Land of the Midnight Sun

En route, somewhere along the Norwegian coast.

Hei hei from Norway, where I arrived here mid-June to join the salty dog sailing crew of Ms. R., the mother of my Trinity college roommate, G. All those years ago when I was told about the annual boating trips commandeered by Ms. R., I thought, “Now THERE’S something I MUST pursue!” It has taken me five years, other travels far and wide, and another stint at university life before I was able to make concrete this once-passing fancy. But here I am basking in the midnight sun, marveling at the unfathomable fjords and sheer mountain peaks, keeping a lookout for reindeer and moose herds, dining on a cornucopia of seafood, aquavit and brown cheese, and coming to grips with such novels terms as bow and boom, port and starboard*, battening hatches and hoisting the main sails, and learning the intricacies of gale forces.

* Fittingly, the word starboard is descended from the Old Norse words stýri meaning “rudder” (from the verb stýra, literally “being at the helm”, “having a hand in”) and borð etymologically meaning “board”, then the “side of a ship”.

But before I regale you with tales of the high seas, there has been an intervening period of time where I was MIA and so apologies for my correspondent absence. Indeed, I have not sent a massive missive since last summer’s sojourn to Nepal and India, and some of you may have been wondering whether I packed it in and took up with the sadhus to live an ascetic existence. The answer is, Not yet! I returned to New York to work for the Irish government at the UN during the General Assembly, while also finishing my course work at The New School. Since January I dedicated most of my time and sanity to the academic endeavor of my thesis, “Recasting Identity: Constitutional Deliberations and Dalit Rights in the ‘New Nepal’”, which utilized much of the research I’d completed last summer. I survived, despite having my computer stolen the night before I handed in my thesis (losing only my bibliography – a pain to be sure, but not as painful as a year’s worth of work which was thankfully saved on a flash drive!). I visited my dad in Oregon for 2 weeks and said the briefest of hellos/goodbyes to a bare handful of Portland peeps, returned to New York in time to graduate and pack up my life & apartment into a 5 ft. x 7 ft. storage space, and swiftly departed in a cloud of 747 exhaust to land across the Atlantic, home in Ireland.

It was a balm on my harried self to have a blessed handful of weeks on the aul’ sod. The weather, as we Irish are quick to discuss, couldn’t have been better. It is almost a different country when the sun shines. Not to say we’re a grim bunch, but with some exposure to nature’s ready-made vitamin D people smile more, laugh readily, and are ever so loquacious in giving thanks for beautiful climatic conditions. Living a short walk from woods and the beach, I took every opportunity to be outside. The fields, carpeted in a rainbow of bog lilies, bluebells, honeysuckle and clover, sensually assault the senses. Down on the north shores of Galway Bay, small waves crashed a soft lullaby kept off tempo by the crackle and pop of seaweed in the sunshine. Across the way, Clare’s hills sat in a dull haze countered by the brilliant sparkle of the water. When I wasn’t rambling, I was cooking wonderful feasts, lounging in front of the telly watching such classics as The Quiet Man, Gleaming the Cube, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Movie, and sleeping in what became my 12-hourly nightly rituals and afternoon siestas. I attended the beautiful wedding of an Irish friend from NYC, complete with céilí dancing and speeches that showcased the gift of gab while not leaving a dry eye in the house.

But the best part of being in Ireland was spending time with my family and friends. One day my mom and I went calling on my friend C.’s family home in the country outside of Galway City. In the brief hour and half we were there, no less than six pots of tea were consumed, as siblings, aunts, uncles, and a grandmother also stopped in to say ‘Howya’ on their ways elsewhere. It was not yet 11 AM, but the table was laid with cookies (“biscuits”), carrot cake, and lemon meringue pie. Bursting at the seams, and despite the misty rain that fell, we then made our way to Coole Park for a walk in the 7 Woods. An area of 1,000 acres, Coole Park was formerly the home of Lady Gregory – a dramatist, folklorist and co-founder of the Abbey Theatre along with W. B. Yeats. In the early 20th century Coole was the centre of the Irish Literary Revival, with poets and authors including Yeats, G. B. Shaw, J. M. Synge and Sean O' Casey all returning to Coole time and again to talk, plan and derive inspiration from its incredible setting. The old manor house no longer stands, but the ancient woods, lakes and gardens are today open to the public. Our walk was followed by yet another spot of tea, this time washing down delicious homemade scones and jam while seated in a traditional working farm, where C.’s mother works and hosts busloads of tourists looking for an “authentic” Irish experience. The most authentic aspect, though, is not the thatch roof cottage with the turf fire and lambs baaaaa-ing away in the background, nor is it the custom of high tea at 4:00, but rather the genuine warm welcome delivered and received. Besides rain, Guinness and leprechauns, is that not what the Irish are renowned for ?

