Bucket Salm Pick!

“Bucket Salm Pick!” Every time Uqaq missed the ball, he’d let out a string of Bucket-Salm-Picks.

What the heck was he trying to say? My older sister and I would look at each other and break into a fit of giggling every time he said that. We knew he didn’t speak any English so we figured he was trying to say something he had heard from the transient southern workers. God only knew where he picked that up and copied it — construction workers perhaps, or from some ship’s crewmen.

Every summer, while it was light out, the Gjoa Haven community — or what there was of it then — would turn out for a game of anauligaq. Anyone could participate. Men, women, children, anyone basically who could catch the ball and run with it. The only requirement was a sense of humour and an attitude of play. The few individuals who were poor sports just didn’t participate, or got discouraged early on, as the game was more about social interaction than about athletic skill.

Such games were common among us "tribal" peoples, the local handicrafts officer explained to me. As soon as proper roads were built, and people began proper work for a proper day's wages, these games and others like it would disappear. Progress, don’t you know. “Oh sure, whatever,” I said, trying to pretend that I didn’t take him too seriously. Everybody, then as today, had a theory as to where Inuit would end up eventually. When I eventually attended University, for example, one sciolistic windbag of a professor tried to get a laugh from the rest of the class by publicly "explaining" to me that my language — Inuktitut — would be dead within a few years. That was three decades ago, and I sometimes wonder what he would think of the little kids who pass by me in Iqaluit, sharing a joke or berating each other in Inuktitut. I suppose that, these days, he must maintain his sense of smugness by turning a blind eye to the fact that the Government of Nunavut uses specialized Inuktitut fonts, and publishes most of its material in syllabics.

Back then, however, I was just a girl, and I had few answers for a big alien man with a smoking pipe, telling me that my culture was a pretty dream that must inevitably end. Deep down, I feared that he was right. It seemed like there were just enough facts to back up his arguments in those days. Over-development and syncretation were popping up like evil blossoms everywhere around the Arctic. They had bowled over and crushed other areas, and it took all of my willpower to convince myself that it wouldn't happen to ours. Further, I was spending a period from fall to spring at school, a thousand miles away. I knew enough about global issues, by then, to afford myself a glimpse into the handicraft officer's future. Not only did Inuit seem to be increasingly swept up in the changes of their world, but some were actively participating. Many, frankly, wanted the amenities brought up from the South.

In those days, to keep in shape for soccer and basketball — in both of which I was a highschool team member — I daily made a solitary jog to a small lake about four miles away, did some sit-ups, jogged back. It cleared my mind and gave me some private time away from my younger siblings (though I didn't really mind helping my parents look after them). Sometimes, I would even do a toned down version, wherein I took one of my little brothers along with me. I would carry a lunch, and make a tea fire before heading back, so as not to make the trip so goal-oriented and selfish. On those slower and more easy-going trips, my brother and I would look for duck eggs along the way, and catch char fry under rocks along the lake shore. There were no time constraints, so our walks would soon turn into idle meandering, after which we barely arrived home in time for supper and an early sleep — we were always groggy from the long day of fresh air.

On one such trip, I eventually stopped to look more carefully at the lake which I'd visited throughout most of my childhood. As I did so, I thought to myself about the coming developments ahead. The lake surface was clear and clean, like a polished mirror, overhead flights of birds reflected in its surface. I could see right down to the bottom, where pebbles of all colours stood out in sharp relief. I took a drink, more ceremonially than in need, and said to myself, “This is the last time I’ll see the lake this way.” I knew that a push for resources would bring with it not only pollution, but social ills as well. I left the lake and never returned. It remains in my memory as I wished it could be. Forever untouched.

Someday, I'm going to check up on that lake. I don't need to fear it, you see, because I know that there's a chance it could still be there. It turned out that the arts and crafts officer was wrong about the degree of development he had predicted, and here's why: No matter how many people move to the Arctic, no matter how much it warms, it does not become the South. To this day, even in Iqaluit, the most developed community in Nunavut, I still go hiking with my husband. We warm ourselves upon sun-caressed rocks old as Creation itself, drinking in the colours around us, listening to the cries of nearby ducks — and all without a human sound in accompaniment. This is why Inuit culture has not died. It is anchored to the Land, and this Land — the Arctic — determines how much development it will tolerate. For it is not a resource. It is a force.

Has Gjoa Haven changed over time? Of course it has. Roads have been built, and the grounds where we played as children are now occupied by a large school building. Uqaq’s grandchildren now probably go there. The arts and crafts officer was partly right, though: these days, no one plays anauligaq outdoors in the summer. They play exactly the same game, but call it "baseball." Does being 1% right in a prediction still make one a futurist?

Incidentally, we did finally discover what Uqaq had been trying to say with his, “Bucket Salm Pick!” The words had been simple English expletives — swear words copied from migrant workers — that are best left untranslated herein. He has probably mastered the words, by now.

In retrospect, I’m glad that he couldn’t pronounce them while I was around.

Pijariiqpunga. 

Back to top