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Lisa's Journal
Tuesday, August 22th, 2006
"Hi there. Are you flying to Inuvik?"
A man in paint-spattered overalls approaches me at the Tuktoyaktuk airport with a manila envelope. I nod, yes. "Would you mind taking this envelope with you? A man will be expecting you in Inuvik." I'm intrigued by this subversive sounding solicitation until I spy the name on the envelope: Roy Furness. "Oh, it's for Roy," I say, like he's my buddy. "Sure I can give it to Roy." When I arrive in Inuvik, there's Roy, smiling. I ask him why he's not in Tuk, painting the school. He rolls his eyes. "We opened the pails and it was the wrong yellow," he says. I've either just helped Roy smuggle contraband or doing business in the north requires a lot of creative couriering.
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I spend my last day in Inuvik gathering a few outstanding interviews and snapshots, disappointed that I haven't yet been able to reach Simon Jozzy. But when I stop by my hotel, there's a message from Jozzy who's just returned home from a trip. I call him quickly, invite myself over and check my final task off the list. Like it was meant to be.
Back at the hotel around 10 p.m., I pop a salmon risotto Lean Cuisine into the microwave.
Profile:
Simon Jozzy
Inuvik resident Simon Jozzy is originally from Zimbabwe. The rest of his family resides in Edmonton, which offers better high schools for his children. He commutes to visit them every few months, when he can take leave from his job as manager of the local dental office.
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I'd mined it from the crystallized depths of the grocery store freezer earlier that day. But something is funny about the salmon. It's strangely fizzy on my tongue. Hungry, I gobble on, ignoring the sharp flavour until I notice the "best before" date on the box is five months passed. With furious tongue shovelling, I spit out the contents of my mouth and drop the square of expired food into the garbage then retire to the lounge downstairs for a greasy burger. Mental note: when in Inuvik, buy the pizza pops like everyone else.
In the morning, I don muddy pants and muddy hiking boots, pull on my muddy knapsack and take a last ride with Rafat to the airport. He says he has some antiques coming from Egypt that he plans to sell in Edmonton. He could cut me a deal. Maybe he'll see me again some time? Sure, I say. You never know.
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The English translation of Tsiigehtchic means "Mouth of the Iron River."
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