Het zakmes

Kansai International Airport. De jongen van de beveiliging vraagt me of hij mijn rugzak mag doorzoeken. Kennelijk zit er iets in dat niet mag. Na een tijdje wordt het duidelijk: ik ben vergeten mijn zakmes uit mijn rugzak te halen en in mijn koffer te doen. Helaas, denk ik, die ben ik kwijt.

Ik wil doorlopen, maar word opgedragen te wachten. Er wordt een politieagent bijgehaald. Het zakmes wordt grondig bestudeerd en gemeten. De beveiligingsbeambte neemt mijn paspoort en boarding pass in, en telefoneert met iemand. Ik word een beetje onrustig. Ze zullen toch niet denken dat ik kwaad in de zin heb, alleen maar omdat ik een zakmes in mijn handbagage heb? Dat kan iedereen toch overkomen?

De jongen komt terug en geeft me mijn paspoort, samen met een speciale kaart die ik om mijn nek moet hangen. ‘Ga hiermee naar de balie,’ zegt hij. Ik vraag me af welke balie hij bedoelt. Hij escorteert me verder. Nu brengt hij me vast naar een plek waar ik verhoord ga worden.

Even later staan we in de vertrekhal.

‘De incheckbalie, bedoelt u?’ vraag ik verbaasd.

‘Ja, daar kunt u uw mes laten inchecken, zodat het als ruimbagage meekan.’

Ik loop terug naar de incheckbalie. Een dame van de luchtvaartmaatschappij komt me tegemoet. ‘Volgende keer niet vergeten hoor!’ zegt ze licht bestraffend. ‘Dan moeten we u extra laten betalen!’ Ze doet mijn zakmes in een nette, stevige envelop, en legt het op de bagageband. Dan wenst ze me een goede reis.

AY 77

While I am watching a mediocre recent adaptation of The Wizard of Oz, the plane is already approaching the Ural mountains. It is the main advantage of using Finnair when travelling to East Asia: they are much faster than most other European airlines. After a short night, I will arrive at Kansai International Airport early tomorrow morning. I hope I will manage to catch a few hours of sleep before we arrive. I probably won’t.

I did not keep my promise to tell you more about life in Vietnam. I would have liked to, but perhaps finishing a PhD dissertation is not compatible with keeping a weblog after all – or, at least, not with updating it regularly. I have to submit my dissertation by the end of August, so whenever I write, I work on the dissertation rather than doing anything else. Until it is finished, therefore, I may not be able to write many blogposts.

After I have submitted, however, I promise to be a more active blogger. From this autumn onwards, I will not only write about my own personal experiences living and travelling in foreign countries, as I have done so far. I also intend to blog more about topics related to my research: religion, (identity) politics, sacred space and environmental issues.

A bit of turbulence. The sky is a gorgeous violet. It is much more beautiful than the computer-animated fairytale landscapes the in-flight entertainment system shows me. Unfortunately, I am asked to close the window shade, so I have to do with the landscapes of Oz instead of the skies of central Russia. Too bad.

We had a good time in Vietnam. In the morning, I would make a breakfast, consisting of baguette with eggs or fish, fresh tropical fruit juice, and Vietnamese milk coffee. After some hours of working, we might go to the local market to have lunch and buy some food for dinner. Alternatively, we might work until the end of the afternoon, then go for a beach walk, a swim, and a fresh seafood dinner at one of the street restaurants. At night, I would often sit and work on the balcony for several more hours. Most days were like that. On weekend days, we would go to Hoi An to visit my parents-in-law, go for a ride in the mountains, or catch a movie. Once, we attended a religious festival for the local whale god, about which I hope to tell you in the future. In sum, three-and-a-half months passed very quickly.

We returned to Norway one month ago. When we arrived, it was still winter. Now, spring has come, and the nature in and around the city is finally awakening. In the meantime, we have continued working on our dissertation respectively MA thesis. Luckily, we have found a new apartment, in the southeastern part of the city, near the fjord. We are looking forward to moving there next month – and, hopefully, welcoming many (old) friends there in the future.

I have written most of my dissertation. I have about two chapters left to write, before putting it all together and editing the whole thing, so I will need the entire summer to finish. I am now visiting Japan one last time, in order to get some additional data for those last two chapters. During this trip, I will attend some religious festivals and a symposium, participate in some shrine activities, and conduct some last interviews. In between, I hope to catch up with some old friends.

The wizard of Oz is playing with fireworks. We are somewhere above Siberia. Time to get some sleep.

If I do not write again here in the near future, do not worry. I am busy finishing my PhD. If everything goes according to plan, I will be back online in September.

