We were headed to a missionary family's home in the mostly-Native town of Fort Liard to help them with their cabin, and also run a V.B.S. for the children in that Native community. The Native people there are of the Acho Dene tribe, which translates from the South Slavery language to "the place of the giants," but more on that later.
In all honesty, I had no idea where my Dad was taking me. Even on getting into the van and leaving town- I had no clue where we were going, why we were going, or what we were doing there. The ride was torturous, dry, and blistering hot. The destination was nothing spectacular. It looked dusty, dirty, run-down, and overgrown.
The things that needed to be done for the missionary family there was work for the adults, so my days were spent exploring the Native village with my friend, and meeting kids. We swam every day, hiked around the properties and through the woods, got eaten alive by mosquitoes, and were, for the first time, exposed to frightening realities of cultures other than our own.
Every experience was so bizarre and new to me. I was only 11 years old. So much of the trip is a blur to me- just because of my age and the dreamlike state of the long days. A few of my most clear-cut memories are recorded here. Some of them are beautiful memories, and make me content to think back on, while others give me shivers and sadness. Nevertheless, these are memories that must be written down, for I don't want any to be lost to oblivion.
A New Culture on the Horizon
It had been hours upon hours of straight driving in a vehicle without air conditioning. To this day I don't know how we survived in that moving inferno. We had all awakened with joy when the driver shouted "Northwest Territories!" The excitement died off when we took in our surroundings: bare, brown fields, old burnt forests, gravel roads stretching for miles ahead of us.
I don't remember that part of the drive- other than the pressure in my bladder from the day of driving and the bumpy road.
Some moans and groans later, we saw the sign for Fort Liard. Our destination. Above us stretched a tall hill, obscuring the land that lay ahead. We knew that our home for the next two weeks would be on the other side. As the tired old van slowly crawled up the dusty path, more and more of the panorama below became visible.
As the scene unfolded before me, there was no doubt in my mind that I was in a very different place. The dust was clouding all over the place, but the forests stretched for infinity. There were mountains on the horizons. Mountains! There was a river- as brown as dirt, but big.
As our van began the long descent into the hamlet in the valley, we learned our first lesson in the culture of the Acho Dene people. In fact, we learned the meaning of their name. The mountains on the horizon were outlined beautifully by the sun's glorious rays... but there was something animated about them. They mountain range looked like a sleeping giant. Acho Dene means "Place of the Giants." They believed that at the beginning of the world, the giant woke up, and created everything. He created the land, the animals, and people... and when he was finished, he lay down to sleep. They believed he would awaken once more... at the end of the world.
And... that was their god. Their god that they literally worshiped and to which they offered sacrifices. Welcome to Fort Liard, little 11-year-old Karis.
Meeting the Locals....
It was so hot. As we opened the doors, our team basically melted out of the big blue van that had just carried us North for the past twenty hours. It was evening, and we were welcomed into the Missionary's home for a delicious dinner of buffalo jerky, soup, and bannock.
Meeting the family's children was a highlight, even for our exhausted bodies. The excitement level was hiked back up to where it had been at the beginning of the expedition, and we felt revived and ready for anything. We were driven down the road to our team's headquarters.... a tent trailer. Just like a real camping trip!
As our eyes were already shutting, none of us bothered to brush our teeth or change into pajamas. We threw sleeping bags on the mattresses, muttered a jumbled 'G'night...' and it was off to dreamland for everyone.
Until approximately 4:30am.
I was the only one to wake up... probably because I was the only one to receive a rather painful BONK on the head. I had been sleeping with my body pressed right up against the tarp of the tent trailer, where it was the coolest. And early in the wee hours of the morning, something bumped me! Hard! I awoke with a start, breathing rapidly. It was pitch black- I couldn't see a thing. Immediately thoughts of drunk men or gang members entered my mind.
My heart began pounding wildly as I realized that the entire trailer was shaking. There was rustling and shuffling coming from every direction. We were surrounded. I tried to suppress my hyperventilation, but terror gripped my inside and I regretted ever coming along on this trip to this dangerous place.
