Om å bli fotografert bakfra
Det skjer stadigvekk. Idet jeg snur meg står det en skokk med kinesere og knipser løs med deres nye digitalkameraer. Igjen har ryggen og mitt lyse hår vært gjenstand for en hemmelig fotosession. Når jeg går blir det både hoiet og ropt; jeg ødelegger tross alt motivet ved å forsvinne ut av bildet. Mange ser skuffet ut. Noen ganger velger jeg å la meg fotografere forfra for å være snill. I Sommerpalasset endte jeg derfor opp med en kø på nærmere 10 mennesker som ville fotograferes ved min side. Gamle
Faren til den lille gutten viser ham stolt fram til meg og sier "laowain, laowain" til sønnen sin og peker på meg. Laowain betyr utlending, og det er vel ingen som er i tvil om at det er det jeg er i et land hvor mitt tilnærmet hvite hår lyser opp på sikkert en halv kilometers avstand. Høyden og kroppsbygningen har jeg ellers til felles med de fleste andre kinesere og det er første gang jeg har blitt fortalt at jeg en størrelse large... På toget blir det snakket, diskutert, drukket te og spist nudler. Har man prøvd å ta en togtur i Kina, vet man hvordan man skal utruste seg til den neste: først kjøper man sånn er smart liten te-termos med filter på toppen, så kjøper man selvfølgelig te til denne, og til slutt bør man ha med seg noen bokser med nudler, avhengig av togturens lengde. I hver vogn finnes det kokende vann, så når man er sulten fyller man et av nuddel-begerne med varmt vann, og man har et måltid. Er man derimot ikke sulten, lager man seg en termos med te. Har man lyst på en øl eller litt snack, kjøper man bare det av vognene som går fram og tilbake med jevne mellomrom.
Klokka elleve blir lyset slukket og jeg ligger i senga mi med lommelykt og leser i en bok. Nabomannen har drukket kinesisk brennevin eller kanskje noen Tsingtaoer for mye og kravler halvfull oppi køya. Han ser fordrukkent på meg og prøver seg først på kinesisk, men skjønner fort at jeg ikke forstår et ord, og prøver seg derfor på litt engelsk før han gir opp og sovner umiddelbart hvis man tar den høylytte snorkingen i betraktning. Jeg har heldigvis ørepropper, klok av skade etter noen måneder i bussen med de andre og jeg sovner etter en stund.
Om å gjøre seg forstått
For å overleve i et land hvor språket på ingen måte har noe til felles med den indoeuropeiske språkgruppe, er det viktig ikke å være selvhøytidlig. Med en porsjon selvironi, gode mimekunnskaper og en like stor porsjon tålmodighet, kommer man langt. Dette kan til tider være hardt; nei, jeg skjønner ikke kinesisk selv om du snakker sakte, jo jeg er sulten og blodsukkeret er faretruende lavt, jeg vil bare ha et hotellrom og så videre. Til og med russisk fremstår nå i ettertid som et veldig forståelig språk sammenlignet med kinesisk. Likevel har det ikke vært noe problem. Vil man ha kylling til middag er det bare å flakse litt med armene (det er i dette tilfellet det gjelder om å ha en porsjon selvironi siden det utvilsomt ser latterlig ut i kinesiske øyne at en fremmed person flakser omkring på restaurantgulvet), eller man kan få lov til å bli med ut på kjøkkenet og peke ut grønnsakene man vil ha. Et annet alternativ er å peke på tegnene til kinesiske retter eller råvarer i sin guidebok og vanligvis får man deretter servert et godt måltid. Hvis man i tillegg til dette lærer ordene for ris, vann og øl på kinesisk, sulter eller tørster man aldri.
Om kinesisk-engelsk
"Great choise perfect reflect" står det med lysende røde bokstaver idet drosjen kjører forbi på en av Beijings mange motorveier. Navnet tilsier ikke uten videre at dette er et hotell, men det er ikke tvil om at dette må være et perfekt hotell om ønsker å gjemme seg bort fra Kinas mange mennesker. Chinglish er begrepet som forklarer fenomenet kinesisk-engelsk og som har vært gjenstand for mangt et humoristisk øyeblikk i min tid i Kina. De ganske bokstavelige oversettelsene fra kinesisk til engelsk er jo ikke direkte ulogiske slik skiltene "entance" og "outance" på et taoistfjell vi besøkte indikerer (de hadde for sikkerhetsskyld også utelatt r'en), og like fullt kan man av og til være i tvil om hva slags mat man bestiller de gangene menyene er på engelsk, men "fish-resembling aubergine" er faktisk bokstavelig talt aubergine stekt i fiskesaus
Om hunder
I Kina har man hund. Det kan godt hende man også spiser hund, men dette har jeg ikke sett noe til. Derimot er det mange små hunder som løper rundt på gata med eieren ropende bak. I Shanghai koster det visst til og med en god del penger for å få lov til å ha hund og hvem har ikke lyst til å vise hvor mange penger de har i et land med et av verdens høyest antall voksende millionærer?
Om å google
I et land som har lagt til seg en merkelig hybrid mellom kapitalisme og kommunisme er det fortsatt viktig å kontrollere borgerne. Dette gir utslag på forskjellig vis. Forsøk å google amnesty, sjekke ut noe på Wikipedia eller lese bloggen sin på blogspot og man får opp at dette er nettadresser som ikke eksisterer. Jeg fikk faktisk opp en "bible study" side når jeg forsøkte å komme inn på bloggen min. Lurer veldig på hvem som fant ut at jeg burde bli redirected dit. Det er ingen spøk at det faktisk sitter 30 000 personer konstant på vakt for å kontrollere hva folk oppsøker på nettet. En dame som søkte på Falun gong fra jobben sin fikk besøk av sikkerhetsvakten 15 minutter etterpå med beskjed om at dette var ikke et passende ord å søke på - i hvert fall ikke fra jobben. De ser ellers så snille ut, politiet i de grønne uniformene sine, men det er heller ingen spøk at kanskje opp til 15 000 mennesker blir henrettet i Kina årlig ifølge Amnesty. Det er ikke bare drap som fører til døden, men også synder som korrupsjon og politisk oppsternasighet kan føre til et nakkeskudd.
