by Cash Peters
Anyway, Point Barrow is a clever decoy. Every year, the townsfolk haul a bunch of whale meat and bones out to this remote, snowy promontory and leave them there to keep the bears fed and preoccupied and away from their homes.
“I'm going out tomorrow to make a trail,” Bunna says. “D'you want to come along?”
Goodness, no! Not a chance. I don't like Nature, I tell him, or anything to do with wild animals. Now, let's never mention it again.
Honestly, have we learned nothing in our short time together? Nature is not our friend. Fact. Surely, therefore, we would all be better served by leaving it well alone and minding our own business. That's my philosophy at least.
But apparently such an argument holds no water out here. Besides, viewers will be very disappointed if we come to the Arctic Circle and don't film at least one bear, Fat Kid reminds me. This excursion has been designed ahead of time to be the highlight of the episode. If I refuse, the show will have no climax.
So, against my better judgment, I change my mind and agree to go.
The windshield wipers flap lazily, flicking a confetti of frost into the morning air as the van plows deeper into the flat, featureless wilderness, following the line of a pure white highway barely distinguishable from the land around it or the sky above.
On the approach to Point Barrow, we start filming.
“Do the people here live in mortal terror of polar bears?” I ask Bunna.
“Not mortal terror.” His face is expressionless as usual. “We're just aware of them.”
“We're cautious,” Morgan adds from the back seat. “People don't understand, these guys are filled with nothing but teeth and claws. They're not cuddly, they're not friendly, they're wild. Nature is unpredictable. Some days you can walk right by the bears. Other times you have to run away from them.”
“Oh—look!” Bunna cries out, but quietly because bears startle easily. “I see one!”
Easing off the gas, he allows the van to putter to a stop, clearing condensation off the window with his sleeve. Now, finally, his eyes come alive. There's a current of electricity flowing through his body that wasn't there ten minutes ago. Tracking these bears is way more than a job to him, that much is obvious. He has an affinity for them, is fascinated by every aspect of them—their look, their gait, their habits and behavior—and treasures every second he can spend alone here at the Point, more so than ever right now, now that they're on the fast track to extinction.
“Oh, wow, that's a big one!”
“Where?” A quarter of a mile to our left is the Bone Pile, the bits of excess whale meat and bones that the Eskimos dump here to draw the bears away from the town.
“D'you see it?”
Squinting into the blinding white emptiness, I'm able to pick out an object the color of dog pee.
The longer we look, the more objects appear. Soon there are three. A female and two cubs. They saunter up to the bones and begin chomping, the female gazing around the whole time, looking very nervous.
“Why would they think they're in danger? They're in the middle of nowhere.”
“A mother with cubs always thinks there's danger,” Bunna drops his voice to a cautious whisper. “If she comes across a male, he'll first try to kill the cubs, then he'll impregnate her with his genes. It's survival of the fittest.”
I understand. It's not very different from working in television, really.
“I've always maintained,” I say, “that Nature is just things eating other things.”
“Yeah.” And he adds with a barely perceptible wry smile, “Hopefully it won't be us today.”
Hopefully?
There are two facts about polar bears I didn't know. Actually, plenty of facts, but two really big ones that differentiate them from other animals, in particular raccoons.
First, as well as being one of the most vicious predators on the planet, polar bears happen to be particularly fast on their feet. If they spot you and see you as a threat, they'll quite probably charge after you. And when they move they can reach speeds of up to twenty-five miles per hour. Forty-five if they're on a moped!
Second, don't think you can escape by hiding in your truck. Their claws are can openers; they'll charge the vehicle, tear you a new sunroof, and pick you off one by one inside. You don't stand a chance.
These two facts together have me very nervous indeed. But that's okay, we're due to leave anyway I've seen a polar bear now. Job done. No point hanging around.
“Okay, come on.” Bunna makes a move. Only, instead of firing up the engine, he reaches behind his seat and produces a shotgun. “Get out of the van,” he says, confusing me with MacGyver. “But carefully.”
