Juno who that is?

As I write I've just finished watching the Juno Awards - for those of you outside Canada, the Junos are the Canadian equivalent of the Grammies or the Brit Awards - and I've come to a conclusion. Either: a) I'm getting old, b) my finger is not on the pulse of Canadian music culture or c) Canadian music culture has no pulse. I say this because I've spent most of the last couple of hours repeating the same word: who?

In reality the situation is most probably a combination of (a) and (b), and this is most certainly the case if anyone from Immigration Canada is reading. I guess gradually losing touch with youth culture is all a natural part of the ageing process and is consequently nothing to really worry about, and to be honest I'm more than happy with my generational orientation in terms of music, given what I saw and heard on stage tonight.

I think that the process of being out of touch works in both directions though. Young whippersnapper Alexandre Bilodeau, who won Canada's first gold medal at the recent Winter Olympics, presented the final award of the evening, and whilst the eventual winner was not that old, the generation gap was evident when Bilodeau opened the envelope and proclaimed, "and the winner is...Michael Bubble."

To his credit, Michael Bublé graciously collected his award without so much as a flicker of indignation although maybe, given his role in the closing ceremony of Bilodeau's Olympics, that was only right and proper...

A clash of cultures?

Warning: this post may contain images that might cause distress amongst animal lovers and devotees of Fox's Glacier Mints

It is not without a sense of irony that as I write a post about the school's culture day, Jacob and I are currently watching 'Family Jewels with Gene Simmons' on TV, having earlier sat through 'Sober House with Dr Drew.' There's more culture on the mouldy piece of cheese in my fridge than in either of those programmes. They're not shows that either of us would normally watch, but neither of us could be bothered to reach for the remote so, consequently, we were sucked into the sad , lonely and sometimes grotesque lives of others for the best part of two hours. Come to think of it, that pretty much sums up your experience when reading this blog...

But I digest.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself, it was culture day at the school today, the one day in the year that's set aside to celebrate the traditional ways of life in a Northern town. I always enjoy days like this, but I'm not sure how I view the fact that just one day is devoted to celebrating and promoting a culture that is being swamped and overrun by southern mores...I'll leave you to decide your own opinion on that one. I think that's a debate for another time.

Culture day here was very different to the one I experienced in Inukjuak. Here, all the action took place outside, and after two or three hours of milling around everyone had gone their separate ways. In that time though we were able to examine an igloo that had been built by Mark Tertiluk, the centre director at the school, and a second igloo was constructed during the course of the morning. Many of the children - and some of the staff - went sliding, either on plastic sleds, their bottoms or even on sealskins (or any combination of the three), there was some impromptu throat singing and, of course, there was the requisite smörgåsbord of country food, Arctic Char and walrus on this occasion.

If indeed these are to be my final couple of weeks in the North then I guess this will be the last time I get to experience Inuit culture in such a way, and I feel privileged to have the chance to be involved in such an intimate way. I only hope that the incessant march of western 'culture', Gene Simmons, Dr Drew and all, doesn't mean that future generations, both Inuit and quallunaat alike, are denied that chance.

Olympic autopsy (part two)

It's customary at the end of an Olympic Games for the IOC President, in his closing speech, to proclaim the Games 'the best ever', much in the way that the judges on American Idol always gush that 'this season is the best season ever,' no matter what the contestants do. Current IOC president Jacques Rogge was damning with faint praise though, commending Vancouver's Games as being 'excellent' and 'friendly' but stopping short of labelling them as the best Games ever.

I too was somewhat underwhelmed after the first week of competition but I was won over during week two, when each day seemed to provide incident, intrigue and interest in seemingly exponential measure, culminating in that closing ceremony. A flood of Canadian gold probably helped too, and it was the Canadian public's reaction to that success that was, for me, the most interesting aspect of the Games.

An increasingly common theme in the media here was Canada's 'rebirth' as a nation that was finally unafraid to wear its patriotism on its sleeve, Olympic success paving the way for a new brand of confident, unashamed tub thumping, the type in which Canadians had always been reticent to indulge. Many of the retrospective montages so beloved by television companies during or after any major sporting event have focused as much on the spectators as they have on the athletes, and one that I saw on CTV this week proclaimed that the greatest legacy of the Games may be that the cultural and political divides that have historically existed between the provinces may now become a thing of the past.

Now, whilst I would agree that the nation did indeed seem to come together during the Olympic period, I think it will take more than fourteen gold medals to wipe out 150 years of provincial differences. Time will tell on this issue, but even having said this, I have always found Canadians to have a great sense of national pride, and I hope that the effect of the Olympics has not been to create a new brand of American-style, in your face breast beating patriotism.

That would be a very high price to pay for ownership of the podium.

