:: Turning gold to chrome

The boyfriend and I are planning a three week motorcycle trip through Norway and Sweden this summer and have been looking forward to it all winter. Still are, actually, since the roads here are still filled with slush and ice, meaning our trusted bikes are unfortunately still safely tucked away in their hibernation place.

Norway promises to be great fun; embarrassing as it is to admit, I’ve never been there before, even though I’ve been living in Sweden on and off for about ten years now. Pictures of the landscape are simply amazing, fjords, mountains, and emptiness. I can’t wait to experience it, especially from the back of a bike. The plan is to drive from Stockholm to Oslo, from there up along the coast all the way to the North Cape and back down to Stockholm through inland Sweden. Since this will be out first long motorcycle trip we don’t really know what to expect when it comes to mileage per day (and plenty of other things!), so we might not actually make it all the way to the North Cape, but that is the plan for now.

Some pictures of the scenery via turistveg.no (great site!).

Since Norway seems to be one of the most expensive countries in the world (I kid you not), a lot of focus will be on how to minimize travel costs. We’re planning on staying in hyttor (cabins) most maybe half of the time and otherwise just camp in the middle of nowhere. We’re a bit worried that it might be too cold to camp comfortably further north, but we’ll see how it works out when we get there.

“We’ll see how it goes” or “it will all work out somehow” is actually a bit of the guideline for this trip as both the boyfriend and I, as anyone who knows us will tell you, have a tendency to plan things meticulously down to the last detail. Control freaks that we are, we don’t really handle spontaneity very well and are constantly bewildered by people’s (from our point of view) lax attitude towards planning when travelling. We’re especially baffled by the fact that everything really does seem to work out for them in the end, despite of them not having thought through everything beforehand.

So in order to control our inner urge to.. err.. control things, we’ve decided to not plan every detail of this trip. This is actually harder than it sounds as I have to continuously stop myself from planning detailed routes and looking up all available camping places and gas stations along the way.

Shades of sand (road up to the border)

Meeting the locals (llama and car)

Postcard-pretty at 5000 meters

Mountains, truck

The road goes on and on

How much you can transport in a mini van

A day later we continued on from the Salar to the Chilean border. No electricity in the entire area meant that the pumps of the one existing gas station on the way to the border (about half a day’s driving away) weren’t working.

(Point of interest: if you see a gas station in Bolivia that is not overrun by people, chances are they’re either out of gas or have no electricity.)

(Another point of interest: if gas stations aren’t working, chances are, people that still have gas aren’t selling you any as they need it all for themselves.)

As the hours on our bumpy little road passed by we were getting more and more desperate. In the end we finally found a business-minded woman who probably made the deal of a lifetime on us. I assume she started packing to leave for greener pastures as soon as our dust-cloud disappeared behind the next hill. But, we were able to fill up our tank which meant that we would actually (probably, most likely) make it to the Chilean border, tarmac and all the other civilization-y goodnesses, so we were quite happy with the affair and able to enjoy the surroundings again.

The border-crossing completed (3-4 hours of corrupt border policemen, forms in triplicates, luggage searches and a sandstorm later) we made our way down to the coast. In pitch black again, but hey, back on tarmac, we weren’t going to complain.

Sunrise in Iquique

We stayed in Iquique for a day before following the Panamericana up to Arica. Lovely road. Chileans know how to build roads and – equally important – have the money to do it.

Not far from Arica, the road ends. Well, not literally, but someone surely felt that way when putting up the sign.

Feeling brave enough to continue despite that, we were (eventually) rewarded with the city of Arica. Somewhat smaller and more idyllic than Iquique, it’s also a costal city, water meeting sand and all that.

We stayed for a day before once again hitting the road. Time enough for a trip to the harbour and its overpowering smell of fishy fish-ness. Colourful and loud, the harbour is a mess of small fishing boats, pelicans and sea lions. The Boyfriend had a run in with a grumpy sea lion who took offence at his presence on the pier and torpedoed over to express his displeasure from a closer range. Boyfriend decided that pictures were not worth tangling with some hundred kilos of potentially upset sea lion and backed away rather quickly.

(to be continued)

Last year the Boyfriend and I went to visit my parents in La Paz, Bolivia. We were there for about 10 days (too short), the main part of which was spent on the roads of Bolivia and Chile. Not because we covered all that much in way of mileage but because the quality of the roads is quite different from what your average tarmac-spoiled European is used to.

Four-wheel-drive is a must. Ground clearance is a must. An obscenely big engine – also a must.

(It’s important to note that none of the above rules apply to the locals, who drive things which by all rights should not be drivable at all at speeds which can only be described as enthusiastically suicidal.)

On the way from La Paz (3500 m) to El Alto and the Altiplano (4000 m) you’re greeted by the sight of stuffed dolls hanging from poles or bridges. People don’t have a lot in way of property and thieves are dealt with accordingly. Not that I condone vigilante justice as such, but it’s hard to not to see their point of view when driving through the streets of El Alto.

