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)

Duodji

Duodji is the traditional Sámi handicraft -- as old as the time when the easiest way to get an item was to do it yourself. A special evening course was organized for us at the College, just so that we get to finish something simple in this short time frame.´

Here's the outcome of the first three-hour session...





The thread used has to be prepared: its fiber split in two, each end twisted separately then both ends together, tied with a knot.

Some bled as much as they could (I must admit that leather needles look particularly dangerous), others had to painfully undo half of the stitching so that the pieces matched. Not me. I'll take that as a family trait.

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.

Not much of a night out

But a beautiful sunrise.

The Midnight Sun is underway

Luminous skies, luminous snow, sometime between day and what is not night anymore. That particular light was gone before I could fetch my camera.

I spotted a butterfly today, and a beast in the woods outside my window.

Fishy, Fishy

Once again, no luck.

Joel and Georgie watching Sara, the librarian of the Sámi College, drill a hole in the ice.

It is snowing again since yesterday, the first time really since we arrived. A chilly wind was blowing over the frozen lake this morning, while the three of us foreigners and a bunch of locals were waggling their fishing rods with little conviction.
No one in our group caught anything, contrary to the children who seemed to rush to the competition tent every then and now, holding fish in their hands and trying to make the others kiss it "to turn it into a princess."
What a strange custom for a May Day celebration, I thought. Fishing competitions are not the most exciting thing one can come up with for Walpurgisnacht. Meanwhile, in Finland...

We had a quiet May Day at home, eating pancakes and, as far as I am concerned, still writing essays past the deadline.

Still snowing, but darkness turns to blue a little more every night.