Om mat
Å spise er viktig i Kina, helst i fellesskap med andre hvor man samles rundt et stort bord og bestiller masse småretter som man deretter forsyner seg hjertelig av. For de som er opptatt av å ikke dele spytt med andre (spytting er ellers populært i Kina, overalt hører man harking for deretter å se store spyttklyser lande på bakken bak en, men det har forsåvidt ingenting med mat å gjøre), er dette ikke landet å besøke (eller, man kan jo bare la være å spise med andre). Her forsyner man seg med sine egne spisepinner i de forskjellige rettene og "dobbelt-dipper" gjerne. Men dette er en veldig hyggelig og sosial måte og spise på, og man glemmer fort at det kanskje ikke er så hygienisk. Maten har til dels vært fantastisk. Fra chili-hotpot i Chengdu i Sichuanprovinsen til Peking and i Beijing. Hvis det er noen som fortsatt tror at kinesisk mat er det man får på hjørnet i Norge, så må de tro om igjen. Det er ingensteder i nærheten av slapp sur-søt saus med kylling og ris. Men så er også Kina et enormt land med mange forskjellige kjøkkener, delt opp i fire store. Bare fra Kashgar helt nordvest i landet, til Sichuan og deretter Beijing, var det store forskjeller i krydderier og ingredienser, og ut fra den lille materfaringen jeg fikk i løpet av disse ukene, så var Kashgar (uighur-mat) og Sichuan de to stedene med klart best mat. Hvis dine tenner har begynt å løpe i vann, er det bare to ting du kan gjøre: 1. Kjøp en flybillett til Kina eller, hvis økonimien er litt skralten, 2.Bestill bord på Dinner i Oslo som visstnok ikke er såverst når det kommer til kinesisk mat.
Jeg anbefaler punkt 1.
Saturday 15 December 2007
Two cuban cigars, some Norwegian coins and a sami-postcard
"My brother was too lazy to become anything else than a police man" Maxim tells me when we are visiting his home in Petrozavodsk in Russia when I notice a police jacket hanging in the hall way. If you don't know what to do in life after the military service, he tells me, you can always just become a policeman: your future is safe as you don't need any education except from the two years military service, you have a secure, but small income, and you can of course always get more money if you are just a tiny bit creative.
This is Russia, where you have a good reason to fear the police, where the police torture half of all suspects according to an article in the Independent and where corruption is more the rule than the exception. Drive through Russia in your own bus, and you can't but notice the police presence. Outside every city or town there are check points, and on top of that, they like standing along the road, stopping cars - and of course - us. They have even made fake police cars in wood and card board along the roads to make sure you never feel safe and to keep up the paranoia.
In Russia we were stopped five times a day quite often. This meant almost every hour, or maybe twice in a row within half an hour. We never knew what to expect, every time they wanted to see something new or different from the last check point which would give the police checkpoints a certain nerve; what could we expect this time?
On the road between UFA and Chelyabinsk the 29th of August we wrote in our bus blog:
Check 1. Vehicle documents, drivers licence, where are you going?
Check 2. They opened the back door, drivers licence, passports, vehicle documents, bus owner's documents
Check 3. Tachograph check (a system where the bus kilometres and pauses are recorded), everything is okay, smile, some Norwegian kroner as souvenir
Check 4. Vehicle documents and driver's licence
Check 5. Vehicle documents and driver's licence
Sometimes a "good day" and "we are only Norwegian tourist" in Russian would be enough, and they would let us go, other times, they would like a Norwegian souvenir, preferable a Norwegian coin, one even wanted our dictionary. Martin was gone for a long time and we started to get a bit nervous in the bus - what did they want this time?, but then he comes back to the bus with a big smile telling us that the policeman wants our dictionary as a present. We gave him a post card with an old sami man instead. But then we also had the police officers wanting our money. That was a bit more tricky.
On our way to the Kyrgyz border we stopped at a big truck station specialising in selling eels in every thinkable way. We were in a good mood and some of us had been drinking a couple of beers in the bus before checking out this big truck stop in the middle of nowhere. After a short while some of us hooked up with a man selling smoked pig in a small house. The man was in his fifties and was a former officer in the army. Now his bony arms were shuffling coal into the fire and his big grin revealed a couple of golden teeth along with some missing teeth. Soon we were all to become best friends in the way alcohol blur the human brain's conception of the world.
The next day some of us woke up with a hang over, except Anders who was the one to start today's driving. After a couple of kilometres we were stopped as usual. Anders went in to talk with the policemen and came soon back out again rather shaky. "They took an alcotest and it shows that I have been drinking. I don't understand. I only had to beers last night and it shows 0.8%. They will take my driver's licence unless we pay $2000." Quite a good try - some one had told the policemen about our truck stop party. If the policemen had been smart, they would have asked for less money and we would probably have paid to avoid any further hassle, but $2000 was just a too big amount. We told Anders to refuse to pay any money and that he should demand to be taken to the nearest hospital for a blood test. The policeman played with his gun for a little while until he said "okay, just drive". We won. They lost.
If one is persistent and patient, one can drive through Russia and Central-Asia without paying any bribes, but being patient doesn't help if the policemen are being too creative and actually destroys your formal papers. This happened in Kazakhstan:
Another routine stop and Martin has to go into the office. Soon he comes back out again telling us that some insurance papers are missing according to the police. Guro who was the one fixing the papers in Astana tells him that they are all there. Martin goes back in again with Guro. We are all searching in the bus, in the garbage, everywhere for the so-called missing insurance paper without any luck. Inside the police check point there is another story taking place as Guro understands what has happened. They have replaced the new insurance paper with the old one and thrown the new one away while Martin had to go back to the bus to search for the "missing" papers. Now they want money. But without our paper we can't continue driving - then it will be missing in the next check point, and it will be hard to pay our way out through the rest of Kazakhstan. "Fy faen" Guro shouts really loud and tells exactly what kind of policeman she thinks he is. They are not used to see angry Norwegians in a big, grey bus. We don't pay anything, but we have to stay overnight close by and drive back to Astana to get new insurance papers the following day.
The further we get away from the remains of the what once was a strong empire, the police tends to stop us less, but they still try every trick in the book to get some money from us. After two weeks in Russia and another two weeks in Kazakhstan, we never pay any bribe. What is going to be our first bribe on the trip actually happens in Kyrgyzstan as we are driving on the road for small vehicles instead of the new road for trucks when we are stopped by a policeman. If we give a small contribution in alcohol he will of course forget that we are driving on the wrong road. Being fond of alcohol we can all understand his urgent need, but unfortunately we are out of alcohol and try to figure out what to give him as a bribe. Morten remembers that he has brought some Cuban cigars and we hope the policeman will know the value of two Cuban cigars as we hand them over. He understands.
