In Search of Silence

One of the most amazing things I discovered during my journey to Lo Manthang was silence. On the morning we left Tsarang, as I sat on a rock waiting for Dabendra to bring the horses, I watched a man lead his sheep out for the day to graze on the sparse and stunted greenery of the mountainous desert that makes up Upper Mustang.

The only sounds were the soft shuffling of the sheep and the man whistling to them to keep them from straying. Otherwise it was silent—an ancient silence that spread across the land, a silence that must once have covered the whole earth.

In my favourite book, Kristin Lavransdatter, the story of a woman’s life in mediaeval Norway, the sound of the river is the background to their lives.

The river gleamed behind the dun and golden trellis-work of the alder-brakes—it filled the air with its gladsome rushing sound, for here in Jörundgaard it ran swiftly over a flat bed strewn with boulders.

What must it have been to live with only the sound of a rushing river in the background?

I later experienced silence on the Arctic tundra in Canada, but it was a muffled silence; in spring, the landscape would wake and the sounds of life would once more fill the air. In Upper Mustang there are no trees, except in the villages where small brown sparrows twitter among the wood piles and peck up seed dropped during the harvest. The wind, the gentle tinkling of horse, donkey, and sheep bells, and human voices are the only sounds. 

Or at least they were. With the road has come machinery, mainly motorbikes, but also trucks and jeeps. And they bring other machinery: computers, radios, and electricity, albeit still patchy, enables the noise. On the two occasions I heard a truck it was playing music.

Are we humans meant to live with constant noise?

A recent article in The Atlantic magazine, Why Everything is Getting Louder, makes the alarming claim that “You may think you’ve tuned out the grumble of trucks downshifting outside, but your body has not: your adrenal glands are pumping stress hormones, your blood pressure spikes in response to clatter as low as 33 decibels—slightly louder than a purring cat”. The article claims we cannot adapt to noise. And yet most of us live with constant noise that we probably aren’t even aware of. I only realised this when it was no longer there. 

And yet there are obviously pleasant sounds. It would be weird to live in complete, constant silence, although some religious orders do. The film Into Great Silence documents the lives of Carthusian monks in France over a year. The film has no sound track, only the gentle sounds generated by daily life in the monastery. But even these venerable souls have Sunday afternoons off being silent to chat and take walks in the countryside.

And of course not all sound is noise. In The Atlantic article an acoustic consultant, Arjun Shankar, is quoted saying: “Sound is when you mow your lawn, noise is when your neighbour mows their lawn, and music is when your neighbour mows your lawn”. (I’m not sure about that last bit!)

Equally the sounds of nature are not generally considered noise which is why I recently installed a solar-powered fountain on my front verandah. Although it is artificially created it is still the sound of water falling. It doesn’t block the sound of traffic from the main road, but it does let me at least pretend for a while that I’m in some serene and exotic place, far from the noise of modern life. Alas, such silence as still covers the barren landscape of Upper Mustang becomes vanishingly rare.

 

 

Travels With Dog and Chicken?

Lately I’ve been hating my job. Yesterday I sat and stared at my computer wondering how with a Masters Degree I had ended up with a crappy call-centre job? Hell, when I was back in high school I wanted to be a sound engineer! But when I approached my mother with the idea she said flat out ‘No!’. Her idea? Come home (from boarding school) and get a job in the bank. Ugh! Studies in English and French instead. (My mother openly told people she and my father hoped I’d find a husband at university, someone to take me off their hands finally. She said this in front of me. I remember being surprised. Was I not capable of looking after myself? I hadn’t realised.)

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I set off on my first travel adventure when I was three. I blame my sisters for reading and re-reading to me a book about a kitten that went off to see the world. At the age of three I clearly didn’t see a problem. If it was good enough for the kitten… The danger of books!

Now I feel a similar desire to flee. My next trip is planned for February but it’s only for two weeks then I’ll be back sitting in front of that computer feeling defeated. Why don’t I just take off? I can afford it. But there are those ties that bind: my husband, my sons, my ageing dog, even to a tiny extent my immortal chicken (Sylvia is 14 and still going strong!).

