Berlin is not just a capital city. It is a myth, a fable, a fantastic story. If the founding fathers of 1244 had fathomed what would eventually become of their quiet settlement they might have reconsidered. Berlin is not just a capital city. It is a living history book. Former home to two German Empires, The Weimar Republic, The Nazis, The Communists, The Revolutionaries and finally home to the re-united Federal Republic of Germany. Today Berlin goes by many pseudonyms. The New York of the 80's, The birthplace of Techno, The heart of Europe's most powerful country, The place where inconception seems possible.
The bottom line is: Lady Berlin has seen everything and no-one can tell her what to do.
No wonder Berliners often turn a blind eye to what happens in their city. And why shouldn't they? After all the horrors of the 20th century, it's time Berlin cements its spot as the most happening metropolis on the planet.
Everyone seems to have something to say about her these days. I'll be straight with you, if you are planning to pay her a visit you might as well take a 2 week holiday there because a weekend away will never be enough time to pay her the respect she deserves. But if your time is indeed limited, then you could consider the following options to give you a true experience that you won't forget so quickly.
Begin your exploration of the city with a unique tour of its infamous underground life. Like many other cities, Berlin is teeming with secret cellars and half finished metro tunnels but add former bomb shelters, spying stations and other remnants of a decade long affront between the West and the East and you end up with enough material to inspire plenty of conspiracy theories.
Berliner Unterwelten run a series of über-interesting underground tours that take you to some of Berlin's most iconic underworld locations. Most tours start at U-Bahn Gesundbrunnen (where the ticket counter is located) where they also maintain a museum. To get a glimpse of the former "ghost line" D (today's U8) join tour D at Moritzplatz. There you'll be lead into an adjacent station that was started in the 1920's but never finished. Later, the Nazis used it as a bomb-shelter yet due to serious building mistakes it was more of a death chamber than a safe place. The tour then continues to Sebastianstrasse, where during the times of the GDR the wall divided the street into 2 enemy nations. This street played host to many serious attempts to flee the iron curtain of the GDR, some successful, others less so. The tour also includes another half-finished metro station called "Oranienplatz" that was abandoned after the city ran out of money and left the street with a gaping hole for many years. Finally, one is invited to climb through a tiny hole on the street that reminded me a lot of the Viet Cong tunnels in Vietnam. Accessorised with borrowed rubber boots the tour group is lead into an old mother and child bunker that is constantly flooded to just below knee height and bears serious memories of times long passed. At the end of the long corridor a wall was erected that divided the West from the East, even underground. The former communist side is no longer accessible today after people stormed the forgotten bunker to throw illegal parties and destroying a historic place.
If this tour has left you hungry your best bet is to head into Berlin's throbbing Mitte distric and seeking out a cosy cafe such as Das Blaue Band where you can enjoy a hearty breakfast/brunch for less than €10. This will give you enough energy to venture round the various shopping street with all its crazy fashion boutiques and art galleries. Check out stores such as Jacuzzi, Eastberlin, 14oz or Mykita for some seriously bold party attire.
If you fancy a priceless birds-eye view of Berlin then pop over to the Alex for a ride up to one of Berlin's most famous landmarks. Berlin is a city of endless energy that can effortlessly wear you out because you will want to try and cram in as much as possible but beware: taking your time will pay off if you want to have a taste of Berlin's infamous night life.
Of course everyone wants to have a go at Berghain but you'd be well advised to have a back up plan since Berghain's door is one of the most random in the world. "Sorry not tonight" is something you are very likely to hear a bouncer say either to you or someone in your immediate vicinity. You're best off trying outside the busiest times and having a go at the door around 4/5am or on Sunday during the day when the club is still going strong until the early hours of Monday. If you're turned away consider paying either Watergate or Maria am Ostbahnhof a visit. If none of the above tickles your fancy and you're more keen on something even more extreme then make your way to the infamous Kit Kat Club - certainly nothing for people with a weak heart.
Sundays are fantastic days to soak up some serious culture (once you have rejoined the living that is). A good place to start is the beautiful Reichstag, seat of the German government and home to Sir Norman Foster's glass dome. If the queues are too much to bear head towards the Jewish Memorial and the Brandenburger Tor for some iconic Berlin monuments. From there one can go for a relaxed stroll down Unter den Linden, one of Berlin's most prestigious streets.
Another must do activity is visiting the Jewish Museum. This impressive museum that is partly housed in a strange wave shaped construct by Daniel Liebeskind details 1000 years of German/Jewish history in a very interactive and unique way. Visitors are asked to use their own curiosity to find out more about topics such as "The Sukka" or "The German Socrates".
When your day comes to a close and all you want to do is do something that's easy on the senses (depending on how receptive your eyes are to bright colours) you should head to Kreuzberg and have a go at Glow in the dark minigolf. Housed in an old barn on the edge of Görlitzer Park this awesome 18 hole mini golf course has different themed rooms and feels slightly out of this world, not unlike the rest of Berlin.
