It is like a scout camp only permanent and without the brats!

Heimspikka village is a gem hidden in the forest close to the Swedish border. A seemingly random group of very different people (occupations spanning from stage artists to computing) with a shared interest in Do-It-Yourself and a combined base of know-how acquired some land just a couple of years back, and without further ado started knocking down a few trees, putting up a shelter or two and inviting folks to help out. In a few seasons, it’s already grown to a well-equipped camp site that can comfortably accommodate a tenfold of happy campers. The spirit is collective, sharing is caring, and should you wish to help out you will be duly accredited with toast and boast. I can see this project grow as a very including community.

It is truly impressive what can be accomplished without the aid of professionals. Go there if you have the chance, get inspired and say hi to Nils the squirrel from me!

Signature totem:

One of several trunkheads

Came for the mead making workshop, stayed for the atmosphere.

Man, look at all that honey!

A huge cag of honey brew is now  waiting to become honey wine, making promiseful little blopping sounds next to the warm, cosy server that serves Murmeldyr and other happy sites.

Gotta love it.

Now this post is coming shamefully after the fact, this is simply due to a temporary loss of speech induced by the awesomeness of the place.

When I saw the treetop huts in the hostel catalog I was immediately fascinated, and booked a weekend in easter.

The place is just north of Hamar, but not paying attention to signs and too much relying on GPS lead us some 20 km astray, on the wrong side of the lake, on a road ending in this:

Cute cows

So it was almost dark when we got there. To a fully equipped cabin in the treetops, 8 meters up in larch trees.

Except for the latitude, it looks just like any cabin. It can accommodate up to seven people, so us two had lots of space. Hot water, shower, indoors wc and fridge makes it comfortable, even without electricity.

No worries, the stairs are rock solid.

The car looks small from up there.

8 is a lot of meters

This cabin is brand new, we were the 4th party to write in the guest book. How neat to be among the first to experience this very unique place.

The host offers a range of nature activities, and we were going to try dogsledding. Because of the unusually mild weather this was not possible, but we had a nice walk in the woods.

Lots and lots of birds, at most we managed to capture six birdies in the same photo! No wonder, with all the classy bird’s houses in the area. If I were a bird I’d live in this!

Guitar house

They all took off when this guy came for the seeds:

A stay in the treetops can be recommended to anyone wanting to take a few days in the deep woods, maybe especially for tourists wanting a taste of Norwegian cabin culture.

The loftroom:

Welcome to the decameter high club!

Curious things to do with cardboard and paper clips

(Note the interested onlooker under the table)

So, this weave is just a bunch of cardboard pieces with holes in the corners. Make your own with some coasters and a puncher. The whole setup looks like a cobweb to start; however, follow the instructions and beautiful patterns start appearing. The clue is alternating between two directions of turning the plates. How someone was able to come up with this is beyond my comprehension.

Close-up of the result:

Not hard once you get used to which threads go where. Only for all your life never let go of the plates! I did for a split second, and was in the same instant back to cobweb state.

But there is more! I have spent my hour-long commutes needle-binding the past week. I’ve found this technique very bus-friendly as it can be put down any time without worrying about losing a loop -just pull the thread and chuck it in your bag.

This sock I made using a paper clip as some gremlin seems to have borrowed my needle. I feel McGyver-ese.

Finishing another pair, working the clip:

One is still waiting for its colorful top band, I was just too impatient to get something up here. Obviously there is one bigger and one smaller in the pair. For the first one, I was instructed to make it huge, as it will shrink. So I made it huge. Now, “huge” is a pretty loose standard when matching up a pair, so I’ve later stuck to fitting them on while already wearing warm socks. We’ll see if that’s sufficiently huge.

Cutesy wrist warmers (mittens not included):

Both the weave and the needle-binding (not the clip amendment) are over a thousand years old and forgotten by most, still completely functional and in several ways even better than current techniques. I feel lucky to have gotten to learn and utilize them. It is all thanks to my treasured teacher Anette Kvist. This dear lady lives way out by the ocean with her chatty parrot, in a house that’s full of crafts.

There had been a crafting group for some time, but only after Anette joined in did we really get stuff done.

The rest of the crafting group can hardly be called experienced crafters, yet suddenly we all have self-designed wear to show off. That is how inspiring it is to work with Anette. Somehow, she makes us good. Last time I learned needle-binding, I couldn’t quite get the hang of it. With Anette, it’s easy as peas.

What I love about these grand old crafts is their serenity. No fancy nicnac needed, and as such this stuff is quite non-materialist. Imagine the price of a “proper” weave  - not student friendly, I can assure you. Also when knitting, each and every recipe requires a different set of sticks, which alone makes the price of the finished garment touch the price of a fabricated one.