So I was well fed and watered when I left Ireland mid-June. As I flew east from Dublin to Copenhagen and north to Trondheim, my tinge of melancholia was soon overcome by excitement and nervousness at the immanent sea voyage. Will I get hypothermia if I fall in the water? Do I look like a fool if I don’t know how to tie a minimum of five different sailing knots? What if I get seasick all over the cabin? Do I say ‘Good morning!’ or ‘Ahoy!’ when I awaken on board? These and other seemingly innocuous thoughts plagued me as I spent the following couple days wandering the rainy streets of Trondheim. Not having any spare kidneys to sell, I limited my spending to the bare cup of coffee to sip on and watch the Norwegian world go by. Of course, our preconceptions of a place are riddled with stereotypes – I thought everyone here would be dressed in animal skins sporting helmets with horns. Hardly. Though many inhabitants of these northern lands do have sparkling baby blues and hay-coloured manes, just as many are dark-eyed with raven tresses. My host Ms. R. bore my incessant questioning of the whys and wiles of Norway’s politics, pastimes and pre- and post-oil boom history with patience; she herself Dutch but living here and teaching school for the better part of 30 years.

We cast off a day later than planned due to the rotten weather. Pulling away from our mooring in Trondheim the waves were chopping, the wind was howling, and rain was pouring down. The crew was 5 in all, including an old friend of Ms. R. – T. – and his two daughters aged 13 and 15 who were seasick that afternoon (and subsequently for much of the journey). Surprisingly my delicate stomach doth not protest the rocking boat! My duty that first evening and for most (but not all) of the trip was mess cook, and that expression speaks truly. Learning to cook at a 45* angle does not do much for the notion of food presentation. One evening, a sudden lurch of the boat gave me a lovely hued bruise down my arm, and also left T. eating his dinner from his lap. There is little grace in oceanic dining! The weather finally cleared just as we docked the first night, and I gratefully stepped out onto solid ground and tried to lose my sea legs. This became de rigueur as each evening I would attempt to shake the shakiness from my appendages. Easier said than done, for as soon as I gained a semblance of stability, it was back to the boat to gain some rest before the next morning’s early departure.

The route we took the following week not so much as hugged the coast as kept it somewhere starboard as we headed north. We docked in small harbours, some with small villages and others with a collection of houses, largely vacant except for the summer holiday-makers who descend in July. One evening we stopped at an island called Leka. After a wee weenie roast on the rocks to celebrate the summer solstice, I wandered off to explore. Leka has been inhabited for at least 10,000 years, as evidenced by rare Stone Age rock paintings in a cave in one part of the island. It is also the site of “Ørnerovet,” a famous incident in 1932 in which a three-year old girl was snatched and carried off by an eagle! She was found alive and barely scratched, having been flown up a nearby mountain and deposited near the eagle’s rookery. But for me, the most interesting part of Leka was the large Viking ship burial mound. The saga tells of the chieftain King Herlaug refusing to submit to Harald Hårfagre – the man who came to unite Norway in the 9th century. Instead of submitting to Hårfagre, Herlaug and 11 of his men dug a hole, placed their ship in it, and were themselves buried alive inside it along with provisions needed for transition to the next world: tools, weapons and assorted livestock. Amateur excavations carried out in the 19th century uncovered the skeletons of 2 men and swords, but after local protests the mound was again left to gather the dusts of history. Today it is merely a small grassy knoll in the middle of a field near the shore, but walking up and around it gives a great sense of historical time, re-imagining what occurred beneath my feet more than a thousand years ago.