Of course you could pepper a weekend to Berlin with many other activities (also depending on the season in which you visit - In December visiting the famous Gendarmen Markt Christmas Market is a must do) but you'll never have enough time to do everything so I hope this might work as a little inspiration.
P.S. A single day-ticket for the Metro is valid the whole day on weekends. Just so you know ;-)
Yes. This entry is indeed about the wonderful world of volunteering. Don't we all go through this period in our lives when we have an unquenchable thirst for helping people, animals and/or trees in need? I believe we do. Sooner or later we realize that there must be more to life than working your arse off to climb the career ladder or going clubbing on the weekend and snorting your way through mountains of cocaine or sliding from one disastrous relationship into the next. And what could be better than jetting off to some remote country to help preserve an ancient culture or to save an endangered tree species or to teach a tiny monkey how to survive in the jungle? Probably nothing other than volunteering.
However, we must ask ourselves: "What are the real reasons for choosing to sacrifice our everyday lives and sleeping on a straw mat for 4 weeks? Aren't we just trying to run away from something? Is it that society expects us to give something back? And what do we really expect to change if and when we get back?"
Look at the facts:
* Volunteering programmes can be really expensive (usually starting at $1.000 for 10 days) * We rarely have the transparency of where the money actually goes to * You are asked to live in very primitive conditions with often only very basic supplies and amenities * You are told that the experience will be "life changing" but by the time you have adjusted you're already going home again * Deep down most of us are incredibly selfish and rarely stick to the promises and commitments we made to change our lives after we get back home
So what is the point in volunteering and what can we really get out of it?
I want use my own experience for illustration purposes. In 2009 I was offered a place in an exclusive bio-diversity project on the island of Borneo that concerned itself with "climate change in tropical rainforests". The volunteering programme was managed by UK charity Earthwatch in cooperation with my current employer. Every year 30 or so employees from around the world could win a place in one of many bio-diversity projects and the lucky winners were subsequently sent off to a remote location to support a local research team with its project(s).
Before I left Amsterdam for this 9 day expedition I had agreed on a vague "development plan" with my manager that would see me work on certain areas of my professional and personal skills. Considering I hardly knew what to expect it seemed pretty pointless to make rational commitments towards "enhancing my leadership skills" or "developing my team-working skills" through this or that.
After getting our security briefing in Kota Kinabalu (Sabah, Malaysia) we embarked on a short flight to the other side of Borneo (Lahad Datu) to meet the research team and to head off into the jungle. Our team was a wild mix of nationalities and backgrounds with the only immideate common denominator: We had all won a place on this project through our respective employers.
We spent the first night at the Danum Valley Research Center and made great efforts to adjust to a very basic living. The next morning we were blessed with spotting an Orang Utan picking fruit off a tree right next to our breakfast table, which lead to wild chattering and exaggerated camera clicking. I wouldn't be surprised if the Orang Utan had wondered: "Who the hell are those monkeys there?"
After a short introduction by Senior Scientist and Program Manager Dr. Glenn Reynolds into the actual role of the research center and the projects that are being run from here we continued our journey deeper into the rainforest to our temporary base at the Malua research center. For the next 8 days our lives would be reduced to a bare minimum. No internet, no mobile phone, limited electricity and no hot water.
At first sight, I had to ask myself: "Am I really ready for this kind of basic life?"
Looking back it's funny to note how simple it is to go from a high-tech, high-speed lifestyle to a slow moving, bling bling free life. Not being able to check your Facebook updates was actually a very welcome relief and significantly boosted inter-human relationship building in our team. We even started telling each other stories and had plenty of time to think about our lives back at home.
Our work was tough and I can safely say that I have never in my life perspired as much as I did during those 8 days in the jungle.
Despite having read the project briefing prior to my departure and having researched the Bornean rainforest and its main issues I cannot say that I was prepared for the intensity of the labour that we had agreed to execute. Especially planting delicate dipterocarp tree seedlings along an uneven forest path caused me to loose my breath. Other tasks included the measurement of leaf litter, the placement and measurement of erosion bridges and digging holes for more dipterocarp seedlings. Coming from a standard desk job where most of my tasks can be executed by punching words into my keyboard I realised how spoiled we all are in our office job environments and how we often forget that one cannot actually make things without using one's own hands. In this part of the forest the humidity levels were ridiculously high and not a single breeze touched my soaked skin. It ocured to me that in this part of the world one cannot rely on technology or expensive equipment to help one out because you simply wouldn't get very far off the beaten track. Instead it was a matter of going back to roaming the jungle the way our ancestors did.
