eagle,” says Frank. Myron stare at us through his Coke-bottle glasses, not too sure who we are. I sure hope he recognize Bedelia.

  But we don’t have to worry about that. Bedelia hug Myron to her, spin him around. She show more emotion than I ever seen from her, except when she’s mad at someone.

  Myron is expecting us. He have a Department of Indian Affairs station wagon and he drive us a few blocks to what look like a superhighrise apartment.

  “What’s that?” we ask. That huge, semicircular building sit on the very edge of this tiny village, look like something out of a science fiction movie.

  “Pandemonium Bay is an accident,” say Myron. “Somebody couldn’t read their compass, so they built a weather station here when it was supposed to go 600 miles up the pike. By the time somebody pointed out the mistake they’d already bulldozed out an airport, there was so much money tied up they had to leave this town where it was. Bureaucrats from Ottawa, who had never been north of Winnipeg, hired a town planner from New York to build a town for 3000 people. He designed and built this . . .” What is in front of us is a ten-storey, horseshoe-shaped apartment building.

  “There was supposed to be a shopping center inside the horseshoe, the stores protected from the wind by the apartments. But there’s never been more than 150 people here, ever,” Myron Oglala go on.

  “I guess it ain’t very cold in New York, ’cause the architect installed an underground sewage disposal system, so environmentally sound it would even make Bedelia happy,” and Myron smile from under his glasses. It is the first hint we have that he has a sense of humor.

  “The sewer system froze and stayed frozen. Indian Affairs spent a few million thawi
ng pipes and wrapping them in pink insulation, but they stayed frozen. The big problem is the pipes are all in the north wall where it’s about 60 below all year round,” and Myron laugh, and when he do so do the rest of us.

  “Folks still live in the first-floor apartments. They put in peat-burning stoves, cut a hole in the bathroom floor, put the toilet seat on a five-gallon oil drum, use the basement to store frozen waste.”

  “Native ingenuity,” says Frank.

  “Common sense,” says Myron, “something nobody in Ottawa has.”

  Me and Frank get to stay in one of those apartments. The Danish furniture is beat to rat shit, but there are two beds, with about a ton of blankets on each. Four brothers with a last name sound like Ammakar share the next-door rooms. We find them sitting on the floor in a semicircle around their TV set. They are all dressed in parkas and mukluks.

  “Don’t you guys ever take off those heavy clothes?” ask Frank.

  “You don’t understand,” say the oldest brother, whose name is George, then he talk real fast in his language to Myron.

  “George says the local people have evolved over the years until they are born in Hudson Bay parkas and mukluks.”

  All four brothers smile, showing a lot of white teeth.

  These Indians seem more like Eskimos to me. They is wide-built and not very tall with lean faces and eyes look more Japanese than Indian. They are happy to see visitors though, and they bring out a stone crock and offer us a drink.

  “This stuff taste like propane gas,” say Frank in a whisper, after his first slug from the bottle. The four Ammakar brothers smile, chug-a-lug a long drink from the crock, wipe their chins with the backs of their hands. They speak their language and we speak Cree, so to communicate we use a few signs and a few words of English. The drink we find out is called walrus milk. And if I understand what the Ammakars is saying, after two swigs you likely to go out and mate with a walrus.

  They sit on the floor of their apartment cross-legged, even though the place is furnished. Ben Ammakar bring out a bag of bone squares and triangles, got designs carved on them. He toss them on the blanket like dice. Him and his brothers play a game that is kind of a complicated dominoes. They play for money. Frank, he watch for a while then say to me in Cree, “This is easy. Boy I’ll have these guys cleaned out in an hour. Which pair of their mukluks you like best? I’ll win one pair for each of us.” Frank draw his cash from his pocket and sign that he want in on the game. I put up a quarter twice and lose each time, though I don’t understand the game the way Frank does. I decide to go back to our place. I’ve never liked games very much anyways. Frank has already won three or four dollars and is so excited he practically glowing. Bet his feet can feel those warm mukluks on them.

  I watch television in our apartment. There is a satellite dish on the roof of the apartment and they get more channels than the Chateau Lacombe Hotel in Edmonton.

  Earlier, when I mention the big, frost-colored satellite to Myron Oglala, he laugh and tell about how local people react to the television shows.

  “The Muppet Show is the most detested show on TV,” he say, “and the character everybody loathe most is Kermit the Frog. In local frog lore the frog is feared and hated. Frogs are supposed to suck blood and be able to make pacts with devil spirits.”

  “It really is no fun being green,” says Frank.

  “I bet the people who make The Muppet Show would sure be surprised at a reaction like that,” I say.

  “Up here they call the TV set koosapachigan, it’s the word for the ‘shaking tent’ where medicine men conjure up spirits, living and dead. A lot of people fear the spirits of the TV are stealing their minds,” says Myron.

  “Just like on the prairies,” says Frank.

  About midnight I hear Frank at the door. He come in in a cloud of steam, take off his big boots and hand them out the door to somebody I can’t see.

  “I lost everything but my name,” says Frank, hand my boots out the door before I can stop him.

  “I only lost 50 cents,” I say, feeling kind of righteous.

  “Yeah, but I know how to gamble,” says Frank.

  To get our boots back Frank have to agree to do a day’s work for Bobby Ammakar.

