Turning 60 soon… becoming a junior old person.
Perplexed at how this happens: in the blink of an eye so much time passes. It seems like only yesterday that we still had Oumas and Oupas and all our teeth and pedalled our bicycles carefree up and down narrow Cape Flats streets.
As Bob Seger sings: “It seems like yesterday, but it was long ago“
Ek het ‘n tyd gelede na baie oorweging die idee van ‘n groot 60-paartie laat vaar… my hart sal dit nooit kan hou nie! Al my vriende en familie bymekaar! My mos-kombersie mense…
“Miskien moet jy dan eerder iewers heen gaan… waar jy altyd wou… alleen”, sê Cecile toe. “Want dit werk vir jou.”
So here I am: on my way to Tromsø, Norway. To go as far north as I can and try and find the Aurora Borealis – the northern lights. Something I’ve always wanted to see.
But traveling north overland only once in Europe – preferably by rail. I love trains.
So I’ve put a little plan together. It will be 6 days, 6 trains to get there. Up past 60° North – into the arctic circle. And then further. If the clouds and moon and the sun’s magnetic magic play together, I’ll see the northern lights when my body clock strikes 60 years.
Maar watookal gebeur – ligte of geen ligte: die onverwagse juweel-oomblikke en onvermydelike mislike momente langs die pad, maak enige reis besonders.
Riebeek na Haarlem
Gepak en oppad.
Gelukkig om in die Kaap vir niggie Annette raak te loop oppad terug na die VSA, waar sy woon. Bitter lanklaas gesien. Te min tyd gehad vir gesels!
Lieflike vlug na die lae lande. Kan nog nie gewoond raak aan die betowering van bo en deur wolke vlieg nie:
Eerste stop in Schiphol is die gunsteling koffie-plek. Waar my nog-deurmekaar kop drie koffies via my foon bestel, ipv een koffie met drie koffiekoeken (hulle is hemels).
My oorblufte reaksie aan die kelnerin lok net ‘n “Ja – doe maar, hoor!” uit. Nogal gedink die koffie was duur.
Toe moes ek maar onsuksesvol probeer om verbygangers te lok vir gratis koffie.
Die jong Russiese kêrel was nogal geneë en het nader gestap, maar sy blonde metgesel het net haar haar arms wyd begin swaai en hom weggerem. Hy’t skouerophalend na my gekyk en verdwyn in die skare.
Die Australiër het net geland na ‘n “huge f*** long flight, mate“, en wou nie koffie nie. Hy was dringend eerder op soek na “a large table with packing space for lots of beers, mate. Thanks anyway“.
Die twee ekstra koffies het koud geraak.
Oorgebly in Michelle se AirBnb in Haarlem… van waar die fietstoertjie ‘n paar jaar gelede begin het.
Haarlem na Hamburg
Voldag reis – maar gefnuik: drie treine vandag het twee geword. Spoorwerke tussen Haarlem en Amsterdam Sentraal het beteken dit was bus vir die kort stukkie tot by Amsterdam.
Vanaf Amsterdam die manjifieke langafstand ICE Duitse sneltreine na Osnabrück, en dan weer Hamburg. Hierdie kenmerkende wit treine met die rooi streep loop super-stil teen tot 250kmh. Hulle deurkruis Duitsland en groot dele van Europa, en maak vlugte van tot 3 ure vir baie passassiers onnodig. Die gerief is aansienlik: gemaklike sitplekke, kragpunte, gratis wifi, restaurant-wa, stil areas (geen foon-geluide of hoorbare gesels), toilette, aanboord vertrekke vir besigheidsvergaderings,…
In Europa is dit bykans net die Franse Thalys treine (deesdae Eurostar) wat vinniger loop (320kmh). Maar selfs die ICEs se spoed is genoeg om sonic booms in lang tonnels te veroorsaak: een hier.
Maar ai – helaas! Die Duisters het ‘n probleem: hulle langafstand treine is die afgelope jare bykans altyd laat. En dit lyk of dit erger raak.
The reasons are mixed: ageing infrastructure, high demand from passengers, high congestion, lots of construction going on, and staff shortages. So perhaps a symptom of a country with strong economic growth, and too few workers?
And so for this reason I booked to have ample time for my connection in Osnabrück – 45 minutes gap, actually. Just to nerve-rackingly almost miss the train to Hamburg… made it within seconds! Running like a madman alongside hordes of silent Germans with determined faces up and down stairs to Gleis 3. And we only made the Hamburg train because THAT one too was 20 minutes late.
Deutsche Bahn: Immer Verspätung, they say around here.
Yeah – there is often a later train to take if you miss one, but except for the extra hour or three’s late arrival at your ultimate destination, your paid-for pre-booked seat will be forfeited – which could leave you hunting for seating, or sitting on your luggage in the gangways. DB has avenues for recourse and claiming “damages”, but it is difficult for travellers from other parts of the world to successfully navigate this.
Some sights and sounds of this leg: from the long-ish early-morning walk to Haarlem station, connections at Amsterdam and Osnabrück, to arriving at Hamburg early evening:
Love these magnificent train stations. Wonderful spaces that bring a mix of emotions.
Kon min oogkontak kry vir geselsies aanknoop vandag. Die Duisters is maar besig. Maar dis OK – kon darem redelik werk gedoen kry – emails, ens. Die laptop word mos maar ewig saamgepiekel – my professionele lot.
Ek’t net die dame wat op my sitplek was toe ek opklim op die Osnabrück-trein redelik ontstig – sy is met ‘n paar bitsige Duitse woorde weg na ‘n ander wa toe ek my kaartjie taktvol wys. En haar man was skynbaar ook ongelukkig – omdat die trein laat was want die treinbestuurder is dan Hollands.
‘n Groep Hollandse rugsak-vakansiegangers wat by Amersfoort opgeklim het, was vir ‘n lang tyd luid rebels – soos Hollanders kan: weens hulle kaartjies het vir wa 31, terwyl die trein vandag geen wa 31 had nie. Ek hoor later hulle het die eetwa oorgeneem.
Hamburg, oh Hamburg – Waiting on the midnight train to Stockholm
Arrival at a rainy, busy Hamburg around six in the evening.
Hamburg Hauptbahnhof is not a particularly pretty station – but it has a human side to it. It is often jam packed – the second busiest station in Europe.
A special place for me and Cecile. Here we have previously discovered the – for us: emotional – Wandelhalle Food Hall, and re-visited whenever we could. A large, busy gastronomic space filled with diverse stalls and open beer bars offering all kinds of hot foods and drinks. There are several large screens continuously showing live German football matches.
And here’s the thing: between the throngs of travellers and visitors briefly moving through for a bite, there are the locals sitting. Often in little groups, sometimes alone. Middle-aged and almost-pensioned men and women, hunched over their beers while watching the football, or just staring into a distance – apparently not seeing the travellers. Now and then exchanging a few words amongst each other, but mostly quiet. They seem to arrive when shifts change: train drivers, garbage cleaners, rail traffic controllers, taxi drivers,… coming in from the rainy evening outside for some warmth, a beer, and maybe a sausage. They’ll watch the football until halftime – perhaps later, and then one-by-one leave for home in their working clothes. To rest, and start the next day again.
It feels like this is the local spot for lost souls, 80’s music, and German pilsners.
Soos Cecile dit stel: “Moeilik om te beskryf. Die mense lyk … asof hulle hard werk, maar die droom het hulle verbygegaan. Vanaand eet hulle by die kroegtoonbank, more weer 9-5 en dan raak dit weer aand. En die stad bly grys.“
Ek spandeer die eerste klompie van die 6 ure wagtyd in die kos-area: dis warm, gemaklik. En daar is stasie-broodjies!
Teen elfuur is ek erg moeg, die eetplekke begin toemaak, en ek beweeg uit in die stasie-gebou, waar dit bietjie stiller begin raak. Ek gewaar ‘n jong swartkop-dame wat wag op dieselfde trein na Stockholm. Ons gesels bietjie, en merk op ons 23:59-trein se platform het verander – ‘n tipiese aanduiding van komende vertragings… Sy is van Bulgaria, fisika gestudeer in Duitsland, en het onlangs begin werk as laser-fisikus in Lund, Swede – waarheen sy nou oppad is. Ons verloor kontak toe ‘n bedelaar haar toebroodjie kom vra.