I believe the biggest take out (note: I have left out any mention of my creepy encounters with numerous leeches. Maybe another time.) for me was the sheer overflow of first hand information and the unique opportunity to live a basic life surrounded by the some of lushest flora and fauna in the world. Being humbled by a group of pygmy elephants crossing the river that we were swimming in or spotting a stunning ladybird butterfly sailing past our small huts contributed towards feeling more in touch with nature than ever before.
On the 5th day a massive thunderstorm appeared like a black curtain between the trees and blew away anything that wasn't bolted down. Here we were at nature's mercy and it felt refreshing to be so powerless.
Furthermore, after witnessing logging operations near our camp I understood that our world is still largely ignorant to the severe crimes against the environment that are being committed in large parts of the world. Our awareness is often only temporary and we usually cry out: "Someone should stop those irresponsible loggers!" after seeing a poor monkey in a cage who was driven away from its habitat. But 5 minutes later we forget because in reality the monkey is too far away to concern us and someone's status update on Facebook is more interesting.
Logging operations are not just a huge threat to the lungs of our planet but also most of these companies have atrocious safety standards resulting in frequent deaths of their employees who often remain unaccounted for because they were illegal immigrants with no rights or papers. Glenn told me that it was no rarity to see a logger swinging a huge chainsaw without any protective gear what so ever.
In hindsight, my 8 day jungle experience was not just a deep plunge into the simple life but also a unique opportunity to see all the things that are conveniently filtered out by our mass media. We have become so used to chasing the main headline of the day through various media that we have lost interest in looking up the right information that we should really be reading. Julian Assange's arrest? The Euro crisis? The drug wars in Mexico? All topics we know enough about to hold a conversation with a peer but know too little about to really care.
Of course I promised myself that I would start recycling actively, avoid purchasing any products that had been made with endangered species or start educating my colleagues and peers about ways in which one can help save the environment.
And I kept going for quite some time. I recycled bottles and paper and even adopted a butterfly at the Royal Artis Zoo in Amsterdam using a grant and launched an internal awareness campaign at work as part of my follow-up project but all good intentions eventually fade away.
Recommendation
Volunteering can really be an exhilarating experience. No matter if you go to teach English in a remote Chinese village or you help a research team with collecting important data on X, Y or Z it is up to you to make this unique opportunity worth your while. Reading up on all matters important is only of limited help because nothing can really prepare you for what might await you when you actually get there. Generally speaking it is only sensible to make promises to yourself once you have completed your activity as you cannot foresee how it will impact you. But you should try and make a couple of commitments as a promise to yourself! Especially if it involves raising awareness about a real issue such as the logging of one of the oldest rainforests in the world, or the lack of human rights in Uzbekistan.
However, don't expect to come back a completely different person because the comforts of our old lives will never be erased. We're just too used to them.
This song by M83 is as pure as the landscapes of Borneo. Enjoy!
I knew immediately that something was different as I took my seat in row 28F on board Royal Brunei Air's Boeing 767 this morning. On the small TV screens that dotted the cabin a video was shown that depicted various images of Mecca, an arrow pointing at Mecca and what sounded to me like a prayer song being played through the PA system. It was not my first time flying with an airline from a Muslim country but this was definitely a new experience. I looked around me a couple of times to see if anyone was actually praying but no one in the 3/4 empty plane was doing any such thing. At least not so that I could see.
Back in the day when I was a kid and obsessed with aeroplanes I always thought Royal Brunei's planes were made of gold and diamonds.
A collection of expensive materials that make a standard Boeing 767 more valuable than your average Tiffany's store. The leather I sat on was a bit worn but one could still see that when this aircraft was put in service, it was the definition of luxury. Comparing this to my last flight on Ryanair seemed like comparing apples with condoms i.e. not worth my time.
The flight from Kota Kinabalu to Bandar Seri Begawan only lasted roughly 35 minutes and we touched down before I even finished my coffee.
Brunei doesn't generally get a lot of tourists (as opposed to the remainder of the states that share the island of Borneo) but it is often used by Aussies and Kiwis as a transit hub to and from Europe/Asia and of course all the oil workers who come to make the Sultan even more money. According to Forbes Sultan Hassanal Bolkhia is the second richest head of state in the world, second only to King Bhumibol of Thailand (this was a surprise to me too?) After a slightly suspicious customs officer stamped me in for the day I went on a quest to find out where the bus to town left from. Funnily enough I asked 4 different people ranging from the information desk lady to an armed soldier and everyone pointed me in a different direction. "This is gonna be fun", I thought.
What I found hilarious next to the blistering heat that almost melted the skin off my body was the personalised welcome desk for "Shell" employees. I wish I had gotten this kind of treatment when I worked for Kent in Romania. Would have saved me a bit of hassle at good old Henri Coanda airport.
