Breathtaking, horrifying ... Greenland "another world"

Eyes twitching, body twisting, mind racing . . . I felt fried.  “Man will somebody turn off the Lights!” I shouted up at the ceiling as lay in my overly firm little bed of the Tasiilaq’s Red House.

Yes, there is a surreal beauty, and it is a very cool and interesting experience to be in a place where the sun does not gone down . . .but, man, after awhile, it becomes just weird, disorienting, crazy, and very, very hard to get some zzzz’s.  Having no idea what time is was as the sunlight poured through the sheer curtain into my room, I grabbed for my travel clock.  It read 3:37am.

Sleep not possible, I decided to head outside and check out the little village which ran down the road about a mile away.  The previous two days I had gone on long hikes up behind the guest house and had not been to the village.  Yes, to see the quaint village early asleep would certainly be lovely.  Walking down the hill which fed into the lone street, the setting was so still and pure. The icebergs looking like bobs of cotton balls gliding by, oh so slowly in water, which now appeared almost purple in color, set against the ruggedness of those dark sculpted mountains.

As I walked, I thought of my past travels through the years, and thought yes, this setting is one of the most dramatic I have ever come upon.  However, just as I was losing myself in Talisuq’s bucolic bounty, there appeared to be something in the road in front of me.  It looked like a human body.   I approached slowly, and yes, it was a body, a body of a man.  Laying face down, spread eagle, his head titled to the right with his tongue sticking out, as if he was licking the pavement.   I approached cautiously to look closer.  He seemed to be breathing.  Directly to his left a few feet away rested an empty liquor bottle. I did not recognize the brand.

I decided to leave the man as he was, thinking he would wake eventually.  But then within another two minutes of walking, there on the side of the road was another body. This man was younger, probably no more than eighteen.  He was on his back, face up and snoring.  On the other side of the road was another man, equally as young, and could have passed for his twin brother.  He was curled up on his side.  I continued down the road, determined not to let the late night bingers interfere with my walk to the village. However, about five minutes more of walking I could see two male figures. These two looked Danish, not native Greenlandic like the previous three. They were located slightly off the road by a bench. What was going on? The one man standing, a rather giant of a guy, easily 6’5 was laughing in a goolish manner.  As I passed I could see that he was urinating on the body of the other.   Actually pissing right in the face of the stone cold drunk man slumped on the bench . . . lovely.

It seemed odd to me, to experience sights like this in such a pristine landscape. But just as I was about to criticize the locals for their behavior, I made sure to adjust my “experienced traveler of the world” hat.  Don’t be judgmental, and was almost in the state of complete diffidence to the whole situation, as I spotted yet another couple drunks over to the left staggering about, when I heard a scream . . .

It was a scream that was blood curdling, primal, horrifying.  It was the type of scream you hear in a cheap B grade slasher flick, but hopefully never in real life.  Off to my right, I see tearing down the steep hillside this Greenlandic woman, clothes torn, hair flying.  She runs towards me and stops in front of me for a brief moment.  Her face is bloody as if punished repeatedly.  She yells something to me.  I don’t understand her.  Panic and terror is on her face and she bolts down the road toward the village.  Her screams of terror ripping through the early morning air.

And within seconds I hear some commotion from behind me.  I look over to my right, and in the same direction that she came from, I see a man, a short burly man.  He is running down the hill and yelling loudly.  He stumbles and gets up and he looks incredibly pissed off as in a dire need to catch the woman.  As he runs he seems to have something in his hand. He has made it to the road.  He is just fifty yards from me. He is staring at me.  He is holding an ax in his hand.

What do I do?  A woman is grave danger.  A maniac is after her, who will probably kill her. He is approaching, running at top speed, what should I do?  And just then as I get ready to try to intervene, a car screeches around the bend.  The ax man leaves the road as he runs across the open field, he dropping his ax as he does.  The car stops and three men get out and follow in pursuit.  I don’t know the ending.

OK, now I have seen enough . . . my goal to take a quiet walk to the village has been disturbed. I feel shaken, numb.   I decide not in mood for the village, I will tackle it later – and return to the Red House.  I do not tell anyone what I just witnessed.  I sit on the rock, look at the landscape and read Philip Roth’s Goodbye Columbus.  It does me good getting lost in the words and removed from this horrific morning as far as possible.

GOOD NEWS . . . I did make it to the village – and the day turned out to be an eventful and colorful one.  The day included the cannons going off at 9am to signify that the Red Boat was arriving. The Red boat is a freighter from Denmark that once a month brings food, goods, supplies, to the one main store in Tasiluq. It is not an official holiday, but the stoic Greenlanders seemed in festive spirit, as I watch at least one hundred people stream down from the surrounding village hills. They watch the boat unload, and the form a que to go in and shop.  Robert Mirroni who runs the house mentioned how often the store runs out of the most basic of necessities, and also how expensive things are because of having to be shipped so far to Greenland.  (Later in the day I would witness this firsthand, buying some razors blades, more than the cost in NYC).

But what I enjoyed especially about the day was that I met a very unique and colorful personality, who went by the name of Vernine, or should I say Vera.  I met Vera as I went to the book store around noon, its location resting attractively on a rise by the water.  The book store was small but quite charming, nicely decorated and seemed to double as a cafe.

As I wandered about I did not see anyone at all in the store.  Then about ten minutes later a man, well, I think a man, no, perhaps she was a woman, came out through a curtain in the back of the bookstore.  I was confused.  The face though delicate, was that of a man, of perhaps forty years old.  However, he wore his hair long tied in a bun, and wore a floral patterned pink skirt.  On top he wore a simple green tee shirt which displayed his small but rather pointy breasts.

