Atlantica 409 - Destination Greenland: Kulusuk Keepsakes

Kulusuk Keepsakes Photos by Páll stefánsson

Atlantica’s Jonas Moody takes a whirlwind trip to East Greenland to discover the ultimate north.

After twenty-four hours of ice floes, terrifying bear sirens and cheeky Greenlandic kids, he finally finds his perfect souvenir.

First stop: The Airport of Oblivion

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here are hundreds of thousands of crushed eggshells floating in the water. From 35,000 feet in the air, peering down into the electric blue of the Arctic Ocean, there is nothing else that comes to mind. At first it’s just long tendrils of eggshell that reach out into the open ocean, but as our prop plane draws near our destination, those arms broaden and merge until the entire surface of the sea is covered in a white mosaic. Already I’m conjuring up the memento I can bring back from this otherworldly landscape.

As we descend for landing the white chunks come into view: pristine ice floes, each an entire continent unto itself in the constantly changing Pangaea of Greenland’s icy eastern coast. This is the expansive landscape Iceland’s coast guard is meant to patrol for polar bears floating their way over to Iceland. I now understand why it’s often likened to looking for a needle in the haystack. More like looking for a cotton ball in a snowstorm.

Finally we arrive. Out of the ocean rise massive mountains carved deep with veins of snow. Some experts place Greenland at over 3.8 billion years old, one of the oldest places on Earth. On the other hand, Iceland is one of the newest places on Earth, geographically speaking, with Surtsey island off the southern coast forming only in 1963. Yet between these oldest and newest rocks there’s only about 280 kilometers of ocean at

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a Greenland

the narrowest gap, or a two-hour flight from Reykjavík to Kulusuk.

Stepping out of the airplane I look around to see… nothing. Besides the airport building and a skeleton ground crew of three men, there is nothing but mountains and snow. No cars.

No roads. No houses. No people. Welcome to nowhere.

Inside the airport I’m greeted by a couple of unlucky polar bears who have been strung up on the wall, some knick-knack souvenirs that don’t appeal to me, a duty-free shelf (I can’t justify calling it a shop) and the Greenlandic customs authority (i.e. two Danes and a card table). Making our way out of the building we find more mountains and snow. As the passengers from the plane trickle out, we all share a moment: Where can we buy our train tickets? Where do we catch the bus to town? No. Nothing like that. The only way you’re making it to town is on your own two feet. And it’s not right around the corner.

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Second stop: Kulusuk Village

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hen the air-raid siren goes off my photographer and I have been trudging through knee-high snow with our bags for about an hour. Since it’s not World War II and there aren’t any tornados in the forecast, this warning can only mean one thing. East Greenland is polar bear country, and although the chances of seeing one in the summer are slim-to-none, the locals don’t carry rifles over their shoulders just to look tough. It remains unclear whether it is actually the sheer terror that caused me to freeze in place or the blocks of ice I once called my feet. But I can’t move.

After a moment of listening for roaring in the distance and scanning the horizon for the proverbial cotton ball in the snowstorm, I decide it’s time to get the hell out. At the thought of becoming polar bear brunch, I find renewed energy to hurl myself over the final hill on our trek and the village comes into view.

At the thought of becoming polar bear brunch, I find renewed energy to hurl myself over the final hill on our trek and the village comes into view.

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Greenland

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This is the most sparsely populated country in the world, so it’s a treat to see another person here, and Greenlanders let you know that.

Kulusuk, population 300, is the kind of place you see in its entirety in one glance. Sitting on an outcrop of rock, the cluster of tiny, brightly colored houses is a site for sore eyes: civilization.

I probably won’t get eaten by a polar bear now.

And if I am, at least there will be someone there to see it happen.

As we enter town many of the villagers are out and about, and scads of curious sled dogs are tied up outside the houses—the entire community is out to enjoy the sun and the visitors.

As we pass the Greenlanders greet us with a smile and a wave. This is the most sparsely populated country in the world, so it’s a treat to see another person here and Greenlanders let you know that. This is a place that welcomes visitors warmly, so I’m bound to find a good souvenir somewhere around here.

As we reach the middle of town—the shop and post office—we’re almost mowed down by 28

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a four-wheeler zipping through. While I normally don’t respond well to vehicles running me off the road, the sight of some mode of transportation besides my own weary feet brings me such hope that I can’t help but smile. The speed demon slows down once he’s passed and turns back to greet us.

Meet Jóhann Brandsson, the local paleface.

While most of the “colonials” are Danes who hole up in the hotel by the airport, Brandsson lives down in the village with the people. He’s an Icelander, and for three glorious months of the year he meets the Air Iceland day trip group at the airport, walks them down to the village and gives them a taste of Greenland.

