"What part of Australia are you from?"
"None, I'm from South Africa."
Pause.
"But why aren't you black?"
"I'm not black?"
This is the standard initial exchange with most Norwegians. It can take some time to convince them that there are even just a few white people in Africa. After sticking to my story they eventually believe me or give up trying to catch me out. A pale African is an impossible notion for the locals. These exchanges go down most commonly where I work, in an Irish Bar in Norway's second biggest city.
Bergen is a stunning little city. The seven snow-capped mountains that huddle together around the natural harbour create the scenic setting. Rustic wooden houses with steep rooves line the cobbled streets that climb up the hills. There is a cable car and funicular up two of the mountains that can get you to the top for beautiful views òf the bay.
Down in the city, a frozen pond with a massive christmas tree in the middle is the focal point. On the water's edge stands the famous fish market where the smoked whale tastes like beef. The park up on the hill belongs to the junkies. In a near perfect society these junkies are the only obvious blemish. These dealers, users and part-time thieves spend their days in the park where they are free to shoot up and smoke crack unhassled by the police. In an attempt to monitor the junkies and keep them under wraps the police have effectively quarantined them off in this otherwise pristine central park. These Nordic park junkies have a sweet gig. The state gives them pocket money and an apartment which they keep unless they party too hard. The police have supplied them with a serene natural setting to get high and now there are even talks to supply the junkies with state heroine because it will end up costing.
"None, I'm from South Africa."
Pause.
"But why aren't you black?"
"I'm not black?"
This is the standard initial exchange with most Norwegians. It can take some time to convince them that there are even just a few white people in Africa. After sticking to my story they eventually believe me or give up trying to catch me out. A pale African is an impossible notion for the locals. These exchanges go down most commonly where I work, in an Irish Bar in Norway's second biggest city.
Bergen is a stunning little city. The seven snow-capped mountains that huddle together around the natural harbour create the scenic setting. Rustic wooden houses with steep rooves line the cobbled streets that climb up the hills. There is a cable car and funicular up two of the mountains that can get you to the top for beautiful views òf the bay.
Down in the city, a frozen pond with a massive christmas tree in the middle is the focal point. On the water's edge stands the famous fish market where the smoked whale tastes like beef. The park up on the hill belongs to the junkies. In a near perfect society these junkies are the only obvious blemish. These dealers, users and part-time thieves spend their days in the park where they are free to shoot up and smoke crack unhassled by the police. In an attempt to monitor the junkies and keep them under wraps the police have effectively quarantined them off in this otherwise pristine central park. These Nordic park junkies have a sweet gig. The state gives them pocket money and an apartment which they keep unless they party too hard. The police have supplied them with a serene natural setting to get high and now there are even talks to supply the junkies with state heroine because it will end up costing.
This isn't the only amazing policy from the world's most impressive welfare state. A mother can take maternity leave for 10 months with full pay or 12 months with 80 percent pay. A single mother of two gets 24000 Krone (3000 euros) a month to NOT work and look after her kids. What else do you expect from the country that is the most peaceful and literate country in the world, where the people enjoy the highest life expectancy and income potential in the world. Norway is free, rich, peaceful, safe, healthy and very cold.
Personally, Norway has been more work than play and more interesting than exciting. The work is welcome and well paid, the minimum wage of 115 Krone (12 euros) an hour means that I should be able to live and party comfortably for two months back home after two weeks work at one job here. I have two. By day I am a freelance sandwich artist perfecting the art of the egg and salmon sandwiches in canteens throughout the city. Alot of my colleagues there are old Norwegian women that speak little English. As you can imagine, the banter is limited.
At this time of year it is common for Norwegian companies to throw a christmas party. It is generally agreed that anything goes at these parties and there are zero repercussions. The Norwegians get drunk and go bonkers. Everyone deserves a christmas party and recently I worked at a christmas party that the city thoughtfully put together for the junkies. It was a sweet thought and one hundred special guests were expected at the town hall. The mayor stood at the entrance waiting to welcome them one by one. It was a slow start and after one hour only five had arrived, all drunk on some level.
"These junkies aren't very punctual" we mocked condescendingly amongst ourselves. Two hours later and only 22 junkies had managed to find their way to the complementary feast. It turns out it isn't a good idea to give away christmas meals at the same time the drugs are delivered before the weekend, because the junkies have their priorities.
At night my social rank remains amongst Eastern Europeans and Middle East refugees as I clear the glasses in a large Irish bar with the best beer garden in town. Finnegan's has been going for over ten years and in that time it has attracted loyal customers and even more devout barmen. Fittingly the barmen are British and Irish and the first thing a new customer will learn is that Norwegian is not spoken at the bar and the word 'please' will get you very far. (Norwegian doesn't have a word for please, which perfectly sums up Norwegian etiquette and social practices.) Football and even rugby matches are shown on big screens, Thursdays and Fridays are quizz nights and Saturdays attract the out-of-town farmers that everyone seems to hate. I float around the bar and spend the quieter moments chatting with the bouncers or collecting discarded gloves that can keep me warm on the way home - 3 pairs seems to do it. The job is simple and fun and at 4:30 am, when we have finished cleaning, we treat ourselves to some beers. The barmen and women from the adjoining bar downstairs join us and boost our ranks to a festive size. The first few beers are a wind down where talk revolves around how the night went, the girls worth remembering and the cleavages worth noticing. We smirk at the friendly drunks and rage at the stupid ones, curse the stingy bastards that didn't tip and mock the management that are so out of touch with what the customers want. After the initial bitching the conversation turns to a round up of the days sports results, which can also involve a lot of bitching. Recently we've been watching the Ashes live and, to everyone's approval, Australia getting demolished. Once the bitching is out of everyone's system and the beer in, the conversations become more interesting, with personal anecdotes about growing up in Belfast (the IRA, petrol bombs and fighting the police), playing the saxophone in a chicken suit, the beauty and art of film photography and drinking stories. It goes like this until the numbers dwindle, the beer runs dry and we drag ourselves home.