‘n Afgetrede Noorweegse egpaar met rugsakke en stapstewels vra later of ek ook op dieselfde trein wag. Dis hulle tweede-laaste treinrit na weke se reis deur Spanje en Portugal – oral per trein. Hulle is oppad terug na Trondheim – sentraal Noorweë – waar hulle woon. Die vrou het die tipiese Noorweegse manier van asem intrek terwyl sy “ja” (“yes”) sê. Dit laat my onmiddelik terugdink aan Bente in Fagernes, Noorweë – waar ek ‘n klompie jare gelede in haar tuin gaan werk het. Dis interessant – hierdie manier van praat. Kyk bietjie hier: How to say YES in Norwegian.
The numbers of beggars, drunkards and druggies start to increase remarkably – mostly young Germans in their twenties or thirties. They are generally soft-spoken and well-mannered, but there are so many… waiting passengers get asked for food or small change relentlessly.
A young blonde lady – decently dressed with a long gray coat for the rain – comes up to me at the quiet end of the platform. I apologise for not following her German. She switches to perfect English, and asks for something to eat – she had not eaten for a long while. For some reason this moment shocks me, and for a while I just stand there flabbergasted – staring at her. As I recover, embarrassingly the only thing I can utter is: “What’s really wrong?“. She immediately breaks down and starts crying. I give her a big hug and a 5 Euro note from my back pocket. She swings around and walks away – looking down. A minute later I see a gray coat going into the McDonalds – still open at this time.
Dit raak 23:30 – en ja: trein vertraag met 20 minute, wys die borde. Later 30 minute… 35 minute. En die stasie raak stiller. Ek loop seker tien keer die hele platform se lengte – te koud vir sit, te moeg vir staan. Hierdie is van die mislike momente van reis. Mismoedig. Uitgeput. Nie meer lus nie. Wanneer mens begin kortaf raak met jou reismaat as jy nie alleen reis nie, en ernstig wonder: wat maak jy hier!?
Die borde sê die trein is nou 45 minute vertraag… ek is nou sewe ure op die stasie.
Ek koop ‘n botteltjie water by ‘n munt-outomaat – betaal met my foon, terwyl ons trein oplaas die stasie binne-dreun. Ek moet my oë knip om deur die vakerigheid wa 217 te kan raaksien. Ek klim op, vind my slaap-kompartement, en val neer op die onderste bed terwyl my kop hard kap teen die bed bo myne. (Afrikaans vloek DAREM lekker!)
Trein 3: Hamburg na Stockholm – Slaaptrein
Om met ‘n slaaptrein te reis is ook ‘n droom van al lankal. En met slaaptreine wat die afgelope tyd weer meer algemeen en populêr begin raak in Europa, is hierdie nou moontlik.
Die 10300-trein is ‘n lae-koste diens van die Sweedse Snältåget maatskappy, en loop paar keer ‘n week na Stockholm. Dis nie ‘n hoë-spoed trein nie – die 1200km word in so 18 ure afgelê – met ‘n paar stoppe by dorpe onderweg. Mens moet maar maande vooruit bespreek – hy’s dikwels vol.
Daar is klompe waens met gewone sitplekke, en dan ‘n rits 2-de klas waens met slaap-kompartemente – 6 beddens elk. Geen 1ste-klas. Die slaap-waens het geen storte of badkamers nie: net ‘n toilet met wasbakkie aan die einde van elke wa.
Slaap is bietjie moeilik vir my. Die rit is raserig en rammelrig, maar avontuurlik. Die kompartement is primitief – en het nie kragpunte nie – net drie USBs (ek herlaai alles wat ek kan na die lang tyd op Hamburg). Van die liggies werk nie, so dis effe skemer in die kompartement, en daar is windgeraas wat by die een venstertjie in-lek.
Ek staan een of twee keer in die nag op, trek aan, en gaan loop deur die waens – soos ek graag doen op treine. Fassinerend so van wa tot wa – die stil, toe kompartemente, nie ‘n siel te sien nie. En dan deur die sit-waens, waar hordes slapende reisigers – kinders, oumense, jongmense – wat verkies om nie vir ‘n kompartement te betaal nie – in die donker op sitplekke lê, skuins-sit, of ongemaklik oor bagasie in die gangetjie drapeer. Hier-en-daar iemand wat skrefies-oë oopmaak as hulle my hoor verbykom. Ek waardeer weer my kompartement… ek’s immers darem byna 60.
And so the train storms through the night – a tremendously emotional way to travel for me. Not wanting to miss the experience, I don’t sleep much. My phone shows the blue dot as we move… north… Denmark… a town called Ordense… then Noden… then a short stop at Lund. At Malmo the train is broken in two as the other section will continue in a different direction. A lot of bumping and shaking during the shunting process. And then we’re off again.
My phone compass shows 55° North… later 58°. At Valla we’re up to 58° 59′. Sixty draws closer…
It rains hard against the dark window. Shadowy glimpses of mysterious mountains, woods and farmsteads rush by. Sometimes the lights of small towns or stations flash briefly through the compartment as the train storms past.
Sleep comes and goes… with the sounds of Bruce Hornsby’s The way it is in my head, mixed with the memories of Hamburg Hauptbahnhof’s hapless young people.
“That’s just the way it is
Some things will never change
That’s just the way it is”
(Why, Germany?)
Later it starts getting light, as we traverse through Sweden – with its woods and rivers and forests, and more woods. A coffee and a bite to eat in the bistro wagon – where up-beat Eastern European music is playing loudly in the early morning light from the large windows.
The train glides into the outskirts of Stockholm around lunch, the sounds of Colin Hay ‘s version of Many Rivers mulling in my head as we cross the Norrström.
Spellbinding Stockholm
I wait a while on the platform for the passengers to disembark and disperse. Listening, and watching the hustle: the last-minute scurrying for luggage, finding a child, people at the station waiting for their family or a friend to arrive… the amazing expressions and greetings when they see each other. Marvellous – people are seemingly constantly travelling: leaving loved ones behind, and reuniting again.
After some time, the platform is deserted, and the German-built Siemens Vectron locomotives that brought us here take the empty train away. These engines can run on different ranges of electricity voltage and frequency, and (I think) also change over to diesel. Allowing it to cross through many countries in Europe with differing infrastructures.
I start finding my way through the station – my first time here. Quite an underwhelming station, I think to myself. Lots of walkways, somewhat dark, a few cafes, etc, but no big hall like major European stations usually have.
The next moment I walk into this awesome, magical space:
Waaaaaaw! The colours! The symmetry! The muffled acoustics! Being in no hurry, I spend an hour or two here – soaking up the wonderland.
I stay over in Stockholm for the night. Enjoying the Swedish sounds as the people speak, some of the local beers, and the easy atmosphere on the city streets.
The Swedes are not as disciplined as the Germans when it comes to traffic rules – pedestrians just walking through rooi mannetjies. But it seems to work: the Teslas, Volvos and Audis – mostly electric, and in black – keep a long distance from any pedestrian, drive slowly and are extremely courteous.
I have some online meetings with the office, and go for a long walk. Admire the buildings, try the chocolates (!), and go into the ABBA museum (dankie, Nicky). What a nostalgic, memorable experience – part of the rich soundtrack of our generation (no – not Mamma Mia…)
I walk a total of about 20km through the city. Stopping now and then to rest, or have a coffee. Back streets and high streets, beautiful parks. Some rain, no sunshine, some cyclists, some joggers, some fog, city traffic, many pedestrians, some wind. Not a single beggar.
A day is too short in a city like this – one can barely scratch the surface. Would be nice to come back one day (jy’s reg, Rainer)… to spend more time here, and to bring my darling (are there spiders here?).
But for now – 60 is drawing closer. And I have a dream:
“I Have a Dream, a fantasyTo help me through, realityAnd my destination, makes it worth the whilePushing through the darkness, still another mile“
Late afternoon I re-stuff my rucksack, vacate the little (expensive!) hotel room, and make my way through peak-hour streets to the station. To get on the 18:09 night train to a place called: Narvik.
