FAR FROM ALASKA

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was the night on the marge of Lake LeBarge
I cremated Sam McGee
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee
And Claude he came from ...
(Ballad of Sam McGee)

Claude had that morning arrived on the archetypal sandy beach that swept to form a classic bay fringed by palm trees. Photographs of such tropical paradises can be found in every travel brochure to feed the dreams and fantasies of those who live in the northern hemisphere. This one was not easily accessible to people who had only two or even three weeks of vacation time, the international airport was too far away by bus or boat and the infra structure had not yet arrived. One day tarmac roads would be built to provide ease of access, the beach would be cleaned and hotels would be built to sparkle in the sun, then air conditioned rooms would be free from mosquitoes and local girls would change white sheets on king sized beds every day. That was still a few years away, the beach had not even found a mention in any travel guide books so prices were low and those dashing around the world ticking off the places they had "done” had not yet intruded on the peace and tranquility with stays of just one or two nights.

The people attracted here came for months, months of Alaskan winters, months of Canadian snows, months of Scandinavian darkness. The local fishermen had soon discovered that they could rent out their simple wooden stilted houses and build new ones a little further from the shore. Over the years more grass roofed huts had been built each with its own deck where there was space for a hammock to swing. Several small bars offered fish meals with rice and canned beers that were neither hot nor cold. Men, it was mostly men, would meet here to eat by kerosene lamps after dark when their days of swinging in hammocks and reading yet another paperback book were ended. By the flickering light of the lanterns the Alaskans now had the opportunity to tell everyone else that Alaska was the best place in the world, Canadians told of their adventures skiing in the mountains and talked of other tropical places that had once been like this but had now become concreted over. There was time to play chess, time to play cards, time to exchange books and the opportunity to spend a few hours with one or two of the local girls for the price of a cheap watch.

This beach was in Africa but it could just as well have been in Central America, India, the Philippines, Thailand or a dozen other countries. It was a "hot cheap beach" where nothing much happened and the months passed one after the other until the northern snows eventually melted.
Several huts were empty when Claude arrived and he installed himself in one between two others, each occupied by a man in shorts lying in stationary hammocks, who did not seem very interested in his arrival. After he had placed his bag inside the small room he came to stand on the little veranda and look at the sea and sand stretching out before him. As he did so one of his neighbors stirred himself and came over. "It’s a good hut that one but you will need to buy a hammock. Need a padlock for the door too and if you want to sleep nights a mosquito net that ain't got no holes. My names Steve, I’ve been coming here for three winters"

With that Steve lumbered across the short stretch of hot sand and started basking in the clear blue water. There was no doubt about it; Claude needed both a hammock and a mosquito net. He closed the glassless window with a wooden shutter, he already had a lock, which he put on the door and then went to shop and explore.

An hour later Claude could be found lying in his new hammock having fixed up a mosquito net as the sun started to sink on the horizon. Steve dropped by again saying he was on his way to eat and have some beers.

"You can come along, there’s not much choice but the fish is always fresh and the beers are cold enough to drink, we’ll, go to The Dolphin.” Steve was a big rugged man who needed to shave twice a day but didn’t.

“The Dolphin” was another house on stilts right on the sea-shore where the fishermen pulled up their boats; reaching it involved a ten minute walk either along the beach past rows of huts with their hammocks now empty or on a path under coconut trees. Six or seven men were already eating or waiting for their fish dinners but there was still one table free with a kerosene lamp already lighted. These men greeted Steve with the word "Hi!" before the owner showed Claude and Steve the fish he had available, all the fish had bright clear eyes in a variety of shapes sizes and colours and had been caught that day. Once they had selected their fish they were each given a can of beer that had been sitting in one of several plastic buckets filled with coolish water.

"No electric, equals no ice, equals no tourists.” explained Steve. "Fish and rice, or rice and fish. Once in a while a trader comes up with a boat full of ice and buys the fish or barters it for rice and then there’s fresh vegetables and fruit for a couple of days but it don’t happen too often. Guess all the ice is in Alaska right now."

