Cultural Greenland

May 16, 2006 (Press Release) -- Although modern life has well and truly caught up with the Inuit in the form of warm-climate foods, computers, luxury cars and outboard motors, as little as 40 years ago Greenlanders were still practicing a traditional way of life that revolved around the hunt. They believed that humans were shades - more of the dead than of the living - and it was only the techniques and rituals of the hunt that kept them within the realm of the human. Any error in judgement would mean falling back into the earlier animal world. Harmony with the land, respect for the dead and due homage to the animals that sacrificed themselves for the good of humanity, were the hallmarks of a good hunter and kept the world from falling off its axis. Inuit folklore also told of a time when men could speak to animals; the words were shamanistic in character and delivery and held a tengeq or intrinsic power. If the words were uttered heedlessly they immediately lost their power. This belief may account for the Inuit's almost legendary reluctance to indulge in idle chitchat. Their brevity makes most non-Inuits look bold and brash.

Tupilak, once carved out of bone, skin and chunks of peat, are small grotesque-looking figures that wouldn't look out of place in an Evil Dead film. They originally worked as catalysts for misfortune and death, although the carver had to be careful that the victim's juju was weaker than his own to avoid a fatal backlash. These days tupilak are sold as souvenirs and are carved from caribou antler, soapstone, driftwood, narwhal tusk, walrus ivory and bone, and the only thing they conjure up is the tourist dollar.

It has been said that Greenlandic language looks like the efforts of a two year old let loose on a typewriter; long strings of mega-syllabic words held together by repeating vowels and quite a few more 'q's than a westerner is used to. If it looks formidable to learn that's because it is. Conversational matters aren't helped by the Greenlandic habit of spontaneously abbreviating the monster words to a more respectable length, but in ways that are far too enigmatic for the average foreigner with a phrasebook.

Traditional Greenlandic food is of the bloody and freshly killed kind: walrus, seal and whale. The tastiest parts of the kill (the eyes, kidney and heart) were traditionally set aside for the head hunter and the other sections distributed according to a very strict hierarchy. Every part of the animal was used. One traditional delicacy described by Jean Malaurie in The Last Kings of Thule combined partridge droppings and seal fat; another consisted of narwhal fat and water, mixed with walrus brain and digested grass from the first stomach of a reindeer. Despite the culinary trend toward mix'n'match global cuisine, you'd have to think twice before trying to rehabilitate traditional Greenland fare. It's difficult to imagine either of these dishes, or any variation of them, ever appearing in Vogue Cuisine. These days supermarket aisles have largely taken over the hunt. Even tropical fruits are put on the shopping list, but prepackaged whale steaks and seal meat are still available in the frozen goods section.


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