That's when I heard the *snort*
Relief flooded into me, but not completely. I allowed myself a slow sigh of recovery, while trying to piece together what creature was on the other side of this thin material? My first thought was a mammoth... it was four in the morning give me a break! As I started to understand the shuffles and rustles and shaking of the tent trailer, I deduced that it must be a gathering- more than one animal. It must be a herd of some sort. Cattle? Bears?
The deep, growly, throaty lowing that sounded from every direction was freaking me out slightly. I tried to figure out what on earth could be surrounding me. Fort Liard. Northwest Territories. Northern Canada. Native Land. Buffalo.
Of course. My eyes widened- what an adventure! I giggled, and the massive horned beast on the other side of the tarp by my head grunted in response. That clamped me up for good, but my mind was going a million miles a minute. Here I was, my first night in a land far away from home... and the bison of the Northwest Territories had come to greet my crew. And here I am, the only one up to witness it.
Shockingly, I managed to find sleep. I lay there shivering with delight as I imagined myself as Pocahontas- a friend of the animals. The continuous rocking of the tent trailer from the herd of buffalo rubbing against it lulled me to sleep.
I said goodnight to a giant bison. We were separated by a piece of cloth.
Prejudices
It is no secret that up North, citizens don't oft take kindly to Caucasian Canadians, and for good reason. One doesn't have too look too deeply at Canadian history to see the abuse and discrimination that European Canadians directed at the First Nations people. The missionary family we stayed with were respected people in Fort Liard, but only because of all the good work and service they had provided through education, and in the town itself. For my team however... we were the newbies. The threats.
I experienced this distrust on my second day. The adults were busy at a work project- sanding the cabin. My partner in crime and I took it upon ourselves to meet some of the kids we would be spending time with at the V.B.S. later in the week. The best place to do that, we were told, was the community swimming pool.
The recreation centre was nothing fancy- simply a concrete building with a single swimming pool. Every day cost a toonie to get in and to swim for however long one desired. The water was salt; softer on the eyes as nobody had the money to buy goggles or chemical-resistant swimwear. The power glitched frequently, leaving the room in darkness for 4-8 minutes, but nobody panicked. The electrical system in Fort Liard was never very reliable, and power outages were a common occurrence. There were no lifeguards- it was a 'swim at your own risk' institution. Siblings were expected to look out for each other, as hardly any parents accompanied their young children. There was no deep end, diving board, rope swing, water slide, hot tub, or toys of any kind. The only attraction was the water, but that was enough to entice dozens of children every day to escape the dry heat of the outdoors.
We were enjoying ourselves in the water, introducing ourselves to some of the bolder kids. Most of them swam away quickly when we came near- but our young age made us more approachable than our guardians back at the house. We met a few people and had a glorious time playing tag in the tiny swimming pool. It wasn't until we were starting to look like prunes and feeling slightly waterlogged that we came face to face with the epitome of Native-Caucasian intercultural relationships.
We were walking down the ramp toward the makeshift change rooms and open-air showers when we were confronted by a large, towering woman. She did not look happy. She glowered at us- stared us down until we were forced to back up just from the sheer force of her expression.
"WHY DO YOU NOT PLAY WITH MY CHILD?" She shouted. We were so shocked and confused that we were simply speechless. Neither of us had ever been spoken to in such a way by an adult- especially a complete stranger. She shouted at us again, "WHY DID YOU LEAVE MY DAUGHTER TO PLAY BY HERSELF?" The little five-year-old whom we assumed to be her daughter came around the corner and stood behind her mother, looking very frightened. I remembered her. She had told me her name was Holly- but she hadn't wanted to play with us. She had been very shy, content to play by herself in the corner of the pool... or so we thought.
As we tried to stammer a response to the furious mother, we backed up even further, afraid that she would hit us. Her hands were in fists, her scowl was as cold as winter. We were in public view, but none of the pool staff came to help us. We were completely ignored. "We asked your daughter if she wanted to play, but she said no!" It's what we tried to say but it came out as more of a jumble of excuses.
"I DON'T CARE. YOU WHITE MONSTERS ARE ALL THE SAME." She stood there with her arms crossed for a second, before her daughter, Holly, tugged at her shirt whispering "Let's go." They marched to the change rooms, and we dragged behind.
