Here be dragons

Mot slutten

2008-08-31T05:42:00.000-07:00

Cecilies filosofiske betraktninger fra veien:

Klokka er ni. Eller kanskje åtte. Noen ganger elleve. Jeg hører vannet bli satt på og snart siver kaffelukta gjennom bussen. Det er nesten som hjemme bortsett fra at sengetøyet kanskje er en anelse mere skittent tatt vaskemuligheter i betraktning. Senga jeg sover i er i hvert fall myk som hjemme. Men lydene rundt meg er annerledes. Det er ofte trafikkstøy, motordur fra lastebiler eller sus fra elver. Tidlig om morgenen mens det fortsatt er mørkt, vekker bønneropene meg. I hvert fall når vi er i muslimske land. Det er nesten blitt noe hjemlig over det også, som en trofast hanes galen.

Hver morgen er den samme. Stå opp, vaske seg, drikke kaffe, spise frokost, ta oppvaska, koste bussen. Kjøre. Med mindre vi står stille. Da sover vi gjerne lenge, spiser sent, leser, gjør turistting eller vanlige ting som internett eller handling av mat. Kanskje man reiste for å komme bort fra hverdagen, men hverdagen innhenter en. Hverdagen på bussen er ikke som hjemme sant nok, det en ny hverdag bestående av nye, kjedelige rutiner - også på reisefot trenger man mat, rene klær, do og dusj. Sistnevnte en anelse mere vanskelig enn hjemme, men så lenge man har vann, vaskefat og såpe - og ikke minst våtservietter, kommer man langt. Do er det tildels verre med. Er det krise setter vi opp portapottien vår som vanligvis står under bussen.

Utenfor bussen eksisterer en annen verden; noen ganger har denne bestått av palmer, terrassedyrkede marker, kuer og vannbærende kvinner, andre ganger av grå, slitte sovjetblokker og falleferdige trehus eller av store fjell og endeløse sletter. Det som normalt ville føltes fremmed, føles ikke lenger like fremmed. Hverdagen har allerede tatt oss og gjort den ellers eksotiske utsikten til rutine. Bare når vi entrer nytt farvann, et nytt land, når landskapet antar en ny formasjon eller vi har et nær(døden)møte med en annen trafikkant, kikker jeg nysgjerrig opp fra boka, kun for å kunne konstatere at dette var jammen flott før jeg returnerer til virkeligheten i boka. Noen ganger stirrer jeg dog monotomt ut av vinduet i timesvis, men det er ikke til å legge skjul på at en viss form for blaserthet etter mange måneder på veien, har oppstått. Og like fullt er det øyeblikk hvor vi flokkes måpende rundt de få vinduene i bussen som man kan se ut av for å beundre utsikten eller små detaljer i landskapet.

Det å reise på denne måten er i seg selv ikke så stort og uvirkelig, det er selve valget om å dra ut på en slik tur som er det store valget, som Ingrid nevnte her om dagen. Å være på veien føles merkelig vanlig, nærmest ordinært. Man tar en buss, fyller den med folk og følger veiene dit man vil. Det er veier overalt. Og om ikke veiene holder, kjører man en annen vei. Så lett er det selv om det er vanskelig å tro. Så lett føles det i hvert fall etter mange måneder på tur. Selvfølgelig har vi hatt problemer, men ingen problemer til nå som ikke har latt seg løse. Overalt har vi møtt vennlighet, en mye større vennlighet enn jeg kunne forestille meg. Verden er stort sett et vennlig sted må jeg konstatere.

