Nesting on the Nushagak

Chapter 1

A New Village

The single engine Cessna banked suddenly and dropped. We’d been tracking the line of dark-green pines that hugged the upper Nushagak River for some time. The serpentine blue-green vein of water wound its way into Bristol Bay. Close to the bay, scatterings of black fishing huts occasionally peppered tight river loops. The further from civilisation we flew the more the river seemed to uncoil and relax. The warmth of the early summer sun now exposed flattened brown tundra and began to colour large expanses of the land a soft green.

The plane reached for the landing strip and the tyres made sudden contact with stones. Pulling hard back on the joystick, the pilot gave the tailwheel maximum traction as the tail planted down. The plane slewed along the short runway, the sudden braking shaking the boxes stacked high under the cargo net behind me. My teeth chattered with the impact. I leaned forward and peered out of the grimy window.

‘Here we are, honey.’ Gary squeezed my hand. ‘New Stuyahok!’

A small group was gathered on four-wheeler quad bikes alongside the landing strip. Their brightly coloured clothing flapped in the updraft like Tibetan prayer flags, carrying benevolent vibrations into the summer wind. I knew our groundsman would be there among them, waiting to collect us as promised. I couldn’t see anything but four-wheeler quad bikes; there was no truck to carry the new principal and his first grade teacher wife down to the village in style.

Our Mulchatna pilot, who had relatives living in New Stuyahok, swung the plane in a final flamboyant skid. As he shut the engine down, the scream of the single propeller gradually softened to a throaty buzz. The cloud of fine dust thrown up by our landing began to settle, and I could see one lone man. That must be Nick, the general maintenance man and official greeter, I thought.

‘That must be Nick,’ said Gary, echoing my thoughts.

We clambered down the small steps swung out for us by the pilot. The smell of powdered dust still hung in the air. The short stocky native man who buzzed his bike over to us looked to be about 60 years old.

‘Doc?’ he smiled.

‘Yup,’ Gary nodded. He turned and gestured to me. ‘This is my wife, Emma.’ He loved to use that word, savouring the sound each time he said it. Sometimes he still introduced me as his ‘bride’. Although I tried to look unaffected, I always went crimson.

‘Waqaa,’ I greeted him, blushing. Nick nodded at me, eyes lowered, smiling.

Our interview for this village was by teleconference. In late March we had sat in front of the phone in Gary’s office at Pilot Station. The Southwest School District had heard about us from Jim Cresswell, a friend at Mountain Village who had New Zealand connections, recognised my Kiwi accent and also knew the superintendent. He called the superintendent and told him we were looking for a job as a teaching couple. The interview by the Southwest administration team had ended in warm tones.

‘We’ll meet with you both at the Captain Cook Hotel in Anchorage on Saturday night,’ said the woman who introduced herself as Kareena. Our meeting was scheduled for the eve of the Alaskan Teachers’ Job Fair.

A very large painting of a Māori chief took up most of the foyer wall of the modern Anchorage hotel. That was a good omen, I thought. ‘Wairua,’ my friend Paratai, a Māori kuia or elder, whom I had met years before in Sydney, would have said. ‘It’s wairua, spirit, darling.’

I was raised around Māori people in my hometown of Whanganui, in the North Island of New Zealand. I had spent a great deal of time teaching and associating with Māori throughout my life. Māori spirituality formed a central part of my existence.

Our interview was at 6 pm, and it seemed the team had already voted in our favour. They had also decided on the village where we would take up our teaching posts.

‘We’ve decided to put you in New Stuyahok,’ Kareena enthused. ‘It’s a great fishing village. The locals call it New Stu.’

New Stuyahok was a small Yup’ik Eskimo village that lay on the fringe of the upper reaches of the Nushagak River. The river ran out to Bristol Bay where the hub city of Dillingham was situated.

‘Our district office, two general stores, a couple of cafés and a native hospital are all located in Dillingham,’ Kareena announced proudly.