Days in Đà Nẵng (3): Hoa's Place

« Toute la Gaule est occupée par les Romains... Toute ? Non ! Car un village peuplé d'irréductibles Gaulois résiste encore et toujours à l'envahisseur... » - René Goscinny

Kleptocracy, alternatively cleptocracy or kleptarchy, (from Greek: κλέπτης - kleptēs, "thief" and κράτος - kratos, "power, rule", hence "rule by thieves") is a form of political and government corruption where the government exists to increase the personal wealth and political power of its officials and the ruling class at the expense of the wider population ... - From Wikipedia

September 2009. We return to Vietnam after a one-month trip to Europe, where she met my family for the first time. After a long journey, including 18 hours spent at an ugly Moscow airport, we arrive in Danang. We are tired and penniless, and not sure where to go next. We want to move somewhere we can live together, even though we are not married yet; we want to live free and anonymously. She got an offer for an MA program in Ho Chi Minh City, so she takes the plane there to complete her registration, but she is refused entry to the program because she arrives too late. Meanwhile, I am spending some time at a small guesthouse near the beach south of Danang, taking a rest, thinking about what to do next. She returns to Danang and meets me at the guesthouse. After two good nights of sleep, we decide to move to Hanoi.

The guesthouse where we stayed is called Hoa's Place, and it is located in a small hamlet near the Marble Mountains. It has been there for almost twenty years, and in those years it has become a true backpackers' institution. It was visited by independent travellers long before there were any large beach resorts in this area; back in the days when Lonely Planet guidebooks still signified adventurous low-budget travel, instead of mass tourism and hyperconsumption. In all those years, it has not changed much. There is nothing special about the rooms. The location is great if you want to stay near the beach, but inconvenient if you want to spend much time in either Danang or Hoi An. However, it is the atmosphere that makes the place special: the relaxed vibe, the friendliness of the owner and his family, and of course the communal dinners, which are a great opportunity for meeting fellow travellers. Judging from the high rating on Tripadvisor, this atmosphere is much appreciated by almost everyone staying here.

Hoa's Place has not changed much, but the surrounding area has. As I wrote in earlier posts, in the past ten years or so, nearby Hoi An has changed dramatically; so has the city of Danang recently. In only five years, the thirty kilometres of sandy beach between Hoi An and Danang have been turned into one large construction site. Local communities have been displaced, their villages given way to monstrous resorts, casinos and golf courts. Those who did not leave voluntarily were forced to leave. As Human Rights Watch reported recently, in 2012 the human rights situation in Vietnam has deteriorated significantly. "Land was a flashpoint issue, with local farmers and villagers facing arbitrary confiscation of their land by government officials and private sector project operators", they wrote. Local activists and bloggers have been imprisoned for many years for demonstrating against the confiscation of land by corrupt government officials and project developers.

The problems are interrelated. First, one of the very few remnants of the communist system is that people do not actually own the land they own; they merely 'rent' it from the People, and the Party (i.e., local officials) can confiscate it at any time, fairly easily, for comparatively little financial compensation. Second, local government officials are easily bribed, and earn a lot of money by selling land to domestic or foreign project developers. Third, resistance is generally poorly organised, and easily crushed - not in the least because the army is one of the most powerful economical actors, running banks and phone companies, and being in charge of mining and logging activities. Nepotism is widespread; local governments, private investors, and army officials happily divide the cake, while those who have been living on and working land for decades get next to nothing. As land issues are becoming more and more controversial, and the national economy is stagnating, dissatisfaction is likely to increase in the near future.

We visit Hoa's Place for a cup of coffee. It still looks the same as four years ago, and we enjoy the relaxed atmosphere. Sadly, though, destruction seems imminent. The guesthouse is one of a mere handful of houses still standing. On both sides, empty wasteland is waiting for investors. If it were not for the high fences and security guards, one would not know they are destined to become five-star resorts. However, it is only a matter of time before this area of beach is also filled with concrete blocks. Meanwhile, the nearby Marble Mountains have also been 'developed': these days, there are more shops selling marble statues than customers. One wonders where all the marble comes from - not from these mountains, that much is certain, otherwise there would not be any mountains left for the tourists to visit.

We talk to one of Hoa's relatives. She tells us the amount of money they have been offered for their guesthouse and land. It is barely enough to buy a small apartment in Danang. Thus far, she tells us, they have refused to sell their land. However, she does not seem very optimistic. Sooner or later, she knows, they will be forced to leave. It is the story of many Vietnamese people today. But until that moment, they will keep the guesthouse. Who knows, a miracle might happen.

Two hunderd metres down the road is a large army office.


