“You were the best,” Anaukaq said, chuckling at Kali’s histrionics. “I really miss the old hunting days.”
“But you were good at everything, my cousin. I remember how you could run across the ice faster than anyone we had ever seen,” Kali said, laughing. “You were the fastest of all the Inuit boys.”
Anaukaq’s son Ajako, who had just entered the room, chimed in, “Up here they say the men in our family have the fastest legs of all the Inuit, and my ahtahtah [father] was the fastest runner.”
Kali then turned to me. “Anaukaq could run so fast that I once saw him run after a big chairreeinyah [fox], and not only did he catch the fox, but he began kicking him, too, as they ran along.
The old men laughed uproariously at this story.
Changing the subject, I asked Anaukaq and Kali about their upbringing. “Did you attend missionary schools when you were youngsters?”
“No,” Anaukaq replied immediately. “There were no missionary schools in those days when we were young. We could only become hunters. There was nothing else we could do. The women became hunter-wives. Nowadays, the young men and women can go to school and take jobs with the Danes. They can become mechanics, like my fourth son, Vittus. But we enjoyed being hunters. I think a hunter is the best thing a man can be.”
“When the missionary schools came along, did you want your children to go to school?” I asked.
“Eeee,” said Kali.
“Oh, yes,” Anaukaq agreed. “We wanted them to have the best advantages. We knew that our traditional world was changing with more of the Danish people coming up here and more modern things reaching this area by ship. But we also wanted them to keep the old ways, too, to become hunters.”
“All of our oldest sons were still hunters first,” Kali interjected, “even if they attended the missionary schools. But we old hunters had no opportunity to attend school.”
“That is right,” said Anaukaq. “Even after the air base was built in the 1950s and we saw some modern things come into this area, we were still hunters on the move, so that we could all eat. And our children traveled on the hunt with us.”
“Sometimes we would have to take our children out of school so that they could join us on the hunt. We had to have enough food,” Kali said. “But we would try not to disturb them while school was in.”
“We were happy to be hunters,” Anaukaq said. “We could write our names, and we could read our names. That was good. Our children could read and write, so they helped us. But we taught our sons to be hunters so they could survive on their own, look after their families in the traditional ways.”
“Didn’t the Danes and the Americans provide you with modern food supplies?” I asked.
“They provided some things like canned foods and fish, even frozen chicken lately,” Anaukaq answered. “But we preferred our own native foods, like nanook, kahlayleewah, cheemeahk, ahvuk, pooeehee, tooktoo, and ahkahlik,” he said, listing them in order of Polar Eskimo preference.
“Anaukaq, were you ever treated any differently by the other Eskimos because you were of mixed race?” I asked.
He laughed. “Nahahn [No]. Not really. The people up here are too nice for that kind of thing. When I was a youngster, though, if I was too rough with other children, sometimes they would shout, ‘You are black! You are black and not clean-faced!’ But they didn’t mean anything by it, and it was usually my fault for making them say such.”
“Did everyone know why you looked different? I mean, why you were darker than the other Eskimos, and why you had curly newyah [hair]?” I asked.
“Yes, of course,” Anaukaq replied. “All of the Inuit knew I was the son of Mahri-Pahluk and that he was kulnocktooko. But I was very happy for that, for being kulnocktooko like my father. For many years, though, I was ashamed of my curly newyah.”
“Ashamed?” I was puzzled. “How so?”
“Yes,” he laughed. “As a child, even as a man, I wanted straight hair, like my mother and later my wife. I would say to my wife that ‘straight hair is so beautiful, why do I have this unruly curly hair?’ Then later all of the young Inuit women started trying to curl their hair. Many of them started to use curlers. I said to them, ‘Your straight hair is so beautiful. Why do you mess it up by making it curly?’ But they said to me, ‘No, your curly hair is beautiful. We want hair like yours.’ I was so surprised at them. I thought the idea was kind of silly.”
“What about you, Kali? Did the other Inuit treat you very differently as a youngster because you were part white?” I asked.