The meeting turned out to be more of a friendly chat about fishing. Kareena, who was in charge of primary education for the district, had offered to teach me how to fly-fish. Apparently the fishing was considered to be big time on the Nushagak River.

‘There are five different species of salmon,’ she bragged. ‘One species runs after another. Plenty for all.’ We all laughed at what seemed to be an in-joke.

The district’s superintendent, a Yu’pik/Aleut/Japanese man, spoke next. ‘I’ve heard some great things about this dynamic duo.’ He grinned at us. ‘I have a contract here, ready for you to sign.’ He’d already signed his section.

Gary took the contract, and we thanked him.

My husband had prepared me beforehand. ‘Just wait, honey,’ he’d said. ‘We have twenty-four hours to sign. Let’s just see what else is out there.’

The fair itself was amazing. There were around fifty booths set up around the periphery of a very large ballroom. More booths crisscrossed the floor, each vying for the most eye-catching detail. Large, bright yellow signs advertised the location of each school district. Maps, photos and resplendent tourism-style posters hung from the walls. Display boards out the front seemed designed to draw in potential customers – teachers prepared to live in remote areas, or ‘go bush’. District personnel wearing big friendly grins fronted tables littered with brochures. The underlying message seemed to be ‘We offer the best. Trust us. Come, look here.’

There were probably about 500 hopefuls there. A large rolling screen continually advertised positions. After perusing the room, we were feeling pretty happy with our own offer.

‘They lure, snare and drag in the best catch, honey,’ Gary warned me. ‘Then they promptly rearrange people staying in their districts to suit.’ Since our meeting with the Southwest School District, fishing metaphors seemed to be uppermost in Gary’s mind.

‘The whole idea of selling education or buying teachers seems very unprofessional to me,’ I whispered to Gary. ‘Just gimmicky.’

‘Mmm,’ he responded distractedly. I knew he was familiar with this whole arrangement. He had been here before.

Gary seemed to know many people at the fair. I guess living in Alaska for over a decade helped. It was a large state, but with the same few people who kept being washed back up there on the tides of teaching. Gary introduced me to everyone, including his librarian from Kotzebue.

‘Hi, Emma,’ Jeanne greeted me. ‘I recognised you from the photos I developed.’ Her conspiratorial grin made my face hot with embarrassment. All those photos Gary had taken of the ‘flowers’ in the Botanical Gardens at Christchurch. It seemed most had heard the story about how we met.

‘The Southwest is a great district, and New Stu the best village!’ was the reassuring opinion of all.

We delivered the signed contracts to the Southwest Regional School District at 4 pm.

‘No worries,’ our new superintendent declared after hearing I had heard nothing yet from immigration. ‘These are unusual times.’

I submitted my documentation to the U.S. Department of Immigration, now renamed Homeland Security, six months after 9/11. I needed a social security number in order to work.

I had been living in Alaska for three months. I had just passed the Praxis exams – mandatory for all teachers under the brand new ‘No Child Left Behind’ Act, a law implemented by George W. Bush in the January of my arrival. This qualification, together with my New Zealand teacher’s certificate and my very recently conferred Master’s degree in Education, meant that I was now considered to be ‘highly qualified’.

I knew that I would still need to sit a number of papers mandatory for all Alaskan teachers, in order to be accredited with my Alaskan Teaching Certificate. The good news was these could be completed while teaching. All of these documents seemed to be interlinked, each leaning on the back of its predecessor. Official document ‘dominoes’ filled my late nights with worry.

The Southwest School District had booked a small conference room where people could meet with their delegates. About 30 people were in the room by late afternoon. I stood and introduced myself in te reo Māori (the Maori Language), as I had been urged to do by Paratai.

‘Let them know who you are from the start, darling. You know how to do it.’ She was always much more confident of my abilities than I was. I thought of her as I spoke and I finished by singing a waiata to celebrate our signing with the district. I then translated the meaning of the song. The room was still and silent.

‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ the superintendent said softly. He shook our hands enthusiastically and smiled proudly around the room.