None of the other men seemed to be doing much talking. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened that day; they had all spent their hours sitting on hammocks reading. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. The men all seemed to live on the same low budget spending it on room, food and beers. They could stay here for months without worrying about finance; some of them had been coming here for longer than Steve.

"These guys work like crazy in the summer, long hours in the long days, eat and work. Building houses, in the forest, saw mills, fishing boats, oil pipelines. They make big bucks." There was plenty of time for pauses and fetching new beers. "Me? I work on the oil pipeline right up North. Hard man, real hard, but big bucks. Beautiful country up there, bears, elks and salmon like you’ve never seen. Alaska’s the most beautiful dam country in the world man."

"Yeh, and you guys screwing it all up with your pipeline, you and Bush." Contributed an even larger man sitting at the next table.

"Ah you ain’t got a hair on yer arse boy." replied Steve "Don’t take no notice of him he’s just one of those guys that’s full of seven kinds of crap."

Claude was not a native English speaker but had mastered the language and was well able to understand everything being said. During the next two hours he learnt that Alaska was by far the most beautiful country in the world where the work was tough but there were big bucks. He was told repeatedly that he should see the bears, the elks the geese and above all the salmon. After several hours and several beers with Steve, Claude had the clear impression that he was unlikely to glean much further information about Alaska. He realized that he knew very little about the man he was dining with apart from his name and the work he did.

"Do you come from Alaska originally Steve?"

"Hell no, I’m from New York. Born and raised in New York, Brooklyn. My folks still live there but I don’t go back. Work my butt of all summer making big bucks in Alaska and then come here, or a place like here, wait for the ice and snow to melt."

"Don’t you miss the big city life?"

"Like a pain in the butt. New York never did me no favors. Alaska’s the place man, beautiful country, bear, elk and salmon like you’ve never seen. Most beautiful god dam country in the world man."

"Yeah and you and Bush screwing it all up." growled the man once more from the next table.

"Take no notice of that guy, he’s just a pain in the butt don’t know crap. Drives a gas guzzling SUV around Wisconsin." retorted Steve loud enough for the man to hear and then reached for another beer.

The table now had some twenty cans on it divided into two equal piles. The system had been devised by the owner and had the merit of simplicity as the cans were counted, the price of fish and rice added, and then the customers each charged accordingly. There was nothing else for sale.
Next door was a small shop which sold washing powder, onions, pens, rice, batteries, mosquito nets, drinking water, children’s sweets, toothbrushes, various coloured plastic buckets, fishing hooks and line. Post cards and mosquito repellants had not yet arrived.

"My father was an immigrant from Palermo. That’s Italy." More beer, more thought, more reflection. "My mother too, they met in New York, three kids, Pa worked in a warehouse, New York’s a tough city man, real tough. Cold as hell, hot as hell and nothing in between. Seen the tarmac boil and bubble, seen cars covered by snow for weeks, whole streets of them."

Claude’s English was good enough to recognize the heavy accent of Brooklyn, he had lived in Manhattan for several years, and was accustomed to the word "worked" being pronounced "whyked".
"I whyked in the warehouse too, then the docks, never did me no favors."

"Did you never get married Steve?" Claude asked.
"Never wanted none of that emotional attachment stuff.” explained Steve before reflecting and sipping another can dry.

"Tried the City Police for a while, it was a good day when I got home alive. Tough city. Nights was the toughest. If you got home it was a good day. For six years I got home alive... how many good days is that? Serious crime in New York, you didn’t go out looking for no trouble, it just came."

Claude thought that he would try to say a few words and make it a conversation rather than listen to a monologue, “I lived in Manhattan for a while, I came over with my wife from France, neither of us found it very easy………….” He might as well have not spoken. Steve found Steve far more interesting.

"No, you never want that emotional attachment stuff but it finds you, just like serious crime finds you on the beat." more beer, more reflection "Just get a hooker, physical, you pay the money and leave. Just physical, you know what I mean? The C whyds "commitment and confusion". Me I never wanted no C whyds."