Som veiturist blir man møtt på en helt annen måte enn som vanlig backpacker eller charterturist. Vi blir det eksotiske innslaget i omgivelsene og folk har overalt gitt oss gaver, mat, alkohol, til og med penger. Man føler seg selvfølgelig litt priviligert som kan reise ut i verden på en slik måte; ta med seg hjemmets goder og samtidig se verden ut av vinduet. En eks-offiser fra den britiske hæren som vi møtte i India nevnte at det finnes et slags hierarki for turister. Nederst er backpackerne, så kommer charteturistene, deretter sykkel-turistene, og så oss på øverste plass. Vi som har tatt med oss hjemmene våre på tur. Han hadde selv blitt pensjonert som 42 åring fra hæren, og grunnet på hva han skulle ta seg til. Sammen med kona si solgte han huset, kjøpte en landrover og kjørte ut i verden. Det er med andre ord ikke kun gamle hippier eller eventyrlystne unge som begir seg ut på landeveien; tvert om var de fleste "overlanderne" vi møtte påfallende "vanlige". Til felles hadde de at alle var nærmere 40-50 år med bra jobber og voksne barn bak seg. Vi var med andre ord de yngste i flokken.

Her om dagen innså jeg at jeg har bodd nesten ett år i buss. Det har jeg ikke tenkt noe videre over før. Jo, selvfølgelig har jeg tenkt at jeg har vært på reisefot et år i en buss, og det er også slik jeg kommer til å referere til turen i fremtiden, men ikke at jeg har bodd i en buss sammen med ni andre mennesker i ett år. Det er jo faktisk det jeg også har gjort. Jeg har overlevd til nå nesten elleve måneder i en buss sammen med ni andre. Jeg hadde ikke overlevd i Oslo under de samme boforholdene, det er helt sikkert. Man blir merkelig "large" når man er på reisefot fordi det kun er for en begrenset tidsperiode. Hadde dette vært hverdag-hverdag hadde jeg hatt større problemer med å overleve konstant rot i midtgangen bestående av sure sokker, truser, kamerating og annet søppel, for ikke å snakke om seter som alltid er fyllt med bøker og datamaskiner. Jeg er selv også en synder, så jeg skal ikke late som om jeg ikke er en del av problemet, men jeg er overrasket over hvor ryddig jeg faktisk kan være når jeg tar meg sammen. Og det har jeg gjort i snart et helt år. Lurer på om jeg kan holde trenden gående når jeg kommer hjem.

Jeg er også overrasket over hvor godt det hele har gått sånt rent sosialt. 10 mennesker i en buss og man skulle tro at her burde det brake løs av og til, at folk skulle rotte seg sammen og lage allianser slik de gjør i Robinson og andre overlevelsesserier, men nei. Kanskje det er selvkontroll, kanskje det er fordi mange kjenner hverandre på godt og ondt fra før av eller kanskje det er fordi dette er virkelighet og ikke en tv-serie, og som alle vet så er virkeligheten mere kjedelig enn tv-verdenen. Resultatet har i hvert fall blitt; ingen store krangler og ingen kjipe allianser, derimot har mange kjærestepar og nye vennskaper sett dagens lys.

Klokka er seks. Ute begynner det å mørkne. Vi ser etter et sted å parkere bussen. Alt fra klostre til politistasjoner har fungert som overnattningssteder, men nå er vi ved Svartehavskysten og det er perfekte campingsteder i hver sving med superb utsikt over grønne åser, stup, klipper og blått hav så langt øyet rekker. Vi nærmer oss Europa - vi er i Europa - skriftspråket ser merkelig kjent ut og allikevel ganske så uforståelig. Tyrkia føles som hjemme - bare litt annerledes.

Turen går mot slutten. Jeg vet ikke om jeg har forandret meg noe særlig i løpet av disse elleve månedene på veien; jeg kommer i hvert fall ikke hjem i flagrende gevanter og følelsen av at jeg har sett lyset. Heldigvis. Men én ting er sikkert - verden er ikke så stor som før. Om ikke annet har disse elleve månedene utvidet geografikunnskapene mine og gjort Europa til en liten del av en stor verden. Det er i hvert fall noe.

Armenia; det forjettede land

2008-08-31T05:29:00.001-07:00

Jeg hadde aldri trodd at jeg kunne bli så glad for å se en russer igjen; i hvert fall ikke en ordknapp grensevakt eller en dame med utslått 80-talls hår og miniskjørt. Men etter tre timer på den iranske grensestasjonen og ikke minst etter tre uker i Iran, var Armenia blitt vårt forjettede land. Ikke det at Iran ikke var vakkert og folk ikke var hyggelige og alt det der, men savnet etter litt øl, vodka og utildekket hår var etter hvert blitt så stort at jubelen sto i taket da vi endelig kunne kaste sløret og kjøre inn over den armenske grensa. Det føltes rett og slett som å komme hjem.

