A thousand candles bright

In another life, I’d vote for wanting to be Swedish and all the perks that come with it – shopping at Granit (and sometimes Ikea), Gina Tricot and H+M, camping in a summer house in the countryside in an eco-friendly car, taking fika(s) daily and eating all the seafood, meatballs and the cloudberries that my stomach can possibly take. After all, the first thing I asked about as I checked into the hotel was the name of the Christmas album that they were playing.

Obviously that’s not going to happen, but a girl can always hope.





I wasn’t too hard up on seeing the big tourist sites this time around; instead, I stayed out of the core city centre and wandered around the parts that I didn’t see on my first visit here. Sadly, that meant getting gobsmacked by the glitzy chic shopping district in Stureplan and Östermalm, making my way to the Moderna Museet, going to coop supermarket and actually eating proper food for dinner. Old towns are always irresistible, so I eventually made my way to Gamla Stan and ended getting lost in the maze of streets in worsening weather.



Traditional Christmas lights abound, particularly so in Scandinavia because it gets dark so early. Visually, it’s a brilliant sight (all puns intended). These shops get brisk business as locals grab what they can.

Armed with a 3-day transport card, I rode the buses and the subway merrily, squeezing as best as I could into the seat with bulky winter wear that was meant for the Arctic, wondering all the time at the possibility of looking chic yet prepared for cold (and extreme) weather as I envied the easy glamour that seemed inherent in Swedish girls. They’re mutually non-exclusive options, I concluded. Unless people are packing geniuses – which I’m not -, a stylist is probably required (Gok Wan?) for effortless mix-and-matching.

Workmen x Snow x Airport

I ended up getting sent to the Tromsø airport by a workman.

My short journey to the bus stop was timed so all I had to do was to wait for bus no. 42 to come. A slew of heavy vehicles salting the road and clearing the snow however, meant that a diversion was put up just at the junction I was waiting just about a minute later. To my horror, the bus I was supposed to be taking went merrily on its way in another direction as the workmen waved the vehicles to the left instead of straight.

Panicking, I considered walking back to the hotel – any hotel! – to ask for a cab, until I ran into a workman standing at that same junction. He didn’t know English too well, but we spoke the universal language of gestures and a flurry of hand signals later, my luggage was loaded into the back seat of his work car (complete with an orange siren) and off we went to the airport.

During the short journey, I learned that his shift lasts 14 hours today because of the snow storms of the past few days – a storm into which I had actually flown directly when I arrived.

I wish I could have told him just how grateful I was for that impromptu ride, but all I could say was a multitude of ‘thank-yous’, to which he simply replied, “It’s my fault you’re stranded. It’s the least I could do.”

Snowmobiling – Redux

The weather chaos of yesterday meant that many tour operators had to cancel their trips into the Lyngen Alps. At their meeting point at the Rica Ishavs Hotel at 8.45 a.m., the driver was still trying to convince people that the dogsled tour was cancelled because of the bad snow. But the skies finally cleared and the first light hit the corona of peaks in the Troms region as the Lyngsfjord Adventure bus hit the road – with me on it.



Camp Tamok is approximately 90 minutes away from Tromsø and the heart of the Lyngsfjord Adventure tour. I met Mike, my snowmobile guide who trained as a helicopter technician in college. With another Italian couple who proclaim to hate TV but love the internet with the little English they speak, we took off into the highlands over fresh, deep snow.


“The trail will be hard today,” Mike said, “because of the storm yesterday. I woke up at 5 a.m. today to make a trail and I tipped over in my snowmobile. In all my 20 years driving a snowmobile this has never happened.”


We stopped halfway at a quaint little hut in midst of the mountains and breathed the suffocating smell of firewood cackling in the air. Like caricatures of the stereotypical Italian, the Italian tourists spoke about pasta and spaghetti when Mike told them he was going to Rome in March 2014. At our return, there was reindeer stew (makes me wonder if they just felled one of those that took the tourists for a sleighride) and Lefsa, a traditional Norwegian dessert cake that had me beating myself for not finding these little treasures earlier. The Lavvu (a huge Sami tent that can easily sit up to eighty) was our own holding pen against the chill, filled with smoke from damp wood that didn’t burn clean and crisp.



Darkness overtook whatever little light there was by about 2 p.m.. Just as people herded reindeer earlier, they were themselves herded into the bus that unerringly took them back to Tromsø, a reminder that for the experience of life up north, this is after all, a tourist-run event.

Storm in a snow cup

I find myself missing Svalbard already, a day after leaving it.