Eventually a purple bus came by and I jumped on board. The ticket lady told me it was going to the center of Bandar (Brunei's minature capital) so I kicked back and relaxed... After passing the 2nd sign that indicated Bandar was in the opposite direction I started feeling queasy and leaned forward to ask the driver where exactly we were going. His answer: "Oh we go to %^&*£$ %£@!@^ you must get off here and take this bus" he informed me. - "Sorry"? I said in astonished bewilderment. "You told me you were going to the center when we left the airport". "No we're not, you must get off now" he said. Oh for feck's sake. Thus I got off the bus and boarded another one that just happened to be coming our way. Of course I had to pay again and this time I insisted they inform me where they were going exactly before I let the driver close the door. "To central bus station" the answer came. Hm... We shall see, won't we!
So far I hadn't seen anything particularly spectacular and started to wonder what exactly I was meant to do for a whole day here. Part of the reason why I was here in the first place was because I was already in the neighbourhood after just having finished my 9 day Earthwatch experience in the Malaysian rainforests of Borneo and the other part was because I was just really curious to see what this place was about anyway. I suppose the fact that the Footprint guide for Malaysia and Singapore completely omitted this tiny country could have been an indication that there was in fact nothing to see here. But who knows. You only find out by exploring yourself right?
Eventually we reached the main bus station (a chaotic carpark style building on an unassuming highstreet). My little map showed a couple of places of interest so I ventured out along Jalan Sultan towards the recommended "Alat-Alat Kebesaran Diraja" - in other words "Place where his majesty displays all the great things he has". It took me a while to find the entrance considering all the windows and doors were blackened out and there didn't seem to be a single soul about. I also found this hilarious sign that made me laugh so hard that the sweat pearls of which I had already accumulated a great deal danced off my forehead and onto the burning concrete under my feet. It read: "Assembly point for officers/staff and visitors in case of major desaster." Elaborate please!
Inside I was advised that I was not allowed to take any photos. God forbid anyone would see the Sultan's riches! The items on display ranged from strange ornaments and exquisite sculptures (mainly from other Muslim heads of state and ministers) to a real life display of the Sultan's magnificent golden carriage.
Boy how I wanted to be Sultan then!
In hindsight this was probably one of the most interesting sights out of the 3-4 or four that Bandar offers an eager visitor such as me. Later I also visited the stamp collection at the local post office (see? I was having a good time) and tried to visit the magnificent Omar Ali Saifuddien Mosque, which I was not allowed to visit as a non-muslim since I decided to visit Brunei on a Thursday. Stupid me. So I was only allowed the view from outside (admittedly it was pretty awesome with its little boat-in-a-moat outside).
The heat was becoming unbearable in this stale midday sun so I looked for cover in the local Starbucks look alike "Coffee Bean" where I sipped on an iced latte for a while taking note of all the other coffee drinkers who came and went. A couple of expats, a couple of students and the occasional local business man. Other than that there was little action on the streets of Bandar, capital of a dry country where only foreigners are allowed to bring in limited amounts of alcohol (as long as they are not Muslim).
Trying to make the most of my time here I later wandered down towards the water front to take a look at the ancient Kampung Ayer neighbourhood that was built on stilts across from the main business district of BSB. The little houses seemed too ancient and simple to be real. Little boats going to and fro delivering goods and carrying school children from one miniature island to the next. Ok granted, Brunei is not Dubai but it still struck me as strange, albeit I was glad to see some cultural heritage in a country that to me doesn't really stand for much else other than Oil, Oil and the Sultan.
With a couple of hours left to kill but not much of a tourist infrastructure available I decided to have a late lunch at Ismajaya, famed for its delicious curries. It was allllright to be hones but nothing to make you jump up in the air and scream: YUMMY!
Flicking through the 2-3 pages I managed to copy of someelse's Lonely Planet revealed little else that was worth seeing this afternoon.
My last resort of some kind of attraction was a little market called Tamu Kianggeh that amongst a couple of other things sold loads of dried fish. Ever had the pleasure of smelling dried fish for 20 minutes? Don't.
Disillusioned and somehow really unsatisfied I took the bus back to the airport (this time it dropped me a good 500m away from the small terminal building) and checked in for my return flight to Kota Kinabalu. Once inside the terminal I saw a huge crowd of bored Aussies waiting around for their flights home (be that Oz or UK) and I felt sympathy for them. This place was dead boring. If you happen to stop over in Brunei, think about it twice before you get lured onboard a RBA day tour of Bandar.
I am sure the country has much more to offer (lush rainforests, beaches etc...) but if you're just here for a couple of hours, maybe just bring a really good book instead.
The breeze that came was like being released from a hot airtight bubble. I tried to stand of the tip of my toes and pointed my rather large nose skywards. It only lasted for a little moment but it was enough for me to exhale a satisfied: "Ahhh phew". It had been about 1 hour since we had arrived at the crush of "La Tomatina" and the fight had not even remotely started. From where we stood we could barely see the people who were being pushed around in the street not even 5 meters ahead of us. It was pure insanity.
