A tip for JD Vance: Greenland doesn’t care about your frail human ego | Sarah Ditum

In August 2018, I did something that JD Vance and his wife, Usha, can only dream of: I went to Greenland, and I didn’t cause a national outcry against my presence. The not-causing-a-national-outcry part of that was easy. All I had to do was show up and not be a thinly veiled agent of Trumpian expansionism while pretending to care about dog sled races.

The other part – going to Greenland in the first place – is harder to explain. I’m not an explorer, a sailor or a climate scientist. I don’t belong to any of the vanishingly few occupations with legitimate reasons to visit the Arctic Circle. I was there, inexplicably, as a literary journalist.

In 2014, a 24-year-old Greenlandic writer called Niviaq Korneliussen published her debut novel, written in Greenlandic rather than the dominant Danish language. (Greenland is self-governing on domestic policy, but has been a Danish territory since the 18th century.) Four years later, it had been translated into English with the title Crimson, and become a bestseller. I had been sent to profile this unlikely literary superstar.

A few days after the editor first emailed me about the assignment, a car arrived in the middle of the night to take me to Heathrow. I was halfway there when I realised that my weatherproof coat was still hanging, supposedly unmissably, next to my front door. I landed in Nuuk, Greenland’s capital, with nothing but a big cardigan to protect me from the elements.

My preparation was lacking in other ways too. I’d made contact with Korneliussen before travelling, but intended to call to confirm arrangements when I arrived. Except Greenland isn’t covered by EU mobile roaming agreements, so my phone didn’t work. No matter: I could use the wifi at my hotel to email.

But the hotel – actually a seamen’s hostel – hadn’t put a password on its network. When I arrived, a large cruise ship was sitting in the nearby harbour, soaking up all the bandwidth. As I stood at the front desk, almost in tears about this professional disaster, a sailor walked past and called out a cheerful greeting of “Hey, English!” I’ve never felt so foreign in my life.

The amazing thing, really, is that I could make it to Greenland in such chaotic fashion and not die of exposure. For millennia, the ice-smothered island had been luring travellers on to its barely habitable fringes, and then repulsing them. The earliest known settlers were Norse – walrus hunters who traded the ivory with visiting ships, and scratched out a difficult living from Greenland’s small patch of farmable land.

Sometime in the 15th century, the Norse Greenlanders vanished and nothing in the historical record can say whether it was famine, disease or the sheer chilly isolation that finished them off. Their disappearance, writes the journalist Jon Gertner in his excellent book The Ice at the End of the World, “remains one of European history’s supreme mysteries”.

The Inuit ancestors of today’s majority Greenlanders only arrived about 800 years ago, and maintained a healthily suspicious attitude to their home. In their folk stories, the ice caps were a place of strange creatures and unknown horrors. The few Europeans who visited tended to agree. Hans Egede, an 18th-century Danish missionary, declared that the centre of Greenland could have “no use to mankind”.

Some men, though, wanted to change that. In the late 19th century, two explorers staked their claim to the strange, hostile landscape. First the Dane Fridtjof Nansen crossed the island from west to east, surviving brutal temperatures and terrifying crevasses to make the 260-mile journey by foot and on ski. It took 11 weeks.

That stung the American Robert Peary into competition. He undertook an even longer and more fearsome route, crossing the northern part of Greenland. It was physically punishing, but perhaps even more so mentally, surrounded by nothing but blaring whiteness in the endless sun of the Arctic summer. On the ice, wrote Peary, “the nightmare of emptiness possessed us”.

It wasn’t clear at that point in history whether Greenland would end up being Danish or American, but the Danes staked their claim first, establishing trading posts in the early 20th century. Since then technology – and climate change – have made Greenland ever more accessible.

You no longer have to make iceberg-dodging approaches to the coast by ship: you can get a plane. And when you get there and find yourself improperly attired, you don’t have to get native Greenlanders to make you clothing from reindeer hide that’s been arduously chewed until it’s soft enough to stitch (which is how Peary got himself fitted out).

Instead, you go to Nuuk’s shopping centre to buy yourself a new jacket, which is what I did. It was gougingly expensive (island prices), but still better than the pitying look I got from Korneliussen when we eventually met and she saw I was dressed in knitwear. Still, I wasn’t in danger of hypothermia: the temperature while I was there was a blazingly summery 10C.

You shouldn’t imagine that Greenland has become too tame, though. Nuuk is the size of a small market town, and wilderness presses in as soon as you reach its limits. Hard, black volcanic rocks rear up from the shallow turf. There are no roads connecting Greenland’s settlements: the terrain is too rugged.

The weather turned the day I was going home. It was touch and go whether my connection to Iceland would be able to take off at all: I believe it was the last flight to leave Greenland for 48 hours. I sat in the airport, hugging myself in my new jacket, marvelling at how ill-equipped I was to survive in a place so implacably indifferent to my plans.

The lesson the Vances should take from their ill-fated expedition is that Greenland doesn’t care about human ambition and desires. Donald Trump’s attempt to take possession of it is just another episode in its contested history. But, even today, you cannot simply stroll on to the island and take it. So far, the Greenlanders themselves have made it very clear that they won’t be welcoming this new generation of American adventurers.

Sarah Ditum is a journalist and the author of the book Toxic: Women, Fame and the Noughties. She lives in Bath.

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