2019.6.29
We returned to the hotel at dinner time. The hotel’s restaurant was quite high-end. A small bay was just outside the window. It was around 6:30 PM, and the sun was shining brightly. While waiting for our meal, I went outside to take a few photos. Qeqertarsuaq was once the capital of northern Greenland, and these small cannons were probably used for defense.
Dinner was as exquisite as it had been in Ilulissat. In such a polar region, seafood was abundant, but fresh vegetables and fruits were extremely limited. A good restaurant had to rely on the freshness of ingredients and the art of plating to stand out.
Shortly after dinner started, the sky outside suddenly darkened as waves of fog rolled in, gradually enveloping the peninsula and covering the entire bay. It reminded me of our experience at Mount Rainier — one moment, the sun was shining brightly, and the next, thick fog set in and lingered for days.
After dinner, we took a stroll around the hotel, which was also the center of Qeqertarsuaq. A uniquely shaped church stood by the roadside, with a pointed roof, earning it the nickname “The Lord’s Ink Pot.” Not far away was the former governor’s house, now converted into a museum, though it was already closed at that hour.
Qeqertarsuaq is actually located on a very small peninsula on the southern part of Disko Island. A small bay extends into one side of the peninsula, making it a natural harbor. In the distance, icebergs floated on the sea. The sunlight was still able to pierce through the mist, illuminating the icebergs with a mysterious glow.
A small path on the south side of town leads to the southernmost point of Disko Island, a place called Udkiggen. I wanted to explore. Along the way, I passed an open area filled with abandoned machinery and piles of wood. It made me a bit uneasy, especially since it was already “nighttime” at 10 PM. The sky was dim, and there wasn’t a single person around. But beyond that area, the landscape turned back into a coastal tundra.
Following the planned route, I left the main road and headed toward the cape. The ground here consisted of exposed granite slabs, gray and white in color, covered with patches of black and green moss and lichen. Between the rocks, small shrubs and grasses grew sparsely. Walking on the rocks made the journey easier. I was alone, surrounded by a vast and desolate landscape.
The deeper I went, the harder the terrain became — large uneven rocks, waterlogged tundra. I only made it halfway before deciding to turn back. From the coastal side near the town, I could see the colorful houses typical of the Arctic, perched on bare rock. Some stood alone, while others clustered together. The people living there must be used to the sight of icebergs floating just outside their windows.
By the time I returned to town, it was already past 11 PM. Suddenly, a firework shot up into the sky, followed by the laughter of children. This was no Shangri-La, yet it still felt like a hidden paradise.
There are several theories about why people in the Arctic paint their houses in bright colors. One common belief is that red paint was cheap and durable, but this doesn’t explain why blue and yellow houses are also prevalent. Another theory suggests that different colors were used to indicate different professions or social statuses. Some say that in the harsh Arctic climate, with frequent snow storms, hunters returning home could easily spot their colorful houses from afar. In the end, there is no definitive answer.