(Bildet viser Guro i god Kaukasus-stil sammen med Abo)

Kontrasten mellom Iran og Armenia kunne ikke ha vært større - fra flatt ørkenlandskap til store fjell og frodige daler, fra alkohol-forbud til overflod av vodka, øl og orghee (hjemmebrent på bær) fra ris og tørr kylling til ost, pølse og brød og selvfølgelig; fra islam til kristendom. Vi er tross alt i den eldste kristne nasjon i verden, noe alle klostrene og kirkene vitner om. Det eneste Iran og Armenia til nå har hatt til felles har vært gjestfriheten.

Allikevel slår armensk gjestfrihet alt jeg har opplevd før. Det begynte riktignok med en noe blandet gjestfrihet etter å ha strandet med kokende motor i fjellene rett etter å ha kjørt over grensen til Armenia. Vi vet fortsatt ikke om motorproblemene kommer av de høye kaukasiske fjellene eller om det er ettervirkninger fra vannpumpe-skiftet vi hadde utenfor Tehran, men kokte gjorde i hvert fall motoren. Abo skulle vise seg å være en den lokale "business"mannen som solgte alt fra diesel til diamanter. Det endte også med at han skulle selge oss kylling tre ganger så dyrt som i butikken og helst ha betalt for parkeringen utenfor hans dasja (sommerhus)- eller rønna hans om du vil. Vi vet dog ikke om det var vodkaen som talte denne morgenen ettersom han akkurat hadde tømt tre melkeglass med vodka og hadde fått dollargliset fram, eller om han kanskje alltid var full og klar til å tjene litt ekstra.

Heldigvis kom en armensk-amerikansk jente som vi tilfeldigvis hadde møtt i hovedstaden Yerevan med sin norske kjæreste, Trygve (som jobber for Røde Kors) for å campe med oss og for første gang kunne vi ha tilnærmet samtaler med hverandre. Avskjedslunsjen sto Mishas søte kone Zoia for; stekt fisk med brød, ost og yoghurt. Vi lovde å komme tilbake en annen gang til mere mat og sylta bær som Zoia sa hun
ville lage til oss etter som hun allerede betraktet oss som sine barn.

Senere opplevde Martin og jeg nok en gang gjestfriheten i de kaukasiske fjellene. Etter å ha fulgt en gammel kjerrevei oppover fjellet tok Martin og jeg en pust i bakken da en mann dukket opp med en bunt villasparges (som vi ikke fikk altså, men tenk at det vokser asparges vilt!) og en flaske vodka. Man kan ikke avslå vodka i et
vodka-land, så etter noen skåler fortsatte vi oppover inntil engård/seter kom til syne. En ung gutt forsøkte å roe ned hundene sine før faren hans dukket opp og ville gi oss lunsj. Egg ble stekt, brød og ost servert sammen med den lokale hjemmebrenten. Vi satt inne i hytta og spiste mens de satt utenfor og ventet; det er ikke alltid
like lett å kommunisere så de tenkte kanskje at det var like greit åla oss være i fred til vi var ferdig med maten. Våre russiske gloser består stort sett kun av hvor vi kommer fra, hvor vi har vært, navn på forskjellige matvarer og stor/liten/veldig liten (lurt å kunne når man skal fortelle hvor mye vodka de skal helle på glassene...) På hjemturen ble vitaminbehovet dekket da en bil stoppet opp og en eldre dame med en rad gulltenner kom ut for å gi oss en bunt med epler. Det ble med andre ord en gjestfri dag.

Armenere er ikke bare gjestfrie, men også kulturelle. Yndlingbeskjeftigelsen til den vanlige Yerevanboer må være kafe- og operabesøk etter alle kafeene og operaens dominerende plassering i hovedstaden å dømme. Og faktisk har jeg da også vært på opera for første gang i mitt liv. Armensk opera. Det var både trist og fint siden den endte slik alle operaer gjør - med dødelig kjærlighet.

