My Subterranean Dwelling - Alaska

This was a mass email I put out on Thur, 13 March which has been edited a little.

Dear Friends,

Excuse the impersionaless of this letter but I did not want to write it several times.  I get questions every now and then about two things, one my so called subterranean dwelling and the other about Hooper Bay itself.  I have told some of you some things, some of you other things but none of you everything,  so....this will be the first part of what perhaps will be a two part letter, but who knows, I get very verbose now and then and it could be a three part letter rolled into one or I might not write another one at all.  Regardless if you get tired of reading this ditty just send it to cyber space but don't tell me.

We live in the basement of the school, but the school is build on a large mound (use to be a cemetery which could account for the strange noise we hear at night sometimes, but that is another story) so part of where we live does have an outside entrance.  The north side of our place looks out over one of the prettiest maintenance sheds one could ever hope to see.  I have often gazed at the the edifice and wished Shannon or Meghan could be here to paint a mural of a desert or tropical scene on the rustic plywood covering.  If you look to the right at eye level you See a just as pretty passage way to the trailer behind us and to the right.  Those who live in the trailer, George my teaching partner and his friend.  They really do have a good view once you look past the graveyard and junkyard, not to mention a bulk oil storage plant.  My magnificent maintenance shed saves me from such grandeur.

If you look over the passage way, which would be to the east, you can see the vast tundra and small mountains which are 40 miles away.  My adventures have not taken me there yet and I look at them with longing.  Between the maintenance shed and my backdoor is a small grass area I call the court yard.  You would not want to spend anytime there though but could sun bathe without being bothered if one had the mind to do so.

To leave or arrive by the above described door, at what I refer to fondly as my subterranean dwelling, you have to walk under two pipes, over one, turn right past the maintenance shed and then walk out onto the tundra, which of course you then immediately see the graveyard, junkyard etc.  Leaving by that rout is not altogether that difficult during the non snowing months, which means June to September, but during the winter months the snow piles up so much that you cannot get under the pipes unless you crawl because they are still to high to climb over, which at 55 I  am not really inclined to do anyway.

So that leaves the rear entrance.  When you leave by the rear entrance you go out through the room containing the washer, dryer and stand up freezer.  You go down a hallway that is twenty feet long, turn right to go down another plywood hallway a little longer and then turn left through a door into the boiler room.  There are pipes all along the path and because of cracks in the sides of the walls it is not unusual for snow to have drifted in.  It is like walking through a freezer.  The boiler room is an OK boiler room as far as boiler rooms go.  You have  your usual leaky pipes and strange noises, with strange looking tools about resting on the floor which you take care to step over, and different chemical products that must be dumped some where I guess.

You maneuver over some more pipes and odd looking wires, hoping they are not connected to the electrical system, through a door on the right and you feel relief at last.  You open the door and start up the flight of stairs.  Immediately before traipsing up the steps you look left and decide if you need any school supplies, note book, pencils because that is where the school supply room is kept.  You walk up 27 steps go out the door on the right and you are in the main school hallway.

The inside of our dwelling has been described in some stories I have written.  For those of you that have not gotten you copy yet let it suffice to say that we have 3 bedrooms, living room, kitchen, bathroom, informal dining room, utiltiy room and a mud room.  My moose head is hanging over the stone fireplace with a polar bear rug in front of the fire place just like the movies, which is just standard fair for this part of Alaska.

PS:  To my good friend Karen, please send this one back to me also.  Some of you remember Karen Shuttleworth.  She now lives in Tennessee.

The Interviewing of Mrs. Henrietta Naneng - Alaska

This interview was first published in Whispering Wind.  American Indian: Past and Present
Vol. 33  No. 6

Arctic Circle.  Native Life and Culture in Alaska

"The Interviewing of Mrs. Henrietta Naneng"

Two of my better students were given an assignment to interview a village elder.  The two girls were, Florence Naukusuk and May Lola Joe.  What follows is an edited version of the paper they submitted.

"A log time ago in the sprig time we use to put the fresh seal blubber in a can and boil it.  We would then put it in clean snow and and chew it like you do gum today.  It was much better for our teeth than the chewing gum you use today.

"We would play outside all day log.  We did not have insulated boots like you do but our mukluks were much warmer than yours I bet.

"When the men would catch a seal the wives would cut the seal up and yell 'UKUKIKIA'!

