Midnight Sky

An update: Following the previous pictures of the sunset (at around 11.15 pm) here are some shots of the sunrise (at around 1.35 am).

***

Two days to go and the Sun at midnight. Our house is situated slightly down the hill's top, and the Sun vanishes behind it in the middle of the night; I wanted to know, I wanted to see the midnight Sun, so I walked up the hill.



Somewhere down the hill, engines were roaring on the road; anywhere else, deep, deep silence, barely disturbed by the sound of my steps on the mossy ground. I barely remember anything, knowing only that I was there. The vegetation was otherworldly in the ethereal light, minty white lichens and dark berries preserved in snow since the the past summer.









The fireplaces have not been used yet this spring.



I walked up the hill, then down from the top onto the next, in an attempt to find the perfect spot. The path seemed to continue forever to the mountain's top in the distance; although cars could be heard not far, this place could have been in the middle of nowhere -- another world.
I could have walked this path forever towards the Sun.



The cloud appeared just at the wrong place, just at the right time. So much for the midnight Sun. As soon as it was hidden, the temperature fell from mild to icy cold, in a heartbeat.

***

Back to the suitcases and bags. I am leaving tomorrow, not unhappy to see Helsinki again but somewhat heavy-hearted to abandon such promises.

I wish I was born here.

Instant shot, and a visitor

The Sun lowering on the hill, around 11.15 pm.






The sun has stopped setting in Kautokeino since yesterday, or so I have read, since the moody spring weather did not let us see much of the phenomenon so far.



We had a visitor today:



Right down my window.





And, running away at the sound of a car on the nearby road...

Fast-forward

One week, a national day, three interviews and a spell of summer.

Sunsets and dawn suspended in time...

around 11pm

around 1:30am

Balloons and ball games...



Strollers and toddlers...



And skies.








The snow is almost gone now, after a weekend at +23 degrees and a few spring storms.

This is the same view as in the dusk pictures posted previously, three weeks ago perhaps.

We are leaving in a few hours for Karasjok and Varangerbotn, a road trip over two days. Out of the six remaining students four will depart to in Kirkenes to take the boat to the South, two will return to Kautokeino. Then, from there, I will leave in exactly one week.

Helatorstai

Our handicraft was finished on the third day, a bit in a rush, and now everyone is debating on whose pouch is the nicest. I am quite happy with mine, and its design earned praise even from duodji students. We witnessed the first downpour of the season while sewing the last stitches in the panoramic atelier of the College; the sky is tormented these days, so I haven't had any good light to take pictures of the final product.

***

The church bells in the distance woke me up this morning. The first sign of activity in the landmark red church ever since we arrived; I had climbed up the hill before only to find locked doors and little if any information about service days and times. This was the chance, then; as I came in sight of the edifice, walking hastily along the main road, I was slightly anxious to see the attendees already pouring out. Instead, the usually empty yard was full of parked cars.




I am not so keen on bursting into the service of a tiny church in a foreign country, and fashionably late, so there was plenty of time to hang around while waiting for someone to enter or exit the building and sneak in after. Strange moments: the vast sky and radiant Sun, silence and loneliness.






The graveyard was easier to access without the knee-deep layer of snow.

Signs and Symbols

Communication

Finally, a man left the church, followed by an old woman who got back soon thereafter. I followed her in, a bit awkwardly.

The red church of Kautokeino, albeit the most distinctive building of the town, seems to be hardly ever used. The smaller chapels are preferred to that of the national congregation, which remains for many a symbol of the aggressive assimilation policy conducted by the Norwegian state in the Sámi areas until the eighties. The two flags flown in front of the church, Norwegian and Sámi, could be the symbol of a difficult reconciliation tinged with defiance; as for the atmosphere that emanates from the vivid traditional blues, reds and yellows of the furniture, from the ritual itself, performed in Norwegian and translated in sámegiella, and from the eerie children's paintings displayed in the hall altogether, it would be hard to define or describe.



It took me just enough time to take a few very discreet pictures to figure the Interdiction to take pictures during the service signs, displayed in nine languages, four of which I speak. Oh well...


Just a glimpse.

Among the attendees, perhaps one hundred or less, only five or six were not wearing the gákti, the traditional Sámi costume, including the famous bright red hat. In this colourful setting, the white vestment of the priest looked oddly out of place.

The priest said the last words, and the bells rang three times.





Scenes from the exit of the mass, though, seemed amusingly familiar -- universal?

Gossip?

Pretty


***

Duodji, continued

Three hours later...

Taking shape

Sunsets are barely sunsets anymore.





The assignement is (hopefully) taking shape. I shall meet tomorrow the person behind this astonishing voice (and, hopefully, subsequently interview her) at the pizza evening organized by the student board of the College. Sápmi is a small world.

Adjágas - Unná nieiddas, from Mánu rávdnji (2009)

Reindeer, second

Another reindeer outing could happen that day, or week, or the next, or another, and finally, it happened. This time, it was about leading the flock, a few hundreds at a time, into the fence, in order to lasso and mark the spring-born calves before migrating for the summer to the coastal area.

We ended up helping Inga's family in their tasks in the fence, carrying wood posts before the herd comes and then helping to carry more or less cooperative calves into a smaller pen (which could mean from dragging them by the antlers, the tail or the front legs to actually carry them up all the way, as the mysterious and unnamed Man from the Forest used to show off).

Standing among the reindeer was incredible; the shy animals, never straying too far from each other, reacted as a single living mass to our voices and moves, streaming around us in an almost continuous flow; only the muffled sound of their hooves on the soft snow and the distant ringing of their bells.

No pictures of our feat, though, nor of the sunset seen through the rising cloud of dust and heat: my camera's batteries died halfway through.

The fence is perhaps 20 minutes away from our place by car.

Waiting

The herd is coming

Antlers

Little time for words; it was a busy weekend, with campfires and grilled reindeer meat and marshmallows and rides in party cars and drinking games, and it will be a busy Monday, with a lesson in the morning, a visit to the centre for indigenous rights and our first duodji (handicraft) lesson in the evening.