Stockholm na Narvik – Slaaptrein
Trein 94 is ‘n Sweedse diens wat daagliks loop vanaf Stockholm na Narvik – as die weertoestande dit toelaat. Die spoor-afstand is omtrent 1300km (my roete bo is bietjie korter – ek’t vergeet om my GPXtracker in Stockholm aan te sit), en neem so 19 ure.
Die roete gaan noord uit Stockholm, swaai noordwes by Umea, oor die arktiese sirkel, en dan wes na Narvik in Noorweë. Dis meesal enkelspoor – eintlik ‘n yster-erts spoorlyn – en bekend vir asemrowende landskappe.
Ek staan op platform 10 soos die trein – op skedule – die stasie beskeie binnekruip. Ek is in wa 12 – heel agter. Ek maak kennis met die groepie vriendelike en behulpsame trein-assistente, kry my kompartement, en is beïndruk: die trein se standaarde is bietjie beter as die vorige slaaptrein. Die kompartement (net drie beddens hierdie keer) het meer kragpunte, wasbakkie, ligte wat werk, beter isolering, plus ‘n stort op elke wa. Hy kort ‘n bietjie olie hier-en-daar, en ‘n tafeltjie – so werk met die laptop gaan bietjie knetter.
Ek maak myself tuis, en maak kennis met my bure: ‘n luide Amerikaanse vrou en haar tienerdogter in die kompartement aan die lokomotief se kant van my, en ‘n jong senuagtige Switsermannetjie in die kompartement aan die ander kant. Die afkondigings is baie, maar alles Sweeds – so dit gaan my verby. Hulle sê iets van “bistro” (die eetwa).
Die trein trek om 18:09 stil weg uit Stockholm. Ek het nog geen idee van hoe my mond gaan oophang later nie.
The GPS says we’re leaving Stockholm at 59°19′ North. Just about an hour later, at Uppsala, we reach 60 degrees latitude North.
Wooohoo!
I celebrate with an early night to bed. Sleeping better this time.
The morning around 06:00 starts the unsuccessful hunt for the bistro wagon – which allegedly opened at 05:00. The train is still completely quiet when I find a very introverted seventy-something Swedish gentleman sitting behind the counter of a little stall with coffee ads stuck to the walls. His English is worse than my Swedish. I try to ask where the bistro wagon is. He softly explains something that indicates “HERE, but it is not here today“. So perhaps there is just no bistro wagon on this train today – only the poor guy with the coffee counter. I politely ask for a coffee then – and go sit on one of the cramped seats. With the plastic cup. Opposite me two lean-built thirty-something male passengers are fast asleep in the dimly lit wagon. It is still pitch dark outside.
Keeping an eager eye on the maps… after seven ‘o clock we cross into the arctic circle. There is no fuss around, no announcements, and no balloons being popped. Simply me savouring the silly moment. I’ve just never been this high up, and never thought I’d be able to.
Tussen 8 en 9 begin dit lig raak. En daar is witterigheid!
Ek eet uit my rugsak… het al geleer: op treine is daar nie altyd kos nie. Die enkel-spoor is grof en stamperig by plekke, en die trein beur ongemaklik om draaie – mens moet dikwels gryp en vashou. Ons vorder nie vinnig nie – rondom 70kmh.
Die trein beur steeds verder noord… En dan verander alles. Dis asof ons binne minute in ‘n sprokieswêreld inry.
Jinnnnne!
Dis lig wit, en donkerwit, en skaduwee-wit en blou-wit. En gewone wit. En valleie en dale. En elegante brûe en petit plaashuise. En vreesaanjaende berge en sagte heuwels. En woude. En ooptes. Baie ooptes. En water wat loop, en yswater wat staan. En wolke en mis en watervalle. En kranse. En water. Baie water. En lig en skaduwee.
Ek betrap myself trippel van venster tot venster in die wa. Saam met ‘n Japanees met sy groot kamera. Hy woon en werk nou in die VSA, en dis sy tweede keer op hierdie trein, sê hy. Hy kom vir die foto’s. Hy sê ek moet Japan gaan besoek, maar in die winter. Sy kamera klik-klik-klik die heeltyd.
Bietjie probeer werk terwyl die wifi goed is, help ook nie. Elke keer as mens by die venster in die afstand wil kyk om iets te bedink, dan is daar ‘n poskaart-toneel.
Dis soms so asemrowend mens KAN DIT NIE GLO NIE. Daar moet prente buite teen die venster geplak wees. Daar is iemand wat die fool speel hier. Dit kan nie werklik wees nie.
Kameras doen onreg. Maar steeds… jammer vir die langerige video. Mens weet nie wat om uit te sny nie. Dis moeilik vir ‘n Afrikaan:
The train arrives 15 minutes ahead of schedule at Narvik. Here – the line ends. No more north by rail.
Feeling overwhelmed and with spinning heads, we disembark into the cold whiteness. The small platform has no roof. I start walking in the general direction of mid-town. My thick waterproof winter jacket that has given me so much service in other European visits feels quite OK. It’s not so cold… is it?
Bus van Narvik tot in Tromso
Hier word ek weer gefnuik. Om grondlangs per spoor tot by Tromso te reis, is nie moontlik nie. Die spoor gaan net tot by Narvik. Verder noord is dit fjords en berge en min mense. Nie treinspoor-wêreld nie.
Ek kon nie hierdie laaste stuk vooraf bespreek nie – opsies is onduidelik. Maar daar is twee moontlikhede: 5 ure busrit tot in Tromso, of 2 ure busrit na Harstad – dan oorklim op ‘n boot vir ‘n 3 ure vaart na Tromso. Die boot-opsie voel vir my aantreklik, moet hemels wees so tussen die fjords – maar die oorklim tussen bus-en-boot klink na ‘n skamele 10 minute! Dit kan ‘n ge-hardloop in onbekende ys-wêreld afgee. Ek is nie bekend vir my hardloop-vernuf nie, of blitsvinnige navigasie nie (né, Cecile?). Ek weet nie eens hoe ver die bushalte en boot-vasmeerplek van mekaar is in Harstad nie. En hoe kaartjies en dinge werk nie, Sal moet probeer uitvind.
So ek suiker af in die dorp op soek na Narvik se inligtingskantoor wat op Google Maps aangedui word. Redelik haastig, want die busse (beide) loop binne die volgende 15 minute. By die inligtingskantoor binne-in die biblioteek frons die jongman oor my uitspraak van “Harstad”, en roep sy assistent. Nee – beide weet nie van so ‘n boot nie. My dieper navrae en hulle naslaan in pamflette, en aan hulle meedeel wat my AI sê, gaan ook nêrens.
Moet vinnig besluit, want die Tromso-bus wat nou oor 6 minute loop, is die tweede-laaste een tot die laaste een vyfuur vanmiddag. En hy kan vol wees hoor ek…Chinese toergroep vanaand…
Raait – Tromso-bus sal dit wees! Kaartjie op die bus koop – as daar plek is – sê die jongman.
Met ‘n geswiep-swiep van baadjie en rugsak storm ‘n benoude 59-jarige Afrikaan by die biblioteek uit…. stil Noorweẽrs wat diskreet van hulle boeke af opkyk. Met die hulp van die jongman se aanwysings, my foon se navigasie, en ‘n verbygaande stunning Noorse blondine met ‘n geel baadjie aan, Bose oorfone op die kop, en oë die turquoise-kleur van die see by Laaiplek op ‘n weste-wind April-dag, kom ek die bus-halte ingevlie.
En daar staan bus 100 nog. Ek hardloop dat my neus loop, maar nou-en-dan moet ek oorslaan na ‘n vinnige stappie… mens wil darem nie te sleg lyk as die bus dalk vertrek voor mens by hom kom nie. Op 59 het ‘n man darem nog ‘n ego.
Natgesweet onder die dik baadjie maak ek die 800 meter, en klim hygend die trappe op tot waar die groot grys bestuurder voor hom sit en staar. Hy kyk nie na my nie, maar strek net sy bleek regterarm uit in my rigting en wys na agter – buite. Ek wonder ‘n oomblik, klim uit, en sien die bus se bagasieruim-deur aan die onderkant gaan oop. Ah! My groot rugsak.