Somewhere in the Russian no-where a sami-postcard is hanging on a dirty police station wall and somewhere in Kyrgyzstan's rural mountains a policeofficer is smoking away on his Cuban cigars while taking a sip of the Vodka bottle he got from another lost driver.
This is Russia, where you have a good reason to fear the police, where the police torture half of all suspects according to an article in the Independent and where corruption is more the rule than the exception. Drive through Russia in your own bus, and you can't but notice the police presence. Outside every city or town there are check points, and on top of that, they like standing along the road, stopping cars - and of course - us. They have even made fake police cars in wood and card board along the roads to make sure you never feel safe and to keep up the paranoia.
In Russia we were stopped five times a day quite often. This meant almost every hour, or maybe twice in a row within half an hour. We never knew what to expect, every time they wanted to see something new or different from the last check point which would give the police checkpoints a certain nerve; what could we expect this time?
On the road between UFA and Chelyabinsk the 29th of August we wrote in our bus blog:
Check 1. Vehicle documents, drivers licence, where are you going?
Check 2. They opened the back door, drivers licence, passports, vehicle documents, bus owner's documents
Check 3. Tachograph check (a system where the bus kilometres and pauses are recorded), everything is okay, smile, some Norwegian kroner as souvenir
Check 4. Vehicle documents and driver's licence
Check 5. Vehicle documents and driver's licence
Sometimes a "good day" and "we are only Norwegian tourist" in Russian would be enough, and they would let us go, other times, they would like a Norwegian souvenir, preferable a Norwegian coin, one even wanted our dictionary. Martin was gone for a long time and we started to get a bit nervous in the bus - what did they want this time?, but then he comes back to the bus with a big smile telling us that the policeman wants our dictionary as a present. We gave him a post card with an old sami man instead. But then we also had the police officers wanting our money. That was a bit more tricky.
On our way to the Kyrgyz border we stopped at a big truck station specialising in selling eels in every thinkable way. We were in a good mood and some of us had been drinking a couple of beers in the bus before checking out this big truck stop in the middle of nowhere. After a short while some of us hooked up with a man selling smoked pig in a small house. The man was in his fifties and was a former officer in the army. Now his bony arms were shuffling coal into the fire and his big grin revealed a couple of golden teeth along with some missing teeth. Soon we were all to become best friends in the way alcohol blur the human brain's conception of the world.
The next day some of us woke up with a hang over, except Anders who was the one to start today's driving. After a couple of kilometres we were stopped as usual. Anders went in to talk with the policemen and came soon back out again rather shaky. "They took an alcotest and it shows that I have been drinking. I don't understand. I only had to beers last night and it shows 0.8%. They will take my driver's licence unless we pay $2000." Quite a good try - some one had told the policemen about our truck stop party. If the policemen had been smart, they would have asked for less money and we would probably have paid to avoid any further hassle, but $2000 was just a too big amount. We told Anders to refuse to pay any money and that he should demand to be taken to the nearest hospital for a blood test. The policeman played with his gun for a little while until he said "okay, just drive". We won. They lost.
If one is persistent and patient, one can drive through Russia and Central-Asia without paying any bribes, but being patient doesn't help if the policemen are being too creative and actually destroys your formal papers. This happened in Kazakhstan:
Another routine stop and Martin has to go into the office. Soon he comes back out again telling us that some insurance papers are missing according to the police. Guro who was the one fixing the papers in Astana tells him that they are all there. Martin goes back in again with Guro. We are all searching in the bus, in the garbage, everywhere for the so-called missing insurance paper without any luck. Inside the police check point there is another story taking place as Guro understands what has happened. They have replaced the new insurance paper with the old one and thrown the new one away while Martin had to go back to the bus to search for the "missing" papers. Now they want money. But without our paper we can't continue driving - then it will be missing in the next check point, and it will be hard to pay our way out through the rest of Kazakhstan. "Fy faen" Guro shouts really loud and tells exactly what kind of policeman she thinks he is. They are not used to see angry Norwegians in a big, grey bus. We don't pay anything, but we have to stay overnight close by and drive back to Astana to get new insurance papers the following day.
The further we get away from the remains of the what once was a strong empire, the police tends to stop us less, but they still try every trick in the book to get some money from us. After two weeks in Russia and another two weeks in Kazakhstan, we never pay any bribe. What is going to be our first bribe on the trip actually happens in Kyrgyzstan as we are driving on the road for small vehicles instead of the new road for trucks when we are stopped by a policeman. If we give a small contribution in alcohol he will of course forget that we are driving on the wrong road. Being fond of alcohol we can all understand his urgent need, but unfortunately we are out of alcohol and try to figure out what to give him as a bribe. Morten remembers that he has brought some Cuban cigars and we hope the policeman will know the value of two Cuban cigars as we hand them over. He understands.
Somewhere in the Russian no-where a sami-postcard is hanging on a dirty police station wall and somewhere in Kyrgyzstan's rural mountains a policeofficer is smoking away on his Cuban cigars while taking a sip of the Vodka bottle he got from another lost driver.
Friday 19 October 2007
Beijing
Ni hao,
at the time being I am spending some weeks in Beijing on my own while the other drive the bus to Kathmandu. The 13th of November I will hopefully join the bus again. More information will come later - I guess I will have plenty of time to write and think the next couple of weeks. But I can reveal that China is close to fantastic!
at the time being I am spending some weeks in Beijing on my own while the other drive the bus to Kathmandu. The 13th of November I will hopefully join the bus again. More information will come later - I guess I will have plenty of time to write and think the next couple of weeks. But I can reveal that China is close to fantastic!
Friday 14 September 2007
Kyrgyzstan
We have now entered Kyrgyzstan. Not much to say yet since I have only been here one day so far, but if the rest of the stay will resemble the warm welcome we got on the border(we became such good friends with the English-speaking customs officer that he declared a forever bond of friendship between Norway and Kyrgyzstan), our two weeks in this country will be a very nice stay. Now I am enjoying a kaffe latte in the capital Bishkek... apparantly you can get this everywhere now.
Cecilie
Cecilie
Wednesday 5 September 2007
Open for comments!