Bussen har det også fint i Armenia (bortsett fra kokende motor selvfølgelig). Her er den i sitt ess; dens tenkt funksjon blir endelig utnyttet til fulle med camping, bål og gå turer i fjellene langt(?) borte fra nysgjerrige indeere og et tørt Iran. Men det har også sin bakside. Den ene er selvfølgelig flåtten som har gjort sitt inntog. Skummelt lite dyr som vi tar daglige sjekk for. Den andre siden er den sedvanlige vodka-baksiden: fulle menn i ladaer med andre ord. Vår fine dag i fjellene endte derfor med med at jekken vår ble stjålet (fordi det var den eneste som logisk nok var utenfor bussen i og med at den ble brukt til å få bussen mere rett). Og gårsdagens natt endte likefullt med at et av våre gassbluss ble stjålet (den ble sannsynligvis glemt da vi prøvde å flykte fra de fulle mennene inn i bussen etter at de kom tilbake for andre gang.)

Til tross for dette har Armenia klart inntatt en av plassene mine på topp-tre lista over favorittland. Det er så ubeskrivelig vakkert her; det er vår og alt er grønt, frukttrærne blomstrer og lukta er deilig frisk. Den lukter som norsk vår-jord. Det har vært sykt vakkert å kjøre gjennom de kaukasiske fjellene. Det er høye fjell, snødekte topper, vidder, stup, kløfter, bekker, klostre og kirker som for mitt vedkomne slår Himalaya ned i støvlene. Jeg har aldri måpt så mye over en så kort periode i hvert fall, og jeg er ikke et måpende menneske. Men til tross for en uslåelig natur og en enorm gjestfrihet, må jeg nevne at for armenere er ikke alt bare fryd og gammen. Det er et fattig land med store kontraster (som de fleste andre land vi har kjørt igjennom) - spesielt mellom land og by. Det er et land hvor 10 mennesker ble drept under demonstrasjoner den 1.mars mot innsettelsen av den nye presidenten etter det mange mener var et korrupt valg (det er det ikke tvil om), og det er et land hvor økonomien visstnok er 70% svart.

Men det er som å være hjemme merkelig nok. Og det er ikke kun maten og vårlukta som bidrar med denne følelsen, også babuskaene minner om bestemoren min fra nord-Norge - i det hele tatt innser jeg etter mine reiser gjennom tidligere post-sovjetiske land hvordan nord-norsk kultur forståelig nok har blitt påvirket av det gigantiske nabolandet. Lukter, mat, innredning; jeg kunne like godt ha sittet på kjøkkenet hjemme hos bestemoren min på Breivikeidet den gangen hun levde. Det er nok hovedgrunnen til at det hele føles merkelig hjemmekjært, 27 000 km hjemmefra (med omveien via India vel og merke).

An Indian road diary

2008-08-31T05:18:00.003-07:00

Ahead of us are 2500 kilometres across India - from the Nepalese border in the North to Kerala in the South. 2500 kilometres on roads that are better than the Russian roads (all roads are messured in "Russian standard"), but even though the roads are fine, one has to remember that they are also full of people, cows, richshaws, dogs, bikes, motorbikes, trucks and busses, and actually a car now and then. The following text never made it to the blog when it should have, but if you want to read about life on the road, this is a ten days road diary from when we enter India until we reach Bangalore where we met friends and family.

Day 1, the 5th of December 2007:
We cross the Indian border at sunset after paying a rediculously small "bakshish" (bribe) to the border officer so that he won't look through the bus. Maria meets a Canadian couple and ask if they want a lift to Gorakphur which they gladly accept. In a small village we buy some food to cook in the bus and the Canadians buy some whisky and rum. A big crowd is gathering while Maria and I are buying the vegetables. Staring and pointing. Coming from Nepal this intruding curiosity is overwhelming, but I am soon to learn that this is India; nosy and curious people everywhere. Not to mention that we don't really blend into the landscape around us in a big grey bus with pale faces peeking out behind blue curtains. While we are buying food a young boy asks if we want to park at the local policestation for the night. His father is the police officer. During our trip we have parked at a hospital, outside a convent, on a practise ground for a driving school (we came after dark and didn't realise until we woke up and saw all the cars driving round us) and at a parking lot for a 24-hours open supermarket. Sleeping at a police station will be a good contribution for our list over strange places to park. We accept.