We had all been so excited and stoked about going to one of Europe's craziest festivals that we nearly shat ourselves. La Tomatina. It sounds so mental that it almost feels like fiction. Every year somewhere between 30.000 and 50.000 tourists descend on the small town of Bunol near Valencia to throw tomatoes at each other for 1 hour. Like the Oktoberfest and the running of the bulls this must do festival also seems to be on every fucking backpacker's to do list. I don't even know why we were so shocked to be honest. We should have known what expected us. When I arrived in Valencia the night before I met up with my dear friend Chris who was also traveling Europe with his mate Todd (both from Australia). It was roughly 7pm and we sat down in a small cafe to have an ice cold beer and some food and there Chris warned me that the town had literally invaded by Aussies and that he apologised for their unruly behaviour in advance. At that point I just waved it off and told him that I loved Aussies and how bad could it possibly be?
"I was just happy to be in a warm and friendly place where people offer me Vodka and free beer"
Later we ventured down to the square opposite the "Real basilica de la Virgen de los Desamparados" and suddenly the force of the Aussie invasion really hit me. Dozens of wasted Australians lingering in and around the square making noise and getting even drunker. The fact that they were all wearing yellow "Fanatics" t-shirts didn't help conceal their origins. I was quite amused at this point because it seemed that Todd and Chris knew quite a few people here and I was just happy to be in a warm and friendly place where people offer me Vodka and free beer. Gotta love the Aussies sometimes.
In the end I decided to meet my own crew who were staying near the harbour instead of getting involved in the imminent debauchery that was about to take place in Australiatown.
Back at the Tomatina the next day I tried to shout at Adam: "Can you see if they have the goddamn ham yet?" Adam replied that they didn't. It was a strange feeling. On the one hand I was really excited to be here on the other I longed to stand on some balcony or just to watch this spectacle on TV while sipping a cold beer on my sofa.
Finally it was 11 and we heard the explosion somewhere behind us. It didn't take long for me to get hit by a missile tomato that some Asian chick who was wearing a dumb hat threw at me from a roof terrace in the building opposite. I wanted to pick it up from where it lay near my feet but there was no chance of even moving my arm at this point. When the trucks came down the street it seemed everyone broke out into a frenzy. Except us because we could barely see a thing and had barely touched a tomato.
We noticed that the vast majority of the trucks unloaded their tomatoes near the top of the street leaving us all dying for a bit of action. When the people on the roof terrace ran out of tomatoes to throw so did my willingness to play. The stench that was cooking around us and the fact that the temperatures were quickly rising above 30 did not help to make the situation any better.
"I wanted to pick up a tomato up from where it lay near my feet but there was no chance of even moving my arm at this point."
Eventually the last truck came and we finally got hit by a couple of tomatoes. I even managed to throw one or two. The most hilarious part came when a Spanish man who was in the back of the truck got hit in the face by a girl who was standing close to him and he literally threw a tantrum and had to be pulled back by his mates. I had to stop myself from pissing my pants when an Aussie lad on my left who had managed to secure a very nice spot on top of a little hut threw a a flip flop in his face and the Spanish guy almost jumped at his throat. The whole crowd just went "boooooooooooooooooo" and that set the Spanish guy straight.
My morphsuit felt like a sauna at this stage but it helped in locating my friends who were also morphed up. On the way to our current spot they were quite the hit. Everyone wanted photos and we got cheers and handshakes. I think we were even the first people in morphsuits to do La Tomatina. In hindsight it wasn't all that bad.
When the fight kind of died down because no one could find any more tomatoes we squeeze out towards the back and left the action.
Turns out we should have just gone one street down from where we stood to get some real tomato action. There, one street away from the main drag was where people literally swam in tomato juice and where you could breathe without gagging at the stench of the person in front of you.
Overall, I cannot say at this point if I would bother to do this again, but if I did I would follow the advise of my friends and get there earlier than 10, find a really fucking good spot near one of the side streets and then run down to swim in tomato juice. If it just weren't for all them damn other tourists haha.
"I think we were even the first people in morphsuits to do La Tomatina. In hindsight it wasn't all that bad!"
Picture a giant uneven potato. Now cover it with a bit of moss, lay a cooked tagliatelle (the black ones with squid ink) over it and pepper it with a pinch of black and white sesame seeds. There.
That’s essentially what the Faroe Islands looked like from above. Giant volcanic rocks covered in grass, with a handful of lonely roads going from North to South or East to West and more sheep than you would probably come across in either New Zealand or Wales or even together.
What did I expect from this forlorn and remote island nation when I decided to pay it a visit? What was I looking for here, hoping to find?
