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The Art of Radio Documentary Geir Grenersen Department of Culture and Literature. The Arctic University of Norway. Tromsø, Norway, [email protected]

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This Article is brought to you for free and open access by University of Akron Press Managed at IdeaExchange@UAkron, the institutional repository of The University of Akron in Akron, Ohio, USA. It has been accepted for inclusion in Proceedings from the Document Academy by an authorized administrator of IdeaExchange@UAkron. For more information, please contact [email protected], [email protected].

Recommended Citation Grenersen, Geir (2017) "The Art of Radio Documentary," Proceedings from the Document Academy: Vol. 4 : Iss. 1 , Article 7. DOI: https://doi.org/10.35492/docam/4/1/7 Available at: https://ideaexchange.uakron.edu/docam/vol4/iss1/7

If we had moved to Oslo,

we wouldn't have lasted for many days…

For many years, I have been a devoted fan of radio documentaries. Back in the

1980s and 1990s I used to record some of the documentaries on my old Phillips

cassette recorder. When digital technology replaced such tapes, I put them in a

drawer. To make a radio documentary, you only need a good voice recorder and

a talent to connect with people. Listening to a good radio documentary, you get

the feeling of participating in the scenes that the journalist has recorded on tape.

The story unfolds before you, rich with character and detail, as people present

their lives “unfiltered,” without the usual interjections from experts.

In the early 1990s, the famed Norwegian journalist Birger Amundsen

visited Nordmandset, a small Sámi fishing village in the western part of

Finnmark County, in Northern Norway. At its height in the early 1960s, about

40–50 people lived in this village. Thirty years later, two brothers in their late

50s were the only people left. The authorities saw no future for the small fishing

hamlets along the endless Norwegian coastline. The fishing fleet was

modernized, and fishermen started using larger boats and delivering their stock

to larger villages. Women entered the workforce and got paying jobs, and the

educational system gave free access for people of all backgrounds to pursue

higher education. For many small hamlets, this meant that the young people

moved away, especially women, and they never moved back.

In an effort to document a vanishing culture, Birger Amundsen – himself

from Kjøllefjord, a fishing village in Finnmark not far from Nordmandset –

made a radio documentary in Nordmandset about its two last inhabitants: the

brothers Eilert and Hans Karlsen. The documentary was titled Ikke langt fra

veien: “not far from the road.” It was broadcast in 1992 by the Norwegian

Broadcasting Cooperation (NRK). I have listened to this particular documentary

now and again over the years, always amazed by the way the brothers relate to

the tough nature surrounding them, and the way they talk about how to handle

their sjark – a traditional fishing boat, 18–28 feet long with a diesel motor – in

stormy weather. They lived their whole life fishing at the edge of the Barents

Sea, among the roughest waters in the world. In recent years, Hans had been

fishing alone while Eilert looked after everything on land – the pier, the pier-

house and the general store (only open in the summertime, when the people that

moved away, along with tourists, come for vacation). Eilert also delivered the

mail, when needed.

In this documentary, Amundsen gives us some background information.

He tells us that Eilert and Hans are Sea-Sámi, and that they have lived at

Nordmanset all their lives. Their world is this little, vacated fishing hamlet and

the fjords and peninsula surrounding it. They have grown into this landscape.

“It’s good medicine to live in a place like this,” one of them says. Eilert had

visited the capital Oslo once, 25 years before, and concluded, “If we had moved

to Oslo, we wouldn't have lasted for many days.” Hans had visited the nearest

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village Hammerfest twice (300km away), the last time as an emergency trip to

the main county hospital. “My first visit to a hospital, and I was in my fifties.”

Hans shows Amundsen his small house, and his newly bought 28-inch

colour television, and suggests they sit down in the living room for a coffee,

since it is warmer there. But Amundsen asks if they could sit in the kitchen, by

the window, because there they can look – Hans quickly cuts him off. They’re

both aware of the same thing: The best conversations happen in the kitchen,

sitting on each side of the table by the window. Amundsen knows that being by

the kitchen window is of the utmost importance to get a smooth conversation.

Coffee is put on the kettle, cups put on the table, the radio plays country

western music in the background, interrupted from time to time with weather

reports and regional news. From the kitchen, you can look out at the harbor and

landscape while talking, drinking coffee and taking long pauses. The kitchen is

the central place in the house in these fishing hamlets. Through the kitchen

window, with small, light curtains, you “check the weather”: how the waves on

the fjord look, the direction of the wind, the way the sea gulls are behaving and

so on – information that is vital for the fishermen with small boats.

Looking through the kitchen window, Hans will feel that it is his

landscape – both inner and outer – that is of importance. He is proud of their

way of living. “We don't make demands; we are used to fending for ourselves.”