"Our mud houses were very warm and the windows were covered by intestines from the walrus and seal.

"In the summer we would camp near the ocean.  We dug for clams and watched for whales.  Some people would get a lot of clams because they were easy to find but not everyone got a whale.  It was a big celebration when we did and the whole village shared in the kill."

Mrs Naneng was married on August 2, 1953 to Mr. Walter Naneng.  She said he was a good hunter and that their house never went without food.  He was especially good at hunting and killing seal.  He was always able to catch a lot of black fish. 

She told us that the people were not mischief or mean, they were always friendly to one another. 

They did not use any primer stoves.  They would use seal oil laps but only at night time.  They did not have any toys.  They made Eskimo dolls to play with.  They made a family of dolls.  Some people use to tell stores by drawing in the mud with long knives.  They walked around the tundra for cranberries, black berries and salmon berries.

"Life was hard but good,"  Mrs. Naneng said.  "It still is."

Hooper Bay fire

A few years ago after I left Hooper Bay some children were playing with matches next to the old Hooper Bay School and living quarters for many of the teachers.  The grass caught fire and the wind took over.  The school and most of the teacher housing was destroyed.  It was a complete loss.  Fortunately no one was severely injured and school was not in session.

Old School and teacher housing

New School and teacher housing

Panama Pictures

Some pictures but not nearly all of Portebelo, Fort Sherman, Camp Thomas, Nombre de Dios

The Black Jesus in Portobelo

The Conga Queen

Church and Plaza in Nombre de Dios

Part of Camp Thomas

Nombre de Dios Lagoon

Beach at Nombre de Dios

Portobelo fort

Portobelo

Fort Sherman

I have found out that the Spanish use to ship gold and silver out of Nombre de Dios but it was ransacked and destroyed by pirates.  Portobelo was then used and to make sure that would never happen again the Spanish built a large fort.   Pirates such as Henry Morgan and Francis Drake were no stranger to the area.

Also a few years later I started  reading a book I picked up at a yard sale.  It was called "Gold."  I was about half way through the book when it mentioned Nombre de Dios and Portobelo.  I started paying closer attention.  It was written in the 1920s and by who I do not recall, but it was a prequel to Treasure Island.  I thought that very interesting.  I had always wondered how Long John Silver new there was buried treasure on that island.

Panama Pundits - 9, Last Diary Entry

Jan 20

Last night or rather yesterday morning we made our way back to Camp Rousseau.  Everything has gone as I suspected.  The lines, the waiting, the inspections.

If one has never gone through a military customs, one cannot appreciate what boredom and waiting in line is really like.

Last night they gave us a customs form to fill out.  On it we put down what we bought while in Panama.  The only thing I had to declare was a machete.  Later that night Jerry and a couple of others went to the local VFW down the road, drank, ate and watched the news.  We got plenty of each.

Before that however we were all herded into the "bubble."  The bubble is sort of like a Quonset hut but kept erect by blowing air inside it.  There we were instructed to dump our duffel bags on the floor and stand behind it.  Custom agents went through the baggage confiscating some objects or making sure other items were cleaned properly.  No amount of dirt or mud was allowed to be taken out of Panama.

At 9:30 we emptied our carry on bags on the cots we slept on and made to stand in line and they searched them and any carry on packages we might have had.  They then conducted a personal body search. 

We were taken to the plane, piled on and I went to sleep.  As I was drifting in and out of sleep I heard a bell go off.  I looked up and saw a sign that read, "fasten seat belt, Life vests under seat.  I thought we were going to crash because we started banking to the left at the same time.  I could not get the life vest free from under the seat and noticed that no one else seemed to be in a panic. I was puzzling what to do when the Captain of the plane came on and announced we were making or decent into Birmingham.  We landed with out trouble. 

Note: We flew from Birmingham to St. Louis, caught a truck and headed back to Independence.  The trip was over.   The adoption thing never happened.  I never got called up. 

Panama Pundits - 8, continued

......I felt it was time to go.  Our PNP escort accompanied us back to the Plaza.  The drummers were still there beating away.  The Queen was still there but another dancer had taken her place inside the circle.

