Tundra Drums: Signals from the North Slope
22 December Continued
Dr. M. Mustoe
text and images © 2006 2007 by Dr. M. Mustoe December
There's not a thing to do;
I cannot sleep at night; No wonder I'm so blue;
Oh, for a friendly fight! The din and rush of strife; A music-hall
aglow;
A crowd, a city, life--Dear God, I miss it so!
Cheer up! don't get so glum;
And sick of everything; The worst is yet to come; God help you
till the Spring. God shield you from the Fear; Teach you to laugh,
not moan. Ha! ha! it sounds so queer-- Alone, alone, alone!
....From the Telegraph Operator by Robert Service
To anything living in the Arctic, communication, is a central theme ensconced in the nuance of survival here. But that theme can have two faces. One, might beg you to stay in touch with those around you, by radio, by telephone, by e-mail, by telegraph ...just to fend off the loneliness. Yet the other face might take full advantage of the Arctic's isolated silence. This landscape has an inherent ability to disaffect the creatures that reside here, not only from itself, but also from the outside world. For those who want isolation, for those who chose to cut the lines of communication, this is the place to do it. This is a place to run and hide and exploit it's silence. Nevertheless, in all of its silence, the Arctic is filled with sound.
One of the first nights I arrived here, I went
out close to "the point". The "Point" refers
to the Point in Point Barrow, the most northerly point
in the United States. An arctic fox was working near the end of
the road. 
First I saw it's paw
prints (left) in the snow, and then I saw him. It was a beautiful
little, fluffy, white, arctic fox. He came within thirty feet.
What a great shot this will make! Sure! My camera freezes up,
and he runs off into the darkness. In the distance I hear his
call, a strange oscillating whistle. They say, where there are
foxes there are polar bears. If there were, they were not hungry
for me. The polar bear can communicate with it's nose, being able
to smell out food nearly twenty miles away.
(Yours
truly near the Point on 21 December 6:15 p.m. -15 F. On the 24th
it would drop to 40 below, and I will get frostnip/bite in my
right hand. Open exposure of the skin to the air at these temperatures
must be short.)
Consider the whales, transiting the leads between the ice sheets; they even seem to understand the importance of keeping in touch. As they move through the sea, talking and singing to one another, their whistles and songs make for a familiar background music for seagoing whale crews. Today these crews monitor NOAA weather radio for the latest storm and sea activity, but they also listen for the whales. . Ironically it was the Arctic whale who was the precursor to broadcasting weather forecasts. During the hay day of commercial whaling in the 1880's, crews of whaling ships learned to understand the whistling songs sung by these animals. These broadcasts helped whale crews to accurately predict incoming sea and weather conditions.
Interestingly a major Inupiat feast alludes to communication. The Kivgiq, The Messenger Feast, is traditionally held after a strong whale harvest. A messenger is sent out to surrounding villages to invite the people to come and partake in a festival celebrating the harvest. But this festival is not only associated with the celebration of a bountiful supply of whale meat. The Kivgiq celebration itself is born from a legend describing an isolated and lonely people desirous of someone to celebrate with. It is as much a celebration of harvest as it is in the realization of the salubrious force found in community, sharing, music, dancing, and communicating. The ancient ones knew the toll this sequestering, primative environment could have on the people.
The legend is told that in times past, there was only one lonely Inupiaq family that existed in all the Arctic. Finally, the family has a son. This son grows up to become a mighty hunter. And although he is a good supplier, he has a sense of wanderlust and wanders off and one day mysteriously vanishes without leaving a trace. Another son is born, to this family. He also grows to be a prolific hunter but, once again, like his brother, he also vanishes leaving the old couple sad and alone. Finally the couple has a third son who also grows up to become a great hunter.
One day while out hunting, the third son is captured by an eagle that has transformed itself into a man. The Eagle-Man admits to this youngest boy that he had killed his two other brothers because they refused to cooperate with a request he made of them. He says if the boy does not come with him to a special place where his Eagle-Mother resides, he too will die. This time, this son consents and goes with the Eagle-Man to reside for a time with the Eagle-Mother. As he approaches her nest, he can hear the heartbeat of this mother eagle.
While in the presence of the Eagle-Mother, the boy is instructed how to sing and how to dance. He learns to make drums from animal skins and wood that resound with a tone that sounds like the heartbeat of the Eagle-Mother. He also learns how to make a great structure from sod, called a qari where a great festival can be conducted. Finally after a time of instruction in this place of learning, he agrees and promises to take all he has learned back to his father and mother. Up to this time these people were without song; there were no festivals, no dances. It was an isolated lonely life. But it was the reasoning of the Eagle-Mother that this lack of celebration was the cause for their loneliness.