I just realised that it's been impossible to post comments. I have now fixed this, so please do! It has been so silent...
The glorious nation of Kazakhstan
Kazakhstan could somewhat resemble a big ocean; a big, endless ocean of yellow corn-fields and straight roads leading us into nothingness. We have been driving on these endless roads for a couple of days now before ending up in the capital Astana where we are admiring Nazarbayev 'good' architectual taste.
It is so far a country full of contrast, even more than Russia I guess. Physically it is situated on the border between Asia and Europe: it is the ninth largest country in the world (approximately seven times bigger than Norway), but it has a population density of less than 6 people per square kilomtre which explains the endless fields of corn. It is also on the border between something that could look like democracy, but has bvecome more and more something smelling of dictatorship - the president Nazarbayev has just changed the constituion which makes it possible for him to stay president for life. It is a country that is trying to find its roots and a national history after the split up with the Soviet Union - a split up that was not that welcomened and threw the country into an econimically turmoil; a country of Russians, Ukrains, Germans, Koreans and of course Kazakhs, living side by side in an area with strong nomadic traditions. It is a land of contrast here I wander around in the streets of Astana trying to figure it all out. But I have more days to figure it all out, maybe a week before we drive into Kyrgyzstan.
All I can say is that I am happy to tell you all that it is not the land of Borat for sure...
Cecilie; having problems with my right hand, making it hard to write and also makes the blog being updated even less... The juicy stories from Kazakhstan will be written later.
Thursday 30 August 2007
In Siberia
For the first time in my life I am in Asia. It doesn`t really feel very "Asian" yet; it could have been Norway for all I know with birch and pine trees. Tomorrow we are entering Kazakhstan, hopefully without any problems. Siberia has until now been a two sided experience - less road checks (the other day the police stopped us 6 times), but this morning our cooking equipment was gone from outside the bus; parking far away from people doesn`t mean that things won't get stolen. An hour later we were invited for tea - which actually meant lunch and a lot of vodka - by two men (ex-officers in the russian army) living close to where we parked the bus. What I had already read about vodka terrorism and hospitality are both true: it is both incredible and we all had to drink at least 8 shots of vodka (except the drivers of course).
From Russia with love-
From Russia with love-
Friday 24 August 2007
Russia in express
Russia in express
It could have been a title for a book or maybe a travel essay: "Russia in express", or what about "Across Russia in 14 days". For some reason we have to have a Russian insurance for the bus which expires after 14 days. Getting it extended or getting a longer one will take months or we might not even get it: Welcome to Russia's bureaucracy. This means that we have to drive fast across Russia, but fast is of course not possible taking the road conditions into consideration. From Murmansk to the border of Kazakhstan there are approximately 3500 km which means we from now on have to drive around 400 km per day. We have already made the route and messured the distances between the places we are going to stay at night; Russia has become a long road to Kazakhstan. To save time we are not driving into St Petersburgh or Moscow, the Russia we will get to know, will be the back courts of Russia. St Petersburgh and Moscow are cities we can visit another time by plane, but Russias back roads are not places one can easily get to on foot.
Our route has been as following: We started out in Murmansk the 18th of August where we spent one and a half day at a hotel to recover from one night's lack of sleep. The 19th we continued to the sleeping village, Chupa where we spent a night by the sea surrounded by beautiful but aged wooden houses. At one o'clock in the morning the 21st, we arrived at a 24-hours-open supertmarket (hyper markt) in Petrozavodsk where we met Maxim, a hitch hiker we had picked up on our way to Tromsø in Norway. We spent two nights at the parking space and were guided round the city by Maxim and his girl friend, Tanya. The 22nd we drove to a beautiful city, Tichvin were we slept outside a convent by a small lake. The time is now elleven at night and we are approaching Vologda where we will spend the night. Todays 400 km are soon behind us. Tomorrow we will continue to the ancient city, Yaroslavl, then Nizhny Novgorod, Kazan; the capital of the tatars and the port to central-Asia, and then Chelyabinsk before we cross the border, hopefully without any problems, to Kazakhstan.
In borderland
In Borderland
Russia is the land of the Lada. Not only the land of vodka, bureaucracy or gray concrete, but also the land of the small and handy car that for me always has been a symbol of the former Soviet states. I had forgotten about the Lada when I imagined Russia as a country with concrete buildings, tired vodka-drinking people and an enormous bureaucray. This is also Russia, but Russia is until now something else and something more. It is nicotine-addicted transport inspectors, customs officers that laughs when they look inside our bus, it is silent shop attendents, humpy roads, old, worn wooden houses with fantastic wood-carvings. It is sunshine and nice people, old trucks and charming truckstations with smelling toilets. It is a welcoming Russia that so far hasn't lived up to its bad reputation, and knock on wood, it won't either.
At the moment we are driving on a humpy road between Petrozavodsk and Vologda. This is not the only bad road we have experienced since we just about managed to get into Russia - in the excitement of crossing the border to Russia we forgot a very important thing; map reading, and as a result we followed the wrong signs to Murmansk. A journey that would normally take us 3 hours, ended up taking 7 hours and a night's sleep from us. The distance was the same in kilometres, but when you are driving only 5 km per hour on a road that more resembles a dry river, than an actual road, it is quite obvious that it takes a few hours longer. But, hey, someone told us that the roads were supposed to be quite bad in Russia. What have we learnt? There is always a co-pilot and map-reader sitting next to the driver. And never trust a road sign.
Even though the road quality doesn't resemble a dry river anymore, the roads are still a challenge and the bus is constantly changing between 20 to 80 km/h.
Crossing the border is a long story and now, a week later, it seems more like a Russia-test than how it actually felt during the five long hours waiting at the border between our safe home country Norway and the big, scary Russia: if you pass the test - if you are patient, humble and stubborn you are welcome to Russia, if not, this is not a country for you. But we passed the test in the end. Russia is a country for us.
We arrived late afternoon at the border, a bit nervous and excited about what expected us. It was now our big trip was about to begin for real. It was now we were going to meet a Russia few of us knew, but all of us had heard and read many stories about. Would the customs spend hours checking our bus, or would there be a different kind of problem ahead? Would there be any problems at all? The one we feared the most, the customs, didn't turn out to be our problem this time.