My husband is finishing up at his job soon and is planning on an Eat, Drink, Walk adventure on his own for a month. How stupid that until yesterday it had never occurred to me to do the same, minus the walking. (Do I still believe what my mother said?) Eat, Drink, Write but where? If only I could take dog and chicken with me. We could all set off to see the world.

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Sylvia the immortal chicken
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Maggie the geriatric dog (almost 15)

Exile

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Safety is what it boils down to. Having a home, feeling at home, being in control of your environment, having a familiar place to return to; these are the things that make us humans crave home.

My trip to Tibet has made me think a lot about the notion of home. When my mother had to move out of the home which had been my family’s for 58 years and, worse, it was sold to a stranger, I didn’t cope. I ended up in my psychologists room choking back tears at the loss of what had always been home. And yet my grief was a mystery to us both. It had never been a happy home, in fact I had always felt something of an outsider. I hadn’t really lived at home since I was sent to boarding school at the age of twelve and had no connection to the town having lost contact with all my primary school friends. And anyway, I had my own home now where I lived with my own family.

In the latest edition of Creative Nonfiction magazine Emily Wortman-Wunder lists all the reasons she thinks she shouldn’t feel a sense of belonging to the place her parents live: she wasn’t born there, she left as soon as she could, she hates a lot of the hokey things about it and so on. And yet, like me, she had to face the inevitability of them leaving that home and never being able to return and it hurt. She writes: “The thought of never coming back fills me with grief”.

What does this have to do with Tibet? Its inhabitants are at home and yet so many would flee if they could (and still do when possible) because the Chinese are changing their home into China. And the Tibetans in exile in Dharamsala wish they could return, even though they would return to a place that is no longer the home they left.

This is why my next trip will be to Dharamsala. It completes the trilogy. I’ve visited Lo Manthang, a place that is Tibetan and yet in Nepal and from which so many inhabitants are moving to seek what they hope will be better, easier, more exciting lives. These are Tibetans who were spared the devastation of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, who never had to witness, and in some instances participate in the destruction of their monasteries, but who instead let their monasteries fall into disrepair and left it to foreign artisans and money to restore them for…whom?

I’ve experienced the precariousness of life in Tibet under the constant and ruthless gaze of the occupying power where its inhabitants are effectively imprisoned, and now I want to see what life is like for those who were able to flee the Chinese but have lived in a state of limbo for almost 60 years. Tenzin Rigdol’s film Bringing Tibet Home exposed the depth of longing and plain homesickness of these exiles as they walked tearfully upon the soil of their homeland and then desperately scooped it into whatever containers they had so they could take it with them back to what they regard as their temporary homes.

Even some Palestinian refugees, having fled the Nakba 70 years ago still live in the hope that they will one day be able to return to their villages despite the fact many no longer exist.

They want to feel safe and in control. And home is who you are. Where are you from? was the first thing I asked my new cleaner when he arrived. Bhutan, was his reply, and it meant I could place him, though trying not to make assumptions. Why was he here? And did he miss home? How long before he could return? Far from Australia was that focal point to which he belonged and that would draw him back as soon as it could.

I recently moved house after 14 years in the same place. I’m happy about it because I’m enjoying a new lifestyle, but I feel a bit adrift. We are renting and know we won’t be here a long time. Neither do I want to return to my previous home. I’m not stateless, or living under occupation but I feel curiously adrift. I don’t really know where home is any more and I don’t know where it will end up being, but for now I feel safe and have some control over my living space, and that’s fine.

Under Constant Surveillance

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The Potala

When I first saw the Potala Palace I cried; firstly because I had long dreamed of making the high-altitude train journey to Lhasa and seeing the Potala, and secondly because it was obvious Lhasa is rapidly being turned into another Chinese city, replete with identical high-rise apartment blocks.

We were met at the station by our guide who greeted us with “Tashi Delek!” and the traditional silk katas, which he draped around our necks. Close by was a Chinese soldier armed with a large rifle. Once in the car we were told that we would see many police and soldiers on the streets of Lhasa but that we must not photograph them. Sure enough on the corner where we stopped and were led to our hotel, several police with full riot gear ready to go stood surrounded by Tibetans going about their business. In front of the stony-faced police, smiling Tibetan faces said, “Welcome to Lhasa!”