“Hello, can I help you?” he asked, his voice was warm soothing possessing that unmistakable Scandinavian sing-song uplifted tone.  I explained to him that I had read some of the Icelandic Sagas, (the classic 13^th century literature from Iceland) and had heard that one of the Sagas was set in Greenland.  He beamed with enthusiasm on hearing this, and probably a little surprised as if perhaps he had expected me to ask for the latest Jacqueline Suzanne novel. “Why, yes, that would be Njal’s Saga. We do have it, but it is written in Old Norse only.  We do not have an English edition.”

I thanked him for his help and started to check out the maps of Greenland when he said, “would you like to join me for tea?” “Yes, OK.”  So he led me out the door of the bookstore where there was a patio deck with four wicker chairs. It was a nice setting as you could see the locals milling about the village, and still view the mountains and water as well. “My name is Scott, I am from the States.” “I am Vernine, but feel more comfortable being called Vera,” he giving a little chuckle as if an inside joke.  “Well, Vera, good to meet you, I like your bookstore.” We shook hands. His grip was like a vice.

He was intrigued that I had traveled to Tasiilaq. “We do not get many tourists, and as for Americans I have not seen one here in maybe seven or eight years. When I lived on the west coast in Nuuk, we would get some from the states.  But, here in the east, only Europeans, mostly from Denmark and Iceland.” He asked “Why?” I came to Tasiilaq.  I only had to respond “I live in New York City,” and then gesturing to the landscape.

He nodded as if he understood, and then he spoke . . . “I know the feeling, twenty three ago I arrived in Greenland from Copenhagen.  I was working for the telephone company, and had an assignment in Qaqortoq in the southern Greenland.  I was taken by the nature, the beauty and solitude.   I did not want to return to the noise and pollution of Copenhagen.” Vera sipped on his tea and then continued.  “I asked for the transfer to Greenland and I got it. I spent eleven years working between Qaqortoq and Nuuk on the west coast.”

“But Vera, how do you end up in Tasiilaq?” He paused, he looked like his eyes were watering with emotion as he said, “Scott, I was sent her on a two day project, and just came under the spell of the place.  Tasiilaq was so pure and the landscape, well you know, look at it! I just could not go back to the west coast, my heart was here. I wanted to live in Tasiilaq. But there was no post needed with the company here.  I had to create something.  So twelve years ago I moved here and set up my bookstore.

As he spoke I noticed that several people entered the store, some waving a book or two as they left, others empty handed. “I have always loved books, now I am surrounded by them, and I actually live in the store behind the curtain with my two cats.”

Quiet passed between us for a little while, and then Vera leaned in closer and said, “Scott, you know what?  I am also the official Judge of Tasiilaq, the radio weatherman, and the town’s only transvestite.” His tone was very matter of fact.  I asked him about being a transvestite and how the town accepted him, as Tasiilaq seemed quite conservative. “At first it was pretty difficult.  I got teased a great deal.  But as time went on, and I became so involved in the community, they have accepted me for who I am. I know they don’t understand me – but they accept me.  And by the way I do where pants, and not a skirt as Judge.”

I then mentioned what I witnessed earlier in the day, regarding the men passed out and the ax wielding fiend, this vision still leaving a sick feeling inside me. “There is so much drinking here, which leads to such violence. The violence almost always within family, especially between  husband and wife.” Then he paused as if feeling an ache within and the continued.  “There is a sense of hopelessness here, especially in the young people.  Do you know that 90% of the people are unemployed?  If you are not a hunter or fisherman there is virtually no work.”

Well then how do people live? How do they afford to buy things if there is no work?” I asked. “The Danish Government, they live off the government, as they receive a welfare check every Friday which is not much and most is spent on booze.  Vera then stood up and pointed, “Scott do you see the back of the billboard over there?” I nodded that I did. “Take a look at it later, it is a sign to tell people ‘Not to Drink So Much’ and further up the street there is a billboard for ‘Don’t Fight With Family.’ And suicide is a very serious problem.  Especially in the dark moths of November to March where the sun never comes out.”

I mentioned to Vera my sleeping problems with the light – I could only imagine the misery of living in the darkness for such a long stretch.  Asking Vera of his favorite month, without a second of hesitation, “May, the light begins to appear, the snow melts, it is very special time.

Vera was so generous with his time, and I learned more things about Greenland, including:  That it is considered bad for to call an Inuit and Eskimo.  The word for Inuit means “eaters of raw meat.”  Evidence of the first Inuit arrived in Alaska 8,000 years ago, and made their way to Greenland via northern Canada some 5,000 years ago.  The Inuit is credited with the invention of the dogsled, harpoon, and kayak.  The Norwegians were the first Europeans to discover Greenland around 900 AD, by the wild and controversial Eric the Red who was run out of Norway and Iceland .  Norway controlled the country for many years before Denmark laid claim in 1953. Also – Greenland runs 2,500 miles north to south, and 1,000 miles across.  Except on the coast, there are no roads at all in the interior of the country.  And the language, which Vera said was a nightmare to learn, contains gigantic words, some with over thirty letters. They especially are fond of the letter “Q”. And the words describe entire phrases.

It was then that he phone range, we had been speaking for nearly two hours.  He came out and expressed that he had to be in court tomorrow morning and had to prepare. I embraced Vera thanking him for the team and letting him know how much I enjoyed our conversation.  He then added, “Scott do you know about the settlements? “No what are those?” “These are very tiny hamlets far from Tasilaq, where only a handful of people live. It is very primate. But locations are so magnificent.  If you love nature and want to see the most authentic form of the lifestyle of the Inuit you must visit a “settlement” “How do I get to?” “There is not public transport, but you might be able to get a local hunter to take you. Are you staying at the Red House? Ask Robert Peroni, he should know if there is a chance for you get there. But I strongly encourage you to see a settlement.  You will never forget it.”