After a young man with an enormous hat let us into the Russian border station, we were guided to a room where they stamped our visas. Since Guro Anna is registred as the owner of the bus, she is also the person who has to take care of all the practical matters with the papers for the bus. She was about to learn that we were in "BIG troubles" as the transport inspector expressed in broken Russian-English. In Russia you are not allowed to drive with more than 8 passengeres if you are driving as a private person in transit, meaning that you are not returning to the same border as you started out. With our 12 seats in the bus, we were, as the transport inspector indicated, in trouble. We were already registred in the system as a "big bus", and we had already gotten our migration papers. We needed a transit paper, but it would take weeks to get, and our whole trip were on hold. Neither Guro Anna's tears or Pasvikturist (who had helped us with our Russian visas) begging on the phone, helped. The fear of the, for us, invisible boss, were too big. The transport inspector was afraid he might loose his job if he let us go. He suggested that we came back the next day when he wasn't on duty with three seats less in the bus, but our visas were all single entry visas, and they were already registred. Getting new ones would take days, and we were in a hurry. Being in a hurry is by the way another problem we hadn't predicted, but more about this later.
Sad, dissapointed and confused after 4 hours of waiting we were sent back to the bus and asked to leave. We had at this stage started to plan an alternative route not including Russia, but it also meant applying for new, expensive visas and no Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. We had tried everything; could they maybe annulate our entry stamp? Could they delete us from the system? Could they pretend that they didn't know that we were driving through Russia to Kazakhstan? Soon the whole border station was involved in our problem, but they didn't seem to be able to help us, even though the transport inspector actually looked sad as he smoked heavier and heavier. During these 4 hours Guro Anna had gone from being "Miss Wyller", to being "Anna" and at the end "Guro Anna". A kind of personal bond had envolved.
Of course we had to get a fine before we left; one fine for being rejected and one fine for not having a N for Norway at the back of the bus. Guro Anna was on her way to pay when the transport inspector pulled her aside, lit a cigarette and said "Okay, you go to Russia now" and pointed towards Norway (he meant to point towards Russia, of course). In the joy of the moment Guro Anna claimed "I love you!" This must be the biggest declaration of love he has ever experienced in his working days. The transport inspector had after a while realised that he could delete from the register that we were driving transit, and instead write that we were going to Murmansk - any problems that might occur because of this, we would have to handle on the border to Kazakhstan. He would not be the person responsible anymore.
The border was about to close (Russian time) and we were now facing our original fear: the custom. Each one of us had to take all our personal belongings and get it scanned - meaning, not more than 35 kg, otherwise we would have to pay duty. It is likely that we have approximately a tonn of things in the bus, including personal belongings, technical equipment, food and kitchen. Only two people managed to get their things scanned before a somewhat frustrated customs officer came towards the bus with waving arms demanding us to stop. They had seen enough and it was closing time. Two customs officers took a quick look inside our bus while laughing and smiling, they even called for the woman who had stamped our passports and gave her a short sight-seeing.
We had now been in the borderland for five hours; a land of stern people, problems and enormous hats, but also our first meeting with a Russia that smiles and laughs in the end. At last we were allowed to cross the magical border to Russia.
Russia is the land of the Lada. Not only the land of vodka, bureaucracy or gray concrete, but also the land of the small and handy car that for me always has been a symbol of the former Soviet states. I had forgotten about the Lada when I imagined Russia as a country with concrete buildings, tired vodka-drinking people and an enormous bureaucray. This is also Russia, but Russia is until now something else and something more. It is nicotine-addicted transport inspectors, customs officers that laughs when they look inside our bus, it is silent shop attendents, humpy roads, old, worn wooden houses with fantastic wood-carvings. It is sunshine and nice people, old trucks and charming truckstations with smelling toilets. It is a welcoming Russia that so far hasn't lived up to its bad reputation, and knock on wood, it won't either.
At the moment we are driving on a humpy road between Petrozavodsk and Vologda. This is not the only bad road we have experienced since we just about managed to get into Russia - in the excitement of crossing the border to Russia we forgot a very important thing; map reading, and as a result we followed the wrong signs to Murmansk. A journey that would normally take us 3 hours, ended up taking 7 hours and a night's sleep from us. The distance was the same in kilometres, but when you are driving only 5 km per hour on a road that more resembles a dry river, than an actual road, it is quite obvious that it takes a few hours longer. But, hey, someone told us that the roads were supposed to be quite bad in Russia. What have we learnt? There is always a co-pilot and map-reader sitting next to the driver. And never trust a road sign.
Even though the road quality doesn't resemble a dry river anymore, the roads are still a challenge and the bus is constantly changing between 20 to 80 km/h.
Crossing the border is a long story and now, a week later, it seems more like a Russia-test than how it actually felt during the five long hours waiting at the border between our safe home country Norway and the big, scary Russia: if you pass the test - if you are patient, humble and stubborn you are welcome to Russia, if not, this is not a country for you. But we passed the test in the end. Russia is a country for us.
We arrived late afternoon at the border, a bit nervous and excited about what expected us. It was now our big trip was about to begin for real. It was now we were going to meet a Russia few of us knew, but all of us had heard and read many stories about. Would the customs spend hours checking our bus, or would there be a different kind of problem ahead? Would there be any problems at all? The one we feared the most, the customs, didn't turn out to be our problem this time.
After a young man with an enormous hat let us into the Russian border station, we were guided to a room where they stamped our visas. Since Guro Anna is registred as the owner of the bus, she is also the person who has to take care of all the practical matters with the papers for the bus. She was about to learn that we were in "BIG troubles" as the transport inspector expressed in broken Russian-English. In Russia you are not allowed to drive with more than 8 passengeres if you are driving as a private person in transit, meaning that you are not returning to the same border as you started out. With our 12 seats in the bus, we were, as the transport inspector indicated, in trouble. We were already registred in the system as a "big bus", and we had already gotten our migration papers. We needed a transit paper, but it would take weeks to get, and our whole trip were on hold. Neither Guro Anna's tears or Pasvikturist (who had helped us with our Russian visas) begging on the phone, helped. The fear of the, for us, invisible boss, were too big. The transport inspector was afraid he might loose his job if he let us go. He suggested that we came back the next day when he wasn't on duty with three seats less in the bus, but our visas were all single entry visas, and they were already registred. Getting new ones would take days, and we were in a hurry. Being in a hurry is by the way another problem we hadn't predicted, but more about this later.
