Sobol originally set out to take photographs in Tiniteqilaaq. Even the name of the place implies the ends of the earth: The strait that runs dry at low tide. After five weeks he had had enough. He took his black and white photographs and headed home – albeit with the sense that his village portrait was distorted. Four months later he returned to face the small society that had far more layers and levels of meaning than he had seen at first.
And that is when Greenland captures him. The mountain landscape lies transparent and luminous, and the frozen waters lure him. He makes friends among the hunters, who take it upon themselves to train him. When this new existence suddenly starts to function – despite the arctic cold he can provide himself with food – the pampered motherland to the south shrinks into the pallid past and he resolves to test his strength against East Greenland’s basic, existential challenges. But behind this decision lies his true motivation: Falling in love with Sabine.
The Dance
Sabine has put on lipstick, high heels and a polka-dot dress. It’s the christening of her sister’s first baby. ”Peqqeraava? Am I beautiful?” Sabine asks. She lifts her skirt up revealing her star panties and a pair of laddered tights. ”Iorunaraalid. You’re wonderful,” I reply, grab hold of her and start to dance.I’ve often watched Sabine dance at the village hall without wanting to join in. But now that we’re alone in her uncle’s house I surrender to both the dance and Sabine. We dance across tables, chairs and mattresses. Wilder and wilder. Through the open window we can hear the church bells chime but Sabine insists: ”Aamma, aamma, qilinnermud ilinniardiiatsiikkid. More, more. Let me teach you how to dance!”
The Courage of Vittus
I’m out sealing with Vittus, Sabine’s cousin. We set off in the dark at eight. For two hours we battle through the ice to reach the small patches of open water. Slowly the day dawns and soon the light will be fading equally slowly, just like the darkness in the summer. It’s cold out there in Sermilik Fjord. Now and then we land on a big ice floe to get warm and look for seals in the small pools of open water. But there are no seals today. The temperature is around -25°C. Vittus looks at me and utters the only sentence of the day: ”Kalaaddid Nunaanni uumatsangaanni tsanngilaajararpoq. It takes a certain amount of courage to live in Greenland.”
In Love
I’m in love. Sabine is 19 and I’m 23. I’ve decided to stay in Tiniteqilaaq. I want to be a hunter. Shoot seals and catch fish. Learn the language. I’ve stopped taking photographs.
The Hunters of Tiniteqilaaq
I’ve watched them come home many times. As darkness descends the boats come in and the hunters walk silently through the village dragging their kill. One morning I get up before the sun and go down to the harbour to wait for them. At last I’m going hunting.
(…)We’ve only got as far as the island of Sarpaq when I see my first seal. ”Aaddaaniaa!” Hans passes me his rifle. It’s one of the hunters’ unwritten laws: The first one to see a seal has to shoot it. Calmly I take aim and fire my first bullet. ”Jacob has shot a seal, ” Augo shouts. But all that’s left is a red trail in the water. ”Aammaqqaakinnermii kivioq,” Hans explains: ”It sank because it didn’t have enough blubber”. We’re gone from the morning until midnight. Hans teaches me Greenlandic words en route. Tsikeq, aaddaa, tsereeq: Ice, rifle, sun. I forget them at first, but Hans persists and soon I’ve learnt some of them by heart. There are a lot of seals that day. Hans shoots three, Augo five. The boat is full and we head for home. Far away the lights of Tiniteqilaaq emerge as small dots on the mountainside. ”Look, Copenhagen!” says Hans.
When we land he invites me for supper. The entire family are gathered around a platter in the kitchen where we stuff ourselves with fresh seal meat and blubber as we go over the language lessons of the day: ”Puilimi pilararpua! I’ve caught a seal!” ”Nuliakkaaq mamakkaaju! Women are wonderful!”
