Please click the image - it looks so much better in full size

I’d just like to remind you that those exotic animal travel gifts tend to be made from threatened species. You wouldn’t buy a tiger fang, but what about a coral necklace? You can’t assume it’s a fake and the seller will say what you want to hear. Those pretty bugs in crystals are probs real too. Do you know which are threatened and which are not? Me neither - better get something else for everyone back home this summer.

Today we are all Palestinian. The events of this morning have shaken a whole world. I am of course thinking about the brutal overtaking of the international transport of aid for Gaza, the Flotilla of Freedom as it is dubbed.

When the Flotilla was recruiting, I was thrilled and dreamy-eyed. In another situation I might have registered for enrollment. I’m not sure what exactly it was that fascinated me so deeply. Something about the ocean being the same for all, the perceived freedom inherent in boats - not constricted to roads, they can go wherever there is water, which is the bigger part of the globe. Something about the optimism and yes we can-spirit in the project.

There are a few things one simply isn’t as short-thought as to do - opening fire on a widely publicized, civilian ship loaded with aid certainly is one of them. Even as I can see how it’s one with a provoking message. Countering rocks with fire is one thing, going apeshit on a shipment of aid is plain bad publicity. Maybe the international community will finally get a move on and do something drastic about this jam of a region.

I smell that this may be a turning point in the locked and extraordinarily frustrating situation that is the Middle East. Can the Flotilla bring Freedom in a very real and unexpected sense?

Now this was just a blurb to satisfy an intense urge to communicate this wrack-up. I still intend to keep murmeldyr apolitic, just can’t help it when disaster strikes.

Ecosia is a new (as of december 2009) eco-friendly search engine. The choice of a search provider may not seem like the biggest one you are making in the course of a day, but imagine the hellofalot of searches you do in a year - even a small difference in, say, energy consumption or investment of revenue becomes substantial when scaled up.

The fact that web search is big business is no secret,  and frankly I’m happier with the profits ending up in a non-profit than with stock brokers.

As far as I have been able to make out, Ecosia’s algorithms are provided by Yahoo and Bing, but the data grinding is powered with renewable energy (like Murmeldyr!) and all profits from the sponsored links go to a WWF program for rainforest protection.

The search page is beautiful, and by hitting “install” you can get it in your search bar (not an annoying separate line, but the search function you probably already have in the header of your browser). I’d say this one is a no-brainer; just simply do it.

Video

And now for the real gem: Search for murmeldyr on Ecosia, and murmeldyr.no comes up first. (Do the same on Google and it’s on a boring page 40-something) Mind you, I did the search before writing this post.

Whether you celebrate the change of seasons or a teenage mum giving birth under possibly unusual circumstances, the gift giving tradition can be a headache.

There’s all sorts of requirements for this ritual exchange of stuff. The present should be personal and unique, sustainable, not too much but not skimpy (though where the line between these goes, you’ve got to find out yourself), and possibly even useful. Pitfalls are many and the danger of overseeing an unspoken rule is overhanging. Much safer skipping the whole thing than risking an unintended “overkill” gift.

A few ideas to save you the sweat:

nice bottlery

lol candy

soapery

Tired of dispensable made-in-Chinas, I am hoping for consumable gifts this season. Following the good principle of picking gifts you would like to receive yourself, all season’s presents I’ve fixed or planned so far can be eaten, drunk or used in the bath (except for one gadget that was specifically requested a long time ago).

Taking it one step further, this readily applies to other gift-involving occasions as well. This is one reason why the one thing I’m wishing for my upcoming birthday is a great night out (the other being not wanting to ruin my friends, as I’ve chosen to have the party at a restaurant).

Happy holidays!

The hardest part of this work might be the timing. Undergrad lab courses have all been tightly time-controlled (do this-then do that-go for lunch-come back just in time for x while y is cooling-etc etc). Now how to plan all this? What to do when your one reaction lasts 2 hours, the other one is booked for whenever the equipment is available and your third cell culture isn’t ready before tomorrow? Start a fourth experiment!

So the people here are juggling all these projects and don’t seem to even need to think about the order of stuffdoing. One stopwatch running in each pocket, they all seem comfortably relaxed while not missing a step. I stand amazed.