I have found out you never go any where here with out stopping some where else.  As we watched the ritual one of the PNPs, the darkest one, jumped into the dance and he did well.  I've narrowed the dance down to this:  It is part of their African heritage and what they are doing has been done for years.  The dance is either a dance of the hunt or a mating dance or one depicting the normal hunt and court of women.  The woman acts oblivious to the man's aggression but when she is captured or allows herself to be swayed by the hunter or suitor she thrusts into the activity.  She sways her hips in his direction and then they dance closer and closer until the hips are joined and they are bumping and grinding.  At first this sound sort of hedonistic but before you pass judgement, how many bars have you gone to and watched or even participated in a similar ritual.  The men and women in the bar sit around and drink.  A man asks a lady to dance.  She refuses him but then finally the right guy comes along.  They have a regular dance, they go back to the table and drink some more (Conga dances all have a lot of alcohol also) and then a particular song come on and the mood is right and they go out and grind on the dance floor.  What sometimes follows is I am sure what follows in the Conga dance.  Places and times change but people are about the same all over.

We keep hearing rumors of activation.  I can't believe it, may be I wont allow myself to believe it.  If we do get activated I will go as a filler some where, but March seems to be the magic day.  If it goes on after that then perhaps, we shall see.

Panama Pundits - 8

Jan 19, 1991

Last night the PNP (note: that is Panamanian National Police) and I went to Numbre.  The vehicle they drive is no good.  It starts easy enough but it quits a will.  Being a Major with the MP's and accompanied by the PNP I figured I would have no trouble getting out of the camp gate.  I usually just wave as I go by the guard.  This time however the PNP car, truck really, died in front of the gate.  Capt Johnson said he had it all worked out if there was a problem getting out and sure enough the gate guards were Engineers not MPs.  The MPs were having a party their last night in the field.  I knew this of course but never thought the MPs would turn the gate guard business over to Engineers.  They began questioning me as to why I was leaving.  After a few minutes of trying to contact the Provost Marshall word came down to let us pass.

The truck finally started and off we went.  As we turned by the store the truck died again.  Anderson, the PNP, could not get it started.  We sat there.  PNP King got in, did something and off we rode through the center of Numbre.  The starter was grinding still, the truck was back firing and the dogs, chickens, and people were scattering out of the way.  We eventually made are way to the little spot by the lagoon where we had been the night before.

There we drank beer, ate shark, yuka and steak.

It was Conga or Congo night in Numbre. (note: a description of this event can also be read on my first blog in October of 2010, there are some difference in what I wrote then and what I wrote later.)  I never did understand if it was Conga or Congo.   Nor was I sure of why the celebration was even taking place.)  Word came from the Plaza area though that they did not want to start the celebration or sing and dance until we showed up.  By this time Johnson, Fluer, and Hosenstine had joined me.  Before this I was the only non Spanish speaking person at the party and only one or two others spoke any English at all.

We all ventured up towards the Plaza.  There sat 3 drummers like you see in old jungle moves.  They began to beat a rhythm.  The women of the village began to sing and then the Queen of the Conga(o) appeared with a tall crown of jeweled and spangled material.  She began to dance and swaying rhythmically that looked like it was some sort of traditional African dance.  While she was swaying a man jumped out of the audience and began dancing also. She ignored him and as he approached her she dodged his aggression while keeping here rhythm going.  I realized that this was part of the dance.  He would accept his rejection and slink out of the circle that had gathered around the Queen and another man would jump in.

The little group we had stood out of course and apparently we were some kind of guest of honor.  I was the highest ranking officer there and the only one in uniform.  The Queen grabbed my hand and pulled me to the center of the circle.  The crowd cheered but none more than my friends who saw great sport in me being embarrassed.  I was no match for the natives, but with the natural rhythm I have I did not completely humiliate myself.  Each one of the Americans were eventually drug out in turn trying to do their interpretation of the dance.

We then returned to the lagoon area.  We drank beer and just kicked back.  All the American left except Johnson and I.  We just listened to everyone else talk, not understanding a word they said.

It was a mellow evening and it was made even more so when 3 guitar's players showed up.  They played Spanish music and one of the ladies began to sing.  Then each woman there took her turn singing making a strange lyrical sound.  While leaning against a palm tree listening and watching there was a power failure.  The music continued and to get more light another log was put on the camp fire and for a moment you forgot the war, forgot the deplorable living conditions that surround you and you were just absorbed in the moment.

Now I might add that all these women were over weight and basically ugly.  I say this so in the later years no one will think that there was anything going on more than there was.  In fact contrary to popular belief sorted behavior among NGs has not occurred often down here.  They talk a lot but do little.

Continued...........