45 m/s
There is ice on the inside of the window but Sabine and I have lit a row of candles on the windowsill to melt the ice and keep us warm. We’re living in her uncle’s attic, which faces northwest with a view of the inland ice and the Piteraq storms. We’re sleeping on two thin foam mattresses. My clothes are laid out next to them in four layers, and there’s a rifle leaning against the wall waiting to shoot its next seal. Maybe tomorrow. Otherwise the room is empty except for a small square table that’s more like a stool. The windows up here are thin, and during storms the wind whistles through all the cracks and crevices. Sabine has started to cram her socks and underwear into the cracks. She’s done a good job and has also blocked the air vent with cardboard and tape. ”Pilarngar-lerpoq. Here comes the Piteraq,” she says. I call the weather service and they tell me that the storm will arrive with a wind speed of up to 45 m/s.We close the shutters of the house and wait.
Dead dog and Chicken
Tonight I stumbled over a dead dog on my way home. It didn’t survive the Piteraq. Sabine just got back from bingo. She won three times and her pockets are full of coins.
We’re having chicken for dinner.
Warm, Raw Seal’s Liver
”Aanangaa!! There it is!!” I whisper. Next to a small island a seal sticks its head above the water. A second later it disappears again. We sail slowly towards the spot where the seal ducked down. And wait. ”Aanangaa!” Hans has seen the seal again. I take aim. ”Aaddaniaa!! Nukeerniaad! Shoot now! Come on!” But too late. The seal disappears and doesn’t come back.
Hans is faster. He pulls out his harmonica and plays a rambling tune that he keeps warm dancing to. The seal picks up on the music. It looks up but goes under again fast. Hans is irritated and decides to pee. He’s just begun when the seal emerges again. I whistle to Hans, who grabs his rifle, takes aim, fires and shoots the seal.
Soon we will eat warm, raw seal’s liver.
The Shower
”Puuh, dipararraalid! You smell!” says Sabine. I don’t like bathing. Water and shampoo remove the thin layer of fat and dirt that protects you against the cold.
You can have a hot shower at the ‘service station’. It costs 1.5 Euro and you can be in there for half an hour. Sabine has her own flannel with a cross on the corner that no one else is allowed to use. We scrub each other’s backs. ”Ilivami upparniaad. Make sure you wash yourself properly,” Sabine says. The steam rises and the mirror mists then suddenly there’s a knock at the door: ”Tsivitserpaddaaligajeraaq. You’ve been in there long enough.” Otto looks after the service station.
Mussels
In the long, narrow fjord of Ikaasaardiva Asser and I are waiting for low tide. Then we gather mussels on the beach. A big bag each. In Tiniteqilaaq you gather mussels for your lover.
Piteraq
(…)Not until gusts of wind start tugging at my jacket do I look up and see the snow flying across the ice. I leave in a hurry. Dragging the seal behind me I start heading for home. But too late. I’m caught in a Piteraq. The wind gets stronger and whips violent jets of snow and ice in my face. I’ve lost my bearings, the mountain is invisible, and any tracks have been erased. I grab my ice spear, constantly checking whether the ice ahead of me can bear my weight. The current is strong so there’s no way of telling where the ice is thin. I make my way slowly through the growing ferocity of the Piteraq with a vague, instinctive idea of the direction of the village. At one point an iceberg suddenly appears in front of me. It’s both a good and bad sign: Good because I recognise the iceberg, which has been here since the fjord froze five months ago; bad because I know this is an area of strong currents. The ice spear penetrates the ice in front of me easily. It’s the same in every direction – even the direction I came from. I lie down and push the seal further back to distribute the weight then crawl back to reach safer ground. In the darkness of the Piteraq I reach Tiniteqilaaq.
Home Again
(…)For a second we see the red sun disappear into the fjord. Not for a month – in the middle of January – will we see the sun above the mountains of Tiniteqilaaq again. As we fly over the fjords, mountains and glaciers houses gradually emerge as small, black dots on the mountainside and I wonder how people can live in such isolation. But not long after getting back I know that the people of Tiniteqilaaq are at the centre of the world and that outside events play an astonishingly minor role.
This is where life has been hiding.