Update (April 25, 2013): One month after I posted this story, Hoa's Place was destroyed. The life of this popular backpackers' institution has come to an end. Worse, the entire beach between Danang and Hoi An has now been confiscated by corrupt local authorities, and sold to project developers. They are constructing hideous concrete blocks, which are believed to attract thousands of tourists. In all likelihood, though, most of the rooms will remain empty. But the natural and social landscape of the coastal area are changing beyond recognition. I cannot help but think that the demolishment of Hoa's Place, and the traditional coastal hamlet where it was located, is of great symbolic significance. It is illustrative of many things that are going wrong in Vietnam today: corruption, land confiscation, cowboy capitalism, and the ruthless exploitation of environmental and human resources. 

One expat has been so kind as to document Hoa's Place' destruction, and post the footage online (original post here):

Days in Đà Nẵng (2): Our neighbourhood

The calendar tells me that we have been here four weeks. I find it hard to believe, but calendars do not lie. It may be a natural consequence of getting older, but I feel that my perception of time is increasingly at odds with the real speed of time passing by, and I am not sure whether that is a good or a bad thing. At least I am happy I do not know what boredom is like: whether I am busy reading, writing, cooking, sleeping or walking, I never feel bored, not a second. But I am a bit concerned about my inability to control the time I have been given. The obligation of submitting a fully finished PhD dissertation in August worries me sometimes.

Sure, I have been busy these weeks: I wrote a new dissertation chapter, edited another one, and read some important texts. Our apartment turns out to be a fine working place. But I have not been as productive as my optimistic dreams had promised me. Perhaps I should adjust my expectations, realise that quality is more important than quantity, and accept the fact that some highly interesting side topics and books are peripheral to my main story and should be left aside. There was a Golden Age, I have been told, when PhD candidates could spend a decade writing a thousand-page masterpiece; these days, however, there is little money available for research in the humanities - economically useless as they allegedly are - so the few of us lucky enough to get funding for doing PhD research have little choice but to accept the fact that we have to squeeze the whole project into three years. We try our best.

Being immersed in my dissertation topic, I would almost forget where I am. It is easy to spend a whole day inside the apartment, oblivious to the outside world, especially on a grey and rainy day like today. When we stay inside like this, the only things reminding us of the fact that we are in Vietnam are the occasional sound of a street vendor's tape in the distance, and the delicious tropical fruits turned into shakes and smoothies by our blender. Doing this work, one can easily get detached from the physical world. Hence the importance of going out every now and then, to experience the place where we live: a ride along the beach, a day trip to Hoi An, a visit to a local restaurant. And, of course, a walk in the neighbourhood - if only to go to the market.

And a nice neighbourhood it is. Located between the river and the sea, far from the port and the main industries, this used to be a poor suburb, inhabited by fishermen and their families. Later, during the war, the city was home to one of the most important American military bases; soldiers were sent to this beach area for a bit of fun and relaxation, bringing dollars and prostitution. But they left forty years ago, and the neighbourhood once again became what it had been before: an impoverished seaside suburb, little more than a village. Until recently. The city's population has grown significantly, as has its wealth. Slums gave way to big houses. Some members of the new middle class moved away from the crowded city centre, bought land near the sea, built houses and changed the face of the neighbourhood. Meanwhile, new hotels and seafood restaurants are emerging all over the place, anticipating the advent of large tourist crowds.

Yet, between the new houses and hotels, there is still quite a bit of open space. Some of it has been appropriated by guerrilla gardeners, growing their fresh vegetables and herbs on every available spot. If you know a bit about plants (or, alternatively, have a spouse who can teach you), you soon discover that those weeds growing next to the pavement are not weeds at all: they are chilli plants, lemongrass, sweet potatoes and mint, as well as peperomia pellucida, basella alba and sauropus androgynus. Some of them may find their way to the market, to stalls selling street food, and to your plate. Other empty pieces of land, such as the one in front of our apartment building, are surrounded by fences, so that local people cannot grow their vegetables there. But these, too, have been appropriated: by fragrant plants, birds, lizards, frogs and colourful insects. There is a lot of life in the city.

When you walk around the neighbourhood, you are likely to be approached by a street vendor on a bicycle, wearing a conical straw hat, who offers you whatever it is she is selling. If you are lucky, she has mangosteens, which she is transporting in a basket on her bicycle. They may not look appealing from the outside, but just wait until you taste the fresh white flesh inside: they are absolutely delicious. You may have to haggle a bit before buying them, though.

If the street vendor does not have what you want, you can continue your walk to the local market. Markets are always interesting places to visit, wherever you go, and you will not be disappointed here either. There is a great variety of fresh products, some of which you have never seen before: strangely shaped fish, shellfish and crustaceans; fresh herbs, vegetables and tofu; fermented eggs and eggs with whole duck embryos in them; all sorts of different (organ) meat; and beautiful flowers, used for praying. And, of course, all those wonderful fruits, some of which you will turn into juices or smoothies: pomelo, avocado, papaya, mango, lime, pineapple, dragonfruit, passionfruit, soursop, banana, rambutan, custard apple and coconut.