Another night we stayed on the island of Broga - the evening of the 23rd/24th; the fest of the nativity of St. Hans/St. Johannes/John the Baptist. Beyond the religious commemoration, many customs associated with the Nativity of John the Baptist are in fact more related to the concurrent celebration of midsummer which themselves are remnants of pre-Christian pagan midsummer festivals. Large bonfires lit all up and down the coast, including in Broga. The evening sun lighting up the coastal cliffs, reflecting the St. Hans fires that burned below. The island’s only public house had a late opening of 11 PM that night, so I enjoyed a cold Scandinavian draft and learned some choice Norwegian phrases (i.e. if someone is annoying you, one says, ‘komme bort du spøkelse, or ‘Get away, you ghost!’).

Just after Broga we passed through the Arctic Circle. As we continued north, the rolling rocky hills became replaced by taller glacial peaks, and the air gave off a decidedly crisper chill. Regardless of our latitude, we docked at the island of Fugløya (Bird Island) and had the afternoon to enjoy a fantastic beach with sparkling turquoise waters. The day was fine and warm, and omitting the temperature of the small waves that lapped the shore, one would be mistaken to believe they were in the Caribbean! We hiked up a small mountain and sat to watch the puffins skimming down as if on a zip line from their nests in the rocks to crest smoothly into the ocean 300 meters below. Unfortunately, the puffin population in the North Sea has been radically declining over the last few years, but scientists don’t exactly know why. Possible factors are not yet properly understood but it is thought due to climate change in the form of an intensification of winter storms that may be affecting the ability of puffins to find food. So it is with a little cheer and yell of “go puffins!” when I see the little buggers now.

We arrived in the Lofoten Islands, our final destination, a day ahead of schedule. Docking in the village of Reine, I found my way off the boat and wandered in the misty dusk down to the shore to examine the hele (sp?), or wooden racks of cod that are left for months to dry and cure in the salty sea air. The cod is then shipped abroad – the heads to African countries like Nigeria where they are ground and used as a base in a popular fish soup, and the meat to other European countries such as Italy and Portugal - ironically known, at least once upon a time, for their own sea catches.

Dodging the angry seagulls who saw me as an intruder and threat to their sustenance, I got out of the rain and into the local restaurant/bar – a small but charming gourmet haunt that seemed to be carved from the hull of an old ship. I got talking to two Swedes, one of whom works in the restaurant but was dining that night with her visiting friend. I had been admiring the crown of flowers worn in her hair, and was duly informed that it was Midsummer’s Eve – a big night in the Swedish calendar where bonfires are made, children dance around phallic poles (not my description), and general revelry is enacted. Curious as to how they would be celebrating here in Norway, I boldly invited myself along and they were kind enough to humour me. Returning to the large rooming house where they - as part of a small contingent of Swedes - live and work during the summer, we imbibed alcoholic beverages and filled the next few hours with random chat. It was a welcome change to be with new faces, so I was mildly shocked when they started tripping off to bed that it was 3:30 in the morning. I stumbled back to the boat in the morning light that had hardly changed from the previous evening’s, and awoke with rattlesnakes in my brain to say Ha det! to T. and his daughters, who were headed back to Trondheim.

Ms. R. and I then sailed on to Kabelvåg, where I land-lubbed with the incredibly hospitable A. for the past week. Stationary sailing knots have been traded for dynamic hikes and cycles around the island. I went fishing, and landed an impressive piece of seaweed! It has been a heretofore unknown luxury to sleep a bed that rests on solid ground. My feet that were perpetual blocks of ice on the boat have finally thawed. And it is good too to be back in the world of communication again, including being glued the latest World Cup games!

I very much enjoyed my adventures on the boat, and would love the opportunity to continue developing my nautical skills and dirty sailor’s brogue. But now the next stage of my European adventures with be completed by iron horse. I will be in Norway for another week visiting with my aforementioned home girl G., then am pointed south, heading to Croatia via Berlin and Vienna by train. Plans after that are still not finalized, but I will keep moving until my Interrail ticket is null and void – sometime at the beginning of August. So and as always, I’ll keep trucking until the road ceases to rise up and meet me.