In contrast to Svalbard’s winter silence, Tromsø is vibrant, noisy and teeming with life – even at the odd hours of the night as students and yuppies roam the streets after partying and hard drinking. Still, this place lies almost 400km north of the Arctic Circle (70 degrees North), but the climate is more humid, mitigated by Gulf stream that trickles to a halt here. The Polar Night here is a pale imitation of the one on Longyearbyen: a greyish-blue tinge of light blankets the city at around 10am till about 2 or 3pm, giving it a surrealistic, winter-wonderland feel that’s gone down the rabbit hole.



Snow blew in furious gusts the moment I came out of the airport, blanketing the streets in silence by about 7pm – and out went the hope of seeing the Northern lights. The forecast is for rain, snow and gale for exactly the time period I’m going to be here and my next snowmobile trip to camp Tamok with Lyngsfjord Adventures is hopefully not going to ruined by poor weather. 3 days in Longyearbyen seems to be sufficient time to prep the body for more extreme weather and Tromso’s sub-zero temperatures are still way easier to tolerate after landing in a snow storm. Schadenfreude dictated that I giggled at a plane load of Brit tourists who complained immediately about the freezing cold as the wind flung icicles hard in everyone’s faces.


The main part of town forms part of the eastern shores of Tromsøya along the Tromsø Sound, linked to the mainland by a kilometre-long (thereabout) arched-bridge that’s as iconic of the city as its surroundings of snow-capped peaks where many tour operators conduct winter activities. Visiting Prestvannet (a lake that’s now frozen) and the cable car across the Sound were on the plans today. I accomplished only the former but not the latter which was closed because of the danger of avalanches. The storm rolled in by the time I reached the long bridge and I got up halfway before making my way down again.

I’ve already slipped a few times, hauled up once by my rucksack by a complete stranger and pretty much announced to the world that I’m a tourist from the hesitant way I walk across the ice mounds at the side of the road.

Snowmobiling in Svalbard

A dummy in a snowmobile suit (complete with a Soviet-era-style helmet) sits in a lonesome chair in the corner, like a WWII relic that Svalbard had forgotten. In reality, it was exactly how we were supposed to dress, with no skin exposed to the elements. I for one, was dancing with joy to learn that the snowmobile had heating in the handlebars for the hands.


With Christian (out German guide of Svalbard Scooterutleie) and two other Dutch tourists, we took off into Adventdalen once again, going further than the dogsleds could and up into the Pingo, an Inuvialuktun word that refers to a hill with a core of ice. Pingos, as they are known in English, are formed in areas of permafrost when ponds or lakes are drained. When the wet lake bed freezes, the ice below expands and is forced upwards. With the roar of the engine in my ears and illuminating beams of light from the other snowmobiles, we cut a path slightly upwards around the Pingo and stopped shy of a cabin up in the hills. It’s there that we stopped for coffee and blackcurrant drinks (ribena) deep in the valleys and for random conversations that flitted from the constellations in the sky to Chris’s 1-year long survival training course in the Arctic.

Whatever I had expected of snowmobiling, it wasn’t one that involved shooting straight into the snow at the slightest squeeze of the throttle. As responsive as the snowmobile is to acceleration, steering took more effort than I thought, helping to give my underworked biceps a good push at the same time.

As reticent as the Norwegians are about their successes, bragging rights here, as it seems, come in the form of latitudes that measure how far past the arctic circle you’ve gone as well as the extremity of the activity in which you’ve participated. One of the Dutch guys asked Christian what the furthest he’d been, to which he sheepishly replied, “83 degrees.” I noted that the dutch tourists’ reaction was one of awe, who then proceeded to talk about scaling a mountain near the Svalbard airport the day before.




I got back in time for an Advent candle-walk ceremony that apparently involved copious amounts of mulled wine and candles; I saw a small, lopsided Christmas tree instead in the centre of town with lots of people milling about. Instead of standing there cluelessly as I normally do, I wondered what the fuss was all about and took a 30-minute walk out of town where the candle-march was supposed to have started…and inevitably found myself at Huset, the most highly-rated restaurant/cafe in all of Longyearbyen and sat down for a really early dinner. The chef himself said that he’d prepare a dish from the normal menu for me (there was only the Christmas dining option on that day) because I ‘wasn’t from around there’. If I had been Norwegian however, the chef said and trailed off with a murderously forbidding expression on his face, swiping sharply once across the table.

Smoked trout, with salad, pickled mushrooms and beetroots with lemon mayonnaise was what I got while everyone else ate pork belly. And it couldn’t have been better. There’s usually little compulsion for me to step out after dark, but I’m glad that I made this exception.