As I left and made my way up the little road, I heard, “Scott.”  It was Vera waving from the deck, “I think this might help you.” I walking toward him, he meeting me halfway and he handing me a black piece of cloth with an elastic string attached. “It is a blindfold for sleeping. Many of the locals use them.  I think it will help you.”

Later in the day as soon as I got back to the Red House, I spoke with Robert Peroni if he might be able to arrange for one of the locals to take me to a settlement.  He said he knew of a couple hunters that might be able to do it and would give them a call. Following dinner that night, he pulled me aside and informed me that a local Inuit man, a fisherman named Nino would be available.

He explained the particulars with precision. “OK, meet Nino at the port at ten o’clock, near where the Big Red Boat came in earlier in the day.  Look for a Greenlandic man about forty years old, average height and wears a baseball cap.”  “That sounds like most of the male population?” I joked. “Don’t worry.  He will be looking for you.  You know you are an oddity, right?” He went on telling me of the itinerary and cost. “The nearest settlement is called Tinteqilaaq.  It is three hours away by boat.  He will drop you off here and you can stay from one hour to three hours then, he will drive you back. He speaks no English, just show your fingers to give him an idea of how long you want to stay in Tinteqilaaq, and he will wait for you.”  “What is the cost?” I asked.  “If you stay for just one hour it is $80.  For each hour after that it is an additional $15.”I thought the cost was fair.

Robert spent more time explaining that this settlement was one of eight settlements along the east coast, within a 300 mile vicinity.  It was the closest in distance to Talisuq but still would feel very remote and give insight into the Inuit’s life.  He saying that there are only about twenty five or thirty people that lived in this settlement and their lives are very hard, they hunt to survive. Robert then said, “The people in the settlement are poor and the children have very little joy, and if you can give them anything, such as a pen or piece of paper it will be appreciated.”

So that evening with the excitement of visiting the settlement and my blindfold from Vera, I for the first night had a wonderful deep sleep in Greenland.  The next morning I was down at the port about fifteen minutes early.  As I expected there were a lot of Inuit men wearing baseball caps about.  I just stood still, being an “oddity” looking as American as possible - as I was, and within a couple minutes, I was shaking hands with my boat driver, Nino. He wore a baseball cap that read CAPTAIN.  He had a weathered dark completion and looked every bit the part of a fisherman and today my captain.

His boat was a simple metal motor boat, not large, perhaps fifteen feet long with an outboard motor.  I felt terrific as we pulled out of the harbor around 10:30 under cloudless blue skies Nino waving to other little boats that zoomed about, many of them packed to the rim with smiling waving Greenlanders

It took the boat a little over three hours in length to get to our destination of Tinteqillaq.  The ride was fabulous passing staggering icebergs some being 100 feet high, Nino maneuvering the boat very close to them, their whiteness piercing, and an otherworldly blue that would seem to case around them . . .as far as the landscape …mind blowing in its drama and grandness. 

There were a couple areas in particular on this three hour voyage that rank among the most numbing and mesmerizing land formations I have ever seen.  The first was as we turned left off the main body of water, this beautiful enough already as a long chain of snowcapped mountains rising out of the sea.  But, now we turned left and entered the Ammasilik Fjord.  The fjord was   narrow,  maybe just 300 yards wide, and on both sides staggering black mountains rising out of the water.  And the angle of the mountains was extreme, as if leaning back – spectacular.  Then as we slowly went through the fjord for a good hour, my neck hurting, but hurting with great joy from looking up at the overpowering view … But then, it got even more intense. We left this fjord and turned into another fjord, just as narrow, and, here the mountains even more dramatic!  One, two, three, four, five, yes, six towering black snow capped beauties sculpted in almost unimaginable razor edged formations, each mountain seeming to wink behind the other until you were on top of it.  And as we moved large pieces of ice would float by and parts of the mountain side were caked in glacier of various shades of blue. 

I was so dazzled that I screamed “I love it!!!” giving Nino a big thumbs up.  Then the narrow fjord opened up, and ahead about a quarter mile away on the right I could make out a few, tiny wooden houses. One in the red, yellow, blue, like the colors of the houses Tasiilaq, but much more faded, looking aged, sitting casually on the rock strewn coast . . .my gosh they looked lonely, desolate.  Yes, we had arrived in Tinteqillaq.

Nino tendered the boat close to a rock out cropping and I jumped ashore.  I then heard Nino’s voice calling, “Scott, Scott.” I turned around and he held up his hand and displayed his hand showing, 1, then 2, then 3 fingers – as inquiring how many hours I was planning to stay on land. I put up 1 finger, but what I meant was “give me one moment to check it out,” not making a decision to stay just one hour.

I climbed the little rise and looked down on the settlement.  It was sparse, just seven or eight tired looking houses resting on rugged rock formations. Some laundry flapped on a close line. I saw a couple kids kicking a deflated soccer ball.  Off to the right there looked to be a man skinning a carcass.  A dirty underfed dog was digging at the dry baked dirt. The place had primitive feel, and best of all it was fronted by towering icebergs. Within one minute I had my gut feel, my assessment of the place. It was savage, raw and wild.  I climbed back over the rise and yelled down to Nino showing him 3 fingers.  Yes, I had a love for this place immediately.

