Trading biscuits

"Finally caught up with me, eh?" my father asked.

They traded hand shakes like a couple of Roman gladiators, each gripping harder than usual. The statement was interchangeable. It didn’t matter which man uttered it this time. What mattered was their time-honoured, macho game of cat-and-mouse.

My father didn’t show the slightest bit of surprise at the arrival of the other. He knew that the man known as Nujaittuq ("No Hair" in Inuktitut) had been trailing him for a few days. Who wouldn’t be able to tell, considering the flat terrain on which we had been travelling? It had only been a matter of time before Nujaittuq caught up with us.

"Catch any game lately?" Nujaittuq inquired.

"You know I’d never break the law," my father answered. He then countered with, "How about you? Are those ptarmigan feathers I see hanging out the side of your sled?"

On it went – one trying to pin the other with violating the law in any little way.

We had known Nujaittuq for a long time. He had been one of those first Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers entrusted with civil and administrative duties since Inuit had started leaving the traditional lifestyle out on the Land, to live in settlements. Many times, he’d had to enforce regulations which civil servants had not then known were inappropriate to the North. Southern laws regarding "hunting seasons" were established based upon the observed migrational/breeding patterns of animals in the South. Since those patterns occurred at different times in the North, following southern-style laws could result in disaster. It might be, for example, that birds were the most choice thing to hunt at a certain time, while hunting them was illegal, "out of season." At the same time, hunting seals was permissible but impractical, since the bulls were in rut, their hormone-saturated meat and skins barely fit for dog food.

Speaking of which, my father then turned to the subject of Nujaittuq’s skinny, inadequate dog team.

"What are these, large lemmings?"

He would often deride Nujaittuq on his use of Siberian Huskies, issued to him by ignorant and misinformed bosses from some headquarters far away. Whomever had issued him that breed of dogs, which was mostly trained to run in a long pair-after-pair hitch pattern, must have been ignorant of the dangers of sea-water ice cracks. Inuit kept their dogs in a fan style hitch so that if one dog fell into a crack, it wouldn’t automatically pull in the other dogs nearest it. Even the Netsilingmiut people, using only two or three dogs, used a fan style.

Another complaint that my father had about Siberian Huskies, zippy and agile as they were, was that they were simply not tough enough. Not like ours (the breed is now recognized by Kennel Clubs as the "Qimmiq", or "Eskimo Dog"). They were not dogs for enduring sixty below, blizzards, and a lack of food and water.

"They get me through the winter," Nujaittuq retorted. "I don’t see you giving me one of your dogs to breed. Not that I would want one of yours anyway. What a mangy looking bunch."

"They do look awful, don’t they?" my father was forced to agree. His dogs were losing their wooly winters coats, and now looked like peculiar crosses between musk-oxen and hyenas.

"When are they due for shots?" Nujaittuq asked.

"Shots? They’re not due yet."

Both men knew this wasn’t true. Both had ignored the regulation after it was discovered that this breed of dog often had bad reactions to the vaccine – reactions that sometimes ended up killing them. Instead, once a dog became infected with rabies, my father would quickly and humanely put it down. The early symptoms of a sick animal were easily noticed by someone who knew what to look for.

Nujaittuq agreed because he had learned how to live in the North. He was one of those early, highly skilled and adaptable RCMP officers, who understood that he was responsible for the welfare of the people, not the letter of the law. Using his brain, he knew where and when the law had to be bent in order to survive in the Arctic – a world that places special demands upon the life within it. And the Land had placed its demands upon Nujaittuq as readily as upon any traditional Inuk.

But that didn’t stop him or my dad from ribbing each other.

After the obligatory tea break, and many more good-natured insults, Nujaittuq and my father traded biscuits. Nujaittuq liked the change to my father’s hardtack biscuits, kept in their funny red box. My father, in turn, enjoyed the soft biscuits that Nujaittuq was issued with his rations. "Paulines" read the name on that blue box of Nujaittuq’s, a box bearing the image of some crusty old mariner, steering a large, wooden wheel. One of my own personal games involved trying to guess what the pictures and words on different packages referred to. Paulines, I assumed, was either the name of the biscuits, or the company that made them. I had already guessed that "Redpath" made sugar, and "Amphorah" made the tobacco my father smoked.

After the exchange of biscuits, the two men exchanged survival skills, trading tips and trying out each others’ rifles. Neither of them, even though they lived essentially different lifestyles, could afford ignorance of the Land, and there seemed to be a free exchange of knowledge between them. These moments, when they caught up to one another, served as the times when they could compare notes and learn how to become better survivalists. Even as a skilled Inuit hunter, my father had come to respect Nujaittuq, and never rejected him as some dumb southerner unworthy of Inuit knowledge. Neither did Nujaittuq look down on my father as some "dumb native". They were just men. Learning was the important thing here. Their cat-and-mouse game – each always catching the other slipping up – was their classroom.

"Come across any storms lately?" asked my dad.

It was a nasty jibe. Nujaittuq had once gotten lost in a storm, had to have a search party come looking for him. As I had mentioned before, his Siberian dogteam, more used to tree line conditions, had been virtually useless in a storm. "Eskimo Dogs", on the other hand, would have brought you home – blinding conditions or not. On top of it all, one of his bitches had delivered pups, and Nujaittuq had been literally stuck indoors. With Eskimo Dogs, you basically left mothers and pups to nature and instinct. But with Siberian Huskies, high-strung and temperamental, you had to make sure the mothers properly nursed and looked after their pups.