I guess in hindsight it was more of an escape from the regular ordinary rather than a nature buff’s orgasmic experience. After visiting Iceland in 2008 and falling in love with the stubborn lifestyle of the Northern most Scandinavian country I figured that the Faroes must be like a slightly watered down and less touristy version of that. Considering the only international flights go to Denmark, the UK, Iceland and Greenland and the fact that I couldn’t think of one single famous Faroese person I was convinced this is one of Europe’s last undiscovered frontiers.
Interestingly enough the islands were voted the world’s most appealing islands by the National Geographic Traveller magazine beating the likes of Hawaii and the Azores. Was there really so much to them?
As I whipped my battered old Clio along the mountain road from the capital Torshavn to Vestmanna I couldn’t help but wonder at the sheer degree of solitude that gripped me here. The rolling hills covered in lush green grass, the numerous sheep grazing even on the steepest of cliffs and the violently expanding clouds above me gave me a sense of purity that I have so far only seen in Iceland and parts of remote Canada.
I continued along the so-called highway towards the small port town of Vestmanna until the road swung around a steep cliff and the town came into view. I was told I could do an amazing boat ride out to the bird cliffs from here so I drove down to the dock and entered the small building that housed the tourist information.
“I’m sorry we’re not doing any tours today, because of bad weather conditions”, the girl behind the counter informed me in perfect English. “So, is there any chance I might be able to do this tour tomorrow?” I asked. “You’re best off calling ahead. Here, you never know.” she said, almost apologetically. I got back in my little car and took it for a spin around the “center” of Vestmanna. After a few meters I landed at a dead end and had to reverse back out in order to get back on the main road. Not a soul was on the streets. Despite this being the infamous Faroese summer, it still seemed as if the locals preferred to stay indoors.
I took the same road back towards the Vagar roundabout and continued North towards Saksun, a place that housed one of the most frequently photographed images on the Faroe Islands, a turf roofed church overlooking a small fjord. I took a left off the main highway and passed through a small village before finding myself on a tiny country road leading into the unknown. Around me, only green hills, wild geese and rich waterfalls that had been fed by the continuous drizzle that kept my windscreen wipers busy. When I arrived at the miniature town of Saksun I continued on until I reached the end of the road. In front of me the church, sitting there idly looking almost like a secret sanctuary from Lord of the Rings. The few houses that lay behind me looked as deserted as the rest of the country.
“Where the hell is everyone?” I wondered out loud. The only sounds that I could make out was the wind rushing through my ears and the occasional cry of a seagull somewhere above. I sat down on the bonnet of my car and took a big bite out of my Dime bar.
When I had visited Iceland with my mother 2 years earlier there were at least people in the villages, tourists taking pictures, something happening. Here I was the only living soul around and I started asking myself if planning in a whole weekend here was not a little too optimistic. My plan was to spend the night in the Northern town of Gjogv where the only hotel in town offered guests the opportunity to stay in “viking style” beds. I wasn’t quite sure what that entailed but it had intrigued me enough to book ahead for one night. I crossed the bridge to Eysturoy island and drove further North towards Eidi a little town on the East coast of the Faroe’s second largest island.
The weather had completely turned on me by now. When I hadstepped out of the airport to capital helicopter shuttle only a couple of hours earlier I had been greeted by sunshine and t-shirt weather. Now the clouds were dark and full of sad tales. I arrived in Eidi to find a similar picture as in Vestmanna. A town empty of residents all hiding in their homes or all working in the capital? Who knows. I stopped by the little green church at the mouth of the town and got out of my car to do a bit of exploring. From here the town looked as unexciting as a night out at your local Weatherspoon’s and I suppose because it looked so dead I didn’t engage in any further exploration. What was going on here? Where the hell was everybody???
Suddenly, as if adding insult to injury I was surrounded by a thick cloud of mist making it almost impossible to see the thin road lying ahead of me as I continued on to the village of Gjogv. I believe I got a small panic attack as I hastily reached for my mobile and began calling Atlantic Airways to see if there was any way I could take the early flight back to Copenhagen tomorrow. At this point I was starting to get frustrated. Everything looked kind of samey samey and I was all alone. There was no one to talk to in the villages and nothing to do it seemed. What had I gotten myself into?
The answering machine at Atlantic Airways kindly informed me that there was no one I could speak to right now and that I should call again on Monday. ????????? “Fuck it” I thought. As I descended into Gjogv I passed the hotel I was meant to stay at and drove down to a small plateau overlooking the little town and the fjord. It was 5pm and I looked around me to see if at least here there was anyone in sight. Not a soul. “They’re having a fucking laugh or what?” I exclaimed out loud. No, this is not what I was expecting from the most picturesque village on the islands and suddenly the Viking style bed didn’t seem so attractive anymore. I turned on the engine and turned back the way I came this time driving along the Eastern shore of Eysturoy and taking the tunnel back to civilisation. When I neared the bridge that I had crossed about 1 hour earlier there was finally some traffic and I felt a slight shudder of relief running down my back.
