The Closing of Padloping Part 1″

In 1966, I moved with my then-wife and infant son to Broughton Island to teach in the two-room school there. The population at that time was about 250, but I felt that that was too large for me.

This was not quite the Arctic I had hankered for. I despaired of learning to speak Inuktitut with a dozen English speakers around. As isolated as I was, I wanted more.

Padloping, I knew, was only 60 miles away. I knew that Karl Kristensen, who was in his second year teaching there, would be leaving that summer.

One thing else was well-known that spring – that with Karl leaving, the federal administration was relishing the opportunity to close Padloping and relocate its small population of 38 Inuit to Broughton Island. Bob Pilot, area administrator in Broughton Island, was certain that the government would not be able to find a teacher to take up such an isolated post.

But I applied for the job. Weeks passed. One day Bob arrived at my classroom door with a telegram from the education office – I was being offered the position. Bob also had a recommendation – that I shouldn't accept it. Padloping was too small, too isolated and had too few services for a small southern family.

But I did accept it. I jumped at the chance. I would be the settlement's only teacher, as well as its administrator and medical dispenser. There was no church (a lay minister conducted services every Sunday in my classroom) and no nurse. Neither was there a store. All our supplies would have to come in by the medical ship, the C. D. Howe.

In late August, after a brief holiday, we were back north. There was no airstrip in Padloping, so we headed off on the familiar route to Broughton Island by DC3. There, Bob had arranged for us to continue to Padloping with Iqaalik in his Peterhead boat. Soon we were in Padloping, where we lived in a one-bedroom apartment attached to the school.

I learned quickly how serious the government was about closing the place. Within a week of my arrival, a Peterhead boat arrived from Broughton Island. I thought nothing of it until Jacopee Kokseak, school janitor and electric plant operator, came to me and told me that the boat operator had come to dismantle a number of Inuit houses and take them back to Broughton Island.

(The houses in Padloping were all small one-room houses, either the style called the "matchbox," which was only 240 square feet, or the somewhat larger "anoraq" style with its distinctive slanted front. These tiny structures housed families of varying sizes.)

A number of families had not yet returned from their summer hunting camps and so their houses stood empty at the time. But Jacopee knew that their occupants would be back soon, because school would be starting shortly.

How are the people going to feel if they come back and their houses are gone, I asked, knowing very well what answer I expected. I guess they won't be happy, replied Jacopee, in a piece of classic 1960s Inuit understatement. Then ask the boat operator to come and see me, I told Jacopee.

In short order, Jacopee returned with a tiny (to me at least) man from Broughton Island who seemed to wear a perpetual smile on his weathered face. He was Mosesee Audlakiak, generally knows as Wee Mosesee, presumably to distinguish him from some other larger Mosesee.

The conversation was short and to the point. I told him he couldn't dismantle the houses. He would have to return to Broughton Island with an empty boat. Perhaps the permanent smile flickered momentarily.

The "inuliriji" won't be happy, he told me, using the Inuktitut word to describe an area administrator, a word meaning "the one who works with Inuit." He was referring to Bob.

I have no doubt that he won't be happy, I replied, but tell him it's me he should be unhappy with, not you; I won't let you take the houses.

[Since Bob Pilot's name has been mentioned a number of times already in this article, and will be mentioned a number of times more, let me make it clear here that Bob Pilot was and remains a friend. In my view, Bob, now retired in Ontario, contributed immensely and positively to the north and to Inuit over a long and varied career in the Arctic. We disagreed over Padloping.]

Mosesee left the next day with an empty boat. I was terrified. Bob was the area administrator. And although he was stationed in Broughton, his "area" included Padloping. I was supposed to be acting under his authority. Bob was in his mid-30s and had over a decade's Arctic experience, as an RCMP officer in isolated posts and now as an administrator. I was 22 with one year's Arctic experience. I didn't sleep well that night.

But in the following days, the Inuit returned from camp and moved back into their houses. School started. Bob and I had our regular radio skeds. In February, he visited and brought a supply of fresh fruit and vegetables, things I hadn't seen in a very long time and for which I was extremely grateful. But, still, there was no doubt that the government wanted to close Padloping and would use any opportunity to do so.

(To be continued next week)

Taissumani recounts a specific event of historic interest. Kenn Harper is a historian, writer and linguist who lives in Iqaluit. Feedback? Send your comments and questions to kennharper@hotmail.com.