As I was skimming through an article while waiting for my friend at a brown-ish cafe today, an elderly man approached me real close, tried to catch my eye and started reciting poetry in a calm, comforting voice. It was a gray, sobering text about the struggles of the working people in a time not as long gone as we like to think. This is what he read:

You ask where No. 13 is,
Our old familiar court.
I’m just the one to show you, Sir;
Though not for jokes or sport.
Right there you see it sprawling.
It’s almost like a fort.

But there are blighted city streets
In countries ’round the world,
Where daily degradation scenes
Are shamelessly unfurled
In hidden holes of poverty,
Into which man is hurled!

A few get it into their heads
And lie right down and die
Because there isn’t sun and air
And food to keep them spry.
But it’s the same in other courts,
So why the hue and cry?

But court 13, which is our home
And haven,we hold dear.
And even grand and beautiful
It often can appear –
At night, when lights are shining in
The windows: bright and clear.

Yes, then the court is full of life –
A castle bright and gay.
For every light is lit and all
The flats are on display.
We breathe as free men only when
We’ve gotten through the day.

On Friday Kalsen often comes
Home tipsy: silly drunk.
He flaunts his wad and entertains
Till busted like a skunk.
He makes his money longshoring –
Just heaving coal and junk.

But Kalsen has a missus and
A flock of kids. He’s sad.
And the last born — puny misfit –
The devil should have had;
For he is so small and scrawny:
A puff of wind — oh, Gad!

But when he went a-sailoring
The world lay at his feet.
And all the lovely women folks
Around that he did meet!
He never then, like now, did have
To shovel muck and shit.

And Kalsen grabs his bosom friend,
A squeaky violin,
And breezes through his repertoire.
The notes come cracked and thin.
But his ears hear only music –
No tearful questionin’.

He revels in those wondrous years –
The distant long ago,
When skies were blue, the oceans too,
And he sailed to and fro!
But that was then — before the days
Did gray and dismal grow.

The court will not go over-board
For Kalsen’s violin.
So many strum guitars and sing,
Or play the mandolin.
And, drinking apple wine, they dance
To the accordion.

At last frying pans are sizzling
With hamburgers and fish
While hungry kids are screaming
And waiting with their dish;
On Friday evening 13 flows
With all that one could wish.

From 13, until late at night,
A constant din we hear
Which, although it is loud and gay,
Has undertones of fear.
The inmates shrink from what’s in store,
When dawn comes lurking near.

But the lights at last extinguished!
And tossing in their beds
Are the bodies, sleeping now, with
So diff’rent hearts and heads.
And through the streets the night wind moans
And cold and sadness sheds.

Then creaking sounds and whisperings!
It’s Olga with a ‘beau’.
She’s working in a factory
But makes so little, so
She profiteers the only way
The likes of her can know.

But some are keeping vigil there;
A young, new crop of men
They dig and keep on digging till
They dig the dream again
That gushingly once issued from
A wise man’s magic pen.

The livelong day the dream perforce
Must burrow like a mole.
Yet to ‘Atlantis’ still they cling; –
They sight a better role
And world than this where others own
Their very heart and soul.

And their young hearts fill with fury:
Study — dispel the mist!
But always — with the golden dreams –
On stubborn facts insist
That point the way straight to the land
Where 13s don’t exist.

Rudolf Nilsen/translation by Gus Rystad

He went on relating how this enlightened poet died tragically in young age. I must admit I was too startled to respond much. Also judging whether it was a drugged luniac talking or just a friendly old chap getting inspired by the sight of a young person hehearsing their curriculum (it was the latter) took some moments, and I must have appeared as though I did not want to be bothered. Which irritates me a bit as I actually love strange encounters like that and would have talked to him if my friend hadn’t come just then.

As part of my mission to make the institute building more interesting, I changed “crop of men” into “a young student”, printed out the three last verses and put it on the message board.

Welcome to the building where I’ve spent most of my days lately. Oddities abound, and I decided to take you here and show you around before I get so accustomed I do not notice them anymore.

The first thing that meets you inside is this guy and this guy.

The foyer is full of dead animals in the strangest arrangements. Let me show you a few of them:

Crash-landed eagle

A.. gigantic egg with a map on it, rising from the ocean while polar birds watch. Erm, what?

Looks religious, kind of like Venus’ birth.

This one is just a photo, but possibly the scariest of them all (enlarge to see why):

The legend only states “elephant seal.” Not “demonic bloody vampire elephant seal with a rotten hole for an eye.”
Now let me take you to the lunch area. I used to think the food court at UMB was expensive, but at least they had cheap coffee and now I realize that’s what matters. UiO coffee is almost twice the UMB price. And even if you bring your own mug and tea, they charge for the water. Is the food court supposed to be business or welfare? Just asking.