We followed our guide through the narrow winding streets of what is known as the Tibetan area, as though the whole city weren’t Tibetan. It is the original part of Lhasa and surrounds the most holy of Tibetan Buddhism’s monasteries, the Jokhang. Women in  traditional Tibetan dress–a wrap-around pinafore over a blouse and with a colourful striped apron at the front– and some men wearing the traditional Chuba–like an over-sized dressing gown worn with an arm in only one sleeve–walked in a never-ending stream fingering their prayer beads and murmuring prayers. At each corner a camera watched them.

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Tibetans in the Barkor

A welcome lunch was provided in the dining room after we stowed our bags and had time to catch our breath. My head was swimming after the jump from 2200m in Xining to 3800m. We were advised to rest that day and not to shower to give ourselves time to adjust. I didn’t need any encouragement to rest although I did try to shower and found the hot water refusing to arrive so gave up.

As we sat at lunch two well-dressed Chinese women came in. My first thought was that they were office workers on their lunch break; they didn’t look like tourists. But it occurred to me that it was strange that such women would come for lunch in a boutique hotel dining room, tucked away in the Tibetan area. I looked at the man behind the bar and saw him looking at them. His face was serious. There was a young couple also having lunch. They looked like backpackers. The barman didn’t stare at them. So my next unsettling thought was, were these plain-clothes police?

And so began nine days of guarded conversation and careful photography. The oppression of constant surveillance cowed my usually adventurous husband. On every other trip we’ve done he strides out early in the morning, often before I’m awake, to explore the area and get his bearings. He made one furtive foray that afternoon and afterwards was too afraid. He became sick and twitched nervously every time I took my phone out to take a picture in the street.

I, on the other hand, was not the slightest bit afraid. I was instead angry and sad that people as gentle as the Tibetans obviously were, had to live this way and that I too had to be intimidated into pretending that China isn’t systematically undermining Tibetan culture. It continues to make me angry because for fear of endangering our guide, I still can’t speak freely.

What I can say was that the Dalai Lama is conspicuous by his total absence in conversation and by being the only high lama whose picture is never seen. Photos of the previous, 13th Dalai Lama, are displayed in the monasteries, as are the Karmapa Lama and controversial, Chinese appointed 11th Panchen Lama, but the only reference to the present Dalai Lama was when we saw what were once his living quarters in the Potala.

I saw the ruins of old houses next to where new buildings were going up. People picked through the rubble. We drove past the new “education precinct” where boarding schools are being built for Tibetan children from other areas of Tibet. Here they will be educated away from their families, taught only in Mandarin from as young as grade three. An enormous portrait of Xi Jinping greets the students at the entrances.

At each entrance to the Barkor, the area that surrounds the Jokhang, police are stationed. All bags must be screened and once we had to produce our passports and were asked which hotel we were staying in. The Tibetans have to produce their ID cards and were frequently questioned. Once inside you step into the clockwise current that sweeps around the monastery, clockwise being the traditional, respectful direction. Shops and restaurants line both sides so you can break off to do some browsing. Police are stationed at regular points and in the square outside the entrance to the Jokhang are firefighters sitting ready. There have been several self-immolations by monks in protest against Chinese controls. Lighters and matches are forbidden in the Barkor.

The Tibetans ignore the police in riot gear, the armoured vehicles, the soldiers marching in formation, and continue in their clockwise pilgrimage. Some perform prostrations as they go, lying face down, getting up, walking a couple of paces, then lying face down again. They wear knee pads and blocks on their hands. The police look on, faces impassive.

As wonderful as it was to go inside the Potala and the Jokhang and wander the narrow streets of the Tibetan area, it was hard to enjoy being in Lhasa, and even as we journeyed south, where the surveillance was only marginally less (we had a camera in our car!) we could never relax and began longing for escape across the border to Nepal, like so many Tibetans who will never have that opportunity. It was like an inevitable punctuation to the end of our trip when our China Lonely Planet guide was confiscated at the border. We bought it in Australia and had used it throughout our three weeks in China but they took it at journey’s end. No books, no maps to be taken out. Paranoia and stupidity combined. 

