Visit Greenland but step lightly and speak softly

Standing at sunset on the boardwalk that rims the jagged western edge of Nuuk, the Greenlandic capital, I felt simultaneously dwarfed and expanded.

The glassy water of the fjord, the veins of granite that made the snow-capped mountains look like crinkle cookies, the clarity of the northern light: All these combined in their immensity to make me feel paltry, while their beauty sent my spirits soaring. But what struck me most was the profound silence that hung, weighty and dense, as if the universe had slipped a pair of noise-canceling headphones over my ears.

That silence was even more striking because I had arrived in Nuuk at what is most likely the noisiest period in Greenland’s history. For years now, the city has been undergoing a very loud building boom, cranking out housing and more recently, a new airport.

Yet the noise is as much metaphorical as it is literal. Ever since President Donald Trump revived his intentions to claim Greenland for the United States, the country has been at the uncomfortable center of the world’s geopolitical conversations, with a steady stream of parachuting journalists and politicians to prove it. And it’s sure to get noisier this month, when United Airlines becomes the first U.S. airline to offer direct flights from the United States.

The trip I took in April wasn’t my first to Greenland. But this time, I was aware of how much hung in the balance.

Reflections of a colonial past

The approach by plane was as breathtaking as ever. Yet from the moment we passengers spilled onto the tarmac, it was clear that things were changing: A new runway and a sparkling terminal had made reaching the capital, where just over a third of the country’s population of 57,000 lives, much easier.

In the city itself, Nuuk still has the rough-and-ready feel of a frontier town, where nature imposes itself resolutely.

I began in the old part of the city, where the red wooden Church of Our Savior, built in 1849, and the hilltop statue of the Danish-Norwegian missionary Hans Egede reflect the country’s colonial past. (Today, Greenland is an autonomous region within the Kingdom of Denmark.) Close by is the “Mother of the Sea” sculpture, which depicts the Inuit goddess Sedna, and the fascinating Greenland National Museum, which features exhibits on Inuit clothing — including long underwear made from bird skins with the feathers still attached — and three ice-frozen mummies.

Together, the sculpture and the museum serve as reminders that Greenland had been Inuit for centuries before the Danes arrived 300 years ago.

In the town’s modern center, the contemporary face of colonialism is evident in the dilapidated concrete apartment blocks where the Danish government forcibly relocated families in the 1970s; in the graceful cultural center Katuaq, whose wavy facade (inspired by the northern lights) was designed by a Danish architectural firm; and in the city’s supermarkets, owned by Danish chains.

‘Not for sale’

About as close to trendy as Nuuk gets is Bibi Chemnitz, a local designer whose shop features stylish street wear and the occasional Greenland-inspired piece, like colorful socks with patterns derived from Inuit tattoos.

Recently, Chemnitz added T-shirts with the words “Greenland Is Not for Sale” to her collection. When I asked her husband, David Rogilds, who manages the company, how he feels about planeloads of tourists arriving from the country whose government would beg to differ with that slogan, he told me that he — and most people he knows — are excited.

“Actually, I feel sorry for Americans,” he said. “But they are very welcome.”

According to a recent poll, 85% of Greenlanders oppose becoming part of the United States. Yet nearly everyone I met said they were looking forward to more American visitors. Tourism holds significant economic potential in a country where nearly half the gross domestic product comes from a combination of fishing and an annual grant from Denmark. The government has set a goal for tourism to reach 40% of the GDP in the next decade.

Yet there is also uneasiness about what the new influx will mean. Cruise lines have added Greenland to their itineraries; this year, 77 ships will call in Nuuk, many with capacity for more than 2,000 passengers.

Over an excellent Thai dinner that included a whole local redfish in curry at Charoen Porn (many restaurants are owned by Thais, who began immigrating to Greenland in the early 2000s), I asked my dining companion, writer Niviaq Korneliussen, if she was worried about overtourism. She nodded, and I expected her to talk about rising housing costs or pollution. Instead, she talked about how loud tourists were.

“Greenlanders speak softly,” she said. “If you go to a cafe, even if it is full, it will be quiet. But Europeans and Americans speak so loudly. Whenever the cruise ships are in, my friends and I know not to go out because it’ll be so loud.”

It’s in the potential subsuming of local culture and social norms that Korneliussen sees the greatest threat, as well as an insensitivity to the conditions of local life. “Sometimes when the cruise ships pull into smaller settlements, the passengers stream into the grocery store and buy up all the fresh fruit. They don’t understand that there won’t be any more for another week.”

I got a taste of why some locals worry when I first tried to visit the Nuuk Art Museum: It was closed for a private viewing for cruise passengers.

I visited the next day and a staff member, Lena Andersen, told me how overwhelming the sudden global attention seemed. “Everybody is welcome,” Andersen said. “Just don’t stomp on us.”

‘We will protect it’

Like most tourists, I wanted to spend time in the spectacular landscapes in and near Nuuk. But it was too late in the season for snowshoeing. I settled for a boat ride up the fjord.

Qooqu Berthelsen and his father, Jens, started their tour company, Greenland Arctic Xplorers, last year. As a Danish couple and I boarded the small craft, Qooqu, 22, told us he had been piloting a boat since he was 13. “We had so much freedom growing up,” he said. “You could always be in nature.”

We disembarked at Qoornoq, a collection of houses that had once been home to a small community and a now-abandoned fish-processing factory. Then we settled back on board for some fishing ourselves. After just a few minutes without a nibble, Qooqu decided we were in the wrong spot. No sooner did he move the boat and drop the lines than one of the Danes landed a cod. Before 30 minutes were up, there were eight more flopping on the deck.

“Aren’t you worried that too many tourists will destroy all this?” I asked Qooqu, indicating the water, the white peaks, the fish.

“Not really,” he replied. “We will protect it.”

I wish I had Qooqu’s confidence. On my last night, I checked into Aurora Huts, a set of glass “igloos” overlooking the fjord. The two other huts were occupied by tourists who sat outside drinking, talking loudly and singing along to music playing from their phones.

When I shut the door, the weighty Greenlandic silence descended again. As I watched the sun inch toward the horizon, the stillness helped me realize that I had never been anywhere that made me so acutely aware of my impact, for both good and ill, as a tourist. And maybe, I thought, that was just as it should be.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

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