Enormous swan in the lunch area, not behind glass or anything.

Poetry between the swan’s legs (click to enlarge).

Behind the lunch area are some immigrants:

Kangaroo with really huge testicles

Emu

Someone stole the racoon dog.

Why would anyone steal a stuffed racoon dog? Wikipedia says the racoon dog is  black listed in Norway as an unwanted species. Maybe it was taken to wherever human illegal immigrants are taken when they “disappear.”

Hatching dinosaurs. They sure did a considerable effort when decorating the building. The result is weird.

In the basement:

Wolves with raincoats

… A German Shepherd? The descriptions say little about what the poor dog did to get stuffed in here. And what on earth is that face doing in the skies??

A narrow hallway is full of birds.

Owls are an ancient symbol of knowledge, guardians of Universities. Let’s stuff them and keep them hidden away in a crammy hallway!

The signs on the bathrooms look like they really struggle to hold it. Obviously I wanted to take just these photos as quick as possible, hence the blur.

Hallways. Miles of them, and they all look exactly like this. The building has a hole in the middle and endless hallways circle around. The way is long and landmarks are few. You may not even know when you’re back where you started. Give me color codes!

The middle. No one is ever there. Look at how gray and sterile it is. Oh, how this space longs to be a garden, lawn, forest, anything but paved. It should be so much more. It’s the institute of biology, dammit!

I just might do something about that.

There will be street art.

The South Norwegian coastline is one of the most wondrous places I know. The latest Ice Age did a good job on it, neatly polishing the bedrock into friendly rounds that get nice and warm in the sun. Due to straight-edged protectionism much of it is still public although strong financial forces call for privatization. Building regulations direct that houses be adorable (literally. In several places it is for instance specified that houses must be wooden, painted white with a red tilted roof). Forests are open with more precious species than the common spruces and pines that dominate your standard Nordic forest. Wildlife abounds.

In this paradise the Full City oil spill seems all the grosser. The ship was not an oil vessel; the 1000+ tonnes of bunker oil was the fuel only. How the sticky, thick, chewing-gum-like substance can be good as fuel is a mystery to me, and this is indeed a likely cause for the havary -using such yucky fuel, it takes a loong time for an engine to pick up speed. Turning off the engines in narrow waters with a sucky forecast then seems like a very bad idea. A call for a ban of bunker oil as fuel must be in order. If Iceland, very possibly the most shipping-dependent nation in the world, can ban bunker oil in their waters, it must be doable here as well. Anyhow, the skerries are asfalted now.

So in this situation, when WWF called for volunteer diggers I did not feel I had much choice but going.

Map of the area:

Purple mark: Langesund town, the headquarters and birds’ hospital.

Red mark: Frøholmen, a birds’ reserve that was hit badly and mostly all over.

Pink mark: Jomfruland, also with birds’ reserves, was hit by one splosh of several tonnes close to the south peak.

The ship crashed outside Brevikstranda. Between the wreck and Stråholmen there is a half hour in a fast boat, little islets all along the way.

A grinning monument of one of the dangers of the oil industry.

I am sad to say I saw more dead than live birds in the reserves. Damaged birds were taken to an ad-hoc birds’ hospital, which aroused quite some controversy as many do not value birds and the hunting season starts in a few months’ time anyway. For my own part, I can not see many better uses for the money this nation has gotten from oil.

Eider duck, poisoned or frozen to death

Recovering falcon

The birds’ reserves at Stråholmen and Jomfruland were cleaned first as they are resting spots on the trekking route for certain birds and the trekking season was about to begin.

Seals. Although naturally dark and spotty, the young one in the middle is oily. I hope it will be fine.

A’diggin’

The people living here are so proud of their area. Even the janitor who was understandably not happy about being ordered to install me in my accommodation when I arrived late Sunday evening, explained cheerfully what sites I just had to see while I was there.

I went west. Life was peaceful there.

Crammed between staggering mountains, the sea way down there and more mountains so close you can throw a rock across the fjord, is an itty bitty cabin full of wonderful artefacts gathered by sailors in distant havens, truly impressive artwork created during long hours of hiding during the War, and colorful remains of the ’70s. Here I spent a week with crazier half,  father-in-law whom he got it from, and little else. And time whizzled by.

We lived off the sea, having self-fished fish or crab every day, taking only what we needed and releasing the rest. It’s all so steep, the boat must be put in the water using a crane.

If you ever do the ultimate tour of Norway, when you get to the really narrow strait, the one that makes you think “no way the boat will fit in there,” see the really big oak about half way through and tell it hello from me. He is a tough one. Being the tallest point in the area, he’s been struck by lightning more than once but he stays strong. I had a good laugh every time that ship passed, it is just so absurdely huge in that tiny passage.