Met rugsak onder-in gegooi, word die trap weer geklim.
“So – you want to go to Tromso“, sê hy, en wys waar ek my foon moet scan om te betaal. Vandat ek in Europa is, het ek nog nie ‘n enkele keer kontant of bankkaart gebruik nie. Wonderlik die tegnologie.
Die bus trek weg nog voor ek gaan sit.
Nataniël
This bus covers the 200 odd km to Tromso in 5 hours. Partly due to slow-going bendy roads, partly due to the 95 stops.
At one of the stops a young guy gets on. He sees a space next to me, and asks politely if he can sit there (as the Norwegians do). I gesture a welcome.
We chat. He speaks in a mixed American-Norwegian accent. His name is Nataniël (24) – straight black shoulder-length hair, pitch black eyes, dominant forehead. Early in our conversation he abruptly proudly announces that he is of native American descent: his father – still living in North Dakota – is a Sioux. His mother is Norwegian.
I complement Nataniël’s features and the pride he has for his heritage. He is quite talkative, and says he wants to travel the world before starting studies. He lives in Grimstad currently, with his mother, where he works in the local supermarket. He loves playing electric guitar, and his sister plays the piano quite well.
I suggest he consider visiting SA sometime, and offer my number – to contact me for assistance or lodging. He declines my number, stops talking, and gets off a few stops later, without greeting.
Large Viking
The big, modern Volvo bus follows the high quality roads around the fjords and impressive mountains. The ever-changing views and landscapes making for a fascinating backdrop to the 50-odd people on the bus.
At the helm at the front is the driver: a large, semi-aged Viking with long grey hair, a deep guttural voice, and a white short-sleeved shirt (the bus is heated – like all transport here). He does not talk much, and he wears glasses that flip upwards when he does not drive.
The overhead screens in the bus display the next stops and times.
At some stops, the large Viking gets out of his seat, and comes walking with flipped-up glasses slowly down the aisle towards the back of the bus. He stops now and then, eyeing the passengers with a blank expression and without saying a word. Even the Americans on the bus go silent when he comes.
Then he turns around, takes his seat again, flips down the glasses, and drives on. This happened a few times until halfway, where the Viking got off and was replaced by another driver, who looked like a Frenchman, but spoke in Russian.
The journey continued as darkness slowly fell, further spellbinding the scenes outside.
24 hours after leaving Stockholm – a world away now – I step off the bus. In Tromso – the final destination.
It took me 6 days (from South Africa) to get here.
Tromso (bloody awful… at first)
Tromsø sits in northern Norway above the Arctic Circle on the island of Tromsøya, surrounded by a maze of fjords carving the coastline into countless small islands. It is the world’s northernmost large city, with 80 000 inhabitants.
Tromsø is located in the center of the auroral oval, a ring-shaped area around the magnetic pole where the northern lights are most frequent and intense. This geographic location makes Tromsø one of the best places in the world to see the northern lights – the chance of seeing them here is high.
That is the prime reason for me being here. And I’ll be staying a few days.
The first time in a new city is never just average. It’s always a MOMENT: either bloody awful, or heaven from the moment one step’s onto the new ground, and breathe in the foreign air.
Tromso turns out to be one of the bloody awfuls.
I step off the bus at Tromso’s roof-covered bus terminus. It’s cold but still OK, as I set the phone’s navigation to find the AirBnB some 3km away. Should be a nice walk, I think… even though it’s late, and dark.
A short distance outside the terminus, it starts raining – heavily. And the breeze is cold – really cold. I have my jacket’s hood on – the rain is pelting down. Luckily the rucksack, jacket and my boots are quite waterproof. But not my reading glasses – which now has to be in one hand because of the hood over my head. Or the phone – which has to be in the other hand to follow the map. There is heavy traffic along the streets – the noise and lights making my progress in this totally unknown city even more challenging.
In between keeping the glasses and phone in the jacket’s side pockets as much as possible – to keep them a little dry – and continuously wiping the glasses against my wet pants just to be able to see at least something through them when I have to check the map again – there is another challenge!
F**%&!! O hel!! Whooops!
Ek kan nie glo ek is nog regop nie!! Dit was hittete! Ek staan doodstil vir ‘n oomblik… arms uitgestrek… versigtig om te beweeg. In die verby-flitsende kar-ligte is die gepakte, supergladde, klipharde ys op die sypaadjie nou sigbaar.
Ek voel paniekerig vasgevang: kan nie terug, links, regs, of vorentoe nie.
Die volgende paar honderd meter is bitter stadig – soos op eiers loop. Ek kry nie ander plekke om om die ys te loop nie. Wel op die pad self, maar wanneer die bestuurders in hulle ligte ‘n figuur op die pad sien, begin almal super stadig ry, of stop. Dan klim ek maar weer op die sypaadjie.
Dit help nie mens loop net versigtiger met die idee om vas te trap as die een voet begin gly nie, want die ander voet se teen-aksie is NOG gladder. Smaak my mens moet probeer glad nie gly nie.
En na die eerste halfuur begin die koue binne die baadjie inkruip… nog nie so iets vantevore gevoel nie.
‘n Verskrikte, koue, druipnat, ontnugterde, semi-desperate 59-jarige noordelig-soeker val meer as ‘n uur later op die AirBnB-bed neer.
Tromso het darem kort hierna sy hemelse kant begin wys. Watter hemel is DIT nie!
The following days reveal that the locals walk on ice – without any problem. At first I’m astonished – wondering if they have special shoes. But later, I hear that they apparently have this ability from birth.
I myself take to hanging on to whatever support I can find along the sides of pavements, like this fencing where some building works are going on. Luckily for my ego – I seem to be ignored while doing this. This must be a thing that visitors generally do around here – cling onto something and move carefully with eyes like saucers, while the locals just walk happily past.
Over the next few days, I learn to find walkways and paths that have less ice, or from where ice is cleared by the municipality daily.
Tromso – Paris of the North
This city is often nicknamed The Paris of the North, for it’s surprisingly vibrant cultural scene: symphony orchestras, film festivals, many museums, art galleries, lively nightlife, high quality restaurants, and attracts tourists the whole year round from all over the world.
The infrastructure is ultra-modern and functional: local and long distance bus services, taxis, Uber, ferries, good roads – clearly marked and signposted. And an airport that is highly automated with about 100 flights per day directly to and from Europe, Russia and the UK.
It also boasts the Arctic University of Norway (UiT), the world’s northernmost university. It has round 17000 students, and is a major research hub – especially in fields like arctic biology, climate science, Sami culture, space & aurora, and medicine and health.
Mix these ingredients, including the youthful student energy. Place it in a setting far away from anywhere, way up north, with two months a year of no sunrise (the polar night), and another two months a year of no sunset (midnight sun). Build it around a sound (new word for me – Google it), with majestic snow-covered mountains, and you have a very special and unique place, situated around a body of water.
And then – as an afterthought: the gods added the Northern Lights!
I take this (amateurish) picture at around 16:00 the afternoon outside the little AirBnB where I stay :
The people of Tromso
The people of Tromso do not make eye contact on the streets, or even in confined spaces like elevators. They are reserved and private: Norwegians after all. But they greet easily when greeted first, with the usual “Hei“. Then they talk easily. They love to help with directions, and they love to discuss things. They also seem generally healthy: lean but strong built, almost never obese. A lot of jogging and hiking happens – mostly after work – when it’s dark and lights are used. They love seafood. And they love their language – though most speak English fluently.
Crime in Tromso is virtually non-existent. I don’t see a policeman during my 6 days here. I move around a lot.
I also do not find a single beggar.
A few city scenes:
The Hermes II
Daar is heelwat bote in Tromso-hawe wat besoekers uitneem vir fjord-ritte of om walvisse en orkas en dinge te gaan probeer sien. Die staalbote is groterig, kommersieël, neem seker 100 mense of meer, en het groot verwarmde ruimtes met tafels en stoele en ete en drinke aanboord te koop. ‘n Partytjie op see!
