A
Man Named Moe
By Gail Whiteside
 Moe is short
for Moses, but the Moe I know never goes by his proper biblical name.
I've never met anyone like him, and suspect I never will. Moe was one of
my co-workers at CBC in Iqaluit, and he is about as close to the
traditional view of an Eskimo as you can get.
Moe speaks little English, and never really cared
to learn it. His radio show is announced in his native Inuktitut, and
the experience of a lifetime is brought to the airwaves every time he
turns on the microphone to speak. Moe spends weeks at a time out on the
land, hunting caribou, seal and the odd beluga whale for his family. The
last time I saw Moe, just before I left the north, he had such a dark
tan on his face that at first I didn't recognize him. In April the
reflection of the strong sun on the snow gives hunters a tan that
sunseekers south of the Arctic circle would envy.
Anyway, getting back to Moe. The last show I did
in the north was a phone-in show. Inuit listen to the radio the way we
did back before the days of television. It's their passion. And since
CBC is the only radio station they can pick up, many are tuned into us
all day long. The topic for this phone in show was raven calls. Inuit
are very strong imitators of animals, and their raven calls are so close
to the real thing it's bordering on mystical. I wanted to start the show
with an example of an expert raven caller, so of course I went to the
best - enter Moe. He cleared his throat and proceeded to talk in
raven speak for about five minutes. I knew then that when I left the Arctic, echoes of Moe's ravens would be heard for some time.
Throughout my six years in the north, Moe's desk
was next to mine. I used to sit and
listen to his conversations with people outside of the north. Moe is a
big fan of mail order catalogues , and he places plenty of orders for
hunting gear, guns or clothes for his family. One day, Moe was put on
hold by an operator. He looked perplexed. He said to me, "Gao"
(that's how he pronounced Gail), "what happening? little tiny music
in my ears....so tiny....make me sleeping!". The recorded music
just wasn't cutting it with Moe.
There are frequent Friday potluck lunches at CBC.
Moe loves the potlucks. They are his chance to eat
"white man food". He forgoes the raw caribou, the arctic char,
and the whale blubber for something he doesn't eat much at home - things
like rice, salads, cookies, cakes...you know, white man food. I heard
Moe use the term "white man" quite alot. And it always amused
me. "White man, why not think like me?", he'd often throw out
to no one in particular. "Why white man always think think think,
talk talk talk. White man, maybe be like me, no thinking alot.
Better." And Moe had a point. Us "white man" journalists
seemed to be forever analyzing and agonizing over news stories.
Meanwhile, Moe would quietly go about his job, never analyzing, rarely
agonizing. And his radio show, although I could still barely understand
Inuktitut after six years in the North, always sounds so quietly
confident, so interesting.
It's been a year since I left the north. Last
week I packaged up some Easter chocolates for Moe and his family. It
cost more to mail them than the chocolates themselves. But I knew that
when Moe opened up the package, a big smile would light up his
face, because to Moe, there was nothing quite like eating white man
food.
©
Copyright 1999 Gail Whiteside.
Not to be reproduced without permission. |