Day 2:
We get up late and eat the rest of the bread we bought in Pokhara at the German Bakery. The Canadians get off at Gorakhpur, but we continue driving until it gets dark. Finding a place for a bus with a toilet near by is hard - in India there are mostly only "open air" toilets which would be fine if there weren't always a gang of people staring at you as soon you get out of the bus. The roads are extremely busy with people and cows everywhere. We are in one of the most populous state of India, Uttar pradesh, which might explain all the people, but it doesn't explain why the trucks are driving in the middle of the road and the feeling of almost crashing into them every time they pass us. After a bit of searching we park at a bus station which has a public toilet. As usual tens of people are surrounding our bus, just staring. Some of them knock on the door and wants to see the interior. Something breaks and Morten asks a boy where to put it. He just points at the ground. Some minutes later he says enthusiasticly "India is great". We don't know yet. Afterwards we eat dal, rice and chapati at a very local and a bit dodgy cafe. The expression "Indian Roulette" is a good way to explain the risks our stomachs might go through every time we have a meal, but it seems we all have survived the Indian's food bullets for this time. Most of us were struck by the Nepalese ones.

Day 3:
Getting up early (at 7) to get to Varanasi after eating some bananas for breakfast. After a while we find a decent looking restaurant along the road and eat lunch. We arrive at Varanasi around three o'clock and without any problems we find a hotel described in lonely planet as a place for overlanders (we are not the only ones, but we might have the only 12 metre long bus). We manage to squeese the bus into the parking lot and some of us get a room at the hotel and some stay in the bus. The hotel has everything; swimming pool, internet, massage, good food so there is no reason to leave the hotel this evening (the trick is to look for a semi-expencive hotel where they usually have a parking lot), but we agree to get up at 5:30 to take a boat trip on Ganges at sunrise.

Day 4:
After the boattrip and some shopping (a new inverter for electricity and new mirrors since they get knocked off the bus every now and then when meeting trucks). The people left on the bus are: Bjørn Kjetil, Martin, Maria, Morten and me (Cecilie). Ingrid and Torkild will take the train to Kerala and scout for good places to park the bus. Anders, Andreas and Guro are all back in Norway. The bus feels empty and we think someone is missing quite often, but it is easier to count to five than ten. We park after an hour driving at a nice truck stop with a good restaurant. Maria makes gløgg and we see "Nightmare before christmas". It doesn't feel like christmas though in +25 celcius.

Day 5:
Getting up at seven again eating breakfast in the bus. Maria and I found some cheese in Varanasi which makes us think about a good, Norwegian breakfast even though the toast doesn't really recemble kneip. Today we cross the border to a new state, Madhya pradesh which according to the guidebook is less populated and the people are more educated. The landscape changes into hills, plateaus, red earth and trees. Some monkeys are running around along the road. Occationly the roads are empty which until now has been unthinkable. A boy runs over the road and is almost hit by our bus. I think about what we have heard - if a person or a cow are hit by a car, apparently a mob will come and lynch you, so if the unlikely situation should happen, we just have to drive to the nearest policestation without stopping. We find a quite expencive hotel (by Indian standards) and park our bus there for 500 rupees and get access to toilet, shower and electricty.

Day 6:
Today we saw an elephant for the first time. It was suddenly just there - enormous compared to the small man on top - by the road in a village. In an intimate encounter with a truck, the mirror fell off, but did not break and was soon back on place.