“Well, sometimes,” he replied.
“How so?” I asked.
Kali seemed a bit more reluctant to talk about this subject than Anaukaq had been. “Mmmm, sometimes the other children would taunt my brother and me, call us names, things like that,” Kali said.
“What kind of names?” I asked.
“Sometimes they would tell me and my older brother Hammy that we were more kahdonah than Eskimo, and that we thought we were better than others. Other times they would point to us and say, ‘There, the kahdonah ones.’ ” Kali chuckled. “We used to get very angry, especially Hammy. But our mother protected us.”
Kali continued. “This really affected Hammy more than it did me. He used to get so upset inside. He was always very active, doing things to keep his mind off his hurt. Hammy and I tried to be the best hunters we possibly could. That way, we could show them that we were as good as everyone else.”
“You mean that you were as much Inuit as everyone else?” I said.
“Yes, that is right,” said Kali.
“Do you feel different from other Eskimos because you are part white?” I asked.
“I am Eskimo,” he affirmed proudly, still chewing on a piece of raw bird. “I was born and raised Eskimo. I think Eskimo. I was an Eskimo hunter. I did not grow up in the ways of the kahdonah. All my children were raised as Inuit. My sons Talilanguaq and Peter and my grandson, Ole, are all Eskimo hunters. My ahnahnna [mother] and my adoptive ahtahtah, Peeahwahto, raised me to be a good Eskimo,” he continued. “That is what they knew. They never told me that I should try to be different from other Inuit because I looked different. And Peeuree did nothing for my brother Hammy and me. There were no other kahdonah around. We lived only with other Inuit, traveling from place to place with other families, with the seasons.”
“That is right,” Anaukaq chimed in. “We are both Inuit Eskimos and we have known only the Inuit life. We had no contact with the kahdonah except for the few Danish missionaries at Thule Station, and we would only see them about once a year.”
“Sometimes during the summers, whaling ships from different lands would come to Cape York, south of here,” Kali added. “Then we would see kahdonah, some even from Peeuree’s homeland.”
“Yes,” said Anaukaq. “That reminds me. When we were young boys, MacMillan, who had worked on the North Pole trip, used to come up here to work and travel north on the ice. He would find Cousin Kali and me, and give us gifts and candy. He was very kind to us. He would tell us that our fathers were well and bring us greetings from them.”
“MacMillan was good,” Kali agreed. “We never saw our fathers up here, but MacMillan came up here several times when we were boys. He was very nice. He always gave us something. It kind of made us feel that we were not forgotten. He gave candy and gifts to other children as well.”
“Did he ever give your mothers gifts or anything sent from America personally from Mahri-Pahluk and Peeuree?” I asked, looking at both men.
“Oh, nahdoohhoyah [I don’t know],” answered Kali. “I can’t remember.” Anaukaq could not recall either but thought he remembered MacMillan bringing some things from Mahri-Pahluk for his mother, Akatingwah.
Their recollections were certainly consistent with MacMillan’s reputation. By all accounts, he was among the kinder, more open-minded members of Peary’s party. We also know that after Peary’s last expedition, MacMillan became the preeminent American explorer of the Arctic a
nd made several visits to the area in which Anaukaq and Kali lived. As one of the few people who knew for certain of Peary and Henson’s “North Pole secret,” and as a loyal friend of both men, MacMillan might well have been asked to look in discreetly on the explorers’ Amer-Eskimo “orphans.”
“Did MacMillan ever offer to take you to America?” I asked.
“No,” Anaukaq answered. “We were too young then, and we had to stay with our parents. But later we wanted very much to go to America and see our fathers and other relatives.”
Kali added that when they were young boys, his brother Hammy used to tell people, especially when they taunted him, that he was going to go to America to find “Peeuree.” And when he found him, he would stay with his ahtahtah in a big igloo. But he and Hammy were frightened, Kali said, because everyone had heard about the bad things that had happened to Mene and his family when they went to Peary’s homeland.