We tried to change as quickly as possible without looking over to the other side of the change room, where the grumpy woman was helping her daughter get dressed. Every once in a while she would cast us a dirty look, completely disgusted with our presence.
As we were just about to go, we were finishing brushing our hair. In the mirror's reflection we saw the woman coming towards us, yet again. By silent agreement, we turned and locked ourselves in the bathroom stalls... but my friend had left her new glasses on the bathroom countertop.
In horror we listened as we heard a definite SNAP! and then a small SPLASH! and then the sound of a toilet flushing. Peeking through the cracks in the stall door, we waited until the woman had stormed out of the change room. When the door had closed, we burst out of the stall to behold the empty counter. Her glasses were gone. Flushed down le toilette, never to be seen again.
The Creator
It was the first day of V.B.S. at the Echo Dene School. We started off with kickball as kids started trickling in, very late. Apparently, kickball is somewhat of a Fort Liard ritual- it is a favorite of everyone, young and old.
We got a variety of ages coming through the doors, but everybody knew each other. They clung together, chatting happily, sometimes in a different language.
When it came time to start, we had the 15-20 kids gather near the overhead, and taught them some songs. We started with "River of Life," and they had a great time with the actions. We taught them a couple other typical V.B.S./ Sunday School songs, and they had a blast! Once we had tired them out a fair bit, we had them all sit down- my friend and I sat down amongst them.
My Dad began talking. He told them a few stories, made them laugh a little, and then he began telling the Bible Story for the day. I was zoning out... it was the story of Creation. I sat there staring into the distance, bored out of my mind. I was sure the kids must be bored too- so I hoped my Dad would hurry and finish so that we could get on to the games and crafts. But I snapped out of my trance when my Dad had finished talking about the 6 days of creation, and had begun talking about how God took the 7th day and rested.
Of course, that part of the story sounded very familiar to the kids. A little boy named Munchie put up his hand, a quizzical look on his face. "Are you talking about the sleeping giant?"
THAT got my attention. Dad smiled at the boy and said, "No, I'm talking about God. The only true God. You cannot see Him, but He is the only real God." I was scared that Munchie and the other kids would be offended, but they were just plain confused.
Throughout the week my Dad told them other stories, and especially about Jesus- whom many of them had never head of. That completely blew my mind. Never had they ever heard the story of the cross, and so they listened intently. They were so saddened by Jesus' death- I felt so rotten for ignoring the depth of the story. I felt so ashamed for brushing off the meaning of what Jesus had done for me. Seeing the earnestness in the eyes of the Native children as they listened to each and every story for the first time helped kickstart my own personal passion and love for God's word.
Why had I been treating something so miraculous so ordinary?
When it came time to start, we had the 15-20 kids gather near the overhead, and taught them some songs. We started with "River of Life," and they had a great time with the actions. We taught them a couple other typical V.B.S./ Sunday School songs, and they had a blast! Once we had tired them out a fair bit, we had them all sit down- my friend and I sat down amongst them.
My Dad began talking. He told them a few stories, made them laugh a little, and then he began telling the Bible Story for the day. I was zoning out... it was the story of Creation. I sat there staring into the distance, bored out of my mind. I was sure the kids must be bored too- so I hoped my Dad would hurry and finish so that we could get on to the games and crafts. But I snapped out of my trance when my Dad had finished talking about the 6 days of creation, and had begun talking about how God took the 7th day and rested.
Of course, that part of the story sounded very familiar to the kids. A little boy named Munchie put up his hand, a quizzical look on his face. "Are you talking about the sleeping giant?"
THAT got my attention. Dad smiled at the boy and said, "No, I'm talking about God. The only true God. You cannot see Him, but He is the only real God." I was scared that Munchie and the other kids would be offended, but they were just plain confused.
Throughout the week my Dad told them other stories, and especially about Jesus- whom many of them had never head of. That completely blew my mind. Never had they ever heard the story of the cross, and so they listened intently. They were so saddened by Jesus' death- I felt so rotten for ignoring the depth of the story. I felt so ashamed for brushing off the meaning of what Jesus had done for me. Seeing the earnestness in the eyes of the Native children as they listened to each and every story for the first time helped kickstart my own personal passion and love for God's word.
Why had I been treating something so miraculous so ordinary?
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