We drop in on his group sitting on a grassy knoll overlooking a wide bay dotted with sea ice and sculpture-like icebergs. They’ve just seen a spear fishing demonstration with a man in a kayak and are now watching a Greenlandic man

in a white cotton smock and sealskin boots play a drum made from a polar bear stomach. He taps on the drum and makes cawing sounds in time with the beat.

His face is leathery but wonderfully expressive, transforming his coy grin into a grimace with his eyes rolled back in his head while the drumbeat pulses along. As Brandsson translates, it’s a song about a seabird and a fish, how they live in separate worlds, one in the air and the other in the water. While they will never be part of the other’s world, they can still travel in the same direction. Against the backdrop of the ice and mountains, the visitors take his message to heart as they are ushered back to the plane.

I find Brandsson after the performance and ask him about the siren and whether they had run the bear off. Without missing beat he replies, “No, it’s only for fun.” I stare back at him disbelievingly. “You know, for the tourists!”

Final stop: The Midnight Sun

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or the rest of the day I explore the village, making friends with the attention-hungry dogs, taking pictures of adorable Greenlandic kids (they like to ham it up for the camera) and desperately searching for that elusive token of Greenland I’ll take home with me. Before dinner we find our man Hans, who takes us for spin around the bay in his boat.

As the pack ice is still too thick around the village harbor, Hans takes us for a wild adventure leaping across several ice floes bobbing like lily pads until we land on the chunk where he’s got his boat hitched. The water is jammed with floating ice, so Hans uses the keel of the boat to muscle our way through several sticky situations, sometimes even taking us close enough to an iceberg to reach out and touch it. I can confidently now report back to you: they’re cold. atlantica

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a Greenland The Goods on Greenland Greenland Express Air Iceland offers a day trip to Greenland (airiceland.com, ISK 63,400/USD 490/EUR 350), enough to trudge through the snow, see the village, and take in a drum dance—however, you’ll miss the midnight sun, which is stunning.

Get a room Unfortunately, seriously grumpy Danes run the overpriced Hotel Kulusuk (arcticwonder.com, DKK 1,090/USD 200/EUR 145 per night). If you stay overnight look into staying in the village at Servicehuset (+299 98 69 53, DKK 200/USD 35/EUR 25 per night) or with local Icelander Jóhann Brandsson (kulusuk@greennet.gl).

Bear patrol While polar bears are rare in the summer, they do exist and East Greenland is lousy with them.

Be alert and try to walk with locals nearby.

Beyond the bay The larger village of Tasiilaq is nearby, but only accessible by helicopter from Kulusuk Airport (airgreenland.com, DKK 1,400/USD 260/EUR 180). For a much cheaper trip strike a deal with a boatman at the Kulusuk harbor to ferry you over.

On a long walk back to the hotel by the airport we pass the Kulusuk cemetery. It’s only a small plot of grass girded off with a rock-pile wall, but the graves are unusual in that they’re slathered with exotically colored fake flowers. In another Greenlandic tradition, none of the graves bear names. Instead the names are passed on to the living generation. Luckily, as I narrowly escaped death by bear and the freezing waters during our game of Arctic Ocean leapfrog, I was able to walk away from the cemetery.

With daylight pouring in though the windows in the middle of the night, my chances for sleep are zilch, so I go back outside to properly hail the

midnight sun. Outside I find I’m not the only one who can’t sleep. A cheeky little Greenlandic girl decides midnight is as good a time as any to initiate a game of tag with a perfect stranger. I chase her around the ice field and promptly fall on my rear several times as a result.

“Nej! Du skal ikke løbe!” Ane shouts at me.

No! Don’t run in the snow! My Danish is atrocious, but I can just make out what she’s saying through uncontrollable giggles. At age 9, Ane is already fluent in three languages—Danish, Kalaallisut (West Greenlandic) and Tunumiit Oraasiat (East Greenlandic). However, without resorting to any of these languages, Ane tells me

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Tongue Untied The locals speak only Greenlandic and Danish, so expect to forget your English and remember how to pantomime. The two most useful phrases you can equip yourself with are: “Qimmeq kusanag” (That's a nice dog) and “Isingaalerpunga!” (I have cold feet!).

something very clearly with her face contorted in howling laughter, doubled over with great belly guffaws: it is hilarious to watch me trying to wade through knee-deep snow.

And at long last, Ane gives me the souvenir I’ve been longing for. It’s about 15 syllables long, and I have no idea whether it’s spelled correctly. But we sit under the midnight sun and she teaches it to me, giggling every time I try to say it right. But I finally learned it, the Greenlandic name Ane gave me: inukitigaitukaputaaqanngit “He-who-does-not-know-how-to-walk-in-thesnow.” a