My three hours went by very quickly.  I hiked high above the settlement which provided fantastic vistas and spent a good deal of time down right along the water gazing in awe at the gigantic icebergs, some at least 200 feet high, and the amount of broken ice all jammed in together.  This sight was made even more memorable by the sound as occasionally you would see a huge chunk of ice fall from a mountain or and crash into the water.  But beyond the natural beauty of the setting and the power of nature in full force, it was the contact I got from the local people that made my brief stay so memorable.

These people live in such remoteness that I had to approach them carefully and quietly. I wanted to meet them, but I did not want to be intrusive and force anything.  So I watched the kids play soccer, and they became curious and kicked me the ball.  There were three of them, two boys and a girl, about ten – twelve years old. We played two aside. This was followed by me sharing with them some little “toys” which I brought.  These included a slinky, a couple of wind – up toy animals, and a game of “pick up stix.”  They seemed to be captivated by these and I would give them these as I departed.  The kids spoke only Greenlandic, but we formed a nice bond and through them I met the man carving up the animal, still was not sure what it was and was pretty gross, but interesting. 

The highlight though was one of the boys, his name Tord, invited me to his house, the other two kids joining as well, where I got to meet his mother.  I was not sure where the father was.  She was a woman of probably just mid twenties, actually quite attractive and she was with her grandmother, a woman with an amazing deep lined face.  They insisted that I join them to eat, and the food they served was whale meat.  It was the first time I had whale.  Though I did not like it that much, it is very rubbery and has a harsh bitter taste.  But to be their home, this simple chipped red painted wooden structure, looking out at the ice flow, feeling their kindness, as down the whale with great gusto and appreciation . . . “MMMgggood” – it was a very special moment.

Following lunch with the three kids, the mother, grandmother, and about six others joining in. This making up almost half the town as they walked me back to the boat wishing me goodbye.  And as I left, I kept looking back, at them and the aged wood huts where they lived, seeming so alone against the staggering Greenland nature.  So remote.  So desolate.  Truly another world. 

Photo1: Vera in his bookstore

Photo2: "Settlement" Tinteqilaaq

Photo3: Local Inuit child

Very...Far From The Madding Crowd (Greenland, part I)

I was doing Garbo ...

Yes, it was summer in NYC, the Fourth of July holiday was approaching . . . the city was in the midst of a brutal heat wave, the noise, the smell, the people, I felt as if the city walls were pressing in on me.  I had an urge to get away, far away. I wanted desolation, a big landscape.

Like the luscious Swedish screen star . . . I too ached “to be alone.”

In my little cubicle, I had a map of the world taped against the wall. Constant inspiration, you know. My eyes wondered about the map searching for the right destination to fit my current mood.  From the Patagonia, up to Alaska, across to Russia’s Siberia, Mongolia, and then back across before settling on Greenland.

Greenland, it looked gigantic, as it took up a good three by two inches of white on top of the world map.  Greenland, even as a young boy had always fascinated me.  The size of it, the lack of people, who lived there, what did they do?

And then I thought of my friend Einar, who is the Director of Tourism for the Icelandic Tourist Board. Four years ago I traveled Iceland, a country of stunning beauty. I remember Einar saying that Iceland was just a “warm up” for Greenland. “If you want something really different go to Greenland.” But he added, “make sure you go to the east Coast, this has the more traditional Inuit culture, is more primitive, and with the wildest landscape.”

So while my co-workers had plans to splash in the surf of the Hamptons, or barbecue in the Berkshires for the holiday, I would be headed to Greenland’s east coast, to, well, not really sure what was going to take place.  The unknowing I found totally exhilarating.

****

At 35, 000 feet I was fixated on the view below . . . White, white, and more white.  An endless carpet of white interrupted at times by splashes of vivid blue.  For nearly ninety minutes this view continued to enthrall as my flight flew across the glacier called Greenland, from west to east.

I was feeling better now.  Less anxious, more relaxed and hopeful that I was on my way to finding the Greenland that captured my imagination, the Greenland of massive landscapes, desolation, and traditional Inuit ways.

My brief one day stay in Nuuk (pronounced as in disaster) Greenland’s largest city, located on the west coast, with its drab Soviet architecture, Mercedes – Benz dealership, Benton, KFC, and seemingly a cell phone boutique on every corner had left me confused.  Yes, everything   seemed to be getting up to date in Nuuk, good for the locals I suppose, but for me, this was not the Greenland I had been seeking. I was disappointed.

I kept reflecting on Einar’s words about the east Coast and this is where I would find the real Greenland.  I hope he was right.

Suddenly my peaceful bucolic white landscape vanished as the small aircraft entered a dark cloud, the plane was jolted and rocked.  For a good five minutes the plane was engulfed by the cloud.  It was dark. Dark as in black. No visibility. The aircraft shook even more violently as it dipped and rolled.  Across from me was a very old Inuit woman who was crying and pressing what looked to be a picture of someone against the window. And then, just as I was getting concerned about the situation, there was a clearing in the cloud and down below rose jagged dark peaks.  The plane continued to duck in and out of the black clouds making for zero visibility and then at times it would open up with a brief view of the dramatic brooding mountains and revealing the sea what looked to be thousands of pieces of floating ice.

Checking my watch I knew we had to be close to arriving at Kulusuk.  There were a couple more quick violent shakes and then the plane entered a clearing, elevated, and made a very wide turn and began a route back which ran for a few minutes right over the snow capped mountains which sprouted directly out of the water with thousands of pieces of floating ice.  MAGNIFICENT!  Despite the anxiety of the ride, I was enthralled by the vista.  Then the plane entered into another dark cloud for about a minute, and then out of nowhere appeared a tiny landing strip and the plane dipped down aggressively and with a big thump.  WOW! WHEW! We had arrived.

