An infrequent part of my job is testifying as a witness on behalf of the State. If John Doe is charged by a district attorney for failing to register as a sex offender, I may get subpeonaed to testify against the defendant. I've done it only once before, by telephone. Not so this time.
On Monday morning I drove out to the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport. I pulled up to the offices and hangar for Grant Aviation, as instructed by the DA's office in Bethel, who was conducting the trial. It was dark, about 8am. The doors were locked. I saw a bored guy sitting at his desk and roused him at his window. He stuck his head out a door and directed me up a flight of frozen exterior stairs. I walked through a nondescript door, along a darkened quiet hall past empty offices. A light in a connecting office and the rustle of paperwork told me there was indeed someone here. There were also two large dogs who didn't hear me come in. They were less than pleased. The friendly lady told me I needed to head back to the airport proper and check in at the front desk for the air carrier. The dogs made sure I left. Thus began my trip to Emmonak.
Emmonak is a Yup'ik Eskimo village of 700-900 people, depending on fishing season. It lies halfway between Bethel and Nome, along the Lower Yukon delta, where the Yukon converges with the Bering Sea. Believe me when I say "Emo", as it is called, is about as far away as possible while still being in the United States, exactly in the middle of nowhere. In other words, I couldn't be more excited to go.
I enjoy flying in small aircraft, which is good, considering you don't have a choice when traveling to rural Alaska. The twin-propeller plane we took doubles as a mail carrier. Dozens of packages, boxes and crates of mail sat next to me, awaiting delivery to the far side of the tundra. I shared the cabin with four other passengers, all Native.
Arriving at the airfield (airport would not really apply) I was immediately thrust into a third world country, complete with spoken Yup'ik. It sounds somewhat like Hebrew, only spoken more slowly, and with more hard "K"s. Kuskokwim. Koyukuk. Alakunuk. Kotlik. I milled about the office of the air service for a bit, being, along with the pilot, the only White person in the building, before gathering up the courage to do what I was told I would have to - ask for a ride into town. Immediately those running the show helped me like a visiting dignitary. I was chauffered by David, in a Grant Aviation Ford pickup that had permanently lost its tailgate, its bed filled with snow and ice until late spring. David gave me the grand tour as we drove down the one road, pointing out the river and how it coursed on to the Bering Sea. Of course, in winter the rivers freeze, becoming highways. Later, the State Trooper in Emo would tell me he drives his Expedition to neighboring villages, sometimes 50 miles away, all on the frozen Yukon.
The next three days were terrific. True, the shared shower in the "city hotel", the rooms the city lets out above its own meager offices, put out less water than the sink. And it pushed below -30 during the day, which made going outside an adventure. And the only means of feeding myself was buying microwavable meals from the freezer of one of the two stores, there being no actual restaurant. I was amazed to see avocados for sale, though their freshness was in question. And the TV only broadcast PBS, and then only on the first night. After that it was snow, like outside.
But it was wonderful all the same, thanks to the people. I didn't mind washing my hair in the sink, or bundling up more before heading out into the tundra winter, or sustaining myself on frozen pizzas. Most locals, many of whom speak only the barest English, still had a smile or a wave for me. I was even allowed to sit in on dance practice for the big potlatch Emo was preparing to host. The community hall was packed with 200 residents, from infants to elders, most of whom joined in singing, drumming and dancing. I was invited to join, but was too terrified. I sat, feeling welcome, the lone Caucasian in a room of Eskimos.
In the end, I didn't do anything remarkable other than venture to a tiny outpost on the edge of the continent, the people unknown to most Americans. The area is simply a vast swamp, a delta the size of southern California. Few mountains or hills, and fewer trees. A couple facts, though: the King Salmon run up the Lower Yukon is thought to be the biggest in the world. The Yup'ik still hunt seal every summer. Igloos are from Canada, not Alaska, and those living in the Delta area build their homes on stilts to avoid being flooded every year. Even the trooper post, city offices and courthouse were propped up on massive struts. Finally, everyone, with few exceptions, drives four-wheelers and snow machines ("snow mobiles" in the Lower 48 - don't ask me why). Bingo or dance practice results in snow machine rush hour every night at 6:30.
They were incredible hosts. The only regret I have is I was too nervous to take any pictures of the people. They dress like anyone else in twenty-below weather, only many of the women and girls wear kuspuks under their coats and parkas. So I apologize there are no good photos of the locals. But you get the idea.
-Brandon
No comments:
Post a Comment