Die Hermes II is ‘n 72-voet houtboot gebou deur die legendariese Noorweegse bootbouer Nils Skandfer in 1917, en word deesdae besit deur ‘n plaaslike vismaatskappy. Die maatskappy restoureer deurentyd die Hermes en hou hom in stand deur besoekers en belangstellendes teen betaling uit te neem op die fjords en omgewing vir ‘n paar uur op ‘n keer.
Die boot – wat groot was vir sy tyd – is oorspronklik gebou vir “transport” (steenkool, vis, diere, boumateriaal,…) – maar het later in die bloeitydperk vissersboot geword (lynvis). Hy het tans sy 4de of 5de masjien in. Die Hermes het ook ‘n belangrike rol gespeel met die vervoer van vlugtelinge uit die noorde van Noorweë tydens WO2. Hy is self ook al deur ‘n paar brande, amper-sinkings, ens. – het maw sy deel trauma al beleef.
On the boat I meet Rune (spreek uit “roene”), one of the guides. His full-time job being IT – with a masters in Maths – he takes time out often to help on the Hermes.
Rune notices I have come without gloves and a beanie (I have none – I would be OK with my jacket-hood and pockets, yes?), and starts lambasting me. He talks a lot about maintaining body temperature. He comes over as very knowledgable about this – as he had been conscripted and experienced a lot during his training (yes! – Norway has a system of selective conscription). Rune explains deeply about clothing in this world – perhaps I’ll say something more about this later on.
For the moment, he teaches me to rather use the upper pockets of my jacket to keep my hands warm: it’s closer to the heart, he says. I try for a while, and find that it actually works.
Janna – an extrovert – also works on the boat. She hails from eastern Europe, speaks 7 languages, and has now settled in Tromso for some years. Lovely talking with her as she hands me a warm fishcake…
After building some courage, I climb the narrow, steep stairs up to the wheelhouse, to Arndt (62) – the introverted skipper and man in charge of this trip and the boat. Arndt does not talk much, as I peer at his instruments and admire the woodwork and outfitting. I ask one or two pointed questions: Is that the depth-meter – do you read in metres or fathoms? How are the currents around here? Arndt starts opening up: he remarks that I seem to know about boating. I say no, but I have a brother who was a fisherman.
Arndt picks up his binoculars and as he scans the way ahead, he says: “I’ve been a fisherman for 46 years. Deep sea trawlers. But I have retired now.“
“Oh. That’s a long time…. Do you miss it?“, I ask.
“I worked in the Barents Sea. It gets rough out there. I have seen very high water“. He does not say much more … as I quickly check on my phone where the Barents Sea is… where lots of cod is caught.
Arndt explains he now skippers the Hermes a few times a month, but actually he is a full time boat ambulance skipper these days, and shows me a pic on his phone. Because of all the fjords, it is quicker in northern Norway to transport patients by boat than by road.
Rune appears in the cabin and joins the conversation.
Dit voel nogal spesiaal om – met net ‘n handjievol aanboord – op ‘n 108-jarige boot te wees met so ‘n diep geskiedenis, en onder die Noorweegse vlag uit te vaar in hierdie stunning omgewing.
Die boot is klein, maar groot genoeg vir my om alleen te kan wees – om heel voor op die boeg in die yswind te staan. Of heel agter – en die Cummings 300 masjien se dik vibrasie te voel soos die water agter uitgeskop word. Wens Dirk was hier…
Ons meer na ‘n paar ure vas in Tromso, en ek gaan weer vinnig op na die stuurkajuit en gee vir Arndt ‘n handdruk.
Some snippets of being on the Hermes II… with Colin Hay’s “Waiting for my real life to begin“. A song that – for some reason – I listened to a lot on a long solo road trip past Pofadder in 2021:
“Any minute now, my ship is coming in
I’ll keep checking the horizon
And I’ll stand on the bow, and feel the waves come crashing
Come crashing down, down, down on me”
Zenobia
I step off the Hermes after a heartfelt greeting with the crew. For them – just another trip. For me – a memory for life.
For some reason a great loneliness comes over me (as the Irish say) as I walk the streets back through the city. Not sure why – possibly a need to share the experience of the boat? Or maybe I feel like a lone hero pioneer of sorts for being so far north. I mean: how many South Africans travel to Tromso? Maybe 1 person in 5 years? For a short visit. Who knows?
Anyway – I feel quite a bit down – as happens sometimes during solo traveling. It’s a necessary part of the journey.
In Tromso there are a number of tourist shops – all of them doing brisk business. Where one buys memorabilia and souvenirs. Usually I don’t do tourist shops, but while walking past one I thought: maybe get the customary T-shirt now – before I forget.
So I randomly walk into this large tourist shop – about the size of Die Karakoelsaal at Upington show grounds – packed to the brim with Norwegian coloured clothes, viking souvenirs, reindeer salamis, troll fridge magnets, and the like. And a range of good quality clothing – as in all over Norway. I find my T-shirt – that I’ll be wearing with pride back in S.A.. The one that I will often check that it is handled properly during washing. The one that I’ll be careful not to spill Cecile’s famous tamatiekos or Kloovenburg’s precious Eight Feet Red on.
Ek kom by die betaal-toonbank, waar daar so twee of drie dames werk. Hulle’s besig met heelwat klante: Chinese, Amerikaners, ‘n blas Spanjaard, en een verlore Skot. Ek wag eenkant vir ‘n stilligheid. Hou nie van afgejaagdheid nie – hoeveel keer kom mens tog in Tromso?
Na ‘n rukkie gaan die toonbank oop – ek staan nader. Die lang, skraal-geboude vrou met sterk Oos-Europese gelaatstrekke help my. Sy’s vlytig. Vinnig. Vrolik. Vriendelik. En ja – haar aksent kom sterk uit die Ooste. Ek komplimenteer: “You speak with a wonderful accent. Where are you from?“
Haar gesig blom meteens. Soos amper altyd gebeur wanneer mens ‘n Oos-Europeër vra na sy/haar herkoms. Daardie mense het ‘n tipe liefde vir hulle land wat mens nie maklik elders kry nie. Hulle oë flikker wanneer hulle van hulle land en hulle mense begin praat. “Where the heart beats stronger“, soos Roel van Siruname dit eenkeer gesê het.
Die dame bedank my… vertel sy is van “Estonia” (Estland). En sy gesels en vra hoflik na my paspoort sodat ek BTW-afslag kan kry… en… en… en.
Ek geniet die geselsie… terwyl die hoek van my oog die Estlander se mooi kollega vang wie eenkant agter die toonbank vir my staan en bekyk. Maar ek steur my nie – ek en die Estlander begin nou so half kuier oor die toonbank. Sy met haar Russies-Engels en ek met my Kaapse Vlakte-Engels. Terwyl die mooi een eenkant – ek skat haar so middel twintigs – met haar swart hare en intelligente Eskimo-blou oë my steeds staan en betrag.
Uiteindelik kry ek my groen paspoort uitgegrawe en gee dit vir die Estlander.
EN NOU BREEK ALLE HEL LOS!
In die harwar dink ek die Estlander sê iets soos “AHHH SSASS AFRIKAN!!!” terwyl sy omswaai na die mooi swartkop, En swartkop spring nader met iets soos “Ek wou mos sê ek hoor iets!“.
Ontmoet vir Zenobia.
Zenobia Seyfert.
Van Limpopo.
Jinnnne!
En NOU word hier gekuier om HIERDIE toonbank. En ons praat Afrikaans SO dat die ander kollegas, Estlander ingesluit, amper saampraat soos hulle geniet. En wie sou nou kon dink dat hierdie 59-jarige in Tromso – van alle plekke – “OOM” genoem sal word!?
Zenobia se mense boer daar ver in Limpopo. Met ‘n verskeidenheid dinge – haar pa voer ook sitrus uit. En haar moeder het ook allerhande dinge aan die gang. Tipiese vindingryke Suid-Afrikaanse mense. Zenobia het tans ‘n meestersgraad in menslike fisiologie, en haar kêrel is in genetika. Die twee van hulle is nou al 3 jaar in Tromso.
Daar is groot verlange na die huis. Natuurlik.
Maar die lewe en toekoms lyk beter vir hulle hier. En hulle begin kyk na moontlik eiendom koop.
Jinnnne!