What???
Fat Kid leads the way, followed by Eric and the others. Mark, displaying not a scintilla of reservation or fear, tiptoes across the ice and sets up his tripod within clear view of the bears, which, more frighteningly, gives the bears a clear view of him.
The mother turns and sniffs the air. Oh no!
“Get on your knees,” Bunna whispers in my ear.
A rush of adrenaline floods my system. I'm being maneuvered into the open, pushed to the front like bait, with the mother bear looking directly at me.
“Is this okay?” My voice has shot up an octave.
“Slowly, slowly, slowly.”
“But Bunna, I'm totally exposed.”
His rifle's raised just in case. “Slowly. Get down. Good.”
I'm now closer to wild animals than I've ever been before. Close enough for them, with their extra-sensitive ears, to hear me crap my pants. Frankly, this is one phobia I never really wanted to conquer. But because it's on television and people are judging me, I'm driven to brave it out.
And you know what? I'm really glad I do.
Crouching as low as I can go beside the van, I get my first uninterrupted look at the bears, three distant blobs of urine-yellow fur mooching around the Bone Pile, gnawing on the whale carcass. Now that Bunna has his gun out, their urge to attack us seems to have worn off and we're able to relax and appreciate this moment of privilege for what it is: one of mankind's rare opportunities to observe polar bears in their natural habitat before mankind destroys that natural habitat altogether and every living creature in it. From now 'til then, every day's a battle, a slow, silent slaughter. Either they'll kill us or we'll kill them. And I think I know which one it'll be.
In the meantime, something as simple as watching a bunch of predators gnawing at bones on a windswept icy plain suddenly becomes a spectacle to savor, making every scrap of hardship we've experienced on this trip so far seem most worthwhile.
“Isn't this great?”
“It's amazing.” Bunna sighs.
And I swear there are tears in his eyes.
Dinner is at the home of a guy called Massak, a cute, kindly munchkin of a man in a fur parka, who I think, if I were to probe a little deeper, I'd probably discover is Bunna's father and we're paying him.
The meal he serves up consists mostly of frozen whale meat. Eskimos are subsistence hunters, hunting, fishing, and trapping wildlife year-round. They're very much dependent on locally caught moose, caribou, duck, and seals to survive. But also bowhead whales.
“Why are you allowed to hunt whales? I thought there was a ban.”
“Without them we wouldn't have food,” Massak explains. “There's no work here in Barrow, so it's how we survive the winter. We can't go to the store and get what we want, because meat here is so expensive.”
They hunt for whales twice a year, in April (agaviksiuvik tatqiq, or Moon When We Begin Whaling) and October (nuliavik tatqiq, Moon When the Caribou Rut). It's a cooperative effort. The whole community joins in, after which everyone takes home their quota of the spoils to live on throughout the winter. Nobody goes without, nobody starves. Such a contrast to Los Angeles, where, generally speaking, the guy with the most money would swoop in, grab every scrap of whale going, lavishly feed his own family and friends with it, and, without a second though
t or losing a wink of sleep, leave everyone else in town to die.
Massak has arranged the chunks of meat on a tray of cardboard torn from a box.
“I think I'll have that.” I select a small brown lump at random, thinking it might not look quite so unappetizing once it's been defrosted, then sautéed in a little lemon marinade with tarragon and some shallots, and maybe a splash or two of wine. If necessary, I can pitch in with the seasoning. “Yes, and perhaps a couple of those too.” Pointing at two more brown chunks.
Only to find that there's no cooking involved at all. The whale meat is simply handed over as is, straight from its cardboard tray for me to suck on frozen. I wouldn't even call it meat, really; it's more of a chewy, crystalline fatty substance—the Inupiat call it muktuk—hacked from just beneath the skin of the whale and either dipped in seal oil, for flavor, or pickled, which is probably the only time it stops tasting like very gritty tuna.
Seeing me struggle, his wife gives me directions. “It's better if you put all of it in your mouth,” she says from the other end of the kitchen.
