ALISON 3

Rankin Inlet, Northwest Territories

April 1, 1970

April Fool’s Day, and I am beginning to wonder if I have made the right decision, or if I am simply a bloody fool, adrift in this new sea of faces in an unfamiliar landscape. I am the last person on this planet I would expect to suffer “homesickness,” unless that can be defined as growing sick of home. But here I sit, feeling utterly alone in this tiny hamlet north of nowhere. I’ve met a handful of people—Wayne Dupont, Ian MacKenzie, Elizabeth Bauer, Sherry Dunlop, and some of the native patients. But I can’t claim to know any of them, and they know very little about me. And with my plan to forget my own past, what is there to know about me, anyway?

I sent a postcard to Liverpool, letting them know I had arrived and how they can reach me, should they need to.

On Saturday, I donned my denim pants and government-issue parka and took a walk around the community. I felt completely conspicuous. Children would peek at me from around the houses or from behind the snowmobiles, smiling and giggling, and occasionally calling out words I could not understand. Adults stared at me from the windows of the homes as I walked past.

I quickly learned that my footwear is totally inadequate for this place, so I went down to the Hudson Bay Company when it opened, to buy a pair of sturdy boots. An Eskimo woman was emerging from the store as I arrived. She was wearing a traditional parka made from shaved caribou skins, embroidered in bright colours around the edges, with a bulge on the back for carrying a baby. There was a baby in the pouch and another small child holding her right hand. In her left hand she held a bright yellow shopping bag that proclaimed: “Wise shoppers shop at the Bay!” Yet there seems to be no alternative here.

There were swarms of people inside the store. Some were shopping, but most were simply socializing. All heads turned to look me over, and soon I had a pack of children following me, watching me as I tried on boots. I learned my first words in the native language, as they kept asking me over and over: “Kinauvit—what’s your name?” They would giggle when I replied, and they scattered briefly when I asked them back: “Kinauvit?”

A schoolteacher introduced herself to me as Janet Weber and welcomed me to the community. She had overheard the kids and explained to me that “kinauvit” is translated as “what’s your name?” but it literally means “Who are you?” “There are no strangers in this town, no accidental visitors,” she said. “They are curious to know what you are doing here. Tell them you are a najannguaq, a nurse, then they will be satisfied.”

The next time I heard “Kinauvit?” I turned and faced the kids and said “Alison. Najannguaq. Najannguaq Alison.” This time they did not giggle or scatter like birds. Their eyebrows arched upward over their mischievous brown eyes as they studied me, taking full measure of me. “Iiiiiiiii,” they whispered as they nodded their heads, seeming mesmerized by my speaking a few words of their language. Then they scurried off to tell the adults what they had learned about me.

I toured through the grocery section, past stacks of boxed potato chips and biscuits, towers of corned beef and Spam, boxes of Red River cereal and tea, and endless tins of evaporated milk. I was curious to see what kind of fresh produce might have made it this far north. There were the iceberg lettuces and eggs that Wayne had delivered, but little else other than some brownish celery and carrots, and a few apples and oranges. Children with runny noses would pick up an apple or an orange and suck it for a few moments, then put it back on the shelf. The fruit is twice as dear as a candy bar here, so I expect it is a rare treat for them.

As I checked out, I heard people complaining to the cashier about the dwindling stock of their favourite items—a particular brand of cigarette, a favourite sweet, or raisins. She shrugged her shoulders and told them to get used to it, as the annual sealift is still months away. I asked what sealift is and she told me that it is when a whole year’s worth of supplies arrives at the settlement by barge.

I ran into Ian MacKenzie outside the Bay as he was plugging in a cord that ran from under the hood of his car into an electrical outlet on the side of the building. When I asked him what he was doing, he explained that it is necessary to use an electric heater to avoid having your engine block freeze while you shop.

A thin layer of snow had fallen over the gravel road and squeaked under my new boots. The streets were lined with rusty fifty-gallon fuel drums meant to collect rubbish; nonetheless, the roads were littered with soda cans, candy and cigarette wrappers, and the black plastic trash bags. Many of the pastel homes had sheets of plywood leaning against them, with scraped sealskins nailed on to dry. It seemed odd to see teams of Huskies chained up next to the snowmobiles that have been bought to replace them.

Some boys were playing a game of football in the street with a walrus skull. They paused for a moment so I could pass. I could hear them snickering and feel them eying me as I walked by. I hurried back to the station, where all was quiet. I napped and read in the afternoon, then helped myself to some of the chicken stew someone had left simmering on the stove.

On Sunday morning, I took another long walk. I heard singing coming from the Catholic Church, so I peeked in to see the Easter service in progress. Two of the Easter lilies I had flown up with had made their way onto the altar. The small building seemed jammed to the rafters with people, including many children. There were babies being jiggled on knees or riding on their mothers’ backs, toddlers toddling, and older kids running in circles around the adults, most of whom were seated in folding metal chairs. The young ones didn’t seem to distract the adults at all, as they listened with rapt attention to the catechist, who had to use a microphone to be heard above the din generated by the children, as well as the chorus of coughing. With a small pang of regret, I recalled the days when my family had attended Easter service together, our patent leather shoes shined to a fare thee well, anticipating the feast we would have at home later, with a piece of ham and some hot cross buns. I closed the door and walked onward.

From up on the hill where the fuel storage tanks loom, I looked out over the whole community. I could see the head frame, like a tall wooden shaft, towering over the abandoned mine site. Smoke was rising in plumes from many chimneys. I could hear the whining and barking and howling of the chained dogs carried on the constant wind.

Behind me was an endless expanse of frozen tundra, bluish-greyish-white, stark and eerie. I am used to seeing lights twinkling everywhere along the horizon, reflected off windows, or rivers and lakes—signs of civilization, like the muffled roar of hectic traffic.

Here, there seems to be absolutely nothing and no one out there.