If you do not feel like cooking lunch today, you can sit down on a tiny plastic stool at one of the stalls selling noodle soup, rice with grilled meat, savory pancakes or rice porridge. A delicious fresh meal here will cost you less than a single drink in a bar back home in Europe. Once you have finished your bowl of noodle soup (with fresh herbs, possibly guerrilla-gardened), you can stop by at a local cafe for a cup of strong Vietnamese coffee, ideally served with condensed milk and ice.

After this nice cup of ice coffee, you may want to continue your walk around the neighbourhood. You will notice that there are several small, traditional buildings standing between houses. These are family shrines, called nhà thờ tộc, where people come to pray to their ancestors. They are not to be confused with đình, community temples, like the one you are passing by now. It has not been maintained very well, but you can still distinguish the lovely rooftop decorations. In the front yard, teenage boys are playing football. You assume it is a community temple, but you are not completely sure. It may also be a đền or a miếu, both of which would be translated as 'temple' in English, but which are not the same as a đình: they are places where individual deities are worshipped, rather than community meeting halls.

As a matter of fact, you are still not sure about the exact difference between đền and miếu. You are told that the former are associated with powerful Vietnamese deities, such as ancient kings and generals, while the latter are associated with local gods residing in nature, such as the popular tiger god. But you are pretty sure that miếu is a Chinese loanword, and that the grand Confucian Temple of Literature in Hanoi is also called miếu. You are a bit confused, and you realise how much you still have to learn about Vietnamese religion. In fact, if you were to continue your walk to the beach, you would see several other small temples there, called đền thờ. They have been built for stranded whales, who are considered gods of the sea, and are regularly offered food and incense.

The đình is standing next to a chùa, a Buddhist temple (usually translated as 'pagoda' in Vietnam). It is a lovely building, recently painted, with a large gate, a marble statue of Quan Âm, and a roof shaped in the typical East Asian way. You take off your shoes, and go inside. Two guardian deities are looking at you angrily. There is an altar, with a small statue of a Quan Âm with thousand arms. Behind, there are three large golden Buddha statues. They look pretty similar, but the nun welcoming you explains that they are Maitreya, Shakyamuni and Amitabha. She tells you that this is a Pure Land temple, and that they have regular meetings for laypeople, explaining them the principles of Pure Land Buddhism. She also tells you that in Vietnamese Buddhism, women can be ordained just like men. You would like to learn more, but your language skills are too limited to continue doing research on this topic for the time being. And anyway, it is about time to go back home. You have a lot of writing to do.

Days in Đà Nẵng (1): Arrival

It is a sunny day, 26 degrees, and I am sitting on the balcony. Motorcycles and cars are driving on the road below, but it is not very crowded. I am on the fifth floor of a new apartment building. A couple of high hotels are blocking the city from view, but there is still plenty of open space around here. In the distance I can see the sea, and the dark green mountains of Sơn Trà peninsula. I wonder whether it is possible to climb them. A giant white statue of Quan Âm, the bodhisattva of compassion (known as Guanyin, Kannon or Avalokiteshvara in other countries), is guarding the city. I still remember they were building it, a couple of years ago.

We arrived here on New Year's Eve. We had spent our Christmas holidays packing our stuff, cleaning our apartment, and moving everything to a friend's place. Next, we moved out of the apartment where we had lived the past year and a half, and went to Danang - the city where we are going to spend the next three months. It was a long journey - we had stopovers in Amsterdam, Singapore and Siem Reap - but everything went well. We even had the chance to pay a short visit to a famous Buddhist temple in Singapore, and enjoy some delicious local food. When we arrived in Danang, we were too tired to go out and clebrate the new year - but then, Vietnamese new year is not until next month.

It is windy, and not very hot yet, but I am glad it is finally sunny. The past two weeks were cloudy and a bit chilly, but it seems to be getting better. This morning, I went running along the beach, and the sea and sky were beautiful. It is hard to imagine a better place to do your morning exercises.

This is no vacation, though. I am supposed to submit my dissertation in August, and I still have a lot of reading and writing to do, so there is little time for playing or relaxing. Time is going fast. Still, I much rather read my book in a nice Vietnamese café, under a palmtree, than in a dark Norwegian apartment. And I much prefer writing my dissertation on a balcony, wearing shorts and flipflops, drinking ice tea or fresh fruit juice, to doing it at my office in Oslo - even though it is a nice office. Hence our decision to live in Vietnam for a couple of months. Of course, being able to spend some time together with our family was another important reason for coming here.