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Dashcam pointing inwards

Nevermind. As we walked across the bridge to Nepal, which can’t afford bag screening machines so instead has a quick feel of your bags outside a rough hut, and climbed into a jeep for the bone-jarring ride on the roughest road imaginable to Kathmandu, we still had our Tibet Lonely Planet guides and Pocket Maps stored in our iPads.

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Nepal: the road from the Chinese border

And we were free.

On Not Visiting the Great Wall.

Well sacrilege to many people, but after we’d booked the driver and as the day wore on, I could feel reluctance turning to regret. Look, I’m sure it’s a great wall as walls go but I’ve seen it in a million photos and I learnt my lesson last time I felt compelled to visit something one is expected to go and see.

We drove for three hours each way from Delhi to see the Taj Mahal. Like the Eiffel Tower I couldn’t care less if I never saw it, but I loathed Delhi and this would at least be a day out of it. What the million photos of the Taj Mahal don’t show is the squalor you have to wade through before you get to it. Agra is dirty and chaotic and you have to run the usual gauntlet of people hassling you to buy stuff. Was it worth it though, once we entered and saw the great mausoleum? Not really. I was tired, it was 37 degrees, and we had a tedious guide who droned on and on with his much rehearsed spiel. I took photos but they looked like the million photos I’d seen before. Like the Beatles, it just didn’t do it for me.

If I had any doubts about foregoing the obligatory trip to the Wall, my resolve was firmed by re-reading what Patrick Holland (Brisbane author and my masters supervisor) wrote about it in his book “Riding the Trains in Japan”:

I had first seen the Wall as a student in Beijing and been underwhelmed as one often is at famous and over-photographed sites that no longer have a use apart from their value as tourist draw cards…That day I could easily imagine that the Wall was fake–that it had been set up on the back of a legend to part tourists with their money.

So after farewelling my husband to do the obligatory for both of us, I made my way to a lovely cafe to do some writing and to practice my paltry Mandarin (with limited success). Then I visited the ancient Drum Tower down the road. The tower was once the official time-keeper for the city. It was originally built in 1272 but burnt down and was rebuilt in 1420.

The Subversive Travel Writer

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I confess I don’t know what to think about Julian Assange. Clearly the Ecuadorians were as tired of him as anyone would be of a house guest who had overstayed their welcome by some six years. Is he just a narcissist as the judge claimed, or is he truly a martyr to free speech?

I’m only thinking about this as I am about to undertake a journey about which I plan to write but about which I am loathe to publish anything beforehand lest it jeopardise the trip. We’ve already had to engage in subterfuge to get our visas so we can then gain permits to access where we really want to go. In one of the books I have read about the place, the writer describes his experience:

As I jotted thoughts into a small black notebook, another official approached.

           “What are you writing about?” he asked.

            “It’s just my travel journal,” I explained, and smiled weakly.

            “Are you writing notes about the train?” he pressed. “It would be better if you did not write while on the train.” He stood there until I closed my book and tucked it away…

Great. So I’m wondering whether I will have to just remember everything as I’m travelling and then get it down once the coast is clear.

I would never have pictured myself as a subversive writer, but to write is often an act of subversion. Writers, particularly non-fiction writers, write to find the truth. About people, about places, about motives, about events. Dervla Murphy is not welcome in Israel because of her books about her time with the Palestinians (A Month by the Sea and Between River and Sea). She spent a month in Gaza and several months in the West Bank. She was seeking the truth about the daily lives of the Palestinians. She was so disturbed by what she experienced that for a long time after she came home to Ireland she couldn’t bring herself to write about it. Fortunately her friends encouraged her to do so and naturally it upset the Israeli government.

I have a standing invitation from a friend to visit with her husband’s family in Iran. I would love to do this, but would then have to sacrifice never being allowed into the US again. Which is hardly an enormous sacrifice, but I know some time in the future I will want to return to New York at least. 