Gary and I went shopping the next day. I found a great second-hand store, a Salvation Army shop stacked with bargains. I bought some cloth table napkins in green tartan that reminded me of our wedding. That evening we dined at a small Italian restaurant to celebrate.

I was thrilled with our new jobs, but I hadn’t really enjoyed the pressure of being back in civilisation as much as I had expected. Anchorage was all hustle and bustle, like cities everywhere. I missed the peace and quiet of the village life at Pilot Station and I couldn’t wait to get back to the bush.

Now it was May and we were finally in New Stuyahok where we were soon to take up our positions at our new school. Gary and I sat backto-back on the rear seat of Nick’s four-wheeler. I clung to my bag on the carrier and squinted at this village that was to become our new home. As we rode along the track that wound down through houses to the river, I could see the school sprawled along the water’s edge.

New Stuyahok, with its 500 residents and its K-12 school of 170 students, also featured one large Russian Orthodox Church. In this setting the white building seemed incongruous, its green onion-dome blending with the pines further along the riverbank. The more southern and sheltered aspect of the village meant richer hunting and fishing grounds, as well as much more picturesque surroundings than Pilot Station. Maybe as a consequence, the people seemed more cheerful too.

As we passed, the residents looked up and smiled. Some gave a small wave. I waved back. It made me wonder about the gussaqs (whites) who had lived and worked here before us, who might have prompted such warmth in this welcome.

Chapter 2

Settling In

Boxes started arriving from Pilot Station by the dozens. As soon as we unpacked one set of boxes, another would arrive. We spent most of the long summer days unpacking and cleaning.

Our apartment, a duplex similar to the one we’d had in Pilot Station, was situated with all other faculty housing inside the school grounds. There was no need to walk long distances in the snow here; everything was connected by wooden boardwalks. My first impression was that the apartment was in fact a wing of the classrooms. The same pale-blue paint adorned all the buildings. In places it was hanging off in strips and flapped like sheets in the brisk wind.

‘There’s talk of a new school sometime in the future,’ Gary said, looking a bit worried. ‘That’s why the maintenance is not so good.’

‘Well, the best part of the apartment is the view,’ I reassured him. The kitchen and guest bedrooms faced the sun and the river. Our position in relationship to the river was reminiscent of our South Otago holiday home in New Zealand. Kotahitanga, our special retreat, was where Gary had courted me. ‘Just look at that! Reminds me of Kotahitanga. Bathed in sunlight. Same green lushness, same river tones and sky reflections.’ I sighed, pleased with this unexpected familiarity.

‘And the same bitingly cold wind,’ Gary quipped.

‘Not the same wildlife here though.’ I smiled at him, remembering his worry about wild animals in South Otago.

‘Nick says there are bears around here. Lots of moose and caribou too. This is more like it.’ Gary was pleased. New Stu would suit him just fine.

‘Look at that!’ I stood at the back door, looking towards the river and our elementary school’s playground. Among all this emerald green there was a sprinkling of white and some long-stemmed flowers of the most deep purple colour I had ever seen. ‘Those flowers even match the children’s playground slide,’ I said, gazing in wonder.

‘That’s fireweed. Pretty, huh? Put bug spray on if you are going out there, babe.’

The main entrance to the duplex was through the boiler room that housed the laundry and more freezers. The entrance was connected to the administration block by a boardwalk. The master bedroom, large lounge and office were on the same side of the apartment and, like the main entrance, faced back towards other faculty housing and up to the landing strip, where pine trees ran along the ridge of the hill. Small planes preparing to land and those taking off were easily seen from these windows.

Small planes bringing us more boxes, no doubt, I thought ruefully.

This three-bedroomed apartment was old and not as posh as Pilot Station’s brand new principal’s housing. At our request, the school district gave us paint, and we promised to do the painting. The walls in the lounge were in particular need of a much brighter coat of cream paint. Above the open vents of the oil-fired heaters that lined the skirting boards, grey drifts of soot smudged the walls.

