Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [108]
The mother turns and sniffs the air. Oh no!
“Get on your knees,” Bunna whispers in my ear.
A rush of adrenaline floods my system. I'm being maneuvered into the open, pushed to the front like bait, with the mother bear looking directly at me.
“Is this okay?” My voice has shot up an octave.
“Slowly, slowly, slowly.”
“But Bunna, I'm totally exposed.”
His rifle's raised just in case. “Slowly. Get down. Good.”
I'm now closer to wild animals than I've ever been before. Close enough for them, with their extra-sensitive ears, to hear me crap my pants. Frankly, this is one phobia I never really wanted to conquer. But because it's on television and people are judging me, I'm driven to brave it out.
And you know what? I'm really glad I do.
Crouching as low as I can go beside the van, I get my first uninterrupted look at the bears, three distant blobs of urine-yellow fur mooching around the Bone Pile, gnawing on the whale carcass. Now that Bunna has his gun out, their urge to attack us seems to have worn off and we're able to relax and appreciate this moment of privilege for what it is: one of mankind's rare opportunities to observe polar bears in their natural habitat before mankind destroys that natural habitat altogether and every living creature in it. From now 'til then, every day's a battle, a slow, silent slaughter. Either they'll kill us or we'll kill them. And I think I know which one it'll be.
In the meantime, something as simple as watching a bunch of predators gnawing at bones on a windswept icy plain suddenly becomes a spectacle to savor, making every scrap of hardship we've experienced on this trip so far seem most worthwhile.
“Isn't this great?”
“It's amazing.” Bunna sighs.
And I swear there are tears in his eyes.
Dinner is at the home of a guy called Massak, a cute, kindly munchkin of a man in a fur parka, who I think, if I were to probe a little deeper, I'd probably discover is Bunna's father and we're paying him.
The meal he serves up consists mostly of frozen whale meat. Eskimos are subsistence hunters, hunting, fishing, and trapping wildlife year-round. They're very much dependent on locally caught moose, caribou, duck, and seals to survive. But also bowhead whales.
“Why are you allowed to hunt whales? I thought there was a ban.”
“Without them we wouldn't have food,” Massak explains. “There's no work here in Barrow, so it's how we survive the winter. We can't go to the store and get what we want, because meat here is so expensive.”
They hunt for whales twice a year, in April (agaviksiuvik tatqiq, or Moon When We Begin Whaling) and October (nuliavik tatqiq, Moon When the Caribou Rut). It's a cooperative effort. The whole community joins in, after which everyone takes home their quota of the spoils to live on throughout the winter. Nobody goes without, nobody starves. Such a contrast to Los Angeles, where, generally speaking, the guy with the most money would swoop in, grab every scrap of whale going, lavishly feed his own family and friends with it, and, without a second thought or losing a wink of sleep, leave everyone else in town to die.
Massak has arranged the chunks of meat on a tray of cardboard torn from a box.
“I think I'll have that.” I select a small brown lump at random, thinking it might not look quite so unappetizing once it's been defrosted, then sautéed in a little lemon marinade with tarragon and some shallots, and maybe a splash or two of wine. If necessary, I can pitch in with the seasoning. “Yes, and perhaps a couple of those too.” Pointing at two more brown chunks.
Only to find that there's no cooking involved at all. The whale meat is simply handed over as is, straight from its cardboard tray for me to suck on frozen. I wouldn't even call it meat, really; it's more of a chewy, crystalline fatty substance—the Inupiat call it muktuk—hacked from just beneath the skin of the whale and either dipped in seal oil, for flavor, or pickled, which is probably the only time it stops tasting like very gritty tuna.
Seeing me struggle, his wife gives me directions.