Some diners, or drinkers, had added up their beer cans paid and left, others were having similar stilted inebriated conversations. The kerosene lamps flickered and their light reached to the outside steps where two black girls in red shorts were waiting for the last of the customers to leave.

"One night we was driving around West side. Normal kind of crap, fights in market diners with sailors off the big ships, a few punks roaming around in gangs. It was early, the real serious stuff started after midnight and we were just patrolling round waiting for a call. You don’t look for trouble in the Big Apple but sure as hell it comes. All you want to do is get home alive. We were just pulling round 3rd on 33rd when we see a taxi stop and some broad walking to her apartment. Two guys grab her with knives and we scare them off with lights and a screech of breaks. She’s cut about a bit round her arm so we take her upstairs and clean off the blood. Nothing serious, fix a few band-aids but she’s kind of shaken up. We had some carfy, nice fancy kind of place all homely with flowers and stuff and she calmed down pretty quick. "You don’t go out in this city at night lady" we told her, "you stay right here and watch TV, there’s serious crime out there lady."

"She’s kind of new to the city and her old mans away working for some kind of insurance company. We tell her to stay inside because there’s murders out there every night. She was a kind of cute little thing with reddish hair, skinny, not the type I usually go for. The place was done up nice, somewhere you could feel at home, but we had to get out back onto the streets as there would be calls coming in. No report to be made, minor incident, maybe she'd have a scar for a while, nothing stolen and thousands of punks like the ones we chased away."

"At the door she asked my partner and me if we wanted to look in again, maybe have a meal or a drink. She gave us her name and telephone number and said we could phone anytime. "Don’t pay to be too friendly in this city lady" we told her, “tough city, stay at home nights, ain't no good neighborhoods in New York" and then we left.
"Guess we got busy during the early hours but next day I got to thinking about the woman, Lillian was her name, from France." Time for more beer and more reflection. Steve and Claude were the last customers now and the two girls in red shorts were sitting on the doorstep knowing that these two men were their last chance that night.
"So the next night I’m off dooty and phones the girl up. Lillian her name was, from France.”
(There were many drunken repetitions now) “Come over at 8.00 for supper she says. That’s how it started, that’s how I fell into the trap. She cooks a real fancy supper all nice with wine and then afterwards shows me where the bedroom is. I’ve seen hundreds of guys get into this mess, "domestics" we called them, the old man would come home half way through and then there was trouble. "Are you sure your old man’s away?” I said.

“Oh yeah, away for another week." She says, some of them like to see trouble, like to see fights, like to see a jealous husband. Anyway in the bedroom she wiggled like an eel, not my type, real skinny but she didn’t want to stop. Guess she missed her old man. Boy was he a lucky guy; she sure knew how to keep a man happy. She didn’t want no sleep, no sir. But it was not only physical, it was warm and homely and feminine, yeh that’s what it was, feminine."

"Two years I had of that emotional stuff, sometimes for a week, sometimes two weeks, sometimes just a night. Got to a point where I couldn’t think straight, confused you know? Then one night she says she’s pregnant, scared the life out of me. Next day I tell her I’m going to Alaska and that she can come if she wants. Didn’t have no other choice. She says no she'd stay with her old man. "He’s my husband and you’re my lover,” she says. “OK” I says and went to Alaska. Three times she came up with the baby. One winter she came to see me in Mexico. This last summer she came up to Alaska, right up north with the little boy, said she had busted up with her old man and was getting a divorce. She may come here for a month or two sometime soon, if she brings the little boy I’ll teach him to swim. Guess what happens, happens.” The two men counted there beer cans and paid before walking past the girls in red shorts and along the sand to their bungalows.

Claude’s oil lamp burnt all night and the only sounds he heard came from dogs, mosquitoes and geckos. New York had never been a happy place for him. Now at least he had learnt how the scars had come on his wife’s arm.