When I visited my parents last year they had just moved themselves a couple of months earlier and were still blissfully unaware of the dos and don’ts of Bolivia. They had purchased a smaller, wannabe jeep (SUV) with reasonable ground clearance and four-wheel-drive that could be turned on and off via a button. No extra tire. No shovel. No flashlights. No sleeping bags. The first night was spent in the car in pitch black jungle-like surroundings. I’m somewhat surprised we lived to tell the tale.

Rudely abused of all naivety, my parents upgraded to a real jeep with somewhat more ground clearance and, yes, an obscenely large engine. It didn’t stop us from acquiring a flat tire that very first day in the middle of dusty nowhere (possibly still on the Altiplano given how huge it is), but at least we were prepared and had a spare tire. Go us!

Several dusty, bumpy hours on the headache-inducing road later we finally made it to our first stop, a salt hotel sitting at the edge of the Salar de Uyuni, the world’s largest salt flat. At 10,582 square kilometers (according to Wikipedia) it’s about half the size of Wales. Totally, mind-numbing flaty whiteness. Apart from a few islands, that is, which basically are volcano-top-leftovers. The biggest of those is the Incahuasi island.

Tunupa volcano

(to be continued)

-22 degrees. Not what the doctor ordered. Where’s the global warming induced heat when you need it? I’m officially considering hibernation.

On a different note: I’ve finally managed to make my way through the heap of vacation pictures from Bolivia and Chile. Go me. On the downside, I ended up with way too many pictures (not because I’m so great a photographer but because there is too much to show), so now I have to decide which ones I want to feature here.

If you just can’t wait a second longer or are bored out of your mind, the entire gallery can be found here.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

[Ozymandias - Percy Bysshe Shelley]

Winter just does not want to end this year. It could be another hundred-year-winter. But no, we already had Christmas. Fimbulvetr? No rising water levels yet, but there is still some time for that. Let’s you know when it’s alright to start panicking properly.

On a positive note, it seems that the beginning of the end is finally here for the US military’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. The advocate being.. one Admiral Mullen? Who would’ve thunk.
Still – about bloody time. So kind of you to join us in the 21st century. What took you so long?
[New York Times]

An entire week without any questions concerning my sexual preference. Wow. Must be loosing my touch.

Been somewhat bored at work, but that might be looking up. Let’s hope so, self-motivation has been drying up a bit lately. Been pondering just dumping it all, moving to Canada and starting a Llama-farm. I’ll let you know how that works out.

Him: “Are you a lesbian?”

Not again.

Me: “What does that have to do with anything?”

I’m annoyed at being interrupted with this kind of inane question. Again. Twice in as many days, makes you wonder if someone tattooed “Lesbian” in capitals all over your forehead without you noticing. And all I really want at that moment is to just continue dancing. (Lovely DJs that night!).

“Well, yes or no?”

Considering my options. Answers along the lines of in regards to you, most definitely might be more trouble than it’s worth.

“It’s none of your business.”

At last he gives up in disgust. Of course, he’s now convinced that I am a lesbian and simply too ashamed to admit to it. Not that I mind, at least it keeps him from trying to flirt and means I can continue showing my appreciation to the DJ.

Quite some time later I watch one of the door guards grabbing his arm and half dragging half guiding him at top speed towards one of the emergency exits. Unfortunately, I don’t know what it was he did that validating ejecting him. Maybe he asked the guard if he was gay, too.

Walking along a passageway connecting the different subway lines. In front and slightly to the left of me, a man suddenly lights a cigarette and starts drawing on it rapidly. A cloud of smoke billows right into my face. He turns around and catches my disapproving glance at his hand holding the cigarette.

He mutters something I can’t quiet make out, not an apology, a question. Since his general appearance isn’t exactly confidence inspiring, I ignore him and walk on. He drops back to fall in beside me, still smoking compulsively.

Him (false smile): “How are you?”

I continue walking, ignoring him after another short glance, not quiet a smile on my face. Not an unfriendly expression, but not one inviting further conversation either.

Him (slightly louder): “Are you a lesbian? You act like a lesbian!”

How exactly did he arrive at that conclusion? I don’t like cigarettes (being smoked in a public building where smoking has been prohibited for more years than I can remember), so I must be a lesbian? I don’t feel like talking to a smoking, smelly, badly dressed stranger with no manners, so I must be a lesbian? You haven’t got laid in a long time have you? And when you did, I’m just guessing here, but correct me if I’m wrong, your charming manner wasn’t the transaction’s currency.

Unfortunately, while I would have liked to come up with a witty, cutting reply to his bit of idiocy, at the time I was simply too unprepared to react at all and just kept walking, trying hard not to laugh.

He ignores me after that and takes a different train, still smoking as he gets on.