“Including this bit?” A flapping piece of skin that looks like a price tag is still sticking out from between my teeth.
“Yes. The flavor comes from both—the skin and the blubber together.”
I'm sure she's right. Still, I feel terrible, because I hate to offend my wonderful hosts after they've extended to us such gracious hospitality. Even so, I'm sorry, guys. My body won't take the fat. Blubber wasn't on The List of Things I Mustn't Eat, but that was simply an administrative oversight. And dunking it in seal oil makes things worse on two counts: (a) it's oil (obviously); and (b) it lends the muktuk a rancid, paraffinny flavor that I wouldn't be able to get down my throat if I sat at this table from now until nippivik tatqiq. I mean, no offense.
During dinner, Massak introduces me to a marine biologist friend of his called Jeff. On the spur of the moment, he offers me a ride on his dogsled to see the aurora borealis.
“Oooh, yes please, I'd love to.”
The northern lights are like movies to Alaskans. A cosmic Mardi Gras that regularly ignites the heavens over Barrow, filling them with flaring incandescent bullwhips of red and green. It's one of the few wonders of Nature that isn't waiting to ambush, wound, or kill us, so of course I'd like to go.
Just one caveat: they're only visible on clear nights. And tonight—wouldn't you know it?—there's a blanket of cloud cover. Regrettably, by the time we find this out, I've ridden across half the North Slope on Jeff's dogsled in minus-42-degree cold, from which I emerge a popsicle: wet, coated in ice particles, my nostrils plugged solid with snot, the blood vessels in my blue-tinged face as stiff as stair rods.
“Oh G-god, I'm-f-f-reez-z-z-in-g-g-g,” I shiver as I stumble off the sled in search of some source of heat.
“Here! Wait.” I hear a voice behind me.
Turning, I'm surprised to see Fat Kid rushing over. The guy's as chilled as I am, yet in a display of kindness entirely at odds with his usual tyrannical ways, he whips off his gloves, cups my frozen nose with his hands, then rubs my knuckles and fingers vigorously to work some feeling back into them.
“Oh, th-that's s-s-s-o g-g-good. Th-th-thank y-you.”
“You're very welcome.” He smiles through a drifting ectoplasm of breath.
I'm beginning to think I misjudged the man. Many of my former perceptions are slowly dissolving away. Torn from the pressures of office life, he's much more affable. Last night over dinner, we were even able to sit down together and calmly tackle the hot-button issue of flights and multiple carriers that caused Mike to lose his sound gear before Dubai and pissed the crew off repeatedly throughout the season. Well, not any more. Fat Kid was adamant. “That's over,” he told me with an easy grin. “It will never happen again. I promise. You have my word on it.”
What a refreshing about-turn. I almost like him now.
Still rubbing, he leans in close, whispering seductively out of the corner of his mouth, “Don't forget, we have red wine at the hotel.”
Oooh! It'd completely slipped my mind.
At the risk of being expelled from our rooms, we're going to celebrate the success of the spectacular Alaskan shoot, and the fact that I tackled my fear of wild animals, by going nuts with half a plastic cup of alcohol each.
“Ohhhhh. Th-that s-s-s-ounds w-wonderful.” A hint of sensation is creeping into my fingers. Finally, I'll be able to unbutton my own fly to pee. “In fact,” I throw in by way of a light joke, because we're friends now and you can mess around with friends, “if you l-let me h-have s-s-some w-w-wine, I p-p-promise to do another s-s-s-season of the show with you.”
Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.
Just kidding. Face it, I don't even know if the network wants another season, or, for that matter, if Sir would be physically, mentally, or psychologically up to the workload involved and the grind of traveling. Right now I'm thinking not.
“Deal,” Fat Kid leaps in quickly, letting go of my hands. In that instant, a new mood takes over. His regular old mood, in fact. The eyes glint now with a dagger-blade intensity, the true self suddenly shining through once more, like sunlight after a storm. “Let's get together at 8:30 tonight.” He grins. “And celebrate.”
