As
we continue
proofreading and polishing up the eventual book Common
Sense and Whiskey, we're posting the
chapters here. Previous entries: Sri Lanka, Tasmania, Paraguay
and Climbing
Mt. Kinabalu. Today we're in Disko Bay, Greenland.
You know those gauzy coffee commercials where cozy people savor their morning brew, steam rising in circles from the cup? In the midst of one of those, we were cradling our cups in our hands in Silva’s kitchen when, with a great low rumble, an iceberg broke apart just offshore from Ataa camp, Greenland.
Boulders of ice plunged into waves around the berg, now off balance, as it rocked side to side in slow motion. Silva stoked the commotion, cursing and scurrying for his video camera (he did this more than once). He was sure someday he’d be in National Geographic.
*****
Silva ran the Ataa Holiday Camp. The tourist service down the coast in Ilullisat cheerfully recommended it, because Silva was a Man Of Some Repute in Ilullisat.
He was in year eighteen in Greenland, first as an itinerant musician from Denmark, invited up here to play hotels for a month, then three, then a year and one thing led to the next. Now he ran Travel Nature Touring Company and he was having a go at redeveloping the abandoned trading post at Ataa into a tourist camp.
In 1915 Ataa boasted 59 residents, 58 Inuit and the station chief, the only Dane. They lived in six houses and three tents, with a school, the manager’s house, a workshop and a storehouse for seal blubber.
Seal hunting kept Ataa alive, and that year they collected 137 barrels of seal blubber, 42 barrels of shark liver, five blue and eleven white fox skins, 70 seal skins, eight and a quarter kilos of tusks and four and a half kilos of eider down.
Nobody lives here full time now. The nearest settlement today is at a place called Qertaq, thirty kilometers away. Ataa camp sits at the base of ancient, rounded low hills under 1000 meters, Precambrian gneisses finally exposed only 7000 or 8000 years ago, when the ice cap most recently melted away. Ataa means “its lower part” - the base of the hills.
Mirja and I got there by speedboat. A Quicksilver 3000 Classic bounced us across choppy water, under a lowering gray, 70 kilometers from Ilullisat to Ataa. Its pilot, Jergen, with his broad, expansive head, buzz cut and ready smile, was Greenland Man.
The wind kicked up. We spied the spray of a finback whale, spun around and saw him dive, and in the spinning spotted a seal.
Jergen pounded the Quicksilver’s butt into the tiny harbor at Ataa, where Silva bobbed aboard a zodiac, perched uncertainly and growling. He wore the only clothes we ever saw him in, Nikes and a running suit.