Kulusuk Airport felt like the ends of the earth.  Surrounded by razor edged brooding peaks, the sky hung low and ominous, the wind cold, biting.  A stray dog walked the tarmac, a couple teenage Inuit boys watched me suspiciously from a distance.  And no cars anywhere, as there are no roads to Tasiilaq. The only transport was by helicopter, which was to arrive in ten minutes.   

The ride in the helicopter was fantastic!   The sensation was very cool, the revving of the blade, faster and faster and faster, and then just lifting off, straight up and out.  And what a ride it was!  The helicopter dipping down and flying so close to the mountains, that I felt I could reach out and touch them.  The mountains rising out of the still water were piercing in formation, and the endless pieces of broken ice, including ice burgs looking like large globs of whip cream.

I could not hide my enthusiasm as I kept saying “fantastic,” “beautiful,” out loud and gesturing to the pilot.  He seemed to appreciate my unrestrained enthusiasm and he responding by putting on somewhat of a “display” and making my flight as dramatic as possible.  And within twenty minutes we were now hovering over Tasiilaq. Its location was jaw dropping. 

As I worked my way out of the helicopter, feeling enthralled by the ride and attempted to give the pilot a tip which he kindly refused.  Looking up at the town the little wooden house painted in bright varied colors of red, yellow, green, blue, seemed almost toy like. I walked up the quiet paved road, this seeming to be the only road, as I looked out and could see it winding up and through the town.

I felt giddy with happiness as I threw on my backpack and walked up the steep road looking for the “Red House” where I was planning to stay.  According to my Lonely Planet Guide it was the only place for accommodations in the village.  It took me about 45 minutes to reach it, not that it was such a far walk, but because I took my time as I walked, turning around several times taking in the view and the grandeur of the setting.  Thoughts of Nuuk, with its Mercedes dealership now seemed very far away . . . Yes, now this was how I envisioned Greenland!

I spotted the “Red House,” it named for its color and not political ideology.  It was a simple bright red wooden house that was perched on the edge of a rock cropping.  The setting was spectacular.  However, I was not ready yet to check into the guesthouse, as I was enthralled by the beauty of the land and began to walk up and up, scrambling on the hill, and finally stopped and beheld the view in front of me.

Looking out across the colorful wooden houses stretched a long range of snowcapped dark jagged mountain. The mountains not that high, but extremely steep rising straight out of the  water, the water a dark blue, but so still like glass, and studded with broken ice and ice burgs. Some of the ice burgs looked to be at least 50 feet high, and they floated so slowly.  The setting was almost surreal in its beauty. I felt frozen from it.

For the four days that I stayed in Tasiilaq the Red House was my home.  It was an ideal place to stay.  The location offered breathtaking vistas, and though certainly not fancy, it was basic and comfortable.  I had my own room, a bed and not much more.  But it was all I needed. They also served a decent food, though pretty heavy on fish, especially cod as you can imagine.  There seemed to be eight rooms, but I noticed only three other travelers, two middle aged German woman, and an older gentleman from Scotland.

The Red House was run by an Italian man named Robert Peroni, who came to Greenland some twenty three years ago and fell under its spell.  He told me that coming from Milan, he was taken by its beauty, vastness, and the simple and real quality of the people.  He is somewhat of a legend in the town for his involvement and benevolence with the local Inuit. He speaks fluent Greenlandic, both east and west coast dialects.  So Robert was a terrific source of any questions I had on the area.

To give you an idea of the scope and space of Greenland, especially eastern Greenland, consider the following. In the entire country of Greenland, there are only 50,000 people. The town I am in Tasiilaq, which is the largest city in eastern Greenland, has a population of 1,200.  The locals refer to eastern Greenland as Ammassalik.  In all of eastern Greenland, (Ammassalik) an area of 154,000 square which is approximately the same size of Great Britain, there are only 3,000 people. I find that astonishing.  And of those living in eastern Greenland, 93% of the people are indigenous Greenlanders, or Inuit. (The Inuit is classified as Eskimo) Note, that on the west coast, (where the largest city Nuuk is located) the population is split 50/50 between Danish and Inuit.

And what is truly amazing and I did not know this till Robert told me, that the area of Ammassalik (eastern Greenland) was unknown to the world up until it was discovered in 1884 by a Danish sea captain named Gustav Holm.  At this time there were only 419 people making up this massive area.  The west coast on the other hand has been known since 1721 having been colonized by Denmark.

For the first couple of days I would get up each morning, and following a breakfast of a variety of surprisingly good cheeses and herring and go for long leisurely hikes on the trails drawn up by Robert.  The landscape was wild and open and desolate.  Just me, and a few chirping birds.  Several times I would just stop and sit and look out in awe at the majestic mountains, the floating ice burgs and taking in the stillness.

On one of the hikes I did come across an Inuit man of about fifty years old who was sitting off the trail seeming to carve a piece of wood. I greeted him with “Hilory” the Greenlandic word for hello. He padded the ground for me to sit next to him.  I joined him and watched him carve away, he then stopped and reached in his bag and brought out a necklace.  The necklace was a small perhaps half inch carving in bone of a polar bear’s face attached to a black string.  He placed it in my hand and when I gave it back to him he closed my fist as to keep it. I reached into my pocket to give him some money, but he shook his head no. The piece was very unusual and lovely. I pleaded for him to accept my money, but he was adamant. I would sit with him quietly for another hour or so as I had my lunch, cheese sandwich, which I offered him, and he accepted, while he chewed aggressively on some grizzly looking meat item…and then I left, hugging him and waving again from a distance.