And unfortunately Freya Stark’s (rather politically incorrect now) tactic when travelling where she knew she shouldn’t, wouldn’t work as well now as it did in the 1920s:

The great and almost only comfort about being a woman is that one can always pretend to be more stupid than one is and no one is surprised.

Oh dear. 

In her later years, Dervla would plan to blame the onset of dementia if she were caught straying into forbidden territory. I don’t think I’m quite old enough for that one.

I’ll be setting off in five weeks. People ask me if I’m excited about my trip. I’m not. But I am looking forward to the challenge. And to eventually writing about it.

 

Here’s to the Fearless Female Explorers

?A Picnic with King Faisal? photograph of Gertrude Bell (1868-1926), Traveller, spy and archaeologist on a picnic in Saudi Arabia in 1922.
“A Picnic with King Faisal”. Gertrude Bell in Saudi Arabia, 1922. Vintage Archives/Alamy Stock Photo

 

In honour of International Women’s Day I have decided to write something about the women I most envy: the explorers.

Remember learning about Magellan? Columbus? Sturt? Flinders? Cook? The thing they had most in common wasn’t only that they explored the world, it was that they all had penises. And having penises also gave them the means to embark on their expeditions because they had wives at home to take care of all that meaningless stuff, like raising children, cooking food, and making sure the house wasn’t coated in dust or covered in mould.

Meanwhile, some very fearless women were undertaking their own journeys.

The first female explorer I heard of was Freya Stark, and that was only because she was British and I was in London at the time of her death in 1993 at the age of 100. At the time I was surprised I’d never heard of her before and the thing I remember being most reported about her was not so much her travels, but the fact that she’d been almost completely scalped at the age of 13 when her hair was caught in a machine.

I feel some affinity for Freya because, like me, she was a sickly child and therefore, like me, did a lot of reading. After reading One Thousand and One Nights she became obsessed with the Middle East and spent her life until her retirement in the ’70s travelling in the region on and off.

I have a similar obsession with the Arctic after reading about Iceland as a teenager. But unlike Freya I have not learned Icelandic or any other Scandinavian, Russian, or Inuit language. I can however say sorry in Danish and Swedish (Unskyld and Förlåt) and now automatically reply with Tak and Ja because I watch too much Scandi Noir. (Too much? Not possible!)

Gertrude Stein similarly spent the early part of the 20th Century wandering about in the Middle East. I read on Wikipedia that “History was one of the few subjects women were allowed to study [at Oxford], due to the many restrictions imposed on them at the time” and that “she was the first woman to graduate from Modern History with first class honours”. A terrible movie was made about her, starring Nicole Kidman. Pretty sure Gertrude didn’t emerge from the desert with flawless skin and clean, matching outfits, but I do hope she spent her evenings sitting at a table writing by candle-light with a pen dipped in ink.

My great heroine, though, is the Irish explorer and writer Dervla Murphy. Dervla was pulled out of school at the age of 14 to come home and look after her mother who suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. She continued to care for her, drinking a lot of whisky and chain-smoking to cope, until her mother died. By then Dervla was 31. She closed up the house, got herself a gun, and got on her bike and rode. All the way from Dublin to India. For the next 50 years she travelled by bike, on foot, on mule, with and without her daughter, and wrote 26 books. Her last Between River and Sea about her time living in the West Bank in Palestine, was published in 2015. She resigned herself, at the age of 84, to staying put. Since a hip replacement she can no longer ride a bike, she used to love swimming but now her shoulder is no good, and all those cigarettes have given her emphysema. Still, 84!

Many of the places these fearless women travelled are no longer accessible because the inhabitants are all fighting with each other. I want to go to Timbuktu. The official advice says Do Not Travel, the Lonely Planet says Mali is great but not safe to travel there at the moment, and you can’t get travel insurance (as though any of those women ever did). I actually called a guy named Phil Paoletta who runs Postcards from Timbuktu in Mali’s capital, Bamako. He told me you can’t get near Timbuktu; the soldiers will turn you around if you try. He did however suggest stowing away in a boat on the Niger river. Yeah, that’d work.