I don't like Mondays

Not that anyone should ever simply wish their time away, but it's already Thursday tomorrow, which means that we're only a couple of days away from the weekend. I've felt very tired this week so I'm looking forward to Friday evening, and I'm grateful for the fact that the Thanksgiving holiday on Monday made this a shorter work week.

Many of the staff at school have commented on how having the Monday off is psychologically far better than having a Friday off instead - although it must be said that either is better than neither - and my response to such comments has normally involved quoting a line or two from I Don't Like Mondays, such as "yeah, I don't like Mondays; I just want to shoot the whole day down."

Now, maybe it's an age thing again, maybe it's cultural, or maybe it's both, but such asides have universally flown straight over everyone's heads, probably leaving the other person thinking how strange that English guy is. I suppose that song is 30 years old now though, which is scary in itself ,and even scarier is the fact that this makes it almost as old, if not older, than many of the staff with whom I teach. Add into the mix that it was recorded by an Irish band that probably had very little impact on this side of the Atlantic, then I guess I'm probably deluding myself in thinking that anyone here is going to get the reference. Never mind; it keeps me happy.

Oh, and speaking of music, my 'song lyrics as poetry' project has been continuing apace, with outings today for Peter Gabriel and the Dave Matthews Band. Gabriel's Here Comes The Flood, always one of my favourite recordings, went down pretty well - the students were interested in the lyrics but were not 100% sold on the music - whilst DMB received a round of applause for Funny The Way It Is, which seemed to strike a chord both lyrically and musically. However, after two relatively contemporary, conventional tracks, I feel the need for something a little more esoteric next lesson.

I don't think I have the courage to play Ernie, but how about some John Cage...?

Whale meat again

For centuries the Inuit hunted bowhead whales, but commercial whaling drove the species to the edge of extinction, causing a ban to be imposed on such hunting. However, a reassessment of the bowhead population confirmed that numbers were actually far higher than originally thought, and in 2008 a party of hunters from all around Nunavik were allowed to go on the first bowhead hunt for over a century. The hunt set sail from Kangiqsujuaq, and so it was again this year. A team of 20 set off on August 19th in search of their bowhead, and earlier this week they returned triumphantly with their catch, a 56 foot beast that would probably have weighed in at something approaching 120 tonnes.

The success of such a hunt is an emotional time for the Inuit here, for as well as marking the safe return of the hunters themselves, it also marks a return of a great tradition, one that reminds both young and old of who they are and where they come from. If the Inuit are to hold on to their culture then events such as these are of the utmost importance, and whereas a few years ago I might have viewed such a spectacle as being both unnecessary and cruel, my experiences in the North have totally changed my opinions on such matters.

The meat from the whale will be shared around all the fourteen communities in Nunavik, and last night saw our community feast at the recreation centre here. It was a joyous occasion with singing, dancing, accordion playing and even a bit of heavy metal courtesy of Quppia (one of my students) and Adamie, and of course there was lots of food. I can now add whale to the list of country food that I've sampled, and whilst I wouldn't rank it at the very top, it certainly provided a great deal of chewing value! One novelty last night was that all the food was cooked rather than raw, and it really was a fine feast, one that all the community enjoyed. It was both a pleasure and a privilege to be involved, and my bowl of ramen noodles this lunchtime seemed all the more bland in comparison!

Have a heart!

I read today that Michaelle Jean, Canada's Governor General, ate a raw seal heart when she visited a festival in Rankin Inlet, an Inuit community in Nunavut. Apparently, the EU voted to ban Canadian seal products recently, and an EU spokesman described the Governor General's actions as "too bizarre to acknowledge."

What a completely ignorant statement to make.

Mention seal hunting to most Europeans, and they will picture fluffy baby seals being clubbed over the head by unfeeling, profit seeking fishermen. Ask them what they think, and most will comment that such practices are inhumane and should be banned. Now, I must say that a few years ago I too would have been one of those Europeans, but living and working with the Inuit has changed my view on this issue.

The ability to hunt seal and other animals is what sustained the Inuit as a race for century upon century. Their meat and skins were absolutely vital for survival, and although all the trappings of the south are now readily available, the ability to hunt is still prized and cultivated amongst the people of the North. The notion of hunting is in the genes, and to use words such as 'bizarre' when talking about this subject is not just ignorant; it is insulting.

Whilst the encroachment of southern ways has brought many advantages to the North, the Inuit people have also been dealt many abuses, both psychologically and socially, as a result. Changes that took centuries to take hold in the south have been made in just a couple of generations in the North, so the maintenance of what is a strong cultural heritage should be encouraged. The eating of 'country food', as the Inuit refer to it, forms part of that heritage, and I count myself as fortunate to have first-hand experience, just as Michaelle Jean now has.