Personally, Norway has been more work than play and more interesting than exciting. The work is welcome and well paid, the minimum wage of 115 Krone (12 euros) an hour means that I should be able to live and party comfortably for two months back home after two weeks work at one job here. I have two. By day I am a freelance sandwich artist perfecting the art of the egg and salmon sandwiches in canteens throughout the city. Alot of my colleagues there are old Norwegian women that speak little English. As you can imagine, the banter is limited.
At this time of year it is common for Norwegian companies to throw a christmas party. It is generally agreed that anything goes at these parties and there are zero repercussions. The Norwegians get drunk and go bonkers. Everyone deserves a christmas party and recently I worked at a christmas party that the city thoughtfully put together for the junkies. It was a sweet thought and one hundred special guests were expected at the town hall. The mayor stood at the entrance waiting to welcome them one by one. It was a slow start and after one hour only five had arrived, all drunk on some level.
"These junkies aren't very punctual" we mocked condescendingly amongst ourselves. Two hours later and only 22 junkies had managed to find their way to the complementary feast. It turns out it isn't a good idea to give away christmas meals at the same time the drugs are delivered before the weekend, because the junkies have their priorities.
At night my social rank remains amongst Eastern Europeans and Middle East refugees as I clear the glasses in a large Irish bar with the best beer garden in town. Finnegan's has been going for over ten years and in that time it has attracted loyal customers and even more devout barmen. Fittingly the barmen are British and Irish and the first thing a new customer will learn is that Norwegian is not spoken at the bar and the word 'please' will get you very far. (Norwegian doesn't have a word for please, which perfectly sums up Norwegian etiquette and social practices.) Football and even rugby matches are shown on big screens, Thursdays and Fridays are quizz nights and Saturdays attract the out-of-town farmers that everyone seems to hate. I float around the bar and spend the quieter moments chatting with the bouncers or collecting discarded gloves that can keep me warm on the way home - 3 pairs seems to do it. The job is simple and fun and at 4:30 am, when we have finished cleaning, we treat ourselves to some beers. The barmen and women from the adjoining bar downstairs join us and boost our ranks to a festive size. The first few beers are a wind down where talk revolves around how the night went, the girls worth remembering and the cleavages worth noticing. We smirk at the friendly drunks and rage at the stupid ones, curse the stingy bastards that didn't tip and mock the management that are so out of touch with what the customers want. After the initial bitching the conversation turns to a round up of the days sports results, which can also involve a lot of bitching. Recently we've been watching the Ashes live and, to everyone's approval, Australia getting demolished. Once the bitching is out of everyone's system and the beer in, the conversations become more interesting, with personal anecdotes about growing up in Belfast (the IRA, petrol bombs and fighting the police), playing the saxophone in a chicken suit, the beauty and art of film photography and drinking stories. It goes like this until the numbers dwindle, the beer runs dry and we drag ourselves home.
On my way home, while whipping through the deserted, early morning city on my junkie-esque bike with one brake and no gear changes, I have time to consider the past two year trip in it's entirety from Vegas to Amsterdam, Barcelona to the Alps and everything in between. When I initially left home I had the romantic notion that I was on a mission to find paradise. To find a blissful and perfect place. I was free to do what I wanted and go where I wanted and paradise seemed like a worthwhile destination. Ios in Greece came close as a bare-footed, party paradise and Norway resembles a perfect society with the highest living standards where no one goes hungry and everyone is cared for and educated. Of course paradise is a complex and continually changing state of mind and perfect weather or food on the table doesn't ensure happiness. That is essentially what I have learnt through all of this, that the people not the place make the experience and that your friends make up your world. Everyone pays a price for the life they choose. My choice to keep moving and keep dreaming means that saying goodbye to new friends is a common and expected practice.
Bergen marks the end of a long trip. It's been 2 years, 9 cities/towns, 15 jobs, 6 stitches and 2 teeth since Ive been home. It has been a long ride, easy and fun, uncontrolled and impetuous, wild and challenging. Friends, festivals and homes have come and gone. The lack of a constant companion has meant that freedom, independence and loneliness (only a little, and only sometimes) have been my best friends. I've discarded some long-held, deep-rooted beliefs and developed others. I've questioned the sanity and sustainability of travelling forever and pondered the frightening question of what is next? I still want to see the world. India, Morocco, Malawi, Thailand, Brazil, Argentina and others are still waiting. I still have no ambition to get a 'proper job'. I still want my life to be how good music sounds and feels.
I am not sure what is next, but for now, I am going home to my black brothers.
Bergen marks the end of a long trip. It's been 2 years, 9 cities/towns, 15 jobs, 6 stitches and 2 teeth since Ive been home. It has been a long ride, easy and fun, uncontrolled and impetuous, wild and challenging. Friends, festivals and homes have come and gone. The lack of a constant companion has meant that freedom, independence and loneliness (only a little, and only sometimes) have been my best friends. I've discarded some long-held, deep-rooted beliefs and developed others. I've questioned the sanity and sustainability of travelling forever and pondered the frightening question of what is next? I still want to see the world. India, Morocco, Malawi, Thailand, Brazil, Argentina and others are still waiting. I still have no ambition to get a 'proper job'. I still want my life to be how good music sounds and feels.
I am not sure what is next, but for now, I am going home to my black brothers.