However, there was another problem. How can you have a dance, a festival, with other people when there are no other people? What's the point in sending out invitations, messages, communications, in such an isolated world? This puzzled the boy, but he was assured by the Eagle-Mother that it would all work out. So the boy returned to his family and as instructed the first Kivgiq was sponsored. Where did people come from in a world with only three known human beings? The animals around them transformed into human beings. Thus, it was a congregation of neo-humans who packed the first qari and attended the first successful Kivgiq. This is the Inupiat legend for the origin of the drum as well as "having a good time" in an otherwise cold, isolated world.
Today the Kivgiq, or messenger feast, is usually
a three day affair that's held in Barrow in the mid-winter and
attracts people from countries all over the Arctic region. But
the messenger theses days is not only sent out on foot. Today
the message of the Mother-Eagle's heartbeat is delivered by way
of telegrams, telephones, newspapers, letters, the internet and
through the airwaves on radio.
The radio station in Barrow is just a few blocks away from the King Eider motel. It is one of the first places I have on my list to visit. On the afternoon of the 21st, I walk past the Sho Gun restaurant, and a little ways past Barrow High School, home of the Whalers, and find the studios of KBRW AM and FM. The building looks like a radio station with lots of antennas on the roof. On the evening of the 21st of December, I meet with KBRW's President and General Manager, Robert Sommer. He recognizes me from an e-mail I sent him earlier in the week.
In the Arctic the term "local radio" takes on a different connotation than in the lower 48. Here a small market in the bush might mean tens of thousands of square miles. Granted, a good deal of this demographic area for KBRW AM and FM Barrow, Alaska might include a population of caribou, (one of them is represented by a set of horns over one of the offices in the station) polar bear, ptarmigans and jaegers. But as far as those who really listen, there is a substantial market. Bob is well versed in "bush radio". He has managed stations all over the Alaska. He tells me that that KBRW covers an area roughly the size of Minnesota, about 88,000 square miles of coverage area, and it's the only station in the North Slope. Within that area, the station serves an audience base of about 10,000, plus or minus a thousand or so transient people. The AM signal regularly propagates into Northern Europe and Russia, maps on the wall show their listeners almost like a short wave station, and KBRW does respond to those sending in reception reports with a "QSL" verification letter. The station also has a feed on the web (Right: KBRW President and General Manager, Robert Sommer at the production studio board.) (Right Above: Bob and board-op Tigh in the main studios.) (Main studio board)
Tomorrow, on the 22nd of December, KBRW will celebrate its 32nd birthday in the
same building. The staff will celebrate with donuts. Bob gives
me a tour
of the station. It's equipment is state of the art, and the building
itself has be remodeled and modernized. A look out the back door
reveals the pier and pile foundation the studio, like every building
in the Arctic, is built upon, a necessity in the permafrost tundra
soils.
Although permafrost is as old as the earth itself, the term is relatively modern. The term was first used by a S.W. Muller in 1945 describing, in engineering terms, the thermal condition of soils and rock that maintains a consistent temperature below 32 degrees Farenheit. Building on the permafrost requires special techniques that can be costly, and it is probably this one feature of the Arctic that has inhibited its development more than even its remoteness and extreme cold. "Did you see our high school on the way here?" he asks. "It was the most expensive high school to build in the United States, for a while anyway, I think we still have the most expensive middle school. It's partly due to building on the permafrost, but also there are no fire hydrants in Barrow so the school has a swimming pool on the second floor of the building. If there's a fire, hoses can be connected to faucets under the pool, and the water pressure of the pool delivers the water!"
The transmitters for the AM station are located
on the outskirts of town and can be accessed remotely from the
studio. Even in the event of a fire at the transmitter, fire retardant
can be engaged remotely from the studios. But it is not just these
antennas that are getting the KBRW signal out. An elaborate network
of repeaters and translators feed the AM signal all over the North
Slope. KBRW is the only broadcast station in the area and thus
plays a crucial, and much appreciated communications link in the
region.
(Right Above: Permafrost foundation.)
Janelle
Everett is KBRW's news director. Her news programs have large
audiences and cover stories from Barrow and the surrounding communities.