“The Eskimos,” Kali said, “felt that Mene and his group were all overcome by bad spirits and died.”
Kali was referring to the tragic story of the young Polar Eskimo, Mene, who, with his father, Kes-shoo, and four other Inuit, was taken to the United States by Peary in 1897 and later “exhibited” at the American Museum of Natural History in New York. Some of the Eskimos had been with Peary that year when he confiscated the last of the sacred Polar Eskimo meteorites, or “heaven stones,” which he later sold to the museum. Soon after they arrived in the United States, most of the Eskimos fell ill with pneumonia and other afflictions. Peary and the museum director promptly summoned Matthew Henson, the only person in the United States known to speak their language, but there was nothing he or anyone else could do. All but the eight-year-old Mene and one other Eskimo were hospitalized and eventually died. Compounding the tragedy, the museum defleshed the remains of the dead Eskimos and put their articulated skeletons on display. Upon seeing his father’s skeleton in public, the forlorn Mene became enraged. With the help of others, including some journalists, he fought to remove his father’s remains from the exhibit for proper burial. Although the noted anthropologist Franz Boas had come up with the idea of displaying the Eskimos, Robert Peary was roundly criticized for his role in the affair.
After twelve difficult years in America, Mene returned of his own volition to northwest Greenland in 1909 aboard Peary’s relief ship, the Jeanie. Fortunately, he met Peary and Henson just as they were preparing to depart for the United States. According to Henson, “[Mene] was almost destitute, having positively nothing in the way of an equipment to enable him to withstand the rigors of the country, and was no more fitted for the life he was to take up than any boy of eighteen or twenty would be. . . . However, Commander Peary ordered that he be given a plentiful supply of furs to keep him warm, food, ammunition and loading outfit, traps and guns.”1
Mene slowly and painfully tried to reacclimate himself to the Eskimo life he had known as a child. He became a pretty good hunter and, with the help of friends and relatives, learned to look after himself. But eventually he abandoned any hope of fully readjusting to his native culture. In the summer of 1916, seven years after his return, he hitched a ride on an expeditionary relief ship bound for the United States and left Greenland for the last time. Unable to reestablish his old contacts, he wandered around the eastern United States for two years, working as an itinerant laborer. Some speculate that he may have been trying to work his way up to Peary’s residence in Maine. In any event, in 1918 Mene died of bronchial pneumonia while working at a lumber camp in Pittsburg, New Hampshire. He was buried by friends in a local cemetery, where his body remains today.
“Did anyone besides MacMillan ever bring you word from your fathers?” I asked.
“No,” replied Kali. “After MacMillan stopped coming up here, we heard nothing about our fathers. We gave up all hope of ever visiting Peeuree’s homeland.”
“Did the other white men who came up here know that you were the sons of Mahri-Pahluk and Peeuree?” I asked.
“Nahdoohhoyah,” said Anaukaq. “No one ever said so. We were treated by outsiders just like other Eskimos. We did not have last names in those days, before the missionaries asked us to take last names in the late 1960s. We were only known by our first names.”
“There are other half-white Inuit up here,” Kali added. “Maybe they did not know which of us were the children of Peeuree.”
“That is possible in your case, Kali,” I said. “But Mahri-Pahluk was the only kulnocktooko to visit Polar Eskimo lands at that time, and any dark offspring would have to be his.”
Both men laughed. “You are right.”
“When they built the military base at Umanak,” Anaukaq said, “many men came up here from Mahri-Pahluk and Peary’s homeland. But they did not know who we were or that we were their [Henson’s and Peary’s] sons. They just told all Inuit people that they had to move much farther north or south of Umanak mountain because they were going to build a base there. The people did not want to move but were forced to do so.”