Wherever I am lucky to travel, I do not seek out South Africans. I see no reason for doing that. We are found just about everywhere these days anyway.
BUT – it has happened now once or twice (as previously with Veronica in Belgium) that the moment is just right, and the personality is just right, and that one makes a connection in an instant. A connection that warms the heart, and a connection that will probably last for a very long time.
I leave the shop accepting Zenobia’s invitation to pop in again in two days – on my birthday.
A few streets further on I find myself sitting in a pub with a Mack pilsner…. I have things to think about…
Mack beer
There’s a brewery in town. Allegedly the northernmost brewery in the world. So guess who’s off to a little guided tour.
On arrival, I remark on the guide’s interesting accent – thinking she was foreign. But no – she explained widely about Norwegian dialects. Even grabbed a piece of paper and started lecturing me on sounds and the written form. Most of it unfortunately went over my head – too much for me to follow when surrounded by wall-to-wall shelves of their wide selection of different beers.
Mack (pronounced “muck”) is a private, family-owned company for around 150 years now.
The beers are mostly in a pilsner, light lager or cider style. Exports are growing, with main regions currently being Sweden, Australia, New Zealand and Asia. As far as the ingredients go: the water is from the Lyngen Alps in Norway, the barley comes mostly from Finland, hops are imported from a range of countries, and the yeast is a company-owned secret.
The beers are not bottle fermented. And I don’t see any signature glasses for specific beers.
Their best seller is the Isbjorn Lager.
I like the Haakon lager – although it tastes a bit like a cider to me. The Gullmack would be my favourite here – a strongish pilsner.
I enjoy the tour by the proficient tour guide cum language teacher, although I feel slightly awkward for being the only English-speaking guest in the group of about 10 people. The others all being Norwegian – so the whole tour has to be in English. For some reason, I am the only one asking questions…
Afterwards I leave the brewery without anyone knowing I was wearing my brown Westvleteren T-shirt under my jacket… I was somewhat undercover. For I have friends in high places. Places like Roeselare, Moorslede and Poperinge. Where proper beer is sacred, brewed by monks, and a friend would think nothing of having a few bottles of Westvleteren 12 in a kitchen cupboard somewhere. Or buying Westmalle Tripel or Orval by the case.
Nevertheless – I buy three different bottles of Macks. Will try them tonight with the flatbrød and brunost.
“We Norwegians have a lot of clothes”
Soos in meeste van Europa, is alle geboue en vervoer hier (treine, busse, bote) goed verwarm binne. Maar die koue buite is diep – en dis nog nie eens vol winter nie.
Ek dra aanvanklik ‘n langmou-“frokkie” – soos ons in S.A. sou sê – met ‘n T-hemp bo-oor, en dan my dik, waterdigte Duitse baadjie wat ek altyd in Europa gebruik. En dik sokkies binne die stewels. Hierdie was altyd genoeg – selfs in Berlyn se Februarie onder-vriespunt koue.
Maar nie hier nie.
Die eerste tien minute buite is draagbaar, maar dan begin die koue oral inkruip. Tot by pyndrempel. Vingers en ore begin ook swaarkry – veral as daar ‘n wind waai. En tone as mens in die “veld” loop (eintlik gevrieste gras). Op 59 jaar en 364 dae spog ek nog met ‘n bos hare (jammer, Dappie), maar selfs dit hou nie die kop warm hier nie.
So ek begin TWEE baadjies dra – soos Rune (en Aron) verduidelik het: layering. En dat die lae klere nie almal styf moet sit nie: daar moet ruimte wees vir lug tussen-in. Dis die geisoleerde lug wat liggaamshitte help behou (die argitekte onder ons sal goed weet). Streng gesproke – wanneer dit regtig winter raak, en mens langdurig buite is, is daar ‘n spesifieke orde vir die lae klerasie… met o.a. wol-onderklere teen die vel. Want wol hou vog weg. En vog – sweet of reën of nat sneeu – is die groot vyand: mens moet dit weghou van die vel. In die militêr en op see word ook ‘n vog-werende stof op die buitenste lae klere gespuit om water te laat afloop, sê Rune. Selfs Rune se vroulike kollegas is nie beskroomd om uit te lê hoe vroue se klerasie werk in hierdie klimaat nie, en hulle rugsakke uit te dop om te wys watter addisionele lae alles saamgedra word nie. Huid-bedekking is nie ‘n ligtelike saak hier rond nie.
“Yes – we Norwegains have a lot of clothes“, hoor ek later vir Aron sê.
I don’t really have to go to that level in my short stay here. My four layers are doing OK. But I’ll have to do something about the fingers, and frozen scalp, and the ever-growing ears . So I pop into an outdoor shop and get myself a decent – Scandinavian made – beanie and pair of gloves.
The beanie, called “Lue” (uitgespreek “LOE-êêê”), or as Rune says it: “Ueee” – without the L in his Bergen-dialect, is of Scandinavian military style – as Rune has advised. It is of thin material, so catches less wind and takes less space under any additional head-gear (e.g. headlight in darkness), and has a sort of “webbing” on the inside – that magically reduces chill even more. Now I just have to find a solution for the reading glasses that habitually rest on my head…
The gloves (“mittens” or “hanske”) are not sitting tight against the fingers, creating a warm layer inside. And they are really easy to put on or get off – with leather strips to help.
From the moment I put them on – both the hanske and the Lue – it’s as if I start seeing clearer when outside. Extreme cold has a way of creating tunnel vision. As the Norwegian saying goes: “There is no such thing as bad weather. Only bad clothing“. These people really know how to.
And so my upgraded outfit greatly enhances my experiences outside – I can spend much longer on walks and outings (although I sometimes look like a walking condom to myself in shop window reflections).
The lue and hanske become my new best friends – I don’t go anywhere without them. But – for even longer hours or lower temperatures, these northern people have another trick up their multi-layered sleeves: thermal suits!
For the dogs
“I’m sorry – you are the only one today. If you want to cancel, it will be OK.“
Ek kan my geluk nie glo nie!
“Do you mean I’m the only one in the group? Can I please continue?”, vra ek die jongman met die opvallende wenkbroue. Hy staan langs die minibussie waarmee hy ‘n uur ver gery het na Tromso vanaf die familieplaas in Lakselvdalen – ‘n winterwit-vallei tussen die hoë berge. Om ‘n groepie toeriste te kom kry vir ‘n honde-slee avontuur.
En ek is vandag die enigste een! ‘n Droom-verrassing. Want ek verkies alleen wees… om een-tot-een nuwe dinge te doen. Maar soms in ‘n nuwe, onbekende wêreld moet mens “toeris” wees, die titel “reisiger” prysgee – om voet in die deur te kry – en ek’t vir my plek in ‘n groepie bespreek. Maar vandag IS ek die groepie!
Werkende honde (working dogs) was nog altyd vir my ‘n fassinasie. Border collies, gidshonde, polisiehonde, plofstof-honde… hoe hulle opgelei word… die natuurlike instink… die fokus… die uitbundigheid… En vandag is dit my droom-kans om die wêreld van slee-honde te ervaar. Alleen – met ‘n kenner.
Aron (24) praat graag soos hy kalm die draaiende paaie bestuur rondom die fjords en tussen enorme wit berge deur. Hy praat oor sy pa, Thomas – ‘n legendariese honde-slee renner – wat nou begin leisels oorgee op die plaas. Hy wys plase en berge se name uit soos ons ry, en vertel van klerasie en warmte, en praat oor allemansretten – die Noorweegse beginsel dat almal oral mag loop. En hy vertel van plase wat deesdae al hoe groter word, en waar hulle hooi kry, hoe die hellings as vervoermiddel gebruik word, waar hy skoolgegaan het, en dat hy graag vakansie gaan hou op ander plekke – solank daar sneeu is.
Mens kry sterk die gevoel: dis sy wêreld die. Sy plek. Soos ‘n Kalahari-boer tussen warm, rooi sand-duine. Aron se sand is net koud en wit. En hier lui nie fone as dit reën nie.