Sad, dissapointed and confused after 4 hours of waiting we were sent back to the bus and asked to leave. We had at this stage started to plan an alternative route not including Russia, but it also meant applying for new, expensive visas and no Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. We had tried everything; could they maybe annulate our entry stamp? Could they delete us from the system? Could they pretend that they didn't know that we were driving through Russia to Kazakhstan? Soon the whole border station was involved in our problem, but they didn't seem to be able to help us, even though the transport inspector actually looked sad as he smoked heavier and heavier. During these 4 hours Guro Anna had gone from being "Miss Wyller", to being "Anna" and at the end "Guro Anna". A kind of personal bond had envolved.
Of course we had to get a fine before we left; one fine for being rejected and one fine for not having a N for Norway at the back of the bus. Guro Anna was on her way to pay when the transport inspector pulled her aside, lit a cigarette and said "Okay, you go to Russia now" and pointed towards Norway (he meant to point towards Russia, of course). In the joy of the moment Guro Anna claimed "I love you!" This must be the biggest declaration of love he has ever experienced in his working days. The transport inspector had after a while realised that he could delete from the register that we were driving transit, and instead write that we were going to Murmansk - any problems that might occur because of this, we would have to handle on the border to Kazakhstan. He would not be the person responsible anymore.
The border was about to close (Russian time) and we were now facing our original fear: the custom. Each one of us had to take all our personal belongings and get it scanned - meaning, not more than 35 kg, otherwise we would have to pay duty. It is likely that we have approximately a tonn of things in the bus, including personal belongings, technical equipment, food and kitchen. Only two people managed to get their things scanned before a somewhat frustrated customs officer came towards the bus with waving arms demanding us to stop. They had seen enough and it was closing time. Two customs officers took a quick look inside our bus while laughing and smiling, they even called for the woman who had stamped our passports and gave her a short sight-seeing.
We had now been in the borderland for five hours; a land of stern people, problems and enormous hats, but also our first meeting with a Russia that smiles and laughs in the end. At last we were allowed to cross the magical border to Russia.
Mitt siste måltid
På E6 mellom Karasjok og Kirkenes, torsdag den 16.august. Finnmarkviddas autostrada. Ferdigskrevet på Russlands noe dårligere autostrada.
Jeg ser egentlig ingenting her jeg sitter og titter ut av vinduet fra den nye kontorplassen. Bussens særdeles uregelmessige rytme på E6en fra Karasjok til Kirkenes truer makrellen jeg inntok til lunsj med å komme opp. Jeg inntok makrellen med tanke på at det kanskje var mitt siste måltid makrell på ett år, i likhet med sjokoladepuddingen som ligger klar til å fortæres. De har vel ikke sjokoladepudding i India? Akkurat nå blir jeg kvalm av å tenke på sjokoladepudding, men da jeg sto i butikken virket det som en veldig riktig ting å kjøpe. Det er i det hele tatt mange ting jeg tenker jeg må innta som et siste måltid før bussen kjører over grensa til Russland i morra tidlig; jeg har oppdaget en potetgulltype med sennepssmak på turen oppover Norge for eksempel. Den har jeg planer om å kjøpe inn noen stykker av, for ikke å snakke om Tines iskaffe som jeg av en eller annen merkelig grunn har blitt avhengig av. Men det var forsåvidt den jeg inntok sist, så det er med andre ord ikke bare makrellen som skvulper rundt i magen min. Dermed virker det ikke særlig fristende i dette øyeblikk. Her om dagen hadde jeg mitt siste måltid med reinsdyrskav og potetmos også (selv om det ikke er mer enn en gang i året jeg spiser reinsdyrskav uansett), og jeg har drukket min siste Solo.
Men tilbake til dette med at jeg ikke ser noe.
Det finnes enkelte utsiktposter i bussen; foran hos bussjåføren selvfølgelig, ved firemannssetene på høyreside og ved sovesofaen midt i bussen. Ellers er alle vinduene dekket av en gråhvitmasse kun brutt av rander med vann og duggdråper. Det er kanskje bak disse vinduene vi skal sitte når vi har lyst til å fornekte eller glemme den virkelighet som kommer til å rulle forbi oss utenfor bussens trygge rammer. Bak disse vindusrutene vil verden framstå som den samme uansett hvor bussen befinner seg og vi kan leke at vi fortsatt er på kjent jord. Det er ellers ironisk nok: "så, har du sett og lært noe spesielt på turen?" - "vel, verden framstår likefullt som både litt duggete og uklar." Og jeg som trodde at en slik tur skulle få en til å oppnå sikker viten om seg selv og verden.
Jeg kunne aldri ha vært en backpacker. Eller mere riktig; det har aldri fristet å reise rundt i verden med kun en ryggsekk og seg selv, måned etter måned eller år etter år på konstant søken etter et eller annet udefinerbart som seg selv. For noen år tilbake reiste jeg rundt i Italia i tre uker, det er nok den nærmeste backpackeropplevelsen jeg har hatt til nå. Vi hadde et mål og det var å finne det perfekte sted; en uoppdaget perle. For meg framsto det perfekte sted som en liten idyllisk landsby plassert i en dramatisk fjellside med bratte klipper ned mot et azurblått hav. Her skulle vi finne et hyggelig pensjonat eid av en gammel, krokete dame som inviterte oss på himmelske italienske matretter med like himmelsk vin til. Men slik gikk det ikke. Strandsonen i Italia er stort sett privatisert og ødelagt av stygge hoteller og griske eiere, eller så er de små landsbyene ikke lengere uoppdagete perler, men overrent av turister som oss. Min tre-ukers Italiatur endte med at vi reiste rastløst fra sted til sted fordi stedene vi fant aldri var perfekte. Det er den samme rastløsheten som driver backpackeren fra sted til sted, dag etter dag på søken etter det perfekte. Og det er nok også denne ratsløsheten vi alle har her i bussen også, uansett om vi (jeg) vil innrømme det eller ikke. I motsetning til Italia-turen er det ikke søken etter den perfekte landsbyen som er målet denne gangen, det er turen og reisen i seg selv som er målet her vi snegler oss av sted på landeveiene. I likhet med sneglen har vi også med vårt eget hjem, noe som passer meg ypperlig. Men om vi ikke leter etter den perfekte landsby, så blir denne turen preget av søken etter det perfekte busscamping-stedet.
