The morning I step off the plane in Cambridge Bay, Nunavut, the wind cuts through my parka like it’s made of tissue paper. At -32°C, my camera equipment feels twice as heavy, but the warmth in Lucy Anavilok’s kitchen makes up for it. As she prepares tea, Lucy tells me about the community meeting she attended last night.
“Everyone’s worried,” she says, stirring honey into her cup. “When these drugs come to small communities, they spread fast because we’re all connected here.”
What Lucy is referring to is something many southern Canadians have never heard of: “pink cocaine” – a dangerous drug cocktail that has nothing to do with actual cocaine, despite its misleading name. Last week, the Nunavut Department of Health issued an urgent community warning after several young people in Cambridge Bay were hospitalized.
“It looked like candy,” says RCMP Constable Jamie Partridge, who showed me sealed evidence bags containing the confiscated substance. The bright pink powder resembles something you might find in a child’s craft kit rather than a potentially deadly drug. “That’s what makes it particularly concerning. It doesn’t look dangerous.”
Pink cocaine, also known as “tusi” or “tuci” (pronounced “too-see”), typically contains a dangerous mixture of methamphetamine, ketamine, MDMA, and fentanyl – though its exact composition varies widely. The substance first gained popularity in Colombia before spreading internationally, with Canadian authorities now reporting cases in major cities and, increasingly, remote communities.
“The problem is that users have no idea what they’re taking,” explains Dr. Michael Patterson, Nunavut’s Chief Public Health Officer. “We’re seeing a substance that can contain different combinations of stimulants, hallucinogens, and opioids all mixed together, which makes overdoses particularly difficult to treat.”
What makes Cambridge Bay’s situation especially challenging is its remoteness. The hamlet of about 1,800 people sits on the southern coast of Victoria Island in the central Arctic, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest hospital with advanced care facilities.
“When someone overdoses here, we don’t have the same resources as southern Canada,” says Sarah Jancke, a nurse at the local health center. “Weather can prevent medevac flights for days. Every minute counts with these overdoses.”
The arrival of pink cocaine in such isolated communities highlights how even the most remote parts of Canada aren’t immune to drug trafficking networks. According to Health Canada’s Drug Analysis Service, novel synthetic drugs are appearing in northern communities at alarming rates, often before public health officials can develop appropriate responses.
Community elder David Kaosoni doesn’t mince words when discussing the situation. “This is colonial trauma in a new form,” he tells me as we walk along the frozen shoreline. “When our young people turn to these substances, they’re self-medicating wounds that go back generations.”
The statistics support his assessment. Nunavut faces addiction rates significantly higher than the national average, with the territory’s 2023 Substance Use Survey showing that 27% of residents report problematic substance use – nearly double the Canadian average of 14%.
For 19-year-old Jeannie (whose name has been changed to protect her privacy), the appeal of new substances comes from boredom and curiosity. “There’s not much to do here in winter,” she admits. “When someone brings something new, word spreads fast.”
The community is responding with characteristic resilience. At the youth center, prevention worker Thomas Hakongak runs harm reduction workshops that blend traditional Inuit knowledge with practical safety information.
“We talk about the land, our ancestors, and how they survived by making good choices,” Hakongak explains. “Then we talk about naloxone kits and how to recognize an overdose. The kids need both types of knowledge to navigate today’s challenges.”
What’s happening in Cambridge Bay reflects a larger pattern across the North. The Nunavut government and RCMP have reported seizures of pink cocaine in three communities since December, suggesting the substance is gaining a foothold.
Dr. Gwen Healey Akearok, executive director of the Qaujigiartiit Health Research Centre in Iqaluit, emphasizes that any effective response must be community-led. “Outside experts coming in with cookie-cutter solutions doesn’t work here,” she says. “Our communities know what they need – resources for land-based healing programs, better mental health supports, and economic opportunities for young people.”
As evening approaches, I join a community gathering at the local hall. Elders serve caribou stew while young people demonstrate traditional drum dancing. The contrast between this scene of cultural vitality and the threat of pink cocaine feels stark.
“We survived tuberculosis sanatoriums, residential schools, and forced relocations,” Lucy tells me as we watch the dancers. “We’ll survive this too, but we shouldn’t have to fight these battles alone.”
Before leaving Cambridge Bay, I visit the health center one last time. Nurse Jancke shows me the naloxone kits they’re distributing throughout the community and the informational posters now hanging in every public building.
“Knowledge is protection,” she says. “Especially here.”
As my plane lifts off the next morning, I can see snowmobiles tracing lines across the vast white landscape below. In communities where everyone knows everyone, the arrival of substances like pink cocaine threatens not just individual lives but the fabric of the community itself. The challenge facing Cambridge Bay – and communities across Nunavut – is finding ways to weave traditional strengths with the resources needed to face very modern threats.