There are tons of papers and protocols and names to know and I am glad I skipped the mid-term break to get the week in the lab. The building is intricate (all floors look the same, and just for complicating things further there is a 4-way symmetry within each floor ) so the  few extra days to sort everything out are well spent.

Thankfully, everyone is in the same situation in this respect as the building is new and few know where everything’s at.

Everything about the Cancer Centre is ambitious, so also the street signs. This piece of unintended humor sits right outside the centre. Moss is over 70 km away.

Walking route to Moss

Don’t worry, you can bike too!

It happened ad detours.

The project assignment process was recently reorganized to ensure fairness. Still, in the allotment of projects it seems that making everyone happy/evading complaints is more important than fairness. The result is a ratrace like before where the demanding students choose first, only now covertly and unpredictably. As a qualified and less-noisy candidate I was “relocated” multiple times, until I too knocked the door to say; sorry but this is not what I was expecting. And was offered a brand new, shiny project that had never been mentioned before, at the head cancer centre in Northern Europe. What’s to learn from all this? Sharpen your elbows and doors will open?

So I’ve spent the evening trying to find out what this all is really about, and in addition to a recent article on the mathematics of tanning, found what will be my best friend in the protein world for the foreseeable future:

Curly, colorful cartoon

This little guy is called S100A4 and he is exceedingly uncanny. Although devoted serious amounts of laboratory time, it keeps its purpose and daily duties a secret. Yet somehow; if you have a cancer, you really want to have S100A4 as patients who have it live. Who are you, mysterious molecule?

EDIT: Quite the contrary, the gene turns out to be so strongly correlated with death in cancers that it is postulated as a diagnostic marker. This is why you should not trust Wikipedia.

Both advisors seem very sympathetic. The professor is an accomplished veteran who was happy to host a student who could get some work done, and appreciated my eagerness to get started.

My 2. home for the next good year

Niceness.

I am a very blessed person.

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.

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.

sunrise over the savanna

Bagamoyo is a small town on the coast of Tanzania, an hours drive north of Dar. As the president’s mother lives in Bagamoyo, the road is very good. We were going to learn that the government is rather person focused - but grim as this may seem to us, Tanzania is a comparably well-governed and stable corner in the area. On the airport our papers were checked six or seven times (in Oslo they were checked twice), witnessing that peaceful Tanzania is a place where many people want to be.

We stayed at a small, adorable gusethouse called Moyo mmoja (one heart), ten minutes from the beach at stroll speed -there is no hurrying at these latitudes. One of the bangalows we stayed in:

Do not let the clay walls and palm leaf roofing fool you -inside there is electricity, wc, and tiles in the bathroom.

A cornerstone of Bagamoyo is the arts college. We met many skilled performers, and brought variegated paintings home. On our first weekend there was a crafts fair where sister and I went havoc over handmade jewellery, kitchen utensils and body paint.

There was the obligatory safari (separate post), and we planned to go to Zanzibar, the beautiful island. But as soon as we settled a bit in Bagamoyo we realised there was no need to travel further as this is really a hidden treasure. Could Zanzibar be prettier than this?

fisherboats

Doubt it. As you see, we had the endless beach but to ourselves. Mmmm.. Envy me!

On the last night there was a leaving party (for our hosts, but as we were leaving too we got our share). Drumming the night away:

The dinner was fårikål (sheep-and-cabbage), an exotically Norwegian dish. I did feel bad for the fårikål as it had been baaing outside our window the night before, but really the livestock seemed content and happy. Chickens, goats and even cattle were roaming the streets freely, voluntarily coming back to their shelters for the night. Also they looked much sturdier than ours.

Transit in Amsterdam: 5 metres under sea level. The dikes are higher than they seem from the plane.

11 hours on a plane is not good for you, and the heat did not help. I tottered off the plane with gigantic swollen calves (known as the “old lady syndrome”) and spent the rest of the day horizontally, legs high.

We found Oslo in a rare heat wave, much hotter than Tanzania!

As I know you were expecting a different post in this spot, I’ll make this short:

Groundhog

Post no. 50 concludes Murmeldyr’s first year of existence. Quality over quantity! The marmot promises to keep posting wry reflections, overuse adverbs and stay different.