Hans Karlsen talks about all the people that have moved, both those who have

“moved to the other side” (died) and the ones that have moved out of the village.

“The people that used to live here, they have passed away over time, and you

know where the final resting place is… And you know, when the youth don't

stay, the villages die.” We notice Amundsen’s deep understanding of the

worldview of the two brothers, and how a conversation is meant to play out: a

mix of serious talk and humorous understatements. Hans offers a little glass of

vodka (or maybe it’s moonshine – it’s called “coffee doctor” in the rural parts

of Northern Norway), emphasizing that he only offers this to special guests.

You can hear the liquor being poured into the coffee, and the sound of cups

hitting the saucer, giving you as the listener a feeling of sitting at the table with

them. Hans tells Amundsen that he can “see,” that he is a bit clairvoyant. “It

was years ago I was aware of it. I don’t tell it to everyone. It happens when you

live in a place like this.” In the next sentence, Hans jokes about how he serves

coffee doctors to real doctors that visit Nordmanvik as tourists, and they have a

good laugh about it.

Hans asks Amundsen if he believes in God. Amundsen does not answer,

but returns the question. Hans answers “I don’t know. I can’t say frankly that

there is God, but there is something… Maybe there is someone who has created

all this. But it is man who has written the Bible, and it is man who is so clever

and has created all these weapons.”

The conversation turns to death and the dangers of fishing from small

vessels in these waters. Many fishermen lose their lives each year in Northern

Norway. It is especially dangerous to fish from small boats. A weather

phenomenon called polare lavtrykk (polar low pressure) hits these coasts

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Proceedings from the Document Academy, Vol. 4 [2017], Iss. 1, Art. 7

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regularly with great force. They build up in very short time, and is difficult both

for experienced fishermen to predict and for the meteorologists to forecast. Hans

believes that the time of each person’s death is already decided, a view common

in Læstadianismen, a pietistic religious movement influenced by traditional

shamanistic Sámi religion. “It is not written down when you are supposed to

die, but the time is decided. You don’t go before your time has come.” God –

or what he calls “something” – decides when you are supposed “to go,” but your

own skills keep you alive until the hour comes.

Hans connects his thoughts about life and death to his seamanship. “For

many years, I have been fishing alone from my boat. Other fishermen ask me

why I fish alone, but I can’t wait years for a companion. When you don’t have

someone else on board, you must be observant.” Hans gives Amundsen his

précis on how to manage alone in a small boat when storm comes: “It’s up to

you. You don’t need to be strong, but you must be observant. It’s the sea that

teaches you; you must obey the sea, not steer randomly. It is a small boat, and

the waves are huge. Not long ago I was fishing, and an unexpected storm came

from northeast. I was not afraid. I knew I was going to manage, even though the

waves were 4–5 meters high, huge waves for a small boat. You must know when

to back up – to stop, to look – look at the sea, go carefully. We learned this as

boys. We had to be observant. You don’t learn this at school, not even at the

nautical college. They only teach you how to navigate by instruments. And

that’s fine, but they don’t know this… You know, these small boats don’t have

instruments. I don’t need radar. I am used to managing without.”

Hans talks with great authority on how to steer his small boat in heavy

storms. He is proud of his seamanship. He remarks again that you don’t learn

this in school. “I have only a few weeks of schooling. The war came and I got

some weeks at school when I was ten years old. Those who do not attend school,

get more in return – they get to know much more.” His best teacher is the sea

itself: “It’s the sea that teaches you.” In lieu of formal schooling, Hans has been

educated through thousands of hours at sea, in all weather, in his small boat.

In a passage towards the end of the documentary, the brothers are

discussing the weather and how to move the boat out of the mooring because of

ice that is forming in the harbor, when they suddenly change from their rather

broken Norwegian to Sámi. They talk unstrained in Sámi and they seem to

forget the journalist and his microphone. Their use of the old Sea-Sámi

language, hardly spoken by any people these days, reminds us that Eilert and

Hans in Nordmanvik are some of the last people left of an old and vanishing

culture. A “people without a past” as they often are called, with reference to the

nearly total neglect in Norway for this part of the Sámi population.

After listening four or five times to the documentary, my old cassette

player nearly breaks down. The voices of Hans and Eilert are distorted and slow,

hardly recognizable. At NRK’s homepage, I read in an article (dated 2001) that

Hans died in 1998, 63 years old, and that Eilert now lives, or then lived, in a

municipal center in the winter, but come spring moves back to Nordmanvik,

where he spends the summer.

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Bibliography

Amundsen, Birger (1992) Ikke langt fra veien. Radio Documentary, Norwegian

Broadcasting Cooperation (not available online).

Nielsen, Reidar (1986) Folk uten fortid. Gyldendal: Oslo.