No—wait.
Oh my God, what have I done?
The game's been won. A game I didn't even know we were playing. Nobody told me. I took my eye off the ball for a second, and already it's over. Damn.
Television is about power. Power, politics, manipulation, scoring points. I should be aware of that by now. To Fat Kid, who's a seasoned pro at this, the promise of a new series of non-award-winning shows means more money for his bosses and their production company, work for the staff, continued employment for the crews and for him. That's an important goal worth pulling out all the stops for. In the treacherous, volatile world of TV, every deal is crucial. You can't afford to give an inch.
Beneath the mound of clothes he's wearing over his super suit—the hat, the scarf, the fur hood—Fat Kid's olive cheeks are lanterns.
“Thanks, Cash,” he says.
“Hey—no problem,” I reply. And I smile warmly.
Sonofabitch.5
1 If somebody famous had crash-landed in a lagoon outside my town, I'd keep quiet about it. But not here. To be honest, naming an airport after two guys who died in a plane crash hardly inspires confidence, does it?
2 For further details, see my new book Captain Clueless—Who Gave This Idiot a Ship? Available soon.
3 Yes, he's here! My old nemesis. The mystery addition to our crew, the one Tasha taunted me with in Morocco. Our show runner, Chuck, has come along too. Chuck's a brilliant director and for this one episode is standing in for the recuperating Jay. Then there's Camera Mark and his sound guy, Todd. It's like a school reunion.
4 Which I'm not.
5 Don't worry. All wasn't lost. That evening at the hotel, I went into full damage limitation mode. The way I saw it, our verbal deal was only valid if I turned up and drank his wine—right? Exactly! So instead of celebrating with the rest of them, I stayed in my room the whole night. But then, damn it, around 9 P.M., the worst happened: a production assistant showed up at my door with a glass of merlot, courtesy of Fat Kid. Realizing that if I even sipped it, then, in my subconscious at least, I would have fulfilled my side of the bargain, I rushed to the bathroom, tipped the whole thing down the toilet, and flushed it away. Hah! Touché. Your move, buddy.
18
The Bomb Goes Off
I think today's Sunday. It's so easy to lose track. At any rate, it's the very last day of shooting the first, and with any luck, if the gods are with me and willing to let me off the hook, last season of the show. Last location. Eighteenth and very last episode. And I find myself uncharacteristically idle, left alone in a distant city in Northern Italy, with not much else to do but sit here telling you this.
The crew has gone back to Los Angeles. They left this morning after breakfast, with the usual cries of “M
issing you already. See you soon!”
I'm less lucky. For reasons of flight availability, I leave tomorrow, armed with an itinerary that could only have been devised by opening up a map and letting a small blindfolded child scribble on it for ten minutes with a crayon. So much for “It'll never happen again.”
“Bye, Cashmatic!!!”
“Have a safe trip.”
“You're sure you'll be okay?”
“I'll be fine. Don't worry”
“Bye!”
The crew van, having been parked half on the curb blocking traffic, which is how they do things in Italy, swerves into the narrow ravine of a street, nearly hitting a pedestrian, which is also how they do things in Italy, and disappears from view, leaving in its wake … nothing.
Stillness. A vacuum.
We shot the ending of the show in a great hurry after breakfast in a sunny piazza close by our hotel. Took six takes to get it right. It's not a natural act, talking to a camera lens; even after eighteen shows, I'm still not used to, or good at, it. But finally:
“Cut—aaaaaaaaaaand it's a season one wrap!”
Veni video'd vici.
When Director Mark1 barked these words, Eric threw up both arms into a victory salute, ready to receive the applause of a nonexistent crowd.
While the camera was being dismantled from its tripod, my microphone was removed from inside my shirt. A watershed moment of sorts, demoting me to civilian status once again. As of this minute, I'm a free man. Nothing to do, no scripts to write, no meetings to take, no plans to make, just an entire day to myself in which to embrace and admire one of Italy's most precious jewels: Turin.
