Life carries on in Attawapiskat amid headline-grabbing crisis
ATTAWAPISKAT, ONT.— Even at the height of so-called Goose Break and the depth of an ongoing attempted-suicide crisis in this remote James Bay First Nation, Mary’s is humming along.
A steady flow of patrons, greeted by a friendly young woman, order coffee, sandwiches and other basic diner offerings, paying by cash or debit.
Located in a nondescript trailer typical of many Attawapiskat buildings, only an easily missed “open” sign signals the kind of enterprise and normalcy so easily obscured by the headlines that have grabbed international attention and the very real issues facing the community.
On the wall behind the handful of tables and chairs on one end, a large flat-screen TV is carrying a slightly snowy version of a news channel — from Winnipeg.
In many ways, Attawapiskat — population 2,100 — has all the trappings of any small town, including older folk lamenting the changing of the times. “Nobody goes to churches any more,” a semi-retired Mike Gull is telling a visitor. “But when somebody dies, oh, yeah, they pack the church.”
Ashort distance from Mary’s, down a badly pockmarked road whose springtime surface, like all roads in the community, alternates between boot-squelching mud, mini-lakes and ice, a Northern store is doing brisk business.
Part supermarket, part department store, Northern would not be out of place in any small town, although southerners might suffer serious sticker shock. A bag of milk goes for $7.99. A case of small pop is on sale for $22. Lines form at the two cash- dispensing machines and at the checkouts, even though this is a slow time with the annual exodus to the bush known as Goose Break.
“Right now, everybody is busy hunting,” says Jacklin Kleter Sr. “Most of the families are going out, taking their kids out hunting.”
A few blocks away, the lone Pizza Pizza offers a euphemistically titled “family-sized” pizza for $31.
A couple of curious kids munch on fries. Outside, a bulldozer belonging to a local construction business growls away at clearing an overfull culvert.
Somewhat incongruously in a community that requires about an hour to walk its perimeter, Kleter drives a cab part-time. He arrived in 1981 from Moosonee, the nearest main centre about 225 kilometres to the southeast as the crow flies.
“I drive taxi for myself,” Kleter says. “It keeps me busy during the summer months.”