"Run out of pipe tobacco lately?" Nujaittuq counter-attacked.

During one of his hunting trips, my father had decided that it would be a good time to conquer his addiction to tobacco – only to underestimate its grip on him. Days later, he’d had to make do with leaves from a berry bush, until finally borrowing a pouch from, of all people, his friend and nemesis: Nujaittuq.

But in the final analysis, despite much ribbing and posturing, my father admired and was quite fond of Nujaittuq. It was not often that a southerner could earn the admiration of a good Inuit hunter. In this way did Nujaittuq exemplify those earliest of the RCMP.

"I’m going to Spence Bay to do a little work on the detachment there," Nujaittuq stated. "One of the things I have to do is inform old man Siva that he can’t have two wives."

"Oh why don’t you leave the poor old man alone. He’s not harming anybody."

"I’m surprised at you, Qitsualik." Nujaittuq knew my father had become a minister (although he is no longer today). "I didn’t think the Anglican Church would condone such a thing."

"It’s my own opinion and not the church’s. You know he’s an old man and needs looking after. If you take away his other wife, he’ll get depressed and a doctor will have to be called in. Besides, I’m in the business of listening to people, not judging them. That’s for the courts to deal with."

"That’s my problem. As much as I don’t like to do it, I have to inform people when they are breaking the law."

"Well, you were stupid enough in making them in the first place."

"That’s just it. I didn’t make the laws."

"Then why are you in such a hurry to enforce them?"

This was followed by a kind of depressed silence. Either realized that some aspects of the other’s duties were unpleasant. Both, in their respective capacities, had experienced futile attempts to help those who were dying. They had attended tragic funerals, had dealt with accidental shootings, suicides, and murders. Such things hit hard in small camps, where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

A lot of people, in general, went to my father to seek advice. Such is the lot of a minister, even an Inuit one. In those days, it was also the lot of anyone who was particularly good at anything; Inuit valued any opinion backed up by skill.

Since many of the RCMP of those early days tended to impress Inuit with their multi-varied skills – acting like a combination of peacekeeper, postal worker, doctor, and overall Wiseman – Inuit tended to admire them, and thus Nujaittuq also was often approached by people seeking advice. I think that, for this reason, Nujaittuq and my father shared some common footing.

As something loosely resembling community "leaders," an Inuk and Qallunaaq (white man) who each carried some stamp of authority, the two were virtually forced to work together. Each bore some unique way of viewing the people under their charge: one spiritual, the other administrative. But both views entailed the need for deep social awareness, and this is where the men’s duties overlapped.

It is to the credit of the early RCMP, and especially to the man himself, that Nujaittuq understood the need to combine his strength with that of my father, working toward the betterment of the community. They were uneasy times.

Back when communities were of a looser structure than they enjoy today, it was better to follow common sense for the survival of all, rather than the letter of the law. Despite the fact that game laws forbade the hunting of birds out of season – even when that was all there was to eat – people were hunting ptarmigan and collecting bird eggs. Nujaittuq could have insisted upon enforcing the law, could have charged folks for poaching whilst muttering, "...it’s just my job," but he knew the difference between theory and practice. The RCMP were at that time closer to their military (rather than policing) roots. And soldiers – while often maligned in our politically correct times – are known for getting things done with great pragmatism. Nujaittuq’s RCMP derived directly from those older Northwest Mounted Police, a handful of soldiers chosen for their coolness and adaptability, who won the respect of Canada’s Aboriginal Peoples by resolving aboriginal/colonial conflicts without the bloodshed that so haunts U.S. frontier history. The RCMP of today would do well to bear in mind, and emulate, their own heritage.

Before Nujaittuq and my father parted company, a few goodies were always traded. My father exchanged some extra seal meat for packaged dog food: It made decent emergency feed for the dogs when game was scarce. Nujaittuq taught my father how to mix it with hot water and Burns’ lard for the necessary fat content in winter conditions. He also taught him how to make depressions in the snow, to act as eating bowls and to cool off the dogs’ dinner. There was no end to the teasing he received from my father about being the "dogs’ cook."

In return, my father taught Nujaittuq how to cut the entire skin and fat off of the seal, which would remain less frozen than the meat, serving as a quick fix of protein and fat. He showed him how to cut it into thin strips, so that the dogs could save energy by quickly downing smaller pieces, instead of working away at a frozen chunk of meat.

By the way, the entire exchange was in Inuktitut. Neither my father, nor any of us at that time, spoke English at all. Nujaittuq was perfectly fluent in Inuktitut. He had simply found it necessary to master it as part of his job. Perhaps, in light of this, you might be able to understand why I roll my eyes at modern-day talk of "cultural immersion" through crumby little workshops offered by consultants. Is anyone today serious enough, when they speak of cultural immersion, to do it as Nujaittuq did?
When working with the RCMP once, I had the opportunity to speak in depth with my father concerning the changes to northern policing over the years. At some point, the subject of Nujaittuq and the old style of RCMP came up, whereupon my father said, "They don’t make them like that anymore."

I guess they don’t make Paulines biscuits anymore, either (?). I haven’t seen them around. Although, if you asked me to draw the picture on the box as I remembered it, I could probably do so with my eyes closed. The same way I can see Nujaittuq clear as day, when I close my eyes, and remember how the Arctic used to be.

Pijariiqpunga. 

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