A journey to Oqaatsut—the former Danish Rodebay—a small fishing settlement about fifteen kilometres north of Ilulissat as the crow flies. Fifty people and two hundred dogs live there together. We travelled between icebergs for the local speciality: seal soup followed by a respectable lump of seal.
On our penultimate day before sailing south to the capital, we decided to visit the former Danish whaling station and present-day fishing village of Oqaatsut. Roughly fifty residents live there, accompanied by reportedly as many as two hundred dogs. We met perhaps half the canine department.
Oqaatsut is the sort of settlement with no roads. Houses sit on the rock, reasonably close to one another, and in the middle—if a place this size can be said to possess a middle—stand the three essential institutions: harbour, church and restaurant. It is a small piece of the end of the world where a visitor wonders what everybody does when they are not fishing. If you need to ask your neighbour something ordinary, walking over is unnecessary; simply shout across the village. Telephones are mostly an affectation. In exchange, the place offers absolute peace and a view across a sea carrying an endless procession of icebergs.
Back in Ilulissat we had discussed the trip with Team Dobruška. Pavel found somebody by telephone who owned a boat and was willing to take us, but their plans eventually changed and my brother and I went alone. While we waited in the harbour, an American academic and his student-partner joined us. During the usual exchange of travel plans, and while we were still calling our destination by its Danish name, Rodebay, he delivered the memorable instruction: “Don’t say Rodebay. We don’t want to use the language of Danish oppressors here.” Oqaatsut it has been ever since.
Sailing through the kingdom of ice
The route from Ilulissat to Oqaatsut runs across the water between icebergs. Our local water-taxi driver had no time to waste time, so progress through the frozen obstacle course was brisk. Every so often the hull struck a smaller piece of ice with a loud bang and produced a matching rise in passenger uncertainty. This gradually subsided when we noticed that the captain steered like a gangster in a car, left hand resting at twelve o’clock on the wheel. A man that relaxed must surely know something.
After a good half-hour through the ice kingdom, we stepped onto the jetty in front of the restaurant. Walking had not appealed. A route apparently connects Oqaatsut with Ilulissat airport, but it takes about six hours each way and we did not have that kind of time. Daylight was not the problem; under the midnight sun even midnight is helpfully illuminated.
We spent roughly three hours in and around the village. We walked around everything walk-around-able, visited the church—which doubles as a community hall and social centre—and eventually arrived at Restaurant H8. At the time it was run by a Greenlandic-French couple. The latest information when the original story was written suggested that they had decided to leave Oqaatsut and that H8 had closed.
Nearby sits the geocache of the same name, H8, which we found after a short search. The restaurant combined Greenlandic and French cooking. Since French food can also be found much closer to home, our choice was obvious: the traditional Greenlandic dish puisi sausa, boiled seal meat served with a soup of rice, onion, potato and seal fat.
Any doubts about freshness were soon resolved. During the hour in which lunch was prepared, we could watch through the window as a local fisherman cut up a seal he had just caught on a nearby rock. Farm to table, except the farm was the sea and the table had a panoramic view.
While we were sitting in the restaurant, the door suddenly opened and a figure appeared. On his head something resembling a papakha; an Adidas jacket; sharply creased trousers; shoes distantly related to moccasin-shaped Crocs. At this far end of the world, into the restaurant strode an unmistakably monumental Russian.
His volume was considerable, and as my brother and I were the only guests, the entire conversation travelled clearly across the room: “Your husband promised me a place to sit and there is no place to sit. You know what, I’d like to sit and I can’t, there is no place to sit. I don’t like this kind of service without place to sit.” Lacking all context, we accepted the important fact that the poor Russian had nowhere to sit and ordered another beer.
The Russian may appear to be an unnecessary character introduced late in the chapter. This would be incorrect. He would accompany us through several more episodes.
After lunch came the return to civilisation. It was our final day before boarding the ferry for Nuuk. The following part covers that two-day voyage.