Apropos mål: både turen opp gjennom Norge og tiden innen avreise har vært preget av mange spørsmål fra mennesker rundt oss og folk vi har møtt på vår vei. Spørsmål som "hva er målet med denne turen", "har dere en mekaniker med" og "har dere nå husket.... (fyll inn det du måtte ønske)" har til slutt (dessverre) blitt kjedelig repetisjoner av tidligere samtaler. Jeg tviler på at en backpacker på vei ut i verden hadde blitt møtt med spørsmål om reisens formål, men det har nok noe med både vår alder (vi burde ha kommet over "jeg-skal-ut-å-reise-for-å-finne-meg-selv-stadiet") og vårt valg av reiserute. Folk hadde vel knapt hevet et øyebryn om vår reise hadde funnet sted i sør-Amerika. Vi er ni mennesker med ni ulike motivasjoner for å reise avgårde på denne måten. Felles har vi at vi alle ønsker å reise til områder man normalt vet lite om og som også for oss er ukjente og annerledes, steder som i media hovedsaklig kun blir nevnt i negative forbindelser og som fremstår som fremmedartete og til tider skremmende. Vi entrer med andre ord ukjent og fremmed land. Består Russland kun av fulle vodka-drikkende mennesker med grå, uttrykksløse blikk og mørke rander under øynene og et korrupt politikorps? Finnes det annet bakom Ural-fjellene enn sibirske strupesangere og endeløs tundra? Og spiser de nå hund i Kina? En slik reise er et møte med seg selv og ens egne negative fordommer, fordommer som både kommer til å bli bekreftet, men heldigvis også tilbakevist.
I kjølvannet av Sovjetunionens oppløsning i 1991 oppstod det 14 (?) selvstendige stater i de enorme områdene som før utgjorde Sovjetunionen. Mange av disse landene hadde i forkant ingen stor nasjonalistisk bevegelse slik tilfellet ofte er når nye nasjoner blir dannet. Et land som Kasakhstan består for eksempel ikke av en stor homogen etnisk gruppe, men av over 100 nasjonaliteter som lever side om side: kasakhere, basjkirer, tadsjikere, koreanere, russere, kinesere, tyskere, ukrainere m.fl. Sentral-Asia er med andre ord en smeltedigel, et veikryss mellom øst og vest, og man kan derfor ikke snakke om "nasjonal"-stater i ordets egentlige forstand. Nasjonene er dessuten såpass nye at det fortsatt ikke er snakk om noen kulturell ensretning (hvis det noen gang blir det), og dette er bare en av tingene som gjør landene i sentral-Asia interessante å reise til. Men før vi inntar Kasakhstan om 14 dager, skal vi kjøre tvers gjennom Russlands enorme mengder land; 3500 km vei i ukjent terreng ligger foran oss.
Etterord:
Mitt første måltid i Russland besto av reinsdyrskav, poteter og tyttebærsaus. Sjokoladepuddingen ble inntatt i et lavt blodsukker-øyeblikk på veien til Petrozavodsk og makrell i tomat er byttet ut med sardiner i tomat.
Jeg ser egentlig ingenting her jeg sitter og titter ut av vinduet fra den nye kontorplassen. Bussens særdeles uregelmessige rytme på E6en fra Karasjok til Kirkenes truer makrellen jeg inntok til lunsj med å komme opp. Jeg inntok makrellen med tanke på at det kanskje var mitt siste måltid makrell på ett år, i likhet med sjokoladepuddingen som ligger klar til å fortæres. De har vel ikke sjokoladepudding i India? Akkurat nå blir jeg kvalm av å tenke på sjokoladepudding, men da jeg sto i butikken virket det som en veldig riktig ting å kjøpe. Det er i det hele tatt mange ting jeg tenker jeg må innta som et siste måltid før bussen kjører over grensa til Russland i morra tidlig; jeg har oppdaget en potetgulltype med sennepssmak på turen oppover Norge for eksempel. Den har jeg planer om å kjøpe inn noen stykker av, for ikke å snakke om Tines iskaffe som jeg av en eller annen merkelig grunn har blitt avhengig av. Men det var forsåvidt den jeg inntok sist, så det er med andre ord ikke bare makrellen som skvulper rundt i magen min. Dermed virker det ikke særlig fristende i dette øyeblikk. Her om dagen hadde jeg mitt siste måltid med reinsdyrskav og potetmos også (selv om det ikke er mer enn en gang i året jeg spiser reinsdyrskav uansett), og jeg har drukket min siste Solo.
Men tilbake til dette med at jeg ikke ser noe.
Det finnes enkelte utsiktposter i bussen; foran hos bussjåføren selvfølgelig, ved firemannssetene på høyreside og ved sovesofaen midt i bussen. Ellers er alle vinduene dekket av en gråhvitmasse kun brutt av rander med vann og duggdråper. Det er kanskje bak disse vinduene vi skal sitte når vi har lyst til å fornekte eller glemme den virkelighet som kommer til å rulle forbi oss utenfor bussens trygge rammer. Bak disse vindusrutene vil verden framstå som den samme uansett hvor bussen befinner seg og vi kan leke at vi fortsatt er på kjent jord. Det er ellers ironisk nok: "så, har du sett og lært noe spesielt på turen?" - "vel, verden framstår likefullt som både litt duggete og uklar." Og jeg som trodde at en slik tur skulle få en til å oppnå sikker viten om seg selv og verden.
Jeg kunne aldri ha vært en backpacker. Eller mere riktig; det har aldri fristet å reise rundt i verden med kun en ryggsekk og seg selv, måned etter måned eller år etter år på konstant søken etter et eller annet udefinerbart som seg selv. For noen år tilbake reiste jeg rundt i Italia i tre uker, det er nok den nærmeste backpackeropplevelsen jeg har hatt til nå. Vi hadde et mål og det var å finne det perfekte sted; en uoppdaget perle. For meg framsto det perfekte sted som en liten idyllisk landsby plassert i en dramatisk fjellside med bratte klipper ned mot et azurblått hav. Her skulle vi finne et hyggelig pensjonat eid av en gammel, krokete dame som inviterte oss på himmelske italienske matretter med like himmelsk vin til. Men slik gikk det ikke. Strandsonen i Italia er stort sett privatisert og ødelagt av stygge hoteller og griske eiere, eller så er de små landsbyene ikke lengere uoppdagete perler, men overrent av turister som oss. Min tre-ukers Italiatur endte med at vi reiste rastløst fra sted til sted fordi stedene vi fant aldri var perfekte. Det er den samme rastløsheten som driver backpackeren fra sted til sted, dag etter dag på søken etter det perfekte. Og det er nok også denne ratsløsheten vi alle har her i bussen også, uansett om vi (jeg) vil innrømme det eller ikke. I motsetning til Italia-turen er det ikke søken etter den perfekte landsbyen som er målet denne gangen, det er turen og reisen i seg selv som er målet her vi snegler oss av sted på landeveiene. I likhet med sneglen har vi også med vårt eget hjem, noe som passer meg ypperlig. Men om vi ikke leter etter den perfekte landsby, så blir denne turen preget av søken etter det perfekte busscamping-stedet.