I drove back along the water to get back into the capital and passed what were breathtakingly beautiful views of lush green cliffs plunging into the open sea.
After all this ranting about the islands I feel like setting something straight. They are breathtakingly beautiful and I guess I just got a little demoralised at this stage because I had expected a little bit more activity in the villages but all I saw was quiet rows of tiny houses that sat there idly as if not touched in ages. The location and natural composition of the islands also prevents them from having any trees growing anywhere except in urban centers where they are planted artificially. It seemed more rugged than I had expected.
As I drove the Clio back into the city I began looking for the only hostel in town, which I had previously informed of my immediate arrival. “Skansin” hostel was located right in the middle of town below the bizarre Vesturkirkjan. I got my key out of a small mailbox under the payphone near reception and found my room in the opposite building. After a quick rest I wandered down into town to find a place to eat and check out the “nightlife” that Monocle magazine had praised in one of their leading articles on the islands (Volume 13, May 2008).
I had a quick buffet dinner at a slightly Moroccan/Arabic all you can eat restaurant that was actually not so bad at all and found that there was a small local music festival being held just by the harbour front.
I suppose it was Faroese style that the musicians had to play in the back of a van but it was very refreshing to see everyone so happy and enchanted by the melodies. The first band was a group of young kids who sang Faroese songs that I for the life of me could not decipher followed by a mid 30’s bald guy with a surprisingly amazing voice. He sang his own songs in English and left me quite dumbstruck as I stood there with my cold pint of Carlsberg.
I also couldn’t help but notice that the Faroese people were actually quite a pretty bunch. Very Scandinavian in the way they dressed (more sober colours and lots of wool) but also with a strong air of pride about them. As I sat down at a bar on the square to watch one of the football world cup games I got chatting to a bunch of locals who were bizarrely in love with Germany and were 100% convinced that we would win the world cup. What started as a small chat became a raging drinking affair during which the pride I had just mentioned manifested several times. Mostly it stemmed from an apparent hatred towards “colonial” power Denmark and the way the Faroese people were being oppressed by the guarding nation that also provides as much as 20% of the national budget in the form of aid. Much unlike Greenland, the Faroe Islands have absolutely no natural resources to speak of and almost entirely depend of fishing and fish farming making the discussion about full independence a difficult subject on the islands.
Young Faroese like my new friends Bergur and Poul however made it unmistakably clear to me that they consider themselves only Faroese and not at all Danish. It’s funny actually because when I first heard Faroese spoken on the plane I could literally not understand a single word. Danish on the other hand was something I could quite easily pick up. I guess the Danish empire never had the same character that the British Empire imprinted on its global citizens.
The next morning I woke up early and ventured into the small town center to see if I could pick up a typical Faroese souvenir. I stumbled upon a small record store on N.Finsengota that specialised in Faroese music. Quite a market gap I say, considering. Tutl was not only the place that sold every possible recording ever made by anyone from the islands but also functioned as a record label that was trying to promote Faroese artists around the world. I took my time to listen to various CDs and got the shop assistant to show me the hottest new artists the island had to offer. Eventually I picked up the albums by “Orca” and “Petur Polson” – both albums that have taken me quite some time to get into. Experimental rock sung in one of the world’s rarest languages. Easier to access might be Eivør, the local cross between Bjork and Britney Spears.
I grabbed a coffee to go from a small coffee stall that claimed to have “the city’s best coffee” and got back into my small vehicle to give the birdcliffs of Vestmanna a second shot. As I drove up the mountain road again I felt as if all the world’s tears had been gathered in the thick wall of grey cloud that hung above my head. It almost seemed as if the sun itself was a rare and valuable metal that was hard to come by in this corner of the world.
I arrived in Vestmanna and parked my car next to a group of Belgian caravans and bumped into the German guy who I shared a dorm with back in Torshavn. We were just in time for the boat and managed to secure a front row seat on the top deck. Vestmanna lay in a small bay protected from the open sea and as we sailed towards the opening the guide explained to us that on the opposite shore there was a village that once consisted of 20 houses that were completely cut off from the rest of the country and which had been abandoned a while back because the remaining family members simply couldn’t hack the solitude. I nodded in astonished agreement wondering to myself why on earth they had moved there in the first place. There was NOTHING THERE! Not even a small beach. Tsk, some people.
We passed a salmon fish farm somewhere on the left side of the bay that contained a massive amount of live fish and as we were told functioned as a home for the salmon for about 3 years before it is farmed and exported to Europe and North America. It was quite cute to see these tasty fish jump up and down, almost skipping across the water like stones. As we neared the mouth of the bay the stunning Faroese shoreline came into full view. It was a mind-boggling collection of stunning rocks and cliffs that stood their ground against the grey sky like giant Viking fighters in the face of an invasion.