We were so busy painting, unpacking, sorting, and planning rooms and spaces there wasn’t time to go sightseeing. Nick called in each day to see how we were faring. He was quite amazed at our industrious work schedule.

‘Holy cow! You guys been busy!’ ‘Holy cow’ were usually Nick’s first words. This very popular expletive seemed to be used by many villagers and was always spoken with extended vowel sounds – ‘hoooly cooow’.

Most days Nick brought us fresh salmon for tea. The steaks were thick and juicy. I hovered over Gary while he filleted. ‘Don’t waste any!’ I warned.

‘Nick told us there’s plenty,’ Gary muttered as he cut. ‘Plenty for all.’

Nick was not only impressed with our efforts in painting and decorating, but also with the morning coffee Gary made in the plunger brought from New Zealand. That, accompanied by tales describing how we met, particularly amused him. After an hour he would roar off on his four-wheeler, his mind full of strange images and highly amusing tales to tell about the new gussaqs.

Although Nick laughed loudly at my stories, I was never sure he understood my Kiwi accent. I think the sound of the words amused him as much as any meaning they may have had.

One day we were talking about the local delicacy ‘stink fish’, which we discovered was left to rot in the weeds further north up-river. Elders were banned from bringing stink fish into the village.

‘Eat away from everyone,’ Nick gestured up-river with his head. ‘Bad smell.’ Apparently the putrid rotting odour was part of the delight of this much favoured fish delicacy. ‘Oooh,’ Nick rubbed his belly and rolled his eyes. ‘Elders love it.’

‘That sounds a lot like kānga pirau,’ I told Nick. ‘Corn left in the rivers to rot. Māori elders love eating rotten corn. Leaving it in the river was a form of preservation in the old days.’

‘Ii-i, I get tapeworm after eating stink fish one day,’ Nick admitted, enjoying the topic.

‘Really! Did you hear the story about the man who had a tapeworm?’ I asked.

‘No.’ Nick shook his head seriously.

‘Well, it is just a joke,’ I clarified. ‘A man was told by his doctor to feed the tapeworm a piece of apple each day at the same time for one week, then to go back and report to him. The man returned one week later to say that the remedy didn’t work, as he still had the tapeworm.’ Nick nodded attentively. He was concentrating on the poor man and his predicament.

‘Take down your trousers and bend over, ordered the doctor. The man did as he was told. Then the tapeworm popped his head out and said, Hey, where’s my bit of apple today? The doctor chopped the tapeworm’s head off.’

Nick threw his head back and roared with such delight and amusement that I was left wishing I could think of some more tapeworm jokes. ‘Hoooly cooow!’ he hooted.

‘Good joke, Nick?’

He shook his head, then nodded. I was unsure whether Nick understood the concept of a joke. I wondered if he believed the story was in fact true.

‘It’s only a joke,’ I reassured him.

But he kept shaking his head, chuckling wickedly and saying ‘Holy cow! Poor guy!’ He couldn’t wait to leave and go share the story with someone.

Summer in New Stuyahok was perfect; just the river, the tranquillity and us in the blissful quiet. The wonderfully warm weather, where temperatures hovered at 80 degrees Fahrenheit, was tempered by cool breezes. On these long bright days and nights, kids were coming out to play from 7 pm onwards, and I could still hear them laughing and yelling well after midnight. When I happened to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I noticed that the luminous blue twilight was breaking into sun again by 3 am.

Consequently, this meant mornings and afternoons were quiet, without the sounds of children playing, nor any motorised noise. In fact all noise seemed to happen at night.

The chief thoroughfare track was on the other side of the school. It was so peaceful living away from the main artery into the village. At Pilot Station we lived right on the main track. Four-wheelers dashing to and from the airstrip, and snow machines screaming up and down had meant many a fitful night’s sleep there.

The old village in New Stu had eventually been relocated up on the hill in newer housing, so there were no sewage issues or water shortages here. As a precaution, however, Gary insisted we continue to distil our drinking water.