Day 7:
We are driving through Kipling land and a new state: Maharashrtra. There are signs like "Kipling restaurant and Bar" and pictures of Mogwli and Baloo on big boards are telling us we are defintly in the woods where Mogwli grew up. It does feel like being a part of this story as we are surrounded by old, old trees and long alleys with monkeys running along the road. A monkey is sitting on a stone with the legs hanging down like a small child as to reassure us of our common heritage. Just 30 kilometres away there is a national park with some of Indias last tigers wandering around. Who knows, maybe we will see a lost tiger today? In Nagpur there are signs in the midst of the road attempting to teach us some lessons of driving to fast. "Impatient on road - patient in hospital" or "Better late in this world than first in that world", not to mention the truth in "Reach home in peace, not in pieces." Through India there has always been a crowd gathering around the bus, sometimes they are cheering and Morten claims that he feels like a rock star when paying road tax. This is later confirmed when a boy comes to the bus and asks for our autographs. Life as a rock star is hard. A new two-lane highway is partly finished making the road at times extremely good but also at times very humpy and the double bed in the back of the bus falls down. Obviously we are coming a bit too early, in a year's time the same route will take half the time on the super new highway.

Day 8:
Tired eyes and Morten has a hangover after staying up half the night with a road engineer drinking whisky and beer. The night before we parked at a bar and restaurant and had a couple of beers and some other experiences with a man that was just a bit too curios when we were going to the toilet. But we keep to the schedule and get up at seven as usual. The landscape changes as does the food and the written language (this is where the 70's aestetics has gotten its inspiration for sure) as we drive into a new state, Andryha Pradesh. Even the colour of the soil seems to be changing from deep red to yellow and brown and people seem to be getting poorer again. For the first time we are stopped at the police check point. They ask how many people we are and confirm our answer by saying " ahh, two ladies and three people". Afterwards we have a cup of tea and a silent conversation in four plastic chairs together with the officer in charge. It takes two hours and later a new stop is required when one of the bus' front tires punctures in the middle of nowhere. With (too much?)help from some people in the usual crowd (17 at the most) and our own good skills, a new tire is put on and we are ready to drive again after one and a half hour. In the evening we park at a Rajehstan dhaba (cafe/truckstop) and is soon adopted by the owner. It is not everyday a bus with foreigners stop at his dhaba.

Day 9:
Someone is knocking on the door at 7.30 telling us that tea is ready. They are all up waiting for us at the dhaba and after some personal hygiene we all drink some tea. But the food seems to be far away, or maybe they just want us to stay as long as possible? At 10.30 we can finaly leave after a good Rajahstan breakfast consisting of rice porridge and parathaka (bread with herbs and potato this time). The heat is getting closer as we drive further south and so are the snakes. As we sit and talk, a snake suddenly comes from nowhere and snake its way between Martin's legs before anyone notices. This turns out to be a good thing realizing that it is poisenous snake and that we were "velly, velly lucky". From now on we all look a bit more to the ground when walking around. When driving through Hyderabad one is again remained of the huge contrasts in this country. A commercial board is telling us that we can get swimming pool, 24 hours security, supermarket, children's playground, parking space and laundry service if we buy an appartment in a super modern complex. This seems centuries away from the reality one see along the road and in the Indian countryside. In search for an A1 (an Indian truck stop chain with showers, good food and toilets), we drive after dark, but have to give up searching for one. We park at a dhaba with "open air" toilet instead.

Day 10, the 14th of December:
A bit afraid of repeating the late departure from yesterday, we say no to tea and breakfast at the dhaba we stayed overnight. The owner must have thought that one cannot drive without ones morning tea, and soon after we get five small plastic cups with tea and milk to go for free. It has been a hot, humid night and after just 20 kilometetres we pass an A1, but since we are certain to reach Bangalore tonight (one day earlier than expected!)a shower is yet not required. The traffic consist of new, smart cars and old trucks. Later we reach Bangalore and rent an aparment with four bedrooms. Three friends from Norway are waiting for us there and we relax for a couple of days after many days on the road before we take the final stretch to Kerala.

It is hard to define a new nation on a short notice

2008-08-31T05:14:00.000-07:00

The whole world seems to be covered by a thin layer of red, yellow and brown particles that makes the sceanario around me a bit unreal through the dusty sun haze. I know that this is not the whole world, but right now the sand seems to be taking over my world, and these days my world consists of Kyrgyzstan. The sand is everywhere; on my clothes, in my nose and in my eyes and the bus has gotten a slightly new yellow look. It is autumn in Kygyzstan and it is dry. Dry and warm during daytime and sometimes freezing cold at night. The contrast between t-shirts and shorts during daytime, and wollen clothes and heating in the bus after dusk seems unecessary harsh as the sun is making me uncomfortable warm at the moment.