Getting contact with the locals is so important to me when I travel, and I was fortunate to get this in my brief time in Taliisaq, from both the native Inuit and Danish people I met. 

One of my best encounters was with was a young Danish couple I met at 4am . . . No, I did not meet them at some wild late night party or bar but instead sitting on a rock not far from the Red House, watching the light play off the mountains water.  With this being July and Greenland situated above the Arctic Circle, the sun would never set.  I found myself each night sitting on the rock jut watching mystified by the sky and surroundings.  I got very little sleep during my Greenland visit.

Her name was Toril and his Sven, he carrying a sleeping baby on his front in a sling. They were the classic looking all-Danish couple. Both were in their mid 20’s, tall, blonde, and very healthy and athletic looking.  They were just returning from the town’s small medical center where she worked as a nurse part time and a mid-wife as well. They had been in Taliisaq now for nearly a year and planned to stay and work there for two years before returning to Copenhagen. Their eight month baby boy was named Evan.

Because of Toril’s employment at the medical center she got a close up view of one of eastern Greenland’s biggest problems, that being spouse and child abuse, much of this stemming from the chronic drinking problems that plagued the Inuit.  Toril informed me that there never seemed to be an evening go by that a woman did not enter the center with a “beat up look.” She also mentioned that sexual disease was rampant, and that up to 90% of the adults had some type of venereal disease. But despite seeing such hardship she and Sven loved the people their naturalness and the magnificent landscape and quiet. They both agreed hardily that they were in no hurry to return to Denmark.

We spent a couple late evenings again on that rock, midnight, 3am, 5am, I was never sure of the time. We would just sit sipping on Tuborg Beer and staring out at the majestic landscape in front of us. As mentioned before, the sun would never fully set, it would just soften in its coloring and at times a white cloud or mist would form above the placid water giving the illusion of cutting the mountains in half.  The view was not just beautiful, it was more than this, it was otherworldly.  It was a vista that made you speak quietly with a reverence.  And tuning to look over to the left the sounds of screams and laughter as a there was a soccer game going on, which I am sure would go on all through the night.

Sleep was difficult that night . . . sure the constant light streaming in my window certainly had something to do with it, but instead my mind buzzed with glorious visions that of these past couple of days in Greenland…the land, the sky, the people. This Fourth of July holiday I had hoped to find my Garboesque escape . . .in Greenland I indeed found it!

…To be continued 

Brittany Belly Buster ....Brest France, September 1983

                                            “There is no love sincerer than the love of food.”

-          George Bernard Shaw

Having just come out of a contentious relationship, I was in the mood to test Shaw’s  words . . . However . . . if I was going to submerge myself in the affections of food, this meant a journey, a pilgrimage to the food cradle of the world . . . FRANCE.

I had three weeks to travel.  I was very specific in my plan.  The focus was food.  I was going to split my time between two regions, the provinces of Normandy and Brittany in the north, and the Dordogne area in the southwest.  I was hoping to gorge myself on the specialties of each region.  I wanted to taste the best the most authentic food possible.

          

The only problem was that I had very little money and would have to do it on a very, very tight budget (by tight I mean around $5 a day)  This could only be accomplished by hitchhiking, sleeping outside, and most important of all counting on the kindness of strangers to show me their love through delicious home cooked meals. If I had to resort to eating at restaurants the trip would be over quickly.

       

So with high hopes, hungry stomach and twenty tearsheets from various food magazines of French food dishes from these regions, I arrived in France to begin my gastronomic adventure.  Crossing to La Harve on the ferry from England, my travel plans   got off to a bad start as the weather for the first couple of days was brutal with heavy rains causing me to take shelter in rather pricy accommodations versus sleeping outside.

       

But what especially concerned me was the difficulty I was experiencing in hitchhiking, as I had three consecutive days of agonizingly long waits, four to five hours each day.  What was going on?  Had I lost my touch for the open road?  I know it had been nine months since I did some traveling, I felt out of step, I did not have my usual travel feel.  I called timeout to regroup.

         

I recalled my travels in Europe in the late 70’s, I had hitchhiked all over the continent, some countries were clearly better, meaning easier to get a ride than others.  England was the best, followed by Germany.  The worst was Spain, but also very difficult I remember at times was France.  OK, so how could I change that?  I did not want to abandon hitchhiking because to me it was of course not only the most economical, but it also gave you terrific contact with the local people, so often resulted in sleep and food at their home.

       

I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror in my overpriced rather dank hotel in Molax.  I studied my face closely, I looked clean shaven, very important when hitching, no problem there.  However, I was tall, about 6’2” and with my backpack I cut a rather imposing figure.  Imposing as good?  Or perhaps imposing as this is not a person someone might not feel comfortable with to stop and pickup.

      

Yes, that could be it.  The comfort level so important from the driver’s perspective as he or she decides if to pick up the hitcher.  How could I make my future drivers feel more relaxed about me?  I wanted to somehow transport this feeling to them.  Then it hit me, yes, I would make a sign.  Not a sign with the destination I was going to, but a sign that in a few words would encompass the type of person I was.  Kind, sensitive, easy going, fun all the descriptions I thought of myself, I wanted the drivers to know also.

Yes, if they knew that about me perhaps they would relax more resulting you would think in a greater chance that they would stop and give me a ride.

“Un Garcson tres Gentile” (A very gentle boy) that is what I wrote in bold black magic marker on a piece of cardboard.  Mind you this was not just any little piece of one foot board, but instead a good three foot square.  It was so large I almost felt that I was holding a billboard.  But hey, I needed to advertise the person I was and I had to make it LARGE so approaching drivers could clearly see.