Danang is changing rapidly. It is the largest city in central Vietnam, with a population of approximately 900,000; strategically located between sea and river, it has been an important economical centre for quite some time. But in recent years 'development' has truly taken off. The city's skyline is ever-growing; more and more new shopping malls and office buildings are erected; shabby old neighbourhoods are giving way to new roads and apartment buildings; several impressive new bridges are being constructed; and last year, a brand-new airport building was inaugurated. New hotels and restaurants are eagerly awaiting foreign tourists, who have not yet shown up in very large numbers.

It remains to be seen whether the costruction craze can continue, however. Only a few years ago, Vietnam was touted as Asia's new tiger. Its economy was growing fast, impressive new buildings and roads were built in the big cities, and a middle class was emerging, leading to increasing domestic consumption. But today, there is less reason for optimism. The national currency is weak, and inflation very high. Foreign investors and companies are withdrawing, frustrated as they are by the corruption and state patronage of 'national' companies (usually owned by powerful members of the ruling oligarchy). Lack of investment is leading to the cancellation of construction projects; as a result, estate prices are dropping, and banks are getting in trouble.

I am getting thirsty. A couple of days ago, we bought a blender, and now I am experimenting with fresh fruit juices, shakes and smoothies. Thus far, I have made watermelon juice, pomelo juice, and a mango shake, all of which were very nice. The best was perhaps my soursop smoothy, with aloe and yoghurt. Today, I am thinking about making a dragonfruit-banana shake. Or shall I try passionfruit juice...?

Finally, let me apologise for not having been a very good blogger recently. I promise to update my weblog more recently this year. As I will be busy with my dissertation, for the time being I will not have time to write lengthy essays or travel stories. But I do promise some short stories about life in Danang - once a week, perhaps twice. And, who knows, some pictures. Please stay tuned.

Paspoortverhalen

Tien dagen Toscaanse nazomerzon hadden mijn batterijen opgeladen, schreef ik. Ik dacht klaar te zijn voor het donkere seizoen. Maar ik was weer eens te optimistisch. Ik had niet voorzien dat de zon zich wekenlang helemaal niet zou laten zien, dat de eerste sneeuw begin november al zou vallen, en dat de lucht bijna elke dag van zonsopgang tot zonsondergang donkergrijs zou zijn. De stad was gehuld in duisternis en depressie. De gevolgen waren snel merkbaar: mijn energie zakte tot onpeilbare diepten. Ik wou dat ik een beer was, dan mocht ik nu op winterslaap.

Ik droomde van een tropisch strand, van zon en van primaire kleuren. En dit keer bleef het niet bij dromen alleen. Wij hakten de knoop door, en boekten vliegtickets. Van januari tot april wonen en werken wij elders. In de buurt van een tropisch strand, om precies te zijn. Vol verwachting klopt ons hart.

Om naar een tropisch strand te kunnen reizen moet men wel in het bezit zijn van een geldig paspoort. Nu heb ik weliswaar een geldig paspoort, maar dat is over enkele maanden verlopen; ik moest dus een nieuw paspoort aanvragen. Dat bleek gelukkig vrij eenvoudig. Ik ging naar de Nederlandse ambassade, die fraai gelegen is in hartje centrum, niet ver van het koninklijk paleis. Ik leverde mijn ingevulde aanvraagformulier in, samen met een pasfoto en een Noors bewijs van inschrijving; ik betaalde het vereiste bedrag, en gaf mijn vingerafdrukken af; en tien dagen later kreeg ik bericht dat ik mijn paspoort kon komen afhalen. Ik ging terug naar de ambassade, waar mijn oude paspoort werd geperforeerd, en ik mocht beide paspoorten mee naar huis nemen. Het was zo gepiept.

Heeft u uw paspoort wel eens goed bekeken? Weet u wel wat er allemaal in staat? Nee, ik ook niet. Bijna niemand, vermoed ik. Maar het is een interessant document. Elk paspoort vertelt verhalen. Politieke en ideologische verhalen, bijvoorbeeld; verhalen over natiestaten en collectieve identiteiten. Zo bevatte mijn eerste paspoort een soort stripoverzicht van de 'vaderlandse' geschiedenis - bepaald niet de kritische versie. Het nieuwste Chinese paspoort schijnt een soort miniatlas te zijn, compleet met imperialistische land- en zeeclaims. En het paspoort van mijn echtgenote ziet er dusdanig eenvoudig en onprofessioneel uit, dat grondpersoneel op Schiphol het steevast met een argwanende blik bekijkt, en eist dat zij haar verblijfsvergunning laat zien - ook als we binnen de Schengenzone blijven. Op onze nationale luchthaven worden mensen uit rijke landen op een heel andere manier aangesproken dan mensen uit arme.

Maar paspoorten hebben niet alleen politieke relevantie. Ze vertellen ook verhalen over de individuen aan wie zij toebehoren: verhalen over wie ze zijn en waar ze vandaan komen, verhalen over reizen die ze gemaakt hebben. Maar ook verborgen verhalen, die alleen de houder van het paspoort kent en kan vertellen. Elk gebruikt paspoort is een verhalenboek.