Lately I have engaged in very mundane activities, such as planning on Interrail for summer (there will be a separate post. In the meantime, please comment if you are interested in backpacking throughout Europe some 3 weeks in July), repeatedly informing rabbits keyboard cords are not edible (another reason for the offlineness but a very good lesson in fusing cables!), failingly persuading James (the support guy with the distinctly Engrish accent) that performing a 2h memory test is outstandingly bad advice when the problem at hand is the friggin’ computer rebooting every ten minutes!, catching up with what network theorists would call my dead network (they turned out to be alive and well) and reclaiming the rabbit fort (I am now the posessor of a fully functioning sleeping couch armed with chicken wire).

I still love random oddities and brackets.

Murmeldyr was started as means of letting people like yourself in on what life brought while I was off to faraway for what then was a substantial part of my close future. Partly to avoid forgetting what I’d told who and repeating myself too much, partly for broadcasting pixelated evidence and partly for looking back later. Close future very rapidly transformed into recent past, Aggy is back in homely lands and Murmeldyr has fulfilled its purpose?

Undoubtedly there will be more travels. In the meantime, your happy Marmot will be busy typing rants and wry outlooks in the Murmle (”grumbling”) section.

As any social blog is incomplete without a section for “hey look what I found!” I created it and called it Findings. I am sure there will be more findings as well.

Till next time, have some duckling on acid!

I promised to write only about important, essential things, no personal jabjab that makes some blogs so tideous. Rabbits are important.

My place is now a bunnyplace. I didn’t realise how much I’ve been missing companion animals. How calming it is to work in the home-office to the eager sounds of rabbits busily minding their own business. How much they make me smile when they run across the floor and can’t stop when they reach the other end. A bunnyplace is a happy place.

We picked up Lilo and Luna from a shelter organization yeasterday. It was snowing so heavily that black rabbits were white before we even got back to the car. Sure getting snowed on is not a bunny’s favorite pastime, and two sulky rabbits stared at us from the far corner of the cage the rest of the day. Although the door was kept open and we tried our best to trick them out on the floor with treats, they only wanted to lay there like some amorphic fur heap with ears. Today is another matter altogether, they seem to have moved to under the couch and arrange expeditions to the other rooms from there.

In their previous home they lived with cats, and rabbits were bossing the cats around. Bunny got guts! It broke my heart taking them away from their cosy home and their feline frenemies, but at least they get more jumping room here!

They’re already doing the funny, weird things rabbits do, like hiding their food bowl under a heap of hay and a number of other rearrangements that seem perfectly random to non-rabbits.

They absolutely love that carpet. Guess it reminds them of a grassy field.

Embarrassingly enough, I can’t tell them apart - but they don’t seem to care what I call them so using the wrong name should be forgivable.

I turn on the news. I can’t watch and turn off again. I turn it back on, it’s too important, too big to be ignorant about.

I’m of course talking about the war on the edge of Europe. This is no political blog, but I can’t hold my peace on this. But instead of commenting the things that are going on, which many have done better than I ever could, like in The Independent, I will rather express my profound wonder regarding a quite common reaction to these news: “Meh.”

As we walked past a newsstand, I said to my friend, -have you seen the headlines? She shrugs,
-There’s always a war somewhere. There’s no way my friend could care less, and I see the same mentality in a lot of people when the issue is brought up; in lunch at work, on the bus. The information we get is truly hard to relate to and people tackle it in very different ways; some cry their empathic hearts out, while some lock it all out and deny the existence of the whole situation. The latter case puzzles and fascinates me and gives me some very low thoughts on humanity. It seems, the more terrible the violations, the less do people care. Sure the Middle East conflict is as old as Israel itself, but this is different, this time the people have nowhere to escape and that is what makes it so exceedingly inhumane. 30 years ago there would have been a massive uproar, but there have only been scattered demonstrations in response to this.

A simple explanation would be that people protect themselves from pain by relating to a difficult problem simply by not relating to it. That’s an accepted psychological fact. But isn’t that still too simple? How is it possible to ignore such a massive fight, so close and so well documented in media?
 Are we really ready to accept anything with a shrug and a frown? Where will that take us? How much are we capable of accepting and ignoring without ever reacting?

To those who have given in to the hopelessness I quote Avaaz: Our efforts really can make a difference — Israel’s own foreign minister admits that international pressure, if intense enough, could ensure a ceasefire (våpenhvile).

In the meantime, I’m glad to see that some ordinary people still keep their hopes. Jewish teenagers with a conscience are going to jail for refusing to participate in this war. Please sign this petition to free them: December 18th campaign