176
and the history they are entrusted with,” Akkermans says
5
. When Akkermans dissects the Native American history of the Southern Miwoks who were directly caught
up in the massive onslaughts upon Yosemite Valley and her progeny, in the face of a
parallel narrative of art history, his thrust is inarguable. He declares, “violent conflicts” means extermination, “rapacious development” means extermination, and
“forced change” means, well, also extermination. The wall texts refer almost casually to the annihilation of Native Americans, unwilling to let this distract viewers
from the exhibit’s noble message: “Over the course of the later nineteenth century,
however, naturalist John Muir led a transformation of the nation’s perception of
Yosemite by drawing attention to its uniqueness”
6
.
Muir’s dilemma—aside from a biocultural and thus North American, historic,
ritual, and esthetic blindness—was not so different from those of us who travel, not
just by foot. There are ways, of course, to kayak or quietly sail to Greenland, though
with little predictability in terms of getting into a sufficiently ice-free Prince
Christian Sound. The weather variables escalate in a kayak, underscoring a seemingly basic ecological principle: People should not be here. Yes, history proves that
Vikings readily (not easily) sailed to Greenland, then trekked in. But whether a
1,000 years ago or today, that represents an invasion. Whereas a cruise ship to
Greenland typically is barred by ice from getting into most Sounds, and spends all
of 24 hours several miles from shore careening southward past Cape Farwell. Given
sufficient opportunity, most people today would be Vikings. Ecologically, nearly
everyone (Digambara excluded) behaves like the most arrogant of legendary
Vikings.
Comparisons come with curious data sets of baggage. But by comparison with
that 176-million-pound sea creature, the impact differences between a monster ship
and a few people by sailboat or kayak; even a boatload of Vikings require no special
skills to appreciate.
Nonetheless, there is a greater orbit of paradox seething around all sides of such
fertile grounds of debate. As ecologically vexing as it is, a ship carrying 2100 people
to a village of fewer than 150 souls, Aappilattoq, nestled in an unprecedented consortium of nature at her esthetic best, is a nearly perfect equation for chaos theory
and the unwanted. There, in the North Atlantic’s equivalent Concordia, a cul-de-sac
of towering granite walls of verglas at the rear of the sound. It forces upon the mindful a complicated psychological and emotional dilemma on all fronts: what are we
doing here? We should not have the luxury to allow for such dilemmas, but across
the planet our species engages in it with little dialogue and the promiscuous photoshopping of the advertising industries. Still, in the case of Greenland it is a troubling
topic for conversation because it involves, ultimately, ethical values lodged in
numerous false storylines of hunting cultures versus esthetic-and-pleasure grazing
cultures. Neither are entirely or honestly identifiable by their means of survival
(Fig. 19.1).
5 op. cit., January 2, 2017.
6 ibid, Akkermans.
19 A Village in Prince Christian Sound
and the history they are entrusted with,” Akkermans says
5
. When Akkermans dissects the Native American history of the Southern Miwoks who were directly caught
up in the massive onslaughts upon Yosemite Valley and her progeny, in the face of a
parallel narrative of art history, his thrust is inarguable. He declares, “violent conflicts” means extermination, “rapacious development” means extermination, and
“forced change” means, well, also extermination. The wall texts refer almost casually to the annihilation of Native Americans, unwilling to let this distract viewers
from the exhibit’s noble message: “Over the course of the later nineteenth century,
however, naturalist John Muir led a transformation of the nation’s perception of
Yosemite by drawing attention to its uniqueness”
6
.
Muir’s dilemma—aside from a biocultural and thus North American, historic,
ritual, and esthetic blindness—was not so different from those of us who travel, not
just by foot. There are ways, of course, to kayak or quietly sail to Greenland, though
with little predictability in terms of getting into a sufficiently ice-free Prince
Christian Sound. The weather variables escalate in a kayak, underscoring a seemingly basic ecological principle: People should not be here. Yes, history proves that
Vikings readily (not easily) sailed to Greenland, then trekked in. But whether a
1,000 years ago or today, that represents an invasion. Whereas a cruise ship to
Greenland typically is barred by ice from getting into most Sounds, and spends all
of 24 hours several miles from shore careening southward past Cape Farwell. Given
sufficient opportunity, most people today would be Vikings. Ecologically, nearly
everyone (Digambara excluded) behaves like the most arrogant of legendary
Vikings.
Comparisons come with curious data sets of baggage. But by comparison with
that 176-million-pound sea creature, the impact differences between a monster ship
and a few people by sailboat or kayak; even a boatload of Vikings require no special
skills to appreciate.
Nonetheless, there is a greater orbit of paradox seething around all sides of such
fertile grounds of debate. As ecologically vexing as it is, a ship carrying 2100 people
to a village of fewer than 150 souls, Aappilattoq, nestled in an unprecedented consortium of nature at her esthetic best, is a nearly perfect equation for chaos theory
and the unwanted. There, in the North Atlantic’s equivalent Concordia, a cul-de-sac
of towering granite walls of verglas at the rear of the sound. It forces upon the mindful a complicated psychological and emotional dilemma on all fronts: what are we
doing here? We should not have the luxury to allow for such dilemmas, but across
the planet our species engages in it with little dialogue and the promiscuous photoshopping of the advertising industries. Still, in the case of Greenland it is a troubling
topic for conversation because it involves, ultimately, ethical values lodged in
numerous false storylines of hunting cultures versus esthetic-and-pleasure grazing
cultures. Neither are entirely or honestly identifiable by their means of survival
(Fig. 19.1).
5 op. cit., January 2, 2017.
6 ibid, Akkermans.
19 A Village in Prince Christian Sound