Als ik mijn oude en nieuwe paspoort naast elkaar leg, zie ik de eerste verschillen. Op mijn nieuwe paspoort staat met glanzende letters 'Europese Unie | Koninkrijk der Nederlanden | Paspoort' geschreven, met daaronder het nationale wapen. Op mijn oude paspoort staat bijna niets meer. Dat wil zeggen: het is zo doorleefd, dat de letters en het wapen er bijna volledig afgesleten zijn. Het is zo veel gebruikt dat er van de voorkant zo goed als niets over is.

Vroeger stond er op de binnenkant van de kaft in het Nederlands, Engels en Frans dat de minister van buitenlandse zaken overheden van bevriende staten verzoekt de houder van het paspoort netjes te behandelen. Dat staat er nog steeds, maar daar is een nieuwe tekst aan toegevoegd (in dezelfde drie talen): als je in een land bent waar geen Nederlandse ambassade is, zijn de ambassades van andere EU-landen verplicht je dezelfde bijstand te verschaffen als aan hun eigen burgers. Kijk eens aan, weer wat geleerd.

Pagina 1 is niet bijzonder boeiend. Het design en lettertype zijn veranderd, maar verder staat in het nieuwe paspoort hetzelfde als in het oude. Bovenaan staat 'Europese Unie', gevolgd door het woord voor 'Europese Unie' in alle officiële landstalen van lidstaten van de Europese Unie (wist u dat Ierland zijn geld tegenwoordig van de An tAontas Eorpach krijgt?). In het midden staat 'Koninkrijk der Nederlanden', gevolgd door het woord voor 'Koninkrijk der Nederlanden' in alle officiële landstalen van lidstaten van de Europese Unie (wist u dat ons land in Malta bekend staat onder de naam ir-Renju tal-Pajjizi I-Baxxi, en in Slowakije als Nizozemské kráľovstvo?). En onderaan staat 'Paspoort', gevolgd door het woord voor 'Paspoort' in alle officiële landstalen van lidstaten van de Europese Unie (wist u dat men in het Hongaars van een útlevél spreekt?). Opdat niemand zich vergisse.

Pagina 2 is de belangrijkste pagina van het paspoort, want hier staan de persoonsgegevens. Het design is veranderd, en dat niet alleen: ik ben ook veranderd. Mijn naam en geboortedatum niet, natuurlijk, maar mijn gezicht wel; ik zie er een stuk ouder uit dan vijf jaar geleden. Of komt dat doordat de nieuwe foto veel scherper en groter is dan de oude? Die oude pasfoto was veel te vaag, maar ik had er een godsvermogen voor betaald bij een door de Nederlandse ambassade te Londen aangeraden fotozaak - de prima pasfoto's die ik voor 3 pond bij de Griek bij mij om de hoek had laten maken voldeden niet aan alle regels, vond men, waardoor ik nog eens 20 pond moest betalen voor mijns inziens inferieure exemplaren - en dus moest ik het daar vijf jaar mee doen. De nieuwe is een stuk beter, al kijk ik niet echt vriendelijk (maar dat mag ook niet), en zit mijn haar niet goed (ik had net een muts op gehad, en de fotograaf had geen spiegel hangen). Ik kan er mee leven, denk ik.

Er is nog iets veranderd. Mijn vorige paspoort was uitgegeven door de 'Ambassadeur te Londen', aangezien ik toen in Londen woonde. Mijn nieuwe paspoort is daarentegen uitgegeven door 'De Ambassadeur te Berlijn'. Dat men een lidwoord toegevoegd heeft vind ik tot daar aan toe, maar dat 'Ambassadeur' vervolgens met een hoofdletter geschreven is is natuurlijk godgeklaagd. Kennelijk woont de beste man al zo lang in Duitsland dat hij vergeten is dat zelfstandige naamwoorden in het Nederlands normaliter niet met hoofdletters geschreven worden. Maar het gevolg is even triest als onomkoombaar: in mijn nieuwe Nederlandse paspoort staat een lelijke taalfout. Afgezien daarvan is het mij onduidelijk waarom de ambassadeur in mijn woonplaats Oslo mijn paspoort niet mag autoriseren. Het betreft een reorganisatie, zo is mij verteld: alle in Europa uitgegeven Nederlandse paspoorten moeten voortaan langs de ambassadeur te Berlijn. Maar niemand weet waarom. Misschien had hij tijd over.