Apropos mål: både turen opp gjennom Norge og tiden innen avreise har vært preget av mange spørsmål fra mennesker rundt oss og folk vi har møtt på vår vei. Spørsmål som "hva er målet med denne turen", "har dere en mekaniker med" og "har dere nå husket.... (fyll inn det du måtte ønske)" har til slutt (dessverre) blitt kjedelig repetisjoner av tidligere samtaler. Jeg tviler på at en backpacker på vei ut i verden hadde blitt møtt med spørsmål om reisens formål, men det har nok noe med både vår alder (vi burde ha kommet over "jeg-skal-ut-å-reise-for-å-finne-meg-selv-stadiet") og vårt valg av reiserute. Folk hadde vel knapt hevet et øyebryn om vår reise hadde funnet sted i sør-Amerika. Vi er ni mennesker med ni ulike motivasjoner for å reise avgårde på denne måten. Felles har vi at vi alle ønsker å reise til områder man normalt vet lite om og som også for oss er ukjente og annerledes, steder som i media hovedsaklig kun blir nevnt i negative forbindelser og som fremstår som fremmedartete og til tider skremmende. Vi entrer med andre ord ukjent og fremmed land. Består Russland kun av fulle vodka-drikkende mennesker med grå, uttrykksløse blikk og mørke rander under øynene og et korrupt politikorps? Finnes det annet bakom Ural-fjellene enn sibirske strupesangere og endeløs tundra? Og spiser de nå hund i Kina? En slik reise er et møte med seg selv og ens egne negative fordommer, fordommer som både kommer til å bli bekreftet, men heldigvis også tilbakevist.
I kjølvannet av Sovjetunionens oppløsning i 1991 oppstod det 14 (?) selvstendige stater i de enorme områdene som før utgjorde Sovjetunionen. Mange av disse landene hadde i forkant ingen stor nasjonalistisk bevegelse slik tilfellet ofte er når nye nasjoner blir dannet. Et land som Kasakhstan består for eksempel ikke av en stor homogen etnisk gruppe, men av over 100 nasjonaliteter som lever side om side: kasakhere, basjkirer, tadsjikere, koreanere, russere, kinesere, tyskere, ukrainere m.fl. Sentral-Asia er med andre ord en smeltedigel, et veikryss mellom øst og vest, og man kan derfor ikke snakke om "nasjonal"-stater i ordets egentlige forstand. Nasjonene er dessuten såpass nye at det fortsatt ikke er snakk om noen kulturell ensretning (hvis det noen gang blir det), og dette er bare en av tingene som gjør landene i sentral-Asia interessante å reise til. Men før vi inntar Kasakhstan om 14 dager, skal vi kjøre tvers gjennom Russlands enorme mengder land; 3500 km vei i ukjent terreng ligger foran oss.
Etterord:
Mitt første måltid i Russland besto av reinsdyrskav, poteter og tyttebærsaus. Sjokoladepuddingen ble inntatt i et lavt blodsukker-øyeblikk på veien til Petrozavodsk og makrell i tomat er byttet ut med sardiner i tomat.
Saturday 18 August 2007
MYPMAHCK
Of course we had some troubles at the border between Norway and Russia, but Guro Annas charm saved us. After five hours they let us in to Russia. At that time we were already planning an alternative route not including Russia and we were all sad and disappointed. Now we are all friends with the guys at the border and will be sending them a postcard from India, if we ever manage to charm the guys at the Kazakh border of course (we have actually just postponed our problems, but I have to write about this later when I have more time. The vodka in the hotel bar is very tempting just now...). Also we have to cross Russia within 14 days because of an insurance for the bus, so we don't have time to stop by St.Petersburg or Moscow.
But now: VODKA!
NA STAROVYE!
Wednesday 15 August 2007
The bus
My new home is 12 metres long and consists of two rooms with 12 seating places and 10 beds. It is a Scania bus from 1980 and was used to transport goods in its former days.
Tuesday 14 August 2007
Bus crew
When the bus took off from Karlsøya, a festival in the North of Norway, we were nine people on board, later 1-2 people will be joining us.
The bus crew consists of people between the age of 25-31: Guro Anna Wyller (dancer), Bjørn Kjetil Undem (camera-and technical stuff-guy), Ingrid Koslung (artist), Maria S.Astrup (illustrator and graphic designer), Martin Solli (system administrator and programmer), Morten Knutsen (graphic design), Anders Karterudseter (actor) and myself, Cecilie (illustration and graphic design).
Friday 10 August 2007
Bus Route
August: Russia (Murmansk, St.Petersburg, Moscow, Chelyabinsk (Sibiria))
September: Kasakhstan (Almaty), Kyrgyzstan (Bishkek, Fergana Valley, Torugart pass), China (Kashgar+?)
October: China, Pakistan (Karakoram Highway, Islamabad, Lahore)
November: India, Nepal
December-February: Nepal, India (Goa, Kerala+?)
February-March: Pakistan, Iran
March-April: Iran, Caucasus (Azerbaijan, Armenia, Georgia), Turkey, (Syria)
April: Turkey, Ukraine (ferry from Istanbul)
May-June: Rumania, Bulgaria, Balkan
September: Kasakhstan (Almaty), Kyrgyzstan (Bishkek, Fergana Valley, Torugart pass), China (Kashgar+?)
October: China, Pakistan (Karakoram Highway, Islamabad, Lahore)
November: India, Nepal
December-February: Nepal, India (Goa, Kerala+?)
February-March: Pakistan, Iran
March-April: Iran, Caucasus (Azerbaijan, Armenia, Georgia), Turkey, (Syria)
April: Turkey, Ukraine (ferry from Istanbul)
May-June: Rumania, Bulgaria, Balkan
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