As our boat passed the shoreline I couldn’t help but wonder at the delicate skill with which the sheep were grazing on even the steepest of cliffs.
Sometimes they would even sprint uphill to get away from our scary boat and at no time did it look like they were about to stumble and roll down into the sea. One of the highlights of the trip was the viewing of the “elephant rock” that was set into a small alcove. It was shaped like one of those typical elephant stones one can take home from a trip to India or Thailand except much, much bigger. Obviously. I was also quite surprised at the crystal clear water that appeared in those little caves that we passed. It was bluer than the bluest sky I had ever seen and that surely could have nothing to do with the depressing grey that hung above us. They were part of these hidden beauty spots here and there that I would come across sometimes that made my heart flicker.
I was hoping throughout to spot one of those cute little puffins that are also a local specialty, I’ll have you know. Sadly they decided to stay hidden today, instead we were able to spot an array of seagulls and various forms of penguins that had built their little nests in the uneven surface of the cliffs. Some of them had prime views of the ocean and I expected they would fetch quite a nice price on the bird-housing market.
When we returned back to Vestmanna my small Clio suddenly turned into a taxi for the German guy from my hostel and 3 other girls who we had met on the boat and who were desperate to get back to civilisation. The next bus was not due to leave for another 2 hours. At the petrol station in Torshavn I was also witness to the first country where open display of tobacco products was no longer allowed. It looked quite weird how the clerk pulled out a pack of Prince from some drawer under the counter and handed it to the lady who was in the queue in front of me.
Back in town Stefan (my new German friend) and I decided to visit Hvonn Brasserie (pronounced – Kwon) for what was dubbed “Torshavn’s best pizza”. I can’t say it was bad but it wasn’t good either. I am always suspicious of ham pizzas where the ham comes in really small thin strips. None the less it was as cosmopolitan as one could get here and the atmosphere was quite pleasant. The rest of the evening we spent back with our Faroese friends (it’s surprisingly easy to bump into people here) drinking and getting a taste for Faroese pub culture in bars such as “Sircus” that housed a funky bunch of locals sipping on lager and long drinks.
As the night wore on we spotted a bunch of drunken men that were either stumbling around in the street or were being kicked out of the bars where we sat. Quite amusing at the time, quite depressing in hindsight.
The next morning the day greeted us once again with a wall of grey and fog that almost whispered the words: “ Alex, it’s Sunday! Go home back to the warm summer of Amsterdam…”
Stefan and I had breakfast and decided to give Torshavn one last chance to prove it’s worthy of a touristic visit. We wandered down to Kaffihusid, which has a lovely location on the western side of the historic Tinganes district and luckily, was open at 10:30 am on Sunday. My latte tasted delicious and the quiet Sunday air felt good on our skin as we sat outside on the terrace watching the harbour.
Small countries like the Faroes always strike me as very peculiar. Especially, if they are a remote island such as this. Monaco, San Marino, Andorra … yea they all have something going for them, like Formula 1, skiing, casinos, shopping etc… But here? No here you had to really look for it.
On our search for an activity on this quiet Sunday morning we ventured into the small streets of Tinganes and stumbled upon various curiosities: The German and the Brazilian consulate (????), the Prime Minister’s office and the Ministry of foreign affairs as well as a street called Bakkahalla and the Queen of Denmark’s royal ship, which had recently arrived in Torshavn. The Tinganes district is by far the most picturesque part of town with its red houses and tiny winding alleys. The gloomy skies and the desolation just added to the unique experience.
Equally bizarre was Viðarlundin Park, a place approximately 10 minutes north from the harbour. A place, that is home to a couple of ducks and some strange statues created by local artists. I spotted a couple of hidden benches and pictured this park as the perfect hiding place for young couples to drink and snog. Not a soul passed us as we wandered along the path to the Northern exit.
It really was a shame that the weather didn’t play along this weekend otherwise I probably would have appreciated the charm of this town a lot more than I did today. As we returned to Kaffihusid for one last coffee I began to wonder if it was really worth coming here or if I got lured into a false sensation thinking this could be the “new Iceland” in the making.
When I ventured to the bus station to catch my bus to the airport I caught a glimpse of Queen Margharete of Denmark decending from her ship and giving a small wave at the handful of onlookers who had bothered to come out to see her. I didn’t see a single Danish flag, only Faroese.
Yes, this place definitely is ready to handle its own affairs. A place that is desperate to show the world it is more than sheep and salmon. More than a desolate rock in the middle of nowhere but it will take some time and some change in mentality. The Faroese are still quite homophobic and reluctant to change and these traits will make it difficult for them to position themselves as an equally open minded nation as Iceland, Norway, Sweden or Denmark.
Finally, I have one final request. Please allow more than 1 airline to serve this country. My credit card was literally bleeding after paying for my flights. OPEN UP!