  I don’t like the idea of working. Just walking around Pandemonium Bay can be dangerous. Without no warning at all ice storms can blow up, and all of a sudden you can’t see your own shoes, let alone the house you’re headed to.

  Bedelia and Myron spend all their time together. There ain’t nothing for Frank and me to do except watch TV. This is about the worst holiday I can imagine. Also, nobody is interested in learn about our culture, and these Indians don’t have much of any that I can see.

  “They worship the Ski-Doo,” says Frank. “At least everywhere you look there’s a couple of guys down on their knees in front of one.”

  “You want to learn about our culture?” says Bobby Ammakar. “We take you guys on a caribou hunt.”

  And before we can say hunting ain’t one of our big interests in life, the Ammakar brothers loaned us back our boots, and we is each on the back end of a Ski-Doo bouncing over the tundra until there ain’t nothing in sight in any direction except clouds of frosty air.

  Ben Ammakar is in front of me, booting the Ski-Doo across the ice fast as it will go, and, when I look over my shoulder, I see we lost sight of Frank and whoever driving his Ski-Doo. After about an hour we park in the shadow of a snowbank look like a mountain of soft ice cream. I think it is only about three in the afternoon, but it already dark, and once when the sky cleared for a minute, I seen stars. The wind sting like saplings slapping my face, and my parka is too thin for this kind of weather.

  When I go to speak, Ben Ammakar shush me, point for me to look over top of the snowbank. Sure enough, when I do, out there on the tundra is a dozen or so caribou, grazing on whatever it is they eat among all the snow and rocks.

  Ben take his rifle from its scabbard and smile. He take a smaller rifle from somewhere under his feet and offer it to me.

  “I’d miss,” I whisper.

  If Frank were here he’d grab it up and say, “Fencepost has the eye of an eagle,” then probably shoot himself in the foot.

  Ben take aim, squeeze off two shots, and drop two caribou, the second one before he do anything more than raise up his head; he don’t even take one step toward getting away. The other caribou gallop off into the purplish fog.

  “You’re a great shot,” I say.

  “You learn to shoot straight when your life depend on it,” says Ben. “If you could shoot we’d have had four caribou.”

  “You speak more English every time I see you.”

  “We didn’t know if you guys were real people or not. We thought maybe you were government spies.” We have a good laugh about that. I tell him how, back at Hobbema, we been doing the same thing to strangers all our lives. “But if we’d of killed four caribou, how’d we ever carry all the meat back?” I ask.

  “Where you figure the dead caribou is gonna go?” ask Ben. “And they don’t spoil in this here weather.”

  “Polar bears?” I say.

  “Not this time of year; they go where it’s warm.”

  Ben climb on the Ski-Doo and turn the key, but all that come out is a lot of high-pitched whining and screeching, like a big dog been shot in the paw. At the same time one of them ice storms sweep down on us so we can’t see even three feet away. The wind blow ice grains into our faces like darts. Ben take a quick glance at me to see if I’m worried and I guess he can tell I am. My insides feel tingly, like the first time an RCMP pulled my hands behind my back to handcuff me.

  “Get down behind here,” Ben yell, point for me to let the Ski-Doo shield me from the wind. He get on his knees above the motor, push a wire here, rattle a bolt there.

  “I know some mechanics,” I say. “I study how to fix tractors for two years now.”

  I get up on my knees and look at the motor. I take off one glove, but the tips of two finge
rs freeze as soon as I do. I think my nose is froze too.

  “I think the fuel line is froze up,” I say.

  I wish Mad Etta was here. It hard to be scared with a 400 lb. lady beside you. Also Etta would be like having along a portable potbellied stove. Etta like to joke that if she was on a plane crashed in the wilderness that stayed lost for six months, everyone else would be dead of starvation but she would still weigh 400 lbs. It true that Etta don’t eat like the three or four people she is as big as.

  The wind get stronger. The Ski-Doo motor ice cold now.

  “Are we gonna die?” I say to Ben Ammakar.

  “You can if you want to,” says Ben, “but I got other ideas.” I don’t think he meant that to be unkind. I sure wish I never heard of Pandemonium Bay and the Indian Nation Cultural Exchange Program.

  “Come on,” say Ben, stand to a crouch, move around the end of the Ski-Doo.

  “We can’t walk out,” I yell. “At least I can’t; my clothes are too thin.”

  “Be quiet and follow me,” says Ben. I sure wish I had his leather clothes. I didn’t even bring my downfall jacket; I didn’t expect to be outdoors so much.

  I grab on to the tail of Ben’s parka and stumble over the uneven tundra. We aren’t even going in the direction we come from. The wind is so bad we have to keep our eyes mostly shut. I don’t know how Ben can tell what direction we’re going in, but in a couple of minutes we stumble right into the first dead caribou. Ben whip a crescent-bladed knife out from somewhere on his body, carve up that caribou like he was slicing a peach.

  I don’t even like to clean a partridge.

  In spite of the cold air, the smell of caribou innards make my stomach lurch. Ben pull the guts out onto the tundra, heaving his arms right into the middle of the dead animal, his sealskin mitts still on. I’m sorry to be so helpless but I can’t think of a single thing to do except stand around freezing, wonder how soon I’m going to die. Ben clear the last of the guts out of the caribou.