The motivation and methods of those that hunt seal for profit could, and perhaps should, be questioned. However, the hunting of seal in communities such as Rankin Inlet is of a completely different nature, and I would like to see that EU spokesman make a visit to the North so that in future his comments could be more informed. I doubt that will happen though; pigs will fly sooner.

Oh, but wait a minute - haven't we already had swine flu?

Did you see what I did there? 'Flu' sounds just like 'flew', and I was talking about pigs flying.....

Never mind.

Hockey heretic

I have no respect for hockey.

There, I've come out and said it. I know that such a statement is likely to be seen as heresy in Canada, and akin to me writing about democracy in China, but I can contain myself no longer.

Now, I realise that when you choose to live in another country you should make every effort to integrate with the culture and live by the norms and values that exist there. I think I've managed to do this by and large: I eat poutine, I have more Canadian Tire money than real money, Tim Horton's is my second home (at least when I'm in the South) and I've even been known to say the odd 'eh.' However, when it comes to hockey, I simply can't do it. I can admire the skill on the ice, I can identify with the passion shown by the fans off the ice, but there is one thing I can't get my head round.

The fighting.

I simply cannot respect a sport that condones fighting to the extent that hockey does. In a game in the AHL today (for the uninitiated, that's the American Hockey League, the primary 'feeder' league for the NHL), a fight broke out seconds after the start of the game, the result of which left Garrett Klotz, a player for the Philadelphia Phantoms, writhing and convulsing violently on the ice, courtesy of the Manchester Monarchs' Kevin Westgarth. He was rushed to hospital from where, thankfully, the early reports on his health seem to be positive.

For those of you unfamiliar with the game, when a fight breaks out the referees allow it to continue and only step in when one or both players finally hit the ice. The arguments given in defence of fighting include lines like "it's a physical sport," "it's a man's game," "it's part of the action," or "the players have to let off steam." I've even heard the comment "it wouldn't be the same game without the fighting."

Pathetic.

Look at rugby. There are few more physical sports on this planet, but fighting is not considered 'part of the game.' Indeed, if any combatants do emerge, intervention is immediate and bans are swift and suitably lengthy. The attraction of the game is not diluted as a result. Other than a few minutes in the penalty box, I am not sure what the repercussions (if any) are for fighting in hockey - I'm sure someone reading this will let me know - and you even get idiots like Don Cherry extolling the fighting skills of various players in his match summaries on TV.

To be fair, there are many Canadians who share my view on this subject, but there are just as many, if not more, who will disagree; just look at the comments registered on the TSN website regarding the Garrett v Westgarth fight. So, what will it take for sense to prevail? I fear that someone is going to have to be killed for action to be taken, and even then I am not so sure. I sincerely hope that this will not be the case, but until action is taken, I cannot embrace hockey.

I am now ready for deportation.

Culture Club

WARNING
This is one of those posts that contains images of a highly graphic, animal-entrails-all-over-the-floor nature, so the squeamish amongst you might not want to read on!

It's been culture week at Innalik (the High School here) this week, and yesterday afternoon was 'show and tell' as Caroline, the centre director at my school, put it. Now, I've participated in a few 'show and tell' lessons in my time, both as student and teacher, and most of them ended up becoming a narrated display of the latest toys, with possibly the odd family pet or grandfather's old telescope thrown in for good measure. At Innalik, there were no toys or telescopes to be seen, and I hope to high Heaven that the animals on show were not family pets.

Innalik's show and tell afternoon provides an opportunity for village elders to teach the students the type of traditional skills, techniques and games that are sadly being eroded from memory as Southern culture becomes more and more influential; for a qallunaat like myself (qallunaat being the Inuit term for a white person), it is like being a part of the CSI team's annual outing to the abattoir.

My journey around the hall began innocently enough. I was able to observe a local craftsman demonstrate his carving technique, watch an elder teach the youngsters a traditional game and see a fine example of an oil-burning lamp, or qulliq:

However, most interest centred on the more, shall I say, 'graphic' demonstrations:

Caribou were gutted...

...foxes were skinned...

...and seals were...well, let's just say that this used to be a seal

All in all it was a fascinating afternoon; it was certainly not what I'm used to, but it hammered home the fact that what each culture perceives to be 'correct' or 'normal' is just that - a perception. The use of the land's resources is a way of life here, and the passing down of the skills on display in Innalik's hall forms a vital part of the continuation of a rich and proud heritage.

And it also makes for a unique show and tell.

Gone to the dogs

As I am sure you are aware, husky dogs have traditionally played a central role in Inuit life, and whilst the Honda and Ski-Doo have long since replaced the dog team as the preferred form of transport in these parts, many huskies continue to be kept as pets. Some huskies are still bred to race though, and events such as the Ivakkak cross-Nunavik race (similar to the Iditarod in Alaska) are highlights of the cultural and social calendar.