(Spektakulêre rit na die plaas by Lakselvdalen. Let op die sneeu-paaltjies elke paar meter)
Dis wanneer Aron oor die honde praat, dat sy oë begin blink. Hy vertel van die spanne waarin honde werk, die persoonlikhede, die name, en “...these are not indoor dogs…“, en dat hulle nie werk bo plus 5 grade nie – dis te warm vir die honde dan. (Hier rond sê die mense PLUS voor die temperatuur wanneer hulle bo zero bedoel. Anders sê hulle net “10 degrees”, dan moet mens weet: hulle bedoel minus 10.)
Met die laaste afdraai besluit hy dat daar nog te min sneeu is vandag – sal nie die slee kan vat nie. Sal vandag met wiele moet uitgaan.
Ons kom by die plaas, en dis snerpend koud.
Die 30 honde sien die bussie stop, en raak opgewonde met ‘n chaotiese kabaal: hulle weet wat kom! (Net die Border Collie wat rustig wag):
Ek probeer kennis maak met Thomas en Anna (sy doen die admin en ontvangs), maar dit werk nie: te veel geraas. Thomas is in elk geval druk besig met woelige honde inspan, Aron het ook ingespring om hom te help, en Anna stoot my die huis in en prop my in ‘n thermal suit. Terwyl sy my in die dik rubberagtige pak toe-gespe, word instruksies afgerammel: moenie jou hande hier sit nie, voete altyd daar op die wa, as jy moet hardloop, spring so, wanneer Aron dit sê – doen dat…
Ek’t skaars weer my handskoene behoorlik aan, word by die deur uitgeboender, en op die wa sitgemaak. Dit raas, dis koud, 8 honde is ingespan, met die orige 22 wat luid protesteer om saam te gaan, en Thomas beur met al sy gewig voor ons terug aan die toue om die span teë te hou. Aron klim vinnig agter my op en skree in my oor: “Eight dogs today, because we are alone.” (Gewoonlik neem hulle 6, of 5). “Hold on tight, heh!“
Die volgende oomblik maak Anna die houthek oop en Thomas los die toue.
Wooooshhh!!!
I was not expecting this sudden, huuuuge burst of speed and power! The eight dogs immediately going silent as they rocket away.
I almost fall out of the cart as the dogs swing to the right with nails digging into the first stretch of tarred road. Within a minute we are a distance away from the farm, and it’s quiet – only the wind in my ears and the sounds of dog-feet on the tar and ice. I’m fascinated – can barely breathe!
“They will settle down now“, says Aron, as Ifa – the farm’s border collie runs alongside with great pleasure.
The dogs pulling today are Klara & Catrine at the front, Bonnie & Stella 2nd line, 3rd: Togo & Elmon, and Øre and Flekken at the back:
“Ghhiieeeeee“, shouts Aron, and the dogs swing violently left off the tarmac onto a little tweespoor-paadjie into the iced “veld“. The sudden bumps shock me. It’s very rough going – I have to cling for heaven and hell, as Ifa streaks ahead – enjoying her outing thoroughly. A fork in the road, and with Aron’s “Haaaaa!!!“, the dogs swing right like an army platoon – doing their level best to pick up speed after every turn. I am gobsmacked by the power of the dogs. And astonished by the scenes playing out in front of me: the brilliantly running dogs with the snowy landscape and glorious mountains.
Man! This is beautiful! Huge fun! Wooohooooo!
And so we continue – left, right, up, down, further and further – deeper into the mountains… through some woods. My eyes blurry from the cold wind and trying to focus on the big holes and bumps in the veldpaadjie – to brace myself for every jolt, and avoid branches sticking out from trees. Going through crisp clear river streams, Aron’s voice “AALLE KLAAR”‘s the dogs for wanting to stop for a drink – they must continue now, to get fit for the season – and the dogs power up the opposite river bank – their backs arching under the strain.
An hour goes by, and we stop at a spot that Aron calls his “Grand Canyon”: a gorge between two brilliantly white mountains with an icy waterfall washing down the rocks. The dogs take a breather, the surrounding forest is absolutely silent.
And then we’re off again.
This is heaven, I think to myself, as icy specks of gravel from the racing dogs’ paws fly past my face, and my arms burn from clutching onto the cold steel. One of the most beautiful places I have been, experiencing a dream adventure.
Aron shouts “STTOOOOO”, and we stop. He gets off the back. “Now it’s your turn“.
I nervously clamber up the back – hands trembling with excitement. Aron shows me the brakes and how to handle the steering. “But I will handle the dogs – they will not listen to your voice – OK?“, he says.
At first, I bugger up once or twice – steering the cart off the trail, braking at the wrong times, and confusing the dogs. But quickly I get the hang of it. I start learning how to avoid the biggest potholes, how to change direction in line with the dogs, and duck just in time before striking low-hanging branches. I almost suffocate myself running up a long steep incline, helping the dogs when the going gets slow by pushing upwards as Aron has instructed: running on ice and snow is not easy – while Aron sits blissfully watching the surroundings. The trickiest part is descending down an impossibly steep, snowy slope where the dogs sprint downhill like lunatics. One needs to brake very aggressively without skidding and losing total control at high speed. I almost lose my nerve here.
The dogs just keep going. Their energy is unbelievable. Their lust for life an eye-watering inspiration.
After about two hours we again cross a stream, and this time Aron stops the dogs – mid-stream. The 8 animals drink from the crisp water, panting. A moment later Ifa appears back from the front in a haste – coming to see where we are – she loves running ahead.
We continue – the last hour a flat, decent piece of road. It’s peaceful. We don’t talk much. The dogs have settled into a trot. Ifa now runs below between my legs, as I stand with feet spread apart on the two little platforms, while I steer and brake, and hop on and off now and then on little inclines.
Aron compliments my newly acquired skill. I love the moment.
He starts talking about life on the farm. He tells me that – when he has a bad day or a challenging time – he leaves his phone at the house and takes his dogs… for a long run… half-a-day often. Alone. This is his therapy – his church.
I think of a poem called Rescued Time – by an Irishman (who else):
If we could go back and rescue time
If the ticking clock could somehow stop
And return us to a perfect spot, a moment.
What would it be?
(Watch it here – if you have time)
Eventually we pull up back at the house – tired, hungry and a bit muddy. But I feel as if I have just been born.
The other dogs are noisy again. But this time probably because it’s time for their once-a-day feed of raw intestines/tripe (afval) mixed with dog pellets. I help unharnassing the 8 dogs after Thomas shows me how to: this belt that way, that rope underneath, carefully bend the paw, slip the knot through… The dogs are quite mild-mannered, easy to handle. I make a mistake and a dog escapes… Aron has to run around the house to fetch it.
Aron stel my voor aan ‘n paar van die honde, hulle name, wie is wie se broer of suster, en wie werk in watter spanne. Die tefies word gewoonlik voor ingespan, die reuns agter. Andersom werk nie lekker nie – die reuns wil dan aanmekaar omdraai. Die twee geslagte se slaaphokke is ook geskei.
Die honde wat hier gebruik word is Alaskan Huskies. Dis ‘n kruising tussen die Siberian Husky, windhond (greyhound) en labrador. Die honde is nie vir spoed gebou nie, maar uithouvermoë – hulle kan heeldag hardloop en trek. Die pels het twee lae, met die onderste laag donsagtig met ‘n vetlaag. “We never use soap on the dogs – it disturbs the fat – they will freeze.“
Siberiese Huskies werk blykbaar nie hier nie. Hulle is te klein en lig en kry nie vastrap nie – “…they float on deep snow“. Die Alaskan Malamut word ook nie gebruik nie – hulle is weer te sterk en aggressief, en “.. we must carry a baseball bat to break up all the fights…“.
Aron wys vir my die hok met ‘n klompie jonges, en ons gaan in vir ietsie te eet, tee, gesels.
Anna se ouma kom van Suriname – haar oupa was ‘n Noorweegse rob-jagter. Anna het ‘n online gaming-vriendin in die Kaap – maar sy was self nog nie in S.A. nie. Ons praat oor politiek, slange, honde, fake news oor Suid-Afrika, en die son.
Aron neem my later weer terug terwyl dit skemer word. Die uur-lange rit weer deur sprokies-valleie en rondom fjords. Hy praat oor sy ADHD-diagnose toe hy klein was. En hoe dit nou nog “…on my papers…” is, en hom verhoed het om weermag te kon doen, en sy vragmotor-bestuurlisensie inperkings het daaroor, en dat hy nog eendag dit “…off my papers…” wil kry.
