I worked for a summer on the south coast of Disko Bay with a Polish geologist. We were making a geological map and were camped together for a few weeks, hiking the hills, studying the rocks. He’d worked on similar geological surveys in west Greenland for some years and had many stories to tell over dinner, crouched in our tent, avoiding the mosquitoes buzzing against the canvas outside. Many geological expeditions in Greenland draw geologists from the world over, so the common language is often English, as it was for us. We were discussing the observation that English, Danish, and Greenlandic are very variably spoken by Greenlanders. This derives from the significant changes in education policy over the decades. Danish language has gone in and out of favour, in line with nationalistic feeling. In times of strong drives for independence, Greenlanders have rallied against Denmark and for periods Danish has been all but dropped in schools, in favour of Greenlandic, and often more English. At other times Danish has been the focus language, in some periods with whole generations of children sent to Denmark for their early teenage schooling, sometimes resulting in an almost complete loss of the Greenlandic language and a cultural disconnect. But also resulting in a much higher overall level of education and expanded opportunities for the future. Which is better?
My Polish colleague told me the story of one of his experiences with language in Greenland. Some years ago he was working with an English geologist, Laurence. The two were working along the coast from a small rubber boat. After some weeks, Laurence suggested they call in on a small settlement they knew to be in the area so that he could send a postcard home. They motored in to the village – a cluster of small colourful houses hugging a rocky bay. There was noone to be seen. They tied up the boat and wandered the dusty tracks through town. It was clearly deserted. Many of the houses appeared long derelict, paint peeling in long strips and doors hanging on their hinges. If it had been a desert, there would have been tumbleweeds blowing by. Laurence, however, appeared not to have noticed and continued looking intently for some sign of where the post office might be. Finally they spotted a wizened old Greenlandic man sitting alone on the steps of a ramshackle house, smoking. They approached him and he glanced at them through the cigarette smoke.
Neither the Pole nor the Englishman spoke any Greenlandic.
“Excuse me sir,” Laurence asked in his strong home county accent. “Do you happen to know where we might find the post office?” oblivious to the absurdity of the question and situation.
The man looked at them blankly. Laurence tried again.
“Hvor er posthuset?” he stammered in broken Danish.
The man didn’t stir.
“OK” Laurence furthered, “Wo ist die Post?”
The man exhaled a deep plume of smoke and countered with a barely detectable shake of the head. Laurence shuffled a little, flustered and at a loss for further possibilities. The old man leaned forward a little on his step, cocked his head and asked in perfectly delivered French,
“Parlez vous francais?”
The two geologists looked to one another, back to the old man, and shook their heads.
