A week in the Arctic Circle

I will never forget the day I sat peering out of the window of the pocket-sized aircraft that carried my classmates and I to the remote town of Gjoa Haven. It occurred to me that we were being entirely divorced from humanity. I was no longer able to discern clouds from the vast expanse of white tundra. No Landmarks or denotations of civilization peppered the ground, making the distance we were covering utterly incalculable.

Alienated by hundreds of miles of snow, we arrived at the port-a-cabin style airport. The ensuing week was filled with the demonstration of Inuit customs and traditions by the village elders and our Inuit contemporaries. Drum dancing, ice fishing and the crafting of traditional hunting tools were interspersed by popcorn movie nights and gossip about the latest relationship drama in the school.
Mid-week, we were lead out onto the vast tundra. Block by block, we watched the construction of an igloo. Memories of attempts to build “snow-forts” flashed across my mind, my childhood efforts eclipsed by the skilful craftsmanship of the Inuit people. Traditional ice-cutting tools were handled with expert precision by men with worn, leathery faces. I couldn't help but imagine the scene as an animation of childish picture books, whimsically illustrated with fur-clad “Eskimos”.

As we got to know the people of Gjoa Haven, the imagery from the childish books of which I was reminded was further and further eroded. Stepping out of the comfortable temperature of the school block into the frigid air of outside was a reminder of the punishing nature of the climate and environment in which generation upon generation of Inuit have toiled to survive. Yet, a short journey across the network of icy tracks ended in arrival at the town’s Walmart equivalent. Soda cans and empty packets of “chips” freckled the clean white snow.

Later in the week, we were presented with a caribou that was skinned for us on the floor of the school's maths classroom. The Inuit teens handed out chunks of this delicacy in small dishes, marvelling at the way we cringed at the sight and taste of raw, bloody meat. They seemed proud of their heritage – eager to show off their throat singing skills after the meal. Yet, the sinister glow of i-pod screens seemed to lurk in the corner of the classroom that night. How long would the mystical beauty of this far off land remain intact?