Pagina 3 is zo goed als leeg. 'Geldig voor alle landen', staat er in kleine lettertjes, en 'Opmerkingen van bevoegde instanties'. Maar niemand heeft een opmerking gemaakt, in mijn oude noch in mijn nieuwe paspoort. Het achtergrondmotiefje van de bladzijden van het nieuwe paspoort is overigens nog lelijker dan dat van het oude. Blokjes, stipjes en ruitjes, als ware het zo'n prent waarin mensen die scheel kijken een 3D-afbeelding kunnen ontdekken. Je zou er spontaan migraine van krijgen.

Pagina 4 is helemaal leeg. In mijn oude paspoort is pagina 4 ook leeg gebleven. 'Kinderen', staat er boven, maar verder niets. Alles op zijn tijd, begrijpt u. Maar in het nieuwe paspoort is helemaal geen plaats meer voor kinderen. Elke baby moet voortaan zijn eigen paspoort hebben, naar het schijnt.

Op pagina 5 van mijn nieuwe paspoort is reeds een sticker geplakt. Zodra ik het paspoort binnen had, toog ik naar de Vietnamese ambassade, om daar een certificate of visa exemption aan te vragen: een speciaal visum met een geldigheid van vijf jaar, dat de houder het recht geeft om zo vaak hij of zij wil naar Vietnam te reizen, en daar tot 90 dagen te blijven. Dit is verzonnen om in het buitenland woonachtige Vietnamese emigranten de mogelijkheid te geven vaak en zonder al te veel problemen naar hun land van oorsprong te reizen (waar zij, u raadt het al, met bankbiljetten plegen te strooien); het is evenwel ook beschikbaar voor de buitenlandse echtgenoten en echtgenotes van Vietnamese burgers. De komende jaren hoef ik dus niet meer elke keer dat ik naar Vietnam reis moeite te doen om visum aan te schaffen.

Ik leg mijn nieuwe paspoort weg, en pak het oude. Op pagina 5 is een Thais visum geplakt. Het is lichtblauw, en heeft een fraaie rode Garuda in de hoek. Toen ik in 2008 besloot om op reis te gaan, wilde ik aanvankelijk de trans-Siberische trein nemen. Maar toen ik ontdekte dat het in december in die streken dertig graden kan vriezen, besloot ik mijn reis in Zuidoost-Azië te beginnen, en over land terug te reizen (zoals u weet is die terugreis er nooit van gekomen, omdat ik bleef hangen in Vietnam). Ik kocht een enkele reis van Düsseldorf naar Chiang Mai, want dat was het goedkoopste dat ik kon vinden. Nu hebben de meeste Europeanen geen visum nodig om naar Thailand te gaan, maar dat geldt officieel alleen als ze een retourticket hebben; wie dat niet heeft, wordt geacht een visum te hebben. Ik ging dus naar de Thaise ambassade in Den Haag. De consulaire afdeling bevond zich in een kelderkamertje. Men was verbaasd toen ik om een visum vroeg. 'Dat heb je toch niet nodig?' vroegen ze. 'Jawel, want ik heb geen retourticket,' antwoordde ik. Die regel was het ambassadepersoneel niet bekend, maar ik kreeg toch mijn visum. En dat was maar goed ook, want de regel was de jongedame die bij Air Berlin achter de incheckbalie stond wel degelijk bekend; argwanend vroeg ze waarom ik geen retourticket had, waarop ik haar mijn visum liet zien, en ze me knarsentandend mijn boarding pass gaf. Kennelijk had ze me graag de toegang tot het vliegtuig geweigerd.

Pagina 6 staat vol met stempels. Zes stuks, om precies te zijn. Twee van Thailand, waar ik ruim een maand verbleef; twee van Maleisië, waar ik maar een paar dagen had omdat ik een reeds geboekte vlucht moest halen; en nog eens twee van Maleisië, waar ik doorheen kwam toen ik een maand later van Makassar naar Siem Reap vloog. Ik vloog namelijk met Air Asia, de grootste budgetmaatschappij van Azië. Zoals veel mensen die met Air Asia vliegen had ik een overstap in Kuala Lumpur, en zoals veel mensen moest ik de nacht daar op het vliegveld doorbrengen. In de Low Cost Carriers Terminal, om precies te zijn. Mijn tip: de zachte banken van de koffiewinkel.

Pagina 7 heeft misschien wel het mooiste visum van het hele paspoort. Op een mooie ochtend in juli 2010 kwamen we aan in Jinghong, de hoofdstad van het fraaie Xishuangbanna, in het uiterste zuiden van China. We hadden de nachtbus genomen uit Kunming. Omdat we te lang in het noorden van Yunnan waren geweest, hadden we helaas geen tijd om een paar dagen in Xishuangbanna te blijven. Wel bezochten we de lokale botanische tuin - een van de mooiste waar ik ooit geweest ben. 's Middags namen we de bus naar Luang Nam Tha, in het noorden van Laos. Het was een minibusje, met plek voor ongeveer twintig mensen. Wij waren de enige reizigers; alle andere passagiers waren Chinese handelaars, die hun waren over de grens wilden verkopen. Het dak, de kofferbak en de gangpaden van het minibusje waren volgeladen met zakken en dozen. Geen idee wat er allemaal in zat.