Additionally, the station is carrying the Whalers basketball games
and the new football team. This is the kind of commercial radio
that is deeply rooted in localism. "There are two major disasters
that can hit this area," Robert tells me, "One is a
power outage. All of our power here is generated with gas and
if that gas supply was interrupted or the generators went down
that can be a major problem. Second a major storm. And we can
get some bad storms here that come on very suddenly and can leave
people stranded. But in both cases KBRW is ready to stay on the
air with back
up generators and other systems... and they have in recent
years," he says. KBRW houses the National Weather Service's transmitters
in its studios.
However, incoming and even outgoing communications for Barrow and the surrounding area are basically tied to satellite down and up links. If a solar storm knocks out a satellite, and a backup isn't available then there could be real problems. In one instance, he tells me, a situation like that did take place, and there was no backup. But now, thanks in part to his efforts serving on emergency services advisory councils for Alaska, a backup bird is available.
The station broadcasts in both English and in the Inupiaq language. Their programming is partly National Public Radio and the rest of the time originates from their very modern digital studios in Barrow. Robert informs me that their community service programming is very well received. "We have a program called Tundra Drums, which might include critical personal messages for people in the bush who have no other form of communication. In some cases we give out polar bear warnings, and weather is important here for everyone."(Left Above: Janelle Everett news director).
Robert is also an amateur radio operator so we talk shop there. At the time of the 1964 earthquake, he was in a naval training facility in the lower 48. They called him and some other hams out of their classes to work emergency phone patches from the hardest hit areas of around Anchorage, Valdez, and Seward. He assures me that ham radio in these parts is not dead, and when everything else has gone off the air, it's Alaskan hams that carry on the crucially needed communications, especially in remote places like Barrow.
On the
evening of the 25th of December, I attend a kind of "kick
off" dance for a week of year-end traditional Eskimo games
and celebrations. This is not the Kivgiq, but it's full of fun
for all ages. At the dance, held in the very modern Ipalook Elementary
School, an
announcer invites different age groups and special groups such as former
school teachers, singles, and basketball team members to dance
for the community. 
The
audience and the dancers
all have a good time. Traditional drums are played and singers
perform chants. Some of the dancers wear traditional clothing and some also wear gloves.
The wearing of gloves in front of large audiences is a traditional
gesture and considered good manners.
After the dance, I speak with Michael Jeffery, a long time resident and judge in Barrow. He is the only non-native on the drum team. He tells me that he started out learning the drum some years back and performs with the group every chance he gets at local venues. Judge Jeffery explains to me that the dances performed tonight were community dances which anyone can learn and participate in. There were obvious gestures made by the dancers that had significance and communicated a story, but generally these dances were mostly for the enjoyment of dancing and the fellowship of the community. I was curious how the tone of the drum was achieved in that the head of the drum is struck with a stick from under the rim of the drum head. "It's this flexible stick," the judge explains, "that when more pressure is exerted in the strike of the stick to the instrument the sound goes from a rim shot sound to the pounding of a drum." It is loud. Especially in the school auditorium. His drum was made of wood and the head made of synthetic material. But he points out that some of the drums played there that evening are made from natural materials. The traditional materials are drum rims and sticks made of wood and drum heads procured from animal parts such as the skin of a walrus stomach or the lung membrane of a whale.
I was
listening very carefully, watching the dancers very intently.
They all seemed to be saying something to me, and I was trying
my hardest to figure out what was being communicated here tonight.
But my understanding is severely limited. There were a lot of
smiles, a lot of mukluks, a lot of Nikes, a lot of parkas, and
a few hooded tee-shirts. Some wore gloves, some didn't. There
were a lot of people of all ages. But I am not so concerned whether
I ever figure this dance out. I probably can't anyway. It takes
a special skill to understand the song of the whale. More so,
it takes being embedded in its culture to really know it
as spiritual essence. The real value, the real meaning
of this night for me, is modeled in the collective thought of
a people who survive for one another, no matter what. That's something
to celebrate, that's something to dance about, that's something
even I can relate to. But still what remains for me, in the echo
of these ancient chants and the resolving native down beat are
more questions for my confused two-faced Arctic soul. Can
the rhythms of the synthetic and the organic culture find harmony
somewhere? Is there any syncopation to this life? Do the animals
of the Arctic still take on the forms of men? Can the arctic fox
still speak? What was I hearing in my heart tonight? Was it simply
the beat of drums or was it the heartbeat of the Mother-Eagle?
Coming Next: Caribou Fog. A short discussion on Arctic weather.