So for now I must content myself with my previous–rather pale in comparison–expeditions to Lo Manthang and the Arctic Tundra, (Inuvik! You’re welcome kids!) and look toward my next journeys into the somewhat unknown. If only, like Dervla, I could happily sleep in a puddle of freezing water!

Quiet, Late Achievers

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Yesterday, I spoke to a client who casually mentioned she used to be a lawyer. 

“At the age of 70,” she told me proudly, “after completing my eighth degree, I was admitted to the Supreme Court as a solicitor.”

“You must love studying,” I said.

“Well it’s better than housework,” she replied. She had gone on to practice for six years before retiring.

I thought of my own neglected house, and the tumbleweed of dust and fully formed cobwebs clinging to the corners. I, too, have better things to do than housework.

Such people are inspiring to those of us who were too busy working and raising children in our younger years to achieve other things. I marvel at anyone who is able to write and wrangle a family. Raising three children took all of my energy at the time.

A character in a book I’m currently reading—Mallachy Tallack’s The Valley at the Centre of the World—talks about growing older and how looking back starts to take the place of looking forward. I don’t like the thought that you stop having things to look forward to. Perhaps you do, but they just grow smaller.

My mother gave up at the age of about 70. She decided that she’d lived her biblically prescribed “three score and ten years” and said No to every opportunity that came along after that. “My world is finished,” she would say when we suggested she try something new. My father, on the other hand, retired at 80, bought himself a computer and found someone to teach him how to use it. He also took a flight down to Antarctica. Had my mother not been such a wet blanket, they could have had great adventures. They had money and good health, but my mother simply sat down and said No to everything. 

When we were in Bali recently, I found myself thinking often of my father. Like me, he loved seeing and learning new things. He would have loved to come to Bali. If he ever saw someone interesting in the street, he would go up and talk to them. He told me about a time when he and my mother were in Moscow. He saw a queue of people so he stood on the end to see what they were waiting for. Ice cream. So he bought one too.

It was my father who bought the set of beautiful encyclopaedias called The World and Its People that I used to pore over, sitting on the cool linoleum in his office. It was in those I first read about Iceland, leading to an obsession that finally saw me stand on the streets of Reykjavik in 1993, long before the hordes of tourists that now invade. I wonder what my father would have made of my travels in Nepal. Sadly, he had died before I went there. My mother’s only two questions were “What do they drink in Nepal?” and, “When are you going to get over going to these places?”

In May I am travelling to China for the first time. Another adventure. I have many others in mind after that. My hero, good old Dervla Murphy, published her last travel book in 2015 at the tender age of 84. She has finally accepted gracefully that her health is not strong enough for further travels, but having published twenty-six travel books in fifty-three years, I think she’s earned her retirement. 

I’m starting a bit later but I have a good few years left yet. 

The Rain in Ubud

It’s the wet season here in Bali and every day we get some rain, either a light shower or a torrential downpour. Water rushes in the deep gorge below our villa, lulling us to sleep at night, along with the frogs and the geckos. This morning I woke up with something wet on my neck: a small worm. I don’t know how it got into my bed.

Even now, as I sit in this cafe near a bridge I can hear the water rushing below. It makes me forget how dry everything is at home. Temperatures are soaring everywhere and fires burn in Tasmania of all places. The farm animal sanctuary near home is having to buy in feed. And my old wooden Queenslander sits empty. I know a fire will eventually consume it. As much as I love it and the bush that surrounds it, I know one hot, dry day, the bush will turn angry and take my home.

But here, in this tropical paradise, where everything is green and lush, it’s easy to forget. Which is partly why we go on holiday isn’t it? To remove ourselves from the mundanity of daily life and pretend for a while there is nothing to worry about. But that removal also allows one to gain some perspective. Far from the distractions of work, housework, animals, cooking, the important things are able to rise to the surface and remind us why they are important.

The day before I left to go on holiday, I did a workshop at the Queensland Writer’s Centre about making a writing plan for the year and sticking to it. I thought leaving home straight after might make me lose resolve, but it has given me the perspective I needed. I won’t be happy while I don’t move forward with my writing and the only way to do that is to commit to making it a priority.