“One day we heard that some of the Inuit had seen a kulnocktooko man while traveling past the base on the way to Savissivik,” Anaukaq continued. “My family became very excited because we thought that he might be one of Mahri-Pahluk’s descendants—one of our relatives. Maybe he had come up here to find us, we thought. We wanted him to come and visit us, but he never came. A short time later, he left Greenland. We don’t know why, but some said that maybe the chiefs at the base would not let him come to see us.”
I spent the next few days listening to and recording the two men’s stories. They seemed to delight in the opportunity to talk with someone who showed interest in their lives and cultural heritage. The younger family members who joined us also learned from these revelations about their past and ancestry.
I followed them all about the settlement. Anaukaq showed Kali around his settlement much as one does a guest in any culture. Anaukaq proudly presented his eight sled dogs and talked about their strength and breeding. He took Kali to the little general store at the edge of the settlement run by his fourth son, Ajako, and to the grave of his wife, Aviaq.
Too soon the time came for me to return to the United States. I would have to leave the settlement by helicopter while the unpredictable weather was calm, so that I could reach Thule in time for my scheduled flight to McGuire Air Force Base.
On my last evening in Moriussaq, I prepared a big dinner for Anaukaq, Kali, and their families. The bill of fare was all my remaining food. Though they loved my canned tuna, ham, and other meats, they found other offerings less than appetizing.
“What do you call this stuff?” asked Kali. “It tastes like paper.”
“Oatmeal,” I replied. “It’s a kind of grain, like a bread.”
“Why do you have so much of it?” Anaukaq inquired.
“Well, it’s easy to carry, it’s filling, and it’s good for you. All you have to do is add water.”
“It is good for people with no teeth,” Kali interjected.
Everyone laughed.
In a more serious tone, Anaukaq asked, “Allen, do you think you will be able to arrange for us to go to America?”
“I hope so, Anaukaq,” I answered. “But I cannot promise anything, other than that I will try my best to arrange such a trip. There are many difficulties, you know. It will be very expensive. Transportation alone from Greenland to the United States is a big problem. Then we must have food, lodging, and transportation in the United States. It is very difficult and very expensive. I don’t know how I can do it, but maybe I can raise the money from your American families. And perhaps I can get the Danish government to help us. I’m just speculating now,” I quickly added. “I don’t want to get your hopes up only to fail. But I promise you that I will try my best.”
“I know you will. We have faith in you,” Anaukaq said with uncharacteristic sadness in his voice. “I hope this dream becomes real. It is the last dream I have before I die. You see, I have been ill lately, and I will not live mu
ch longer. So if I am ever to see my American relatives and my father’s grave, it must be soon.”
“I understand, my friend,” I said.
“I hope I live to see the day, but if I die before you can arrange such a trip, I hope that you will help my sons and their children meet their American relatives and see Mahri-Pahluk’s grave site. That is very important to me.”
“You have my word that I will try my best,” I said. “Just keep the faith.”
“Eeee,” Kali added. “My cousin has been very ill lately. I now worry for him. I hope we can both go to our fathers’ homeland before he becomes more gravely ill. I will help to look after him.”
I was deeply moved by Kali’s concern for Anaukaq. During the time I had spent with the two of them I had come to believe that they were more like brothers than friends or “cousins.” At eighty years of age they were still looking after each other. Their fathers, who also shared a special bond, would be happy to see this, I thought.
“If I can arrange this trip to the United States, how many of your family would you want to go along with you?” I asked both men.
Anaukaq spoke up first. “I would be very happy if my sons could go with me: Avataq, Ajako, Ussarkaq, and Kitdlaq. My other son Vittus is not here. He is in southern Greenland working for the Danes and maybe cannot join us. But I would like to see him.”
Then Anaukaq’s granddaughter Malina, who had been dancing in African-American fashion to a soul music tape on my recorder, said, “I would like to go, too.”
“Me, too,” added Anaukaq’s ten-year-old granddaughter, Aviaq. “If Malina goes I want to go also.”
“What about you, Kali?” I asked. “Which of your children do you want to travel with you to America if we have the opportunity to go there?”
North Pole Legacy Page 12