NRK (2001) Ikke langt fra veien. Eilert og Hans Karlsen. Retrieved from

https://www.nrk.no/kultur/ikke-langt-fra-veien-1.1458402

Smith, Stephen (2001, September 15) ‘What the Hell is a Radio Documentary?’

NiemanReports. Retrieved from http://niemanreports.org/articles/what-

the-hell-is-a-radio-documentary/

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Proceedings from the Document Academy, Vol. 4 [2017], Iss. 1, Art. 7

https://ideaexchange.uakron.edu/docam/vol4/iss1/7 DOI: 10.35492/docam/4/1/7

The University of Akron IdeaExchange@UAkron

Proceedings from the Document Academy University of Akron Press Managed

June 2016

Documents and Time Tim Gorichanaz Drexel University, [email protected]

Please take a moment to share how this work helps you through this survey. Your feedback will be important as we plan further development of our repository. Follow this and additional works at: https://ideaexchange.uakron.edu/docam

This Article is brought to you for free and open access by University of Akron Press Managed at IdeaExchange@UAkron, the institutional repository of The University of Akron in Akron, Ohio, USA. It has been accepted for inclusion in Proceedings from the Document Academy by an authorized administrator of IdeaExchange@UAkron. For more information, please contact [email protected], [email protected].

Recommended Citation Gorichanaz, Tim (2016) "Documents and Time," Proceedings from the Document Academy: Vol. 3 : Iss. 1 , Article 7. DOI: https://doi.org/10.35492/docam/3/1/7 Available at: https://ideaexchange.uakron.edu/docam/vol3/iss1/7

We were young, and we had no need for prophecies.

Just living was itself an act of prophecy.

—Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, 1994

I.

From penciled words spring lighthouses, castles and sheep, signs warning of

clogwyni peryglus—dangerous cliffs—ferries from Ireland, sacred wells, Roman

ramparts, ancient swells and angular crags, burial rings, salty gusts and circling

birds… and the distant mountains of Snowdonia like an avalanche on the horizon.

I wrote:

I came across a farmer fixing a kissing gate at one point. This was on a path

not ten feet from a cliff into the sea. “Trying to get this gate to close is all,”

he said. “I had a spring, but it rusted. No spot for metal here.”

I remember this farmer, with his wrinkled Welsh smile, and I remember

remembering this farmer as I wrote those words late at night on Easter 2013, in my

guest room after a long day of walking. And I remember premembering my present

self, for whom I was writing, reading these words in some far off future which is

now (or, more precisely, was).

This futurepresentpast unfolds in my reading of a small, brown notebook.

The notebook is softcover, three inches by five and not a quarter-inch thick, and

inside it are written such banal observations as: “It was still 2hrs before my bus, so

I went to a restaurant”; and “I sat listening to accents and thinking about things like

denim vests”; and “I had 2 of the 4 peppers and had 3 eggs.” And yet what emerges

in reading is not at all banal. Images bubble up with phrases and thoughts, things I

didn’t or couldn’t record in the form of pencil scratches years ago. So the words I

wrote are not merely words, but triggers—for memories—reconstructed,

preconstructed, deconstructed. This is remarkable, and I’m afraid we rarely, if ever,

consider just how remarkable it is.

II.

Time is one of our great preoccupations. From the busy person, who struggles

against it, to the philosopher, who struggles to understand it, to the physicist, who

struggles to explain it. In my view, the discourse on time, which has spanned

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millennia and methodologies, has attempted to explain time from two points of

departure: the physical and the experiential.

The physical view of time has been the predominant view for most of

modernity (Lindley, 2015). The physical theories see time as that which is

measured by the clock and calendar and is necessary for the scheduling of

appointments and the routing of trains. Physical time is the physicist’s time: one-

dimensional, conceptually inextricable from space and pointing like an arrow

toward entropy (Hawking, 1988). It can be understood as a series of fleeting nows;

the nows that were are called the past, the now that is is called the present, and the

nows to come are called the future. This conception of time impinges on the way

that we, as beings in society, see the world—the reason we, as Stephen Hawking

says, “remember the past but not the future” (1988, p. 145).

Some have argued that the physical view of time does not fully capture the

complexities of the concept. A purely physical description of time cannot explain,

for example, how a person’s childhood may feel at once “like yesterday” and “like

forever ago,” or how a fifty-minute lecture may seem to fly by on a Monday but

crawl on a Friday. This was Henri Bergson’s (1889/2001) point in lambasting the

definition of time as “what a clock measures.” Using human experience as his point

of departure, Bergson sought to develop a theory of time that was non-homogenous.

Though Bergson’s theory was seen as iconoclastic, and boggling, by some of his

contemporaries (as chronicled by Canales, 2015), Bergson’s time was still

e

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