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Horseshoe Nails & Bowhead Whales
with Bill Gawor
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
I heard two sharp rifle shots mere minutes after arriving at the mining camp.
Sticking my head out, I saw the camp manager hurry over to where a stocky fellow was standing with a rifle.
The first shot had knocked the antler off a caribou and the second went right through its heart.
A heated argument ensued, but quickly ended when the Inuk stated he was not to be denied his right to country food.
He drew out a knife and proceeded to skin and butcher the animal, not 40 metres from where a borehole was being drilled.
Hmm! So much for mining activity scaring away all the wildlife.
This was my introduction to the elder who was the leader of about 12 Inuit among the 30 men at the camp, along with the cooking staff and junior geologist who were all female.
The elder invited me to his hut because he recognized me from my column in the Kivalliq News.
He was interested in Capt. George Cleveland (Suquortaronik), the harpooner from the early whaling days around Repulse Bay.
In fact, he figured Cleveland to be his great-grandfather.
I was in my element. Our conversation brought back memories from 30 or 40 years ago, when, in similar mining camps, a bunch of us would sit around on bunks to chew the fat.
The air was full of cigarette smoke, rock 'n' roll was cranked up full-blast on the stereo and the walls were covered with raunchy pin-ups.
An airtight stove glowed a cherry red while, outside, the northern lights whipped across the evening sky.
Every once in a long while, it seems, life comes around full circle.
The Inuktitut song being played over and over had a really good beat.
Every time the chorus came up, the boys would join in with gusto.
Curious as to what was being sung, I asked for a translation and got back something like this:
"That's Jason Malliki of Repulse Bay.
"He only sings gospel. You can't see the Lord, but you can feel his power."
After a while the smoke got the better of me, so I left.
As the gospel singing faded into the background, some fancy guitar picking came from the next hut.
It was Michel, a self-proclaimed French half-breed from northern Ontario.
He was not about to let himself or his music be outdone by Inuit, so he got into his own rendition of The Cover of the Rolling Stone.
"Oh we're big rock drillers with steel in our fingers, and we're loved every where we go.
"We drill for little bitty diamonds or a little bit of gold, at $10,000 a hole."
I was about to find out Michel was a pleasure to listen to when compared to the general's sleeping habits.
He had been severely wounded in Vietnam while seconded to the American army.
As a result, 40 years later, each and every night without fail, he would grind his teeth and thrash and moan in his sleep as he relived taking heavy machine gun fire.
Believe me when I tell you that shooting caribou did not help us get a restful night's sleep, regardless of anyone's dietary needs.