The rover who roams towards Nowhere does not want to retrace his steps nor tread twice the same path. If his unknown destination–who knos if nonexistent–was not where he has already been, why should he go past there again? The search must go on in different direction. But even so, despite myself, today I will for the first time this trip–and it won’t be the only one–ride back a road: there are in this country many villages whereof you can only get out the same road you got in; such is the Norwegian geography. That kind of places, Spanish philosoper Miguel de Unamuno used to call terminal towns, attiributing them the quality of “producing” more notable characters than average. Well, I don’t know that much, but how could I deny that such isolated populations, not being in the way of anywhere else, therefore less influenced by the contact with social diversity, preserve their idiosincrasy purer?
Therefore, my visit to Vadso means I have to drive back fifty kilometres, as further on there is only Vardo town–Norway’s easternmost tip, which peeps into the earlier time zone–and then nothing.
Upon arriving–for the second time–to Varangerbotn crossroads, I take a break, this time in the other cafeteria, just opposite: Varangerkroa. Different style, maybe a bit warmer, but all in all same thing. Instead of a coffee I order here a soup. Soup of the day is one of the brightest sides in Scandinavian eating habits, as far as I know from Iceland to Finland; and there is no restaurant, self-service, cafeteria or even fast-food not offering the typical thermal pot, with lid and ladle, full of hot, tasty and nourishing soup that can bring back the dead.
It’ve come fifty kilometres along the seaboard until Varangerbotn, and then another fifteen of stony tundra over the hills until Tana Bru, nice sonorous name for a service town where two Lappish routes meet. It is a lively place this Tana Bru–or bridge over Tana river, such means the name: several petrol stations, supermarkets, workshops, restaurants and hotels for the needs of the tourists along rpite E6. I seize the opportunity for fueling up, because Rosaura’s tank is half empty and ahead of us there lie ninety kilometres of uninhabited land, except for two or three farms and summer cottages.
Little fishing harbour not far from Tana Bru
Finnmark’s orography is bizarre, quite unfriendly to roads–judging from their twisted routes. In some parts the land is covered by taiga, but tundra prevails most of the time; and those stony hills over the barren highlands, full of boulders, remind me of Iceland a lot: the bare peaks, the featureless slopes by the seaside, at most covered by low vegetation struggling for a life among the rocks. The pavement of this solitary road cutting across Nordkinn peninsula is in quite bad shape, wrinkled, patched, potholed. On the other hand, natural life and the ecosystem are preserved wild, unaltered. All over, there is pleny of birds, and diversity, same as reindeer and other fauna, and the native vegetation lives here unmolested, pure, free from men’s intrusion. A fussy friend of mine from the States loves to complain that forests “in Europe” (typical mistake, equating a huge but homogeneous nation with a small but heterogenous continent) are replanted, but obviously he has never seen Norway. Ignorance is usually outspoken.
Stunted native vegetation in Nordkinn peninsula
This stage’s last winding and craggy fifty kilometres cover Nordkinn’s arid highlands “straight” between Tana and Laksen fiords. Though slow, that stretch makes for a fun and astounding bike ride: along those bare tops at the mercy of wind, there’s nothing but rock, grass and ponds; small pools whose water lives there all year round because the ground does not drain the thaw. Not a soul on the road. Only the cold wind makes Rosaura and me company.
On the west side we arrive to Ifjord, a “locality” consisting of just one building which serves as restaurant, motel, campsite and petrol station. I leave the bike by the front and climb the four steps to the main door. Sitting in one of them there is a fat man, quite disheveled, who does not answer my hello. The premises are large and unobstructed, featuring quite a few tables, a pool, a small counter with the till, a fruit machine, an icecream freezer and a display cabinet with some useful things for sale. Through the large set of windows facing sunset there is a panoramic view to the tundra and a creek, and when the sun comes out from behind the clouds, there pours in through the panes inside the room, merrily striking onto the red and white squares of the mantlecloths.
The man in charge is a terse yet kind fellow of slow motion and words, the kind seeming to always keep in mind that a day at a time: he’s never in a hurry; though actually, living in this corner of the country, where would he go to? I ask for acommodation and he hands me the key to a hut in the campground, by the creek, and another to a room downstairs. The view is equally fine from both, facing the forest and the river, where the sun glimmers with a thousand shines. I take the room and park Rosaura in the back, below my window. When I come back, the fat guy on the steps talks to me as if carrying on some previous conversation. I sit by him and chat for a while, like if we were acquainted neighbours. He turns out to be a very fine fellow.
Then, I go for a stroll around the place for profiting this warm evening sun. Right in front of Ifjord, across the road, an inviting, faded path goes up the hill on the bright green grass, advancing towards the grove and disappearing among the white tree trunks. Thus lit up, the grove makes a beautiful contrast with the violet clouds towering above on the eastern sky.
Grove in front of Ifjord
How wild is all this! Soon after getting into the little forest I run into a herd of grazing reindeer who don’t care much for my presence. If I get too close, they dash off a few leaps and keep minding their own business. Still, they slowly move up the slope, ahead of me, as if I were their shepherd. After a while the path vanishes and the ground gets too bushy and muddy, oozy, wetting my tennis shoes, so I go back down and then walk along the road for a while.
Reindeer herd in the grove
And what a summer cottages these Norges own! Good for a contest: neat, well painted, stylish, finely ornated and excellently located, always on the best spots; though well, there aren’t many ugly spots in Norway.
A summer cottage by Laksefjorden
Still, despite the education we presuppose to them, one can’t say all Norwegians are so respectful with the environment: while walking on the shore of Laksefjorden I run into a fair amount of litter; waste not coming–I bet–from us tourists, but thrown away by the own inhabitants of this area: plastics, oil drums, soap drums, household containers and other rubbish. Right on the ditch by a cottage lot there lives the junk of a car, underside to the sky. It’s squashed, half hidden by the weed, its rusted iron camouflaged with the rock, yet blatantly offending, its undeniable presence denouncing that civilized Norway can also litter badly.
A junk ditched by the road in Ifjord
After this long walk, I find my fat friend at the restaurant, finishing off some greasy dish. He’s about to go home. Before leaving the place, he wishes me a nice trip; then climbs up a big car and drives away down the road. I realize I’m also hungry. From the limited menu I order some kind of fish’n’chips and a beer with a suggestive name. I’m served by a Thai woman. Even here, in uninhabited Ifjord, there are immigrants. Norway must be really packed with them.
But my last thought for the day goes to the rubbish I’ve seen on the seashore and on the road. Though of course censurable, I can understand that people in uncultured countries throw their junk to the ditch, but in Norway, littering is unforgivable.
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