The out-going principal sold us his satellite dish, which would enable us to be able to watch hundreds of channels on TV. ‘You’ll only have one channel without it,’ he warned us. However our TV had not yet arrived. Our furniture was held up in Bethel. Gary spent most days trying to coordinate barges and bush planes; the former carrying in New Stu’s supplies and school freight and the latter bringing in our much-needed personal belongings.

‘They have to wait for a bigger plane to bring our furniture out here, honey,’ Gary explained three weeks into our arrival. ‘It’ll get here.’ He gave me a reassuring hug. I was desperate to be reunited with our dining table and chairs that I planned to place under the long kitchen window that looked directly out onto the river, where so much was happening.

Chapter 3

A Welcome Dance

One morning, about two weeks after our arrival, Nick came to the door. He held the cap that was usually pulled down over his forehead. His dark brown shiny scalp showed through his buzz-cut black hair. He seemed nervous.

‘Come in, Nick!’ Gary stood and welcomed him. ‘Have a coffee?’

Nick stepped just inside the doorway. He shook his head.

‘No. Nephew come today.’ He paused. ‘He play in band.’ Running the rim of his cap between his thumb and fingers Nick spoke tentatively. ‘Doc, we have a dance for you? A welcome dance?’

Gary looked pleased. ‘That sounds good, Nick, when?’

‘Tonight?’

‘Tonight! Can you organise it that quickly?’

‘If you say, we can.’

‘Huh?’

‘Dance in school gymnasium. Only place to dance.’ Nick gave a quick smile and small nod. ‘We dance country and western.’

‘Oh . . . right.’

‘Principal say dance tonight, then we dance tonight.’ He lifted his head and shyly grinned. ‘You boss of it.’

‘Well then, I say there is a dance tonight,’ Gary replied.

‘Good.’ Nick put his cap back on and grinned widely. ‘I go tell everyone.’

Summer school began that day. From mid-morning to early afternoon the school opened for young children to develop their reading skills. The late start gave everyone time to sleep in after socialising throughout the long twilight hours of semi-darkness, and the early finish gave the three native teachers time to get out to fishing duties when they were done.

When Gary and I slipped into the elementary classrooms, there were about 50 younger children all sitting in pairs, being listened to and helped by older children. Most sat on the floor, feet straight out, leaning back on the walls. I was reminded once again of the quiet nature of these people. Three adults, kids spread over two interlinked rooms and everyone talking in quiet, quiet voices. If we hadn’t known they were in there we could have walked past and heard nothing.

‘A grant is paying for the older student helpers,’ Gary whispered. ‘Makes this tutoring a win-win situation for everyone.’

‘Waqaa,’ acknowledged Marie, the teacher in charge. We nodded, smiling. Some of the children lifted their eyes and dropped them again to their books. ‘Dance tonight?’ asked Marie, smiling softly. Gary nodded. ‘See you then.’

Word had gone out on the local VHF channel that morning. ‘Dance tonight for Doc and his missus.’

It amazed us that it would be country and western style. There didn’t seem to be any talk of the traditional dancing we had seen at Pilot Station. We needed to talk more with Nick about this.

‘I think I’ll wear my green and white traditional quspuk,’ I told Gary. With long black trousers underneath, and my black sandals with a small heel, I knew I could dance all night.

An elder in Pilot Station had specially made my traditional dress. The simple loose fitting smock with large front pockets would be very comfortable and cool for long periods of dancing. I would pull my long hair back with a traditional beaded clasp. My clothing would be a definite gesture towards Yup’ik culture. That pleased me.

‘Well, I’ll wear my leather cowboy boots.’ Gary grinned.

I laughed out loud. ‘Blimey, that takes me back.’ I remembered being horrified at the prospect of him arriving in them at Christchurch airport, the place where we had first met.

‘Appropriate for a country and western dance, I reckon.’

That night we walked together in our finery along the boardwalk to the administration block, and Gary let us into the school. Another dull, grimy corridor led down to the gymnasium. The school was so bleak and hospital-like inside; I wondered how the kids felt about coming in here after the vibrancy