So if I gain nothing else from my time in this beautiful place, it will be a renewed sense of commitment to the things most important to me. Just as the downpour at the end of a hot, humid day cleanses everything to start anew, this holiday will make me fresh to take on the writing challenges I have set myself for the year.

Into the Polar Night

3. Do People Go Crazy Here in the Winter?

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Inuvik at 10.30am

Next morning while Susan took the boys out for one final dog-sled, Neville and I drove into town for a look around. We ordered coffee in Inuvik’s only cafe, Cafe on Mackenzie, and sat looking out at the dark street. The full moon shone bright above the lights strung across the main street spelling out Merry Christmas, while a shooting star hung above a sign flashing first 10:54 then -18C. Car headlights lit up the white road. People, hunched under heavy clothing hurried between cars and buildings. It was the best coffee we’d had in Canada so far and I told the man behind the counter. He smiled and looked away.

In the silent gift shop next door I looked over the beautifully carved soapstone sculptures. Forbidden to touch the delicate stone, I had to ask the assistant to pick up each one so I could get a closer look. If I made a comment she replied with, “Mmhmm,” but gave me no information other than the price.

“Do people go crazy here in the winter?” I asked.

“They’re used to it,” she replied.

“What do they do?”

“Some people go up to their cabins and go hunting. Do you want these gift-wrapped?”

 

On our first day, when we dashed into town to find lunch, we sat down on the hard plastic seats in the eating area with our KFC wraps while the locals around us gave us mildly curious sideways glances. In the post office, I asked the man behind the counter how much to send a postcard to Australia.

“One dollar,” he answered with the barest hint of a smile.

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Walking around Inuvik it was as though I were followed by a small child who, tugging at my clothing, kept asking, But why are the shops open at night-time? It’s not night-time, I told it, over and over.

But it did feel like I was in a post office at night, and now, having posted my card I had to go back out into the dark. No one wants to be outside in the dark. We want to be inside, where it’s light and warm. Shelter is the only thing that can protect us from the air. But it’s not actually the shelter, but the heat inside it. If this were to shut down, that air would slowly but surely seep in through the pores of the building and find those huddled inside. Perhaps it is this that takes everyone’s attention. Perhaps it’s not that they’re unfriendly so much as distracted. If you were trapped in a building under siege, you would have no time for pleasantries. Pleasantries belong in comfort and ease, two things that cannot exist for long in an Arctic winter.

Everyone seemed drawn in on themselves and I wondered if they were only like this in winter. “Not the cold but the oppression” is how Barry Lopez describes it in his book, Arctic Dreams. Warmth and light draw people out of their houses and out of themselves, but that lethal cold, I felt, and the instinct to withdraw when the dark of night descends kept the people of Inuvik turned inwards. I wondered whether if I returned at the height of summer, when there is no night, people would be more open and friendly.

“We don’t sleep much and get all pumped up on adrenalin,” Susan told us excitedly, about the days of endless sunshine.

That sounded to me like some other kind of hell.

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Before going back to the Chalet, we drove down to the Ice Road for another look in the now dim light. High above the frozen water-line sat a ship. It was once used in seismic data collection as part of research into the feasibility of drilling for oil and gas in the Arctic Ocean. Since 1990 she has sat beached above the banks of the Mackenzie river and Ben, one of the volunteers at the Chalet, told us in the summer it is known as being a notorious crack den. He also told us that Inuvik had the highest rate of drug and alcohol abuse per capita in Canada. I couldn’t find statistics to back this up but the fact that in tiny Tuktoyaktuk (Pop: about 950), on the coast at the end of the Ice Road, there is a centre where people can find help for alcohol abuse, speaks of a people desperate for escape. Suicide rates are higher than in southern parts of Canada as are rates of smoking and teenage pregnancy. The findings of a government committee into the health of Canadian youth in the north found “Substance abuse problems in [these] communities are deeply rooted and of long standing. People are beset with feelings of hopelessness, despair and impotent rage. From this comes violence, suicide and sexual abuse.”

 

As we waited at the airport we watched two police officers in flack jackets shepherd two men in handcuffs onto a plane. As we flew out, I looked down on the chain of frozen lakes and rivers and wondered what could make me return. 

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