Among the scenes polarjournal.net witnessed this week were the sailors setting sail from the small fishing port of Ilulissat, the parade of locals to the Brugseni supermarket, Easter days and the blue sky.
For two weeks, polarjournal.net sent two reporters to Ilulissat to take portraits of the inhabitants, in order to report on some of the issues and changes taking place there. To give you an idea of the journey, here are some of the scenes they witnessed.
Monday, April 14
From its harbour, Ilulissat clings to the ocean; it’s a small catch, but it holds firm. Tucked under the airport road and overhung by gulls hovering around the cranes, it’s a fisherman’s port before it’s a tourist or freight port. Every morning, men in boots descend on foot, by car, cab or scooter. The bench in the corner of the gas station serves as a meeting and information point, and here looks are as sharp as words are measured. We don’t speak Greenlandic: whether we’re reading about the water or fishing stories, we’ll make do with observations. Coffee is cheap in the guardhouse, where the cash registers are those of the gas pumps. Bonnets, moustaches, caps, ponytails, all styles pass the edge of the quay clutching an oxidized steel hansom.
Tuesday, April 15
Today’s fishing will be good, there are more people than yesterday and the sailors are in a hurry to leave.
Hundreds of individual white boats under 6 meters long are moored to each other, on or off the ice, and every morning it’s a ballet to refuel. Discreet moorings, controlled manoeuvres, coming from the side, the stern… it all depends on the location of the fuel cap. Some plan to stock up by filling jerry cans, while the rifle is in the trunk under the pilot’s bench. At the stern, dried fish hang from the gantry. Lines are prepared the evening before or early in the morning. In a black garbage can, they reel in ruffled lines of bait stapled to shiny hooks. Cold-water squid and small fish are carefully cut with sharp, fine-tipped knives. The edge of the blade is reshaped by rubbing two sets together, crossed at torso level. A gray-haired guy blows into his gloves, another puts away his thermos and snack, the weather has turned cold. They often set off alone, but don’t lose sight of each other, or can call for help over the radio.
Wednesday, April 16
The Easter vacations have rejuvenated the average age of our coastal brothers. They arrive in oversized overalls, oversized boots and the desire to get out there too, drifting in the current, anchoring lines, interpreting the sea. In the evening, the cars and cabs return to take everyone home. Alone on the quay, he wears an orange jacket, that of the tourists from a French cruise line. Leonardo is from the Philippines, and his cousin, whom he probably never sees, works in the laundry of a cruise liner that landed last year and gave him the jacket reserved for millionaires on vacation. Leonardo works in the kitchens of the fish factory canteen, where most of the fishermen unload their catch at the end of the day, in plastic crates lifted by the crane operators. Evening arrives and the tension has disappeared. A few boats return from a family outing, with wife and children, to enjoy the sky lights and ice blues. Yawns are lost in the cry of a gull standing on a slab of ice barely larger than its feet. C.L
Thursday, April 17
Often, in the freezing morning, on the road leading down to the town, the port, the town hall buildings, the cafés, we stop at Brugseni. We take a seat behind the plastic bar, along the picture windows, and watch the people around us.
A woman dips her hands into the bar’s garbage can to retrieve some empty cans, which she takes to the left-luggage office a few yards away. She returns to us. Her right hand, damaged, is folded over like a bird’s talons.
It’s a gray day, with heavy skies and falling snow.
Further on, three kids are chatting. The oldest is wearing sunglasses. They’ve come to buy Red Bull and soft drinks.
There’s no music in this supermarket, just the sound of fridges (American and Danish brands), footsteps on the paved floor and the sound of the cash register.
The vegetable stalls are full today; the red boat has sailed past. At the entrance, in a large plastic bin, a pile of pineapples. You can feel how far things have come. Trucks, planes, boats, Ilulissat, Greenland, 5000 inhabitants, Brugseni. A pineapple on sale costs 30 Danish kroner on the stack. That’s about 4 euros. Plastic flowers – roses, chrysanthemums – 60 Danish kroner. About 8 euros. A case of strawberries – 100 Danish kroner.
The woman sits waiting for the next cans, her phone in her right hand (the other one).
Outside, several cabs are waiting in the parking lot. One man spits on the ground; another slips on a patch of ice and laughs. Cab drivers, construction workers, office workers, city employees, parents with children.
Closed faces.
Friday, April 18
This kind of place, too, allows for equality of gaze.
We return the next day.
The sun calms the sadness a little and gives work to the town benches. Here, as elsewhere, old men rule over those with their backs to the entrance to Brugseni. At the end of the one on the right, an old lady sells trinkets for tourists from a cardboard box on the ground.
Brugseni is a busy place at lunchtime. It’s lunchtime. People come to do their shopping, buy sandwiches and spend a few minutes in the warmth.
We bump into H., the kid we went for a walk with at the icebergs the other day. On vacation this week, he’s come to buy some sweets.
– What’s up bro? Is it open today?” he asks, referring to the residency center that has welcomed us since our arrival.
– Oh no, I’m sorry, but it will be open tomorrow, what do you think?” we reply.
– See you tomorrow then! he replies, smiling without stopping.
Pass this man we see every day; one of the city’s only homeless? His eyes are fixed, his beard damaged, his fingers burnt. He’s wearing an old black down jacket, old ski pants and hiking boots. He walks. He walks from morning to night. With long strides. Giant strides. Not the steps of a wanderer; he knows where he’s going. He walks back and forth in time, as if to close the gap between morning and evening.
When he’s not walking, he picks up cigarette butts from the ground. When we pass him, we offer him a cigarette, which he takes, wishing us a good day.
Saturday, April 19
The next day, the town is celebrating. It’s Easter. Several volleyball teams are in Ilulissat to compete in a major national tournament. The shouts of the teams can be heard from outside the building. Everything is much more cheerful today in front of Brugseni. The benches are full and children are coming and going – by the end of the day, the pastry stalls will be completely empty.
And then the sun (Malina, in Inuit mythology, is known for her passion, courage and beauty, but also for the tragic story that links her to her brother, Igaluk, or Anningan, the Moon), the sun holds sway in the sky. It’s springtime. After a resurgence of frost, the sounds of the city return, as ice and snow give another form to the “impermanence of things” spoken of by the Japanese: splashing car wheels, puddles, echoes (the snow, that great white sheet laid over things like a house being closed, had wadded everything up, extinguished it all in silence).
We leave tomorrow morning. We’ve put our microphones away. Nothing is simple. If all the world’s cities can be deciphered, as they say, like a musical score, then this one, more often than not, resembles a great white page crossed by silent, indecipherable signs, black dots like shadows – boats, crows, gulls, cars, dogs, silhouettes – and, behind each of them, at the end of each street, the icebergs – those clouds in the sea, those white shadows. A.C
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