Yuraq (pronounced u aggggh kk)
I arrived late for the evening’s festivities. “No point in arriving early or even on time for that matter,” I reasoned to myself, for the Yupik people possess no interest in punching clocks, or even referencing them for that matter. Action starts and stops according to subjective evaluations and I am reminded on a daily basis that “Yupiks don’t care about minutes”. So be it. In some ways the absence of the units/patients/clients per hour mentality is a welcome reprieve from our factory-styled production modality, but can be somewhat frustrating when deadlines loom or events require coordination. To some extent, I have become used to this perception and as such had predicted that the events would start around 8pm (three hours past the stated start time) and was surprised to learn that the show had already kicked in to high gear sometime around 7.
Upon entering the venue (the school gymnasium) I was instantly hit by an undeniable force of energy emanating from the beat of a half-dozen male drummers belting out rhythmic, hypnotic chants simultaneously being interpreted by lavishly-adorned female dancers. This is Yuraq, the celebration of a young person’s first success as a hunter if a male or gatherer if female. Yuraq is a time-honored engagement paying tribute to the perpetuation of the tribe coupled with an intense desire for social release and material excess.
The festival lasts three days, but after an hour or so it becomes quite clear that the dance routine is comprised of movements that do not seem to change. Night after night and troupe after troupe there seems to be little derivation from the feet-firmly-in-one-place, knee-bending, arm-sway that comprises the native dance. This is generally agreed upon, acknowledged by the Yupiks and not merely the interpretation of an over-stimulated, cynical, western mentality conditioned by years of Nintendo, PS2, and a never-lacking supply of action films. And though the general flow of things seems to hinge on repetition, there are some subtleties of the arm sway or knee bend that, through the lens of the culturally astute, tend to elicit an uproarious, humorous response, which seems to be the eagerly sought after climax. The whole crowd will laugh at what appears to me to be nothing that hasn’t occurred or been occurring since the dance began. It is this sensitivity that undoubtedly affords the Yupik hours of entertainment, while leaving me lost, confused, and somewhat bored. These subtleties are beyond my grasp and will continue to remain that way as it has become apparent that this event is without English equivalence. Any question posed in this regard tended to invoke the response, “I don’t know how to say it in English”, which invariably led me nowhere. Further questions on my part, unfortunately did not fare much better.
Questions like: Why did everyone in attendance receive a gift (massive amounts of garbage cans, shovels, axes, guns, food, candy, and trinkets had filled the halls of the school)? Where did it all begin? Why did this take three nights, when it seems all could be accomplished in one? How was it that nobody seemed to know these things? “How strange it is,” I thought, “that the conduct continues despite a clear understanding of the original intent”. Then I reflected further and in light of the concurrent celebration of St. Patrick’s Day, I realized that my own vehement support of this saint persevered with no ideological base whatsoever. Who is this St. Patrick anyway? What was his fascination with green beer? Then I began to surmise that maybe these things aren’t really that important anyway. Maybe all that matters is the fact that a joyous celebration is ensuing, that a common ground is shared, that an undeniably positive force is being added to the collective conscious, or that it is well past midnight on what is now Monday morning and no one seems to care. It’s the moment that matters here and no one’s keeping track of the minutes, which is in stark contrast to the time-governing reality that most of us must face in a matter of hours.
Upon entering the venue (the school gymnasium) I was instantly hit by an undeniable force of energy emanating from the beat of a half-dozen male drummers belting out rhythmic, hypnotic chants simultaneously being interpreted by lavishly-adorned female dancers. This is Yuraq, the celebration of a young person’s first success as a hunter if a male or gatherer if female. Yuraq is a time-honored engagement paying tribute to the perpetuation of the tribe coupled with an intense desire for social release and material excess.
The festival lasts three days, but after an hour or so it becomes quite clear that the dance routine is comprised of movements that do not seem to change. Night after night and troupe after troupe there seems to be little derivation from the feet-firmly-in-one-place, knee-bending, arm-sway that comprises the native dance. This is generally agreed upon, acknowledged by the Yupiks and not merely the interpretation of an over-stimulated, cynical, western mentality conditioned by years of Nintendo, PS2, and a never-lacking supply of action films. And though the general flow of things seems to hinge on repetition, there are some subtleties of the arm sway or knee bend that, through the lens of the culturally astute, tend to elicit an uproarious, humorous response, which seems to be the eagerly sought after climax. The whole crowd will laugh at what appears to me to be nothing that hasn’t occurred or been occurring since the dance began. It is this sensitivity that undoubtedly affords the Yupik hours of entertainment, while leaving me lost, confused, and somewhat bored. These subtleties are beyond my grasp and will continue to remain that way as it has become apparent that this event is without English equivalence. Any question posed in this regard tended to invoke the response, “I don’t know how to say it in English”, which invariably led me nowhere. Further questions on my part, unfortunately did not fare much better.
Questions like: Why did everyone in attendance receive a gift (massive amounts of garbage cans, shovels, axes, guns, food, candy, and trinkets had filled the halls of the school)? Where did it all begin? Why did this take three nights, when it seems all could be accomplished in one? How was it that nobody seemed to know these things? “How strange it is,” I thought, “that the conduct continues despite a clear understanding of the original intent”. Then I reflected further and in light of the concurrent celebration of St. Patrick’s Day, I realized that my own vehement support of this saint persevered with no ideological base whatsoever. Who is this St. Patrick anyway? What was his fascination with green beer? Then I began to surmise that maybe these things aren’t really that important anyway. Maybe all that matters is the fact that a joyous celebration is ensuing, that a common ground is shared, that an undeniably positive force is being added to the collective conscious, or that it is well past midnight on what is now Monday morning and no one seems to care. It’s the moment that matters here and no one’s keeping track of the minutes, which is in stark contrast to the time-governing reality that most of us must face in a matter of hours.
posted by Brian Kruk at 6:43 PM
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