But it is not only the contrast bewteen the heat and the cold that will stand apart in my memory when I think about Kyrgyzstan. As in Kazakhstan there are huge contrasts everywhere. Contrasts between the nomadic culture and the modern city life, between the old soviet system and capitalism. One day I am enjoying a coffee latte and wireless internet in the capital Bishkek, the next day I am eating laghman (a local noodle sup) and nan in a yurt (the nomadic 'tent') on 3500 metres above sea level in the rural mountains by the lake Issyk Kul - the pride of Kyrgyzstan. It is a country were you can see BMWs (they are usually imported from Germany; they still have the D on the back of the car) along side a yurt, where the old Kyrgyzstan is meeting the rest of the world and where the adjustment will take some time as this area was a no-go area, closed to the rest of the world as a military reseach centre during the Soviet times.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan seemed to be going in the same direction with something that looked more and more like dicatorship than a western democracy, but where the Kazakh president was popular, the Kyrgyz president didn't enjoy the same popularity, and where the Kazak people seemed to accept the political terms in their country, the Kyrgyz people made a revolution. If the so
called revolution has changed a lot, I can't say, but at least we didn't find any tower in a newly made capital with the president's golden hand.

Coming from the flat and enormous Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan is in many ways the opposite of Kazakhstan, but they have the dust in common though. Where Kazakhstan is a big, flat country, Kygyzstan makes up for its small size by being a very mountainious country with about 90% 1500 metres above sea level and 41% above 3000 metres. Where Kazakhstan is the new and upcoming country in the region after discovering an oil bubble in the Caspian sea in 2000 (we are talking about a country that might become one of the world's largest oil exporters just conquered by Saudia Arabia), Kyrgyzstan has a much poorer future ahead - the officially inflation is 6%, but it might be as high as 20% according to sources in the only English newspaper in Central Asia. The economy is only saved by a growing tourist industry and the country's good water supply.

The country has a similar history as the rest of Central Asia; it is not only struggling with bad economy, but also the struggle of becoming a nation over night after Soviets fall. In Russia there is a small difference in the pronounciation between being Russian and living in Russia to embrace all the different ethnic groups living in the former Soviet Union. One can either read this is a way of making room for all the different ethnic groups and try to keep the tension low, or one can read it as a way of saying: "you will never be a real part of this country. You are forever different." I don't how to read it since my knowledge about the the former Soviet Union, Russia and Central Asia, is quite limited. What I think is interesting is what defines nationality when living in a country your whole life doesn't? Needless to say that this question is valid everywhere else as well, and I might not need to mention that it has become harder to be a Slavic descendant in these countries; they are denied access to the government, and they often have harder times getting jobs. According to my guide book(!), as many as 250 people left each day in 1993, the same number in 1996 was 38 people. This of course, also has an impact on the economy as they often are the most educated people. It is just the classical brain-drain problem that appears here as in 3.world countries.

After 70 years under Russia in some way and with Russian as the official language and a populationconsisting of different ethnic groups; nomadic Kyrgyz and Kazakh people, Russians, Germans, Ukraines, Koreans and so on, it is hard to define a new national history. As in Kazakhstan it is the nomadic culture and the language that is to be the national tool. Kyrgyz and Kazakh were to become the official languages, though not over night, but in Kazakhstan, according to the law, everybody should by now speak Kazakh. The schools are to teach in the Kyrgyz and Kazakh, but what do you do when Kazakh and Kyrgyz are both oral languages with no written tradition and when many people realise that they speak Russian better than their "native" language? Many parents supportive of the their childrens possibilities to be taught in their own language, chose to take their kids back to the schools teaching in Russian, realising that the school books and the teachers had sadly not the same standard as the Russian taught schools.

It is hard to define a new nation on a short notice.