In ‘n donker Tromso laai hy my af. Ek kyk lank agterna soos hy wegry. Hy wuif.
Vir hom – net nog ‘n toeris.
Vir my – ….
(I will go back one day. I must go back again. If life permits. Next time in mid-winter – when the snow is heavy – for a proper sled!)
Yes yes yes. BUT – DID YOU SEE THE LIGHTS!?
27 Oktober. Maandagoggend. Dis my verjaardag. 60.
Steeds onwerklik.
Ek word laat wakker. Aspris.
Want vannag gaan ek moet wakker kan bly – dalk heelnag.
Ek maak “Oilfant-tee” uit Suid-Afrika – bemarkers kan nogal kreatief wees.
Soek my foon en bril om te sien wat sê die apps is die kanse: (die Afrikaanse woord vir “apps” is seker nie regtig “toeps” nie, né?)
YR: bewolk vanaand
AccuWeather: 90% bewolk vanaand
Windy.app: 100% bewolk vanaand
WeatherBug: 85% bewolk vanaand
Mmmm….
Die maan: donker. Dis minstens goed
Die rits “Aurora” apps wat ek gelaai het:
KP : Tussen 1 en 2. Oef! Laag. Gehoop vir ‘n 5 of iets.
Hemispheric power: Net ‘n paar Gigawatt
IMF: Laag
Speed: Laag
“Predicted chance tonight“: Laag
Mmmmm….
Nee wat – vanaand sien ek nie die noorderligte nie. Nogal gedink die afgelope dae se bewolktheid sal volhou. En selfs sonder wolke lyk die syfers nie goed nie.
Meeste van die dinge hierbo verstaan ek nie – het maar net onlangs begin leer wat moet mens dophou en watter apps doen betroubare voorspellings.
Maar ek voel goed geseënd. Veral oor die hordes boodskappe op my foon. Van oral en almal. En daar stroom steeds in.
Jinnnnne! Ou vriende, nuwe vriende, matriek-vriende, fiets-vriende, besigheidsvriende, kollega-vriende, weermag-vriende, onderwys-vriende. En sommer net vriende.
En familie.
En ‘n besondere mooi een van my kamermaat daar by die huis.
Dis onverdiend. Mens voel klein.
Ek lees weer die info-blaadjie oor vanaand se “Northern Lights Hunt” met Julien, Franse “Northern Lights guide” – vir 10 jaar al. Ek’t maar ‘n toeriste-ding geboek – dis nie sinvol om – minstens vir ‘n eerste keer – self die noorderligte te gaan “soek” nie. Motor huur, self bestuur hier in die nag, waar om te gaan, waarvoor om te kyk…. Julien se blaadjie sê: “Ontmoet 18:15 (dis dan al stikdonker), trek warm aan, waterdigte skoene, bring paspoort – want ons ry soms tot in Finland om iets te kan sien, die soektog kan 6 tot 9 ure duur, ons is baie ervare, maar belowe niks…“
Mmmmm….
Ek sien nou nogal op daarteen om 9 ure in ‘n toerbussie vol snorkende toeriste op ‘n bleek-koue Noorse donkermaan-nag Skandinawië op-en-af te deurkruis op soek na ‘n gaatjie in ‘n wolk iewers. Oorweeg om te kanselleer…. baie ander dinge om te doen… en tyd is min: 60 is immers al hier.
Maar nee – kom ek gaan maar. Was ‘n lang pad tot hier.
In ‘n besige Tromso Maandagaand-straat is almal oplaas in die bussie. So 12 stuks: Chinese, Maleisiërs, twee van Nieu-Zeeland, en twee van Redding, Engeland. Plus Julien. En sy drywer – David, die Rus – wie elke halfuur op reaksie van ‘n elektroniese alarmpie in ‘n asem-toetsertjie blaas.
Die sitplek binne is knap. Julien kondig in gebroke Frans-Engels aan ons gaan so 20km uitry en dan stop en beraadslaag, en dan weer verder ‘n rigting inslaan. Ek wonder of ek genoeg te eet in my rugsak het… lyk na ‘n lang nag.
My foon bewe weer. Seker nog verjaardag-boodskappe vir die oom. Ek kyk: Nee – nogal nie. Dis die Aurora app alerts!!??:
Waaaat!? Kan dit wees?
Ek sien Julien daar voor is ook aan die praat op sy foon met die 3de of 4de oproep…
Die bussie stop. Julien glimlag. Hy sê dinge lyk goed – sy kontakte in die omgewing sê daar’s iets. En hy sien ook die wolke trek weg. Ek loer deur die venster uit na bo: wraggies – sterre! Die Fransman sê hy ken ‘n plek naby – ons gaan soontoe en kyk wat gebeur.
Tien minute later stop ons op ‘n donker pad met dorp-liggies in die verte. Ons klim uit.
Julien sê: kyk daar!
Ons kyk op – ‘n lang ligbleek vlieswolk.
Ons moet van die pad af, en ons oë laat donker gewoond raak – sê hy.
Ons klompie strompel die stikdonker veld in… probeer die gladde wit yskolle mistrap. Maar die donker kolle tussen die ys is OF gras, wat goeie vastrapplek gee, OF semi-gevriesde water, wat tot by die enkels koud maak. Gelukkig net so 50 meter nog.
Ons stop. Almal moet fone toehou en ligte af.
Ek kyk weer op. Daai vlieswolk raak dan nou lig-groenerig.
En ons begin mekaar help foto’s neem (night mode). Die kameras (fone ook) bring die lieflike kleure goed uit.
Opgewonde stemme en asems in die donker.
Later raak die aurora sterker, en die wonderwerk-kleure raak met die blote oog sigbaar.
En nog bietjie later begin hulle dans! Ongelooflik!
En dit raak net mooier en mooier.
Julien sê dis sy beste “sighting” tot dusver hierdie seisoen.
Hy neem ‘n foto van elkeen van ons met sy driepoot-kamera. Mens weet nie waar om te kyk in die stikdonkerte nie – en die foto neem lank – doodstil staan.
Ons is voor twaalfuur die aand reeds terug in Tromso.
Meer kan ek nie sê nie – die fototjies praat:
Behalwe die een waarop ek staan (deur Julien geneem), het ek die res almal self geneem – met my foon. Dis stikdonker, maar weens die lang “exposure time” word die omliggende landskap sigbaar via die kamera.
These little video snippets I made myself when the “dancing” started. Bad focus and low quality, and I kept the sound in, but it’s my own:
Wat ‘n geluk!
Wat ‘n belewenis!
Dankie vir die saamreis.
En die verjaardagwense.
There are so many more stories to tell and moments to revisit on this (for me) dramatic journey: many delightful, some more somber – some of them here, here and here. From the Polish lady who insists on not becoming a granny walking on ice, to the dramatic public feud by an American family on their visit to the ABBA museum, to my meet-up with friend Snezana in Oslo, to the Uber drivers in their electric cars, the extreme safety and discipline of Norwegian motorists, and more.
But – alas:
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep” (Robert Frost)
Or Bob Seger again:
“I’ve got so much more to think about
Deadlines and commitments
What to leave in, what to leave out“
Back home now. Had to take the fast route.
I feel extremely lucky to have been able to do this trip. Except for a broken toe-nail, I’ve had no pains or aches this time – not even the sniffles. But solo traveling is becoming less easy as the years clock up.
Health and time are the true currencies now.
Going solo – one has to be prepared for discomfort, to lose yourself – not worry too much where you sleep, lots of walking, travel light, try to keep an open mind, see people’s hearts. Invest yourself – it’s often painful, but the returns are unimaginable.
As Bonny Tyler so dramatically sang looong ago – in a time we call The Eighties – that’s forty years ago:
“Every now and then I get a little bit nervous
That the best of all the years have gone by
Every now and then I get a little bit restless
And I dream of something wild“
Thanks for following this journey.
Fred Roux
Okt-Nov 2025
🇳🇱🇩🇪🇩🇰🇸🇪🇳🇴