Basically what I'm trying to say is that there are an awful lot of dogs in town, and with such numbers come the inevitable strays. Many are friendly, and will tag along with you as you walk, but every now and again you will come across the odd renegade stray, and life then becomes just that little bit more interesting.

One of my work colleagues was confronted by such a stray recently, and for a few minutes she was forced to do her best impression of one of those police dog handlers that you sometimes see at displays; you know, when they wear huge 'Michelin man' padding on their arms then get their expertly trained dog to attack them. Trouble was, she had no assistance from the Michelin man! Luckily, the man who drives the sewerage truck was on hand to help beat her canine assailant into retreat before any real damage was done - not quite the Milk Tray Man I know: that's how things are done up here - but Cujo is still on the loose, somewhere.

Twice this week I've been followed by a rather imposing looking stray husky on my way to work, and whilst my perambulations about town have so far been uneventful, I get the worrying feeling that it's only a matter of time. Dominick tells me that you should look at a dog's tail to work out what mood they're in, but it's the other end that I'm worried about. Oh well, best summon some of that British stiff upper lip, I guess. Now, what would Barbara Woodhouse do...?

I Am The Walrus

WARNING - This post contains pictures that those of you with sensitive stomachs may find distressing, and I don't just mean the photos of yours truly.

The return of a successful hunter has always been a time for celebration in the Inuit culture, and in modern times this is still the case, as illustrated by the return of the good ship Kakivak today with its haul of walrus for the community. Seal is the staple marine based catch of substance in the North but walrus, although not the meat of choice for many, makes for a nice change, according to one of my Inuit friends.

The harbour was already busy when we arrived, and the walrus meat was flying off the metaphorical shelves just as fast as the carcasses could be unloaded from the boat. Despite the flurry of activity, there is a distinct sense of order about these occasions, which is just as well considering the proliferation of knives, ulus and cleavers on display. The meat is shared, everyone takes what they need, and the atmosphere is one of controlled excitement.

Many of the locals can't wait until they get home to eat their bounty - like when you'd been allowed to buy a new toy and you just had to play with it in the car on the way home, even though you'd been told not to because if you opened the box when the car went over a bump in the road you'd lose bits down behind the seats and get all upset - so much of the meat is consumed, raw, on site. Inuit sushi, if you will.

Gordon Ramsay, eat your heart out! (especially since someone's probably already eaten the heart out of the walrus). In all truth though, nothing is wasted, and maybe before the school term ends in May I might be able to sample the delicacy that is igunaq - fermented rotten frozen walrus. They bury these huge steaks in summer, when they start to rot, and they freeze in winter. You eat them a year later. Hmmmmm...fermented walrus.

So, a very interesting day all told. It's not often you get to eat out up here, and whilst the menu was somewhat limited, at least the ingredients were fresh. And you certainly didn't want to get on the wrong side of the chef:

He is the eggman. Goo goo g'joob.

Hitting The Wrong Note?

Unlikely as it sounds, the OSM (The Montreal Symphony Orchestra, or at least a seven piece expeditionary force) is touring Nunavik, and last night we were fortunate enough to be treated to a concert here in Inukjuak (one of just three performances on the tour).

I have to say it was one of the most surreal evenings of my life.

It was bizarre enough to see Kent Nagano and his musicians, resplendent in tails and tuxedos, playing in these surroundings, but the programme of music was stranger still. The entire population of the village seemed to be present as the evening began with the familiar strains of 'Eine kleine Nachtmusik', and then a new piece was performed, which combined the orchestration of the OSM with traditional Inuit throat singing.

However the next, and as it turned out, final piece was a long, rambling work by Stravinsky entitled Soldier's Tale, with the original French narration that accompanies the work interestingly translated and recited in Inuktitut. And in true Ariston fashion, it went on...and on...and on...and on.

For some fifty minutes.

And as the music went on, the audience left...and left...and left.

When the piece finally finished, I think most of us that remained at least felt a sense of achievement, sharing in the the fact that we had pulled through as a group and emerged into the light at the other side. Like when you used to have to eat your greens to please your mum. You knew it was probably doing you good, but it was a process to be endured.

Now, don't get me wrong; I think that the OSM's visit was a rare treat, and the idea of bringing classical music to the far reaches of the world is highly commendable. However, their choice of music puzzled me. A selection of shorter, more familiar pieces would have gone down better I think, rather than the largely discordant, inaccessible work by Stravinsky, which wasn't a piece that you could go away humming. I know this isn't the standard way of evaluating a piece of classical music but hey, perhaps I'm just not that cultured. I am someone who willingly watches American Idol, after all.

Still, it was what it was, and I commend Mr Nagano and his colleagues for their endeavour. I just can't help thinking that a more appropriate programme of music could have been chosen. Maybe next time...