Added: Tena Room - Date: 29.09.2021 07:50 - Views: 42459 - Clicks: 6763
The two boats which arrived in Fort Chimo on the night of July 21st, were in the charge of Max Budgell, a man born and bred on Labrador. He was the first skipper North that season, navigating the dangerous coast by day and anchoring in the sanctuary of its harbours each night, Married women looking for sex Port Burwell the Eskimo way of travel. The ice was still lying thickly about the coast and could have foundered either of the small boats, barely forty feet long with a beam of twelve feet.
They weighed just over thirteen tons apiece and were stoutly built in Newfoundland by shipwrights who well knew how to combat the storms of the North West Atlantic fishing grounds. The journey down the Labrador Coast had not been without incident. He was living in Davis Inlet, Labrador — home of the Naskapi Indians — when he made up his mind to the army. It was winter, and there was no hope before summer of transport to a recruiting office, so instead of waiting for the ice to break up, he set off overland with a band of Naskapi Indians, to Seven Islands on the shore of the St.
Lawrence River. Their supply of flour lasted for about a month, and from then until the end of their journey three months later, they lived off the land, fishing for suckers and Whitefish in lakes and rivers, eating berries and hunting for bear in the forests. There were days when they had nothing to eat. At one time, five days passed with only water to drink and their fast was broken only when they killed a black bear. Living off the land meant they had to build shelter where they could find it. The worst part of the journey, according to Max, was crossing wide lakes in open canoes, kneeling in the bottom of the boat, soaked to the skin, stiff with cold and knowing you were unlikely to get dry for days in the swampy forests.
When the bedraggled party reached Seven Islands, Max was honoured by the Indians in a way seldom afforded a white man. The Chief of the Naskapis adopted him as a son of the tribe, but the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had different ideas. We can feed you free. Any jail with regular mealtimes would have suited Max, so he accepted their apologies and his spell in jail philosophically.
Facilities did not include a kitchen on the prison premises, so three times a day he was escorted to the home of a genial French Canadian woman, who was an excellent cook. Very hungry country. When formalities were over and his Newfoundland identity established, Max was released from jail and allowed to the Canadian Army. Few men could have gone through more discomfort to up. Max soon went overseas to the United Kingdom, served to the end of the war and married an English girl from a quiet country town and took her home to Labrador.
He helped them to organise whale hunts in Hudson Bay, and taught them how to can the surplus meat to see them through hungry winters; he made nets to help aging Eskimos catch seals in the dangerous waters round Port Burwell; he set up a cod salting industry for times of hunger in Ungava; and he was a prime helper in forming the first Eskimo co-operative in Ungava Bay, teaching the people to trade amongst themselves, to operate a char fishery, a sewing industry and to manage their own trading post at Port Burwell — the first store of their own the Eastern Arctic Eskimos had ever known.
I learned later that the Eskimo co-operative fur marketing coincided with a resurgence in the popularity of sealskin coats and the different types of skins began to fetch unbelievably high prices — seven dollars, fourteen dollars, twenty dollars and even up to thirty-three dollars for one top quality skin.
We saw little of him during the days following his arrival in Fort Chimo. The planes were kept busy and fully loaded and Rosemary and I gave up hope of ever reaching Port Burwell Married women looking for sex Port Burwell reed ourselves to returning to Frobisher Bay where we would wait for a flight to Cape Dorset. Instead, with a fast developing flexibility, we changed plans one night at almost midnight.
We were preparing for bed when Mrs. He was leaving in the morning and was willing to take us with him. The prospect was almost too good to be true. It meant we would be able to cover the stories we had hoped to get — the women sewers of Port Burwell; the first Eskimo Co-operative; and we would see Bill Larmour again, the handcraft development officer, taking the Arts to the tundra, and added to all that was the prospect of spending more time with Max Budgell who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of humour and Arctic legends.
We rolled out of our sleeping bags and went with Mrs. Dodds to her house where she was still baking bread, ready for Max to take with him on the boat trip to Port Burwell. When the supply of loaves ran out, Max would have to return to the northerners staple diet — bannock.