Apart for being a country striving to be a become a nation state, Kyrgyzstan will for me always be a country remembered by the kids shouting "helloooo" on the streets and "give me your money" laughing, for its stunning nature, kind and open people. A country made out of sand and revolutions, a shepard, his family and a bike, a horse without shoes, a drunken man and his angry wife, kymyz and bad stomachs and the haunt for the nicest shyrdak in town.

I have been lazy

2008-08-31T05:04:00.000-07:00

I am well back from an enormous trip through half Asia (or so...), but my own blog has been rather empty. Not that I haven't been writing anything, it is just hard to post everything everywhere, being out in nowhere at times - meaning I will now put out everything I ever wrote on this trip. Hopefully someone out there will read and enjoy! I start with Russia and then the others will follow.

Love and hate in India

2008-01-27T02:55:00.000-08:00

Maybe it was the burning sun or the hypnotic waves or the crowd of people shouting "heeeelooo" everytime one went outside the protective fence around the small houses we rented in Cherai Beach in Kerala, that resulted in me doing nothing for weeks. Have I read any books? Maybe one... What about drawing? No, I can't say I have been doing that either. And did I ever finish my web page as planned? No... (could I use the inflammation in my wrist as an excuse?). I think I have been staring into warm air (and I have to disappoint you all, or maybe mostly myself by admitting that I haven't gotten any smarter by what could resemble some kind of thinking) for hours every day only interrupted by the daily search for food. Should it be the really bad food at Brighton close by, or the superb food at Sealine 2,5 kilometres down the road (think about all the hassle of getting 12 people down there on one motorbike and two scooters), or of course, one can make the food one self, but should I then include the rest of the bus crew and by this spend hours making food? Not to mention all the guests we have had; Are, Espen, Kjersti, Stine, Markus, Hilde, Thorsten, Kirsten... No wonder I am really tired of food.

But now all this is behind me as I am sitting in an internet cafe in tourist-Varkala further down south in Kerala, waiting for the night train to Mangalore. Here it is hard to find Indian food, and I can't but wonder if I am really in India. For all I know, this could be South-Europe or Gran Canaria (I have never been there though, but sun-loving tourist with white, fat bellies are the same everywhere, rigth?). But even I have to admit the cappuccino was really good after weeks with bad chicory powder-coffee...

India has been both great and less great. It has been both love and hate, to put it in a hippie way. Here is my hate/love list of India.

Hate:
Uttar Pradesh (in North India) which just might be the synonyme for hell
Staring people
Giggling men
Men touching you when you walk by
Drunk men (who breaks the bus' front window)
Garbage
Martin diving into the waves and almost getting paralysed
India's insane traffic with trucks, cows, richshaws, scooters, bikes, wagons everywhere, not to mention insane driving
Instant coffee with chicory
Hippie tourists...
The food
Helpful people
The sun

Love:
The food
Helpful people
The sun
Fresh seafood from the fishmarket
The Ocean and the beaches and the palms
Lili who was always there in the morning at Cherai beach
Albertm, the caretaker at Cherai beach, with the caps covering his bold head
The neighbours at Cherai beach (except the ones smashing our front window of course)
Fresh pineapple in the morning
Colourful silk

Om Kina

2007-12-15T01:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Two cuban cigars, some Norwegian coins and a sami-postcard

2007-12-15T00:58:00.001-08:00

"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.

Beijing

2007-10-19T03:20:00.000-07:00

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!

Kyrgyzstan

2007-09-14T04:17:00.000-07:00

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

Open for comments!

2007-09-05T04:55:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-05T04:19:00.000-07:00

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.

In Siberia

2007-08-30T04:08:00.000-07:00

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-

Russia in express

2007-08-24T11:09:00.002-07:00

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

2007-08-24T11:08:00.001-07:00

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.

Mitt siste måltid

2007-08-24T11:05:00.000-07:00

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.

MYPMAHCK

2007-08-18T11:46:00.001-07:00

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!

The bus

2007-08-15T07:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Bus crew

2007-08-14T03:07:00.000-07:00

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).

Bus Route

2007-08-10T02:46:00.000-07:00

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