The sign was a smashing success!  On these rural roads where cars do not go very fast you could see the driver start to grin as the sign came into focus. Rides now came quick and easy needless to say that the sign was a terrific conversation piece with the drivers that picked me up. “Ingenious” one young woman, a student from Rennes said as she drove me toward Rouen.  “I never pick up people, but your sign is just so different and it made me laugh.”   Yes, that was the word I heard all the time.  “Your sign made me laugh.”

Yes, the sign was working and I was now traveling smoothly throughout northern France.

                                            . . . Seven Days Later

With blotted stomach, I wobbled cautiously down the steep dimly lit stairs following Yvonne, Mr. Rosseau’s eleven year old son to what led to a rec room.

Yvonne, tall and lanky, with straight black bangs and wearing a Bruce Springstein t-shirt,

flicked on the light and pointed to a Lazy Boy recliner in chocolate faux leather sitting in the center of the room.  Everything seemed to radiate from “the chair” foosball, a pool table, small bar, dart board, and of course a TV.

American pop culture adorned the wall; Madona, Silvester Stalone as Rambo, Marilyn Monroe with her skirt being blown.  Except for the small picture of the 1982 French World Cup soccer team and what seemed to be the French version of “The Price is Right” on television, this could be anywhere rec room USA.

But I did not care what was on the walls or how it seemed to be a tad tacky, or that there

were no posters of French icons, like Catherine Deneuve, Jean Paul Sartre, Truffaut, or even the ubiquitous map of France displaying proudly their 350 some plus cheeses.  All that I cared about was my stomach and how satisfied it was after an absolutely outrageously rich and delicious dinner prepared by Madame Rousseau.

I had a vision of my late father in the Lazy Boy, getting such enjoyment out of this, an action that was never a reality, as my mother would not allow the chair, which she called

tasteless to enter our home.  Tasteless, perhaps, but for me at this moment, as I pulled on the side lever and felt the sensation of the chair inching down and up and out all at once, well I felt like I was in a state of nirvana.  Loosening my belt, I wallowed in the sensation of my satisfied sated self.

As soon as I had “landed” in my ideal Lazy Boy position, appearing out of nowhere popped Nathalie, the Rosseau’s precocious seven year old daughter.  “Pour vous.” It was a desert, a rich desert called Breton Butter Cake. I was so stuffed, I wanted no part of it, but my manners being intact, I not only took a bite, but put on a show for Nathalie, breaking out with an exuberent “Tres tres bien” “delisioso” “fantastique.”  Nathalie broke out with giggles, jumped up and down several times then dashed up the stairs calling to her mother with unbridled joy.

Now it was the fathers turn as he stood before me holding a bottle.  In my chair, I felt like I was a reclining king as his servants or in this case one member of the Rosseau family after another presented me with yet another morsel to sample.

“It is an apple brandy, called Calvados, it is made in Normandy, it is a specialty of the region.” Said the beaming James, lovingly cradling the bottle as if he a father holding a new born.  James went on pointing to the “V.O.” written on the bottle. “Scott, this stands for Vielle Reserve, and is only on the best bottles that are fermented for at least four years.  Handing me the cognac shaped class, I took the sip, and it had a distinct taste of apricot, apple, I to be honest did not like it that much, but being aware of James probing eyes, he eager for my reaction, I nodded my head slowly up and down as if savoring every drop, “tres bien, merci, oui, tres bien.” James then said that he had to go upstairs to help Maddame Rosseau for about a half an hour and I could just relax here if that was fine with me.  Yes, it was.

So now alone with my Lazy Boy, I drank down the remaining brandy and placed the cake and glass on the floor.  Ah, yes, such a warm and comforting feeling.  I shut my eyes as I fondly played back the past eight hours, reflecting on my meeting James, his kindness, the memorable delicious dinner I just had, and the continued generosity of the people in this region of France and how they had made my stomach so happy!

It was at a truck stop off the highway that headed west towards Brest, Brittany’s largest city that I met James.  Truck stops are a gold mine for hitchers.  I especially like to take advantage of eating in the cafeteria.  Not because the food is especially good, for it is usually pretty mediocre and overpriced, but because it allows me the opportunity to sit by someone strike up a conversation and make good contact.

It was about noon and the cafeteria was packed with people.  I decided on the fillet of tuna the least expensive of the entrees and stood holding my tray looking for just the right spot to position myself next to a potential “patron.”  That is what I secretly liked to call the people who I would meet in my travels who were so kind in bringing me greater comfort, be it with a ride, a warm bed, or a meal.  I was the beneficiary of their benevolence.

Over at the far corner table I noticed a whole gaggle of young boys all dressed in the same matching burgundy color warm ups, most likely a youth soccer team.  Then all of them, about fifteen started to get and vacate the table.  The long table was now left with just five people scattered about.  One man, somewhat portly, about forty years of age, sporting a bright orange windbreaker with a bushy moustache and a vanishing hairline sat alone with three empty chairs between him and the tables end.  Yes, this was perfect.

        

I approached and nodded to him as I sat down.  Not wanting to waste any time in case he exited soon, I launched right in after sitting down for all of ten seconds, and in my most nasal American Midwest accent asked “do you know what time it is?”  This despite the fact that there was a gigantic clock positioned on the wall behind me.  He turned his wrist showing me the time, which I noticed so many Europeans do and then said “12:23.”

       

He then became inquisitive, asking me the basic introductory questions; “where was I from,” “what was my occupation,” “where was I headed,” etc. His name was James, spoke broken, but recognizable English, his soft voice did not match his somewhat harsh features.  James was eating the steak and frites, his steak looked much more superior to my wilting tuna.  I took notice that he still had a good portion of his food on his plate so we had time to talk.