He said he wanted to postpone the moment as long as possible. While waiting for the bread to cook, Mrs. Dodds showed us some artifacts given to her by an old Eskimo lady in Baker Lake. There was a caribou leather bag, full of very white caribou teeth, boiled as clean as pebbles. They clicked together like the balls on a roulette wheel as she shook them from the bag on to the coffee table.
The teeth had three fanged roots; two roots and there was one baby tooth. A game was played by picking up two or three teeth at a time without looking.
The one who picked up most three rooted teeth won; or you could scramble and search for the baby teeth and the finder was winner. Of the caribou, from which the teeth came, nothing had gone to waste. The dogs had been fed with the lungs, liver, and inferior portions of meat, such as the tenderloin, which the Eskimos rejected when there was plenty of game.
The heart and kidneys, marrow bones and bulk of the meat and fat were used for food; in winter, caribou tallow was used for lighting the houses of caribou eating Eskimos; the sinews were used for sewing; the skins for sleeping robes and the bones and antlers were used, as they still are in some communities, for tools or tool handles.
Among the old tools Mrs. Dodds showed us was a skin scraper made from a shoulder blade and a snow knife carved from bone. It had been used to cut snow blocks for generations of Eskimos. Now it was a curio to show visitors, its span of usefulness ended and the snow houses it had been used to make were a rarity. The Padliermuit people from whom it came had been dispersed and the caribou herds had gone. The woman who gave the treasures to Mrs. Dodds also gave her a pair of Eskimo sun goggles. They had belonged to her grandmother when she was.
They were made from a piece of wood, about eight inches long, hollowed out like a canoe, then shaped to fit over the bridge of the nose and cheekbones.
The wood had to be at least a quarter of an inch thick at the eye slits to effectively protect the wearer from snow blindness, and the inner surface was blackened with soot from an oil lamp. The goggles served to subdue the glare of brilliant sunlight on the unshadowed Arctic snows. At Mrs. She wished to use it as a pattern for the women sewers of Chimo while I was in Port Burwell.
For some reason I did not properly understand, Eskimo parkas had no pockets. Perhaps it was because they had few extraneous possessions. Tools would be carried on their sleds or in their boats, and necessary items were often carried in either the hood of their parkas or in the legs of their sealskin boots. Pocket handkerchiefs, of course, were an unnecessary refinement.
Noses were blown straight on to the ground with a finger on first one nostril and then on the other. When I returned to Chimo after the Port Burwell trip, I had to examine my parka minutely before I could tell the garment had been taken completely apart and sewn together again by the Eskimos.
They had used the pieces for a pattern and my war-surplus snow smock had set a new fashion. Parkas were growing pockets in Fort Chimo. As we left Mrs. Dodds to return to our bedrolls, she gave me two caribou teeth for luck on the boat trip with Max. Ungava Bay had a bad reputation and the entrance to Hudson Strait where our destination lay had a worse one, and though I am not very superstitious, I slept with the teeth under my sleeping bag, just in case. It was a fine day with a high blue sky, full of flies extracting their own blood transfusions from every exposed section of skin as we helped to load up supplies.
At last, everything was stowed aboard, the barrel of salt pork was to starboard and the salt beef was to port. The deck was a litter of oil drums, coils of rope, tea kettles, water keg, lanterns, fishing nets. By some trick of light, the whole paraphernalia contrived to look shipshape. We made a brief call at the HBC store on the East Bank, where Max bought tobacco, his patent tranquillizer, and Rosemary and I bought chocolate and yo-yos for the Eskimo children at Port Burwell, and cheese and sunglasses for ourselves. Then on a receding tide and a strong current we sped down the Koksoak River towards Ungava Bay.
Apart from ourselves, the other people on board were Max Budgell; Joseph and Bobby Annanak, the two Eskimo pilots; an Eskimo family of six with their dog team of eight huskies; and a new member of the expedition, Paul Dubois, a shy French Canadian diesel engineer from Montreal.
