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 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, when the first direct commercial flights from the United States begin arriving in June — one reason Greenland is among the Travel section’s 52 Places to Go this year.
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, and although it lacks the life-changing scenery of Ilulissat (which gets its own international airport next year) to the north, nature imposes itself just as resolutely.
After checking into a bright new Airbnb, 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 served 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.
A few shops sell sealskin slippers and Inuit art, but overall Nuuk is not heavily oriented toward tourism. New hotels are in the works, but there are currently no luxury accommodations. Nor are there chic little restaurants serving neo-Nordic versions of Greenlandic cuisine. At one cafe I watched a waiter explain to an exasperated visitor why the previous week’s rough weather meant they were out of whale, halibut and reindeer. The diner could, however, have a burger.
‘Greenland Is Not for Sale’
About as close to trendy as Nuuk gets is Bibi Chemnitz, a local designer whose shop features stylish streetwear and the occasional Greenland-inspired piece, like colorful socks with patterns derived from Inuit tattoos.
Recently, Ms. 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 percent of Greenlanders oppose becoming part of the United States — 1 percent more than the segment who favors independence from Denmark. 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 percent of the G.D.P. in the next decade.
Yet there is also uneasiness about what the new influx will mean. As climate change has made the harbors more accessible, 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, the 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 Ms. Korneliussen sees the greatest threat, whether that means taking photos of people without asking (“I’ve even had people take pictures of me while I was walking my dog!” she said) or peering into people’s windows. That, and 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 they may lose their special places to tourism when I first tried to visit the Nuuk Art Museum: It was closed for a private viewing for cruise passengers. The next day, I discovered an evocative collection, including 19th-century landscapes and contemporary political works, like Pia Arke’s video installation “Arctic Hysteria.”
A staff member, Lena Andersen, told me how overwhelming the sudden global attention seemed. “Everybody is welcome,” Ms. Andersen said. “Just don’t stomp on us.
To prevent potential stomping by foreign companies, the government recently enacted a new tourism law that restricts tour operators to legal residents. I hoped it would help protect places like Ajagaq, a workshop where Inuit artisans turn reindeer antlers and musk-ox bones into graceful jewelry and figurines called tupilak.
The morning I stopped by, an intricately carved polar bear was emerging from the chunk of horn that Samuel Korneliussen had started a few hours before. “I like to work at my own pace,” he said.
‘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 dog-sledding, and melting snow made snowshoeing treacherous. 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 unwinding the spools of weighted line, I was surprised when, 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 again 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. There wasn’t room for much more than a bed, but with windows on three sides, I didn’t need anything else. 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.
So go to Greenland. Immerse yourself in the fascinating culture. Step lightly, and let yourself be moved by the beauty of the landscape. Spend your money in local businesses. Don’t buy up all the fruit. And remember that Greenland is not ours, but we should protect it nonetheless.
Just keep your voice down.
Lisa Abend is a journalist who lives in Copenhagen. She is the author of the newsletter The Unplugged Traveler.
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