      

I could see outside the rain beginning to fall, this seemed the norm in Brittany.  Looking at James, watching his stubby hands quickly maneuver the steak knife, my hope was not just for a ride, but a home cooked meal and another opportunity to savor the wonders of French cooking.  In my quest for continued gastronomic joy on so little money.  Yes, perhaps James, the man sitting here was my next “patron.”

        

And then he asked it , , , the question I was hoping for.  The question I love to hear.  “So, how are you enjoying your travels?”  Like a seasoned thesbian I knew my line of response, as I had it recited and delivered it many times, but now sounding so natural as if stated for the first time.

    

“There is much I have enjoyed about my travels, the Brittany coast is magnificent.  I especially found the massive stones at Carnac fascinating, and the pink granite coast very beautiful, especially the rock formations at Tregastel.”  James nodded pleased to hear that my experience had been a positive one.  Then pausing and looked straight at him and said quietly, but firmly and shaking my head slightly, “I have not eaten very well.”  This brought out an immediate “pourquoi?”as if you are traveling France, how could this be possible. 

       

James seemed to lean toward me.  I elaborated. “It’s just that I am not eating the dishes that I had hoped to eat in Brittany.” James looked concerned and I went on, “Before coming on this trip I read so much from American food magazines about French food and how each region has their specialties that they are famous for and take pride in.  And here in Brittany, the food I read about, the food I dream to taste, such as Moules Mariners, or Sole Pieppoise, or Cotriade Bretonne, I have not tasted.”

     

“Yes, those are some of our most famous regional dishes, I am impressed you know about our food, but why have you not tried them?  You can eat these in restaurants.”  My answer, yes, call me shameless if you want, but my stomach was calling out.  “I unfortunately can’t afford to eat at these restaurants, they are too expensive.  I want to travel France, to explore, to learn all I can, but I have to do it on the cheap.  I travel with a backpack, I hitchhike, I sleep outside.”

      

My soliloquy was having its effect on James. It was a prideful thing, the food of France, and more specifically, the regional food.  I as a traveler so enthusiastic, but disappointed that I could not truly sample the glorious foods of Brittany, and people would take this as a challenge to present me with their regional dishes that I had ached for.  It was a beautiful thing.  To me the analogy might be if some young French traveler intrigued by baseball, and dreams of going to Yankee stadium, but can’t afford it.  Yes, you bet I would make that persons dream come true.

      

James then asked what direction I was headed. “To Brest.”  He was quiet as if in contemplation, then said, “Wait here, I must call my wife, I will be right back.”  I felt a surge rush through me.  It was then that I could feel that I think I have a new patron in James.  He returned and then delivered the words that were music to my ears, “Scott if you like you could stay with us this evening and have dinner, my wife, she is a very good cook.  She will cook you a special Brittany dish.”

    

When I heard those words, “staying the night,” “my wife will cook” for you, it brought me such happiness.  Sure it is good to save money as I will by this situation.  However, for me it is the “contact” of a family in a foreign land that is so special. To me this is the essence of travel.  To see the inside of their home, to meet their children, to see how they interact, to be involved with what they eat, and even see what they watch on TV.  Yes, to me this is the very most meaningful part of travel, the contact.

    

Seven hours later, sitting at their  wooden dinner table in the small but comfortable home in the village of Gouesnou, a suburb of Brest, I was famished having worked up my appetite by playing soccer with Yvonne and his friends and giving Nathalie one piggy back ride after another. 

      

Jame’s wife, named Evelyn, who I only said hello to briefly when arrived, was now putting final touches on the dinner. I needless to say was in high anticipation of this dining experience, as James over the squabbling voices of Yvonne and Nathalie proudly announced, “Scott, tonight you are in for a treat. This dish that my wife is cooking is one of the most beloved dishes in Brittany, called Plateau de Fruit de Mare, in English you would call it seafood platter.”

      

On hearing this news, the kids let loose with a wild applause as if Santa Clause was in the next room. I was happy to see that the kids were excited about dinner tonight also. And as if on cue out came Evelyn, she a woman of average height and build, with brownish curly hair wore a huge smile, she beaming with happiness as she carried a mammoth plate overhanging with lobster, oyster, mussels, and some other shell fish.  Yvonne and Nathalie erupting to a fever pitch on their mother’s entrance with the platter.

      

The meal was outrageously delicious and filled with such joyousness, the amount of laughing and pure passion for food was intoxicating.  When the seafood platter was set down it was ATTACK!!  Everyone lurching forward hands grabbing, the sound of crackling shells and booming happy voices filled the room for the next couple of hours as the shell fish so succulent and delicious accompanied by Muscadet, Brittany’s most famous wine, with its distinct bracing taste.  What a wonderful meal it was!

I could hear the sheets of rain pound against the window.  Feeling so content and cozy, I dug down deeper in the Lazy Boy.  Tomorrow I would be leaving northern France and heading south.  The past ten days of travel split between Normandy and Brittany was filled with generous people and amazing food.  Feeling sentimental, I closed my eyes as friendly faces and plates of food I had encountered over the past several days passed by.

. . . Maurice and his wife Gwen from Liseux and the Sole Normandie

. . . Andrea and his Coquilles St. Jacque of St. Hilaire.

. . . The village of Paimol and the gregarious Nicollet and the savory variations of crepes she let me sample.

. . . And the Gigot d’ Agneou Pre Sel, prepared by Robert in Callac.

Yes, Shaw was correct . . . in the sincere love of food and those kind people I met and they shared with me.  Ah, yes, travel in France is good. Bon Appetite!