His job was to rig the motors, stay with them until they had run for twenty-four hours without trouble and then return to Montreal. Paul, of course, did not receive fifty dollars daily. Even with Paul Dubois to attend the engines, the success of Port Burwell as a fishing station was not a certainty by any means. Max explained to me the people were growing old at Burwell, the waters were dangerous. Young men were needed for the fishing. On the way down Ungava Bay to Fort Chimo, before we had met him, he had spread the word among a few Eskimos he had met, telling them he would return in several days time and he wanted people for the fishing- grounds.
He would take anyone who wanted to go, Married women looking for sex Port Burwell their dogs. For Max, taking dogs was an enormous concession.
But for the success of the new co-operative, he said he was prepared to make some sacrifices. His sacrifice proved to be on a far larger scale than he had feared. We followed the tide down river, high water mark showing like a yellow fringe on the wet rocks, until we neared the pincer-tip headlands at the river mouth. Just before we entered Ungava Bay, the pilots sighted a whaleboat and Max told them to change direction towards it.
The pilots followed the whaleboat beyond a reef into a small harbor. Two Peterhe bobbed at anchor and several canoes lay on the shore but there was no of any tents. Suddenly, over the bare headland and down the cliff a tribe of Eskimo people poured, stark against the skyline, their parka hoods in sharp relief against the light.
They carried babies and tea kettles, rolled tents and caribou skins.
The women had bannocks for the trip and rolls of sealskin to make boots for the fishermen. They surged to the shore. Men carried rifles and ammunition to hunt seal again; children carried driftwood to light fires and they clambered into the canoes and streamed towards us as the Israelites must have entered the promised land. Five men packed into a reckless looking outboard motor boat, crouched forward like Indians in a war canoe, with their rifles tucked under the right armpits, and advanced on an old whaleboat which looked decrepit enough to sink.
They climbed aboard it and maneuvered alongside our longliner. Canoes pressed round us and we helped to haul aboard a score of yelping dogs that howled and squealed as they fought for deck space. About thirty men, women and children climbed up and laid claim to the hold.
The men in the whaleboat said they would go to Port Burwell too, and it fell in behind us and hoisted a thin, brown sail. They would never have kept up with the stout longliner, so Max flung them a rope end took them in tow. Our diesel engine spurted and settled into a steady chug, bound for Burwell and the fishing grounds.
It was a tight fit as the headroom could not have been more than eighteen inches high and they had to worm their way along the boards to stretch out. Max lit fires in the wooden ship with an abandon that would have scared a fire marshal out of his wits. Because it had room for only one pan on top, meals consisted of monster stews or giant fry ups. One family shared our stove to make tea, but for the two days at sea, they subsisted on their own food which was a miserable, inadequate diet of bannock made from white flour.
The dogs did not get fed on board ship and one poor brute discovered the salt pork barrel. His howls of delight brought the pack of dogs upon it like vultures to a carcass. Yelping and shrieking, they hurled themselves on to the food. The Eskimos on deck laid into the dogs with fists and feet. There was one final grunt and the dog lay still beneath the shadow of the dory. The big p were seamed with old cracks, its claws blunted by its work in the recent spring. With the warmer weather, the dogs looked anything but noble beasts.
Their coats thinned out and hung about them like matted wool. They cringed at the approach of human beings and if you stooped to tie a bootlace they ran away because they were so used to being stoned. They were fed occasionally and ate human excrement in lieu of starvation, so camp sites were kept quite tidy in that respect when dogs were about.
It was such a sorry spectacle when he first saw it that he traded a tea kettle for it, put it in a shed full of seal meat and left it alone for three days. When it staggered out, round and full, it was a dog of the finest kind and never looked back. Then, after a compliment about the dinner, Married women looking for sex Port Burwell picked his way distastefully through the dogs on deck and returned to the wheelhouse. To the north, where the edge of the sky met the sea, the horizon was lightened by a pale stripe of light.Married women looking for sex Port Burwell
email: [email protected] - phone:(198) 350-3545 x 5025
Chapter 16 ~ Some Sex Customs