Na ongeveer zes uur rijden kwamen we aan bij de grens, gelegen in hartje jungle. Het Chinese grensgebouw was een stevig betonnen kantoor, met schone marmeren vloeren en moderne elektronica. Nadat we allemaal onze exit stamp gekregen hadden (pagina 27), reed het busje verder door de jungle. De asfaltweg werd een modderpad. Na een paar minuten kwamen we aan bij een aantal schuren, gemaakt van hout en golfplaat. We stapten uit, en gingen naar het loket, dat weinig meer was dan een gat in de muur. Binnen zaten mannen in communistische uniforms te nietsen. Ik vroeg om een visum - ik had gelezen dat ik dat aan de grens kon krijgen. Ik moest een formulier invullen, 27 dollar betalen (de eigenlijke prijs is 25, maar de dienstdoende beambte wilde er natuurlijk nog wel iets aan overhouden), en wachten. Ik was de enige die een visum nodig had. Na een kwartier kreeg ik het visum, en mocht ik het land in. Na de douane gepasseerd te hebben (door alle Chinese passagiers werd geld ingezameld, teneinde het proces snel te laten verlopen) waren we in Laos - een van de mooiste landen ter wereld, inmiddels helaas ook ten prooi gevallen aan de demonen van ontbossing, grondstoffenroof en exploitatie.

Pagina 8. In januari 2009 vloog ik van Johor Bahru naar Jakarta. Johor Bahru is een grote, niet bijzondere interessante stad, gelegen aan de grens tussen Maleisië en Singapore. Ik kwam er om er meteen weer weg te gaan: de vlucht van Johor Bahru naar Jakarta was een stuk goedkoper dan de vlucht uit Singapore. Toen ik in Jakarta aankwam, was het al laat. Ik ging naar de balie, waar visa on arrival verkrijgbaar waren. Met uitzondering van een paar Indiase mannen was ik de enige passagier van het hele vliegtuig die een visum nodig had. De beambte was onvriendelijk, en vroeg me wat ik kwam doen in Indonesië. Uiteindelijk kreeg ik mijn visum. Het is wit, met groene en blauwe lijntjes; op de achtergrond staat het nationale wapen. Een Garuda, evenals op het Thaise visum. Ik vraag me af wat de moslimfundamentalisten ervan vinden dat hun land een hindoegodheid als nationaal symbool heeft.

Pagina 9 heeft zes stempels. Twee van Indonesië, die bij het visum horen. Twee van Cambodja, waarvan het visum om een onverklaarbare reden achterin mijn paspoort geplakt werd. En twee van Singapore, waaraan ik een jaar later samen met mijn lief een bezoek zou brengen.

Pagina 10 heeft een Vietnamees visum. Het is een van de zeven Vietnamese visa die mijn paspoort rijk is; de vijfde die ik kreeg. Toen ik in Vietnam woonde, had ik namelijk elke drie maanden een nieuw visum nodig. Deze was aangevraagd door mijn werkgever. Ik kreeg hem bij aankomst op het vliegveld van Hanoi, nadat ik het nuttige (een visa run) met het aangename (een korte vakantie) had gecombineerd door een bezoek aan Singapore en Melaka te brengen. Vietnamese visa zien er wel mooi uit, vind ik: ze zijn lichtgeel, met aan de onderkant wit en aan de bovenkant blauw. Het nationale wapen en het stempel van de dienstdoende ambtenaar zijn rood.

Pagina 11 heeft een aantal Vietnamese en Maleisische stempels. Pagina 12 heeft mijn derde Vietnamese visum, dat ik kreeg op de ambassade in Den Haag. Ik had een half jaar in Vietnam gewoond, en bracht toen samen met mijn lief een bezoek aan Nederland. Ik had nog een visum van zes maanden, maar dat liep af, dus ik had een nieuw visum nodig. De ambtenaar op de ambassade had reeds een zesmaandenvisum in mijn paspoort geplakt, toen hij of zij van een collega te horen kreeg dat de regering haar beleid had gewijzigd: vanaf nu kon men maximaal drie maanden krijgen. Vervolgens heeft men met typex de zes uitgewist, en daar met balpen een drie overheen geschreven. Omdat ik daarna aangaf geen behoefte meer te hebben aan multiple entries - het scheelde in de kosten, ziet u - is die tekst doorgestreept, en is er in krulletters 'single entry' ondergeschreven. Het resultaat is een van de minst professioneel ogende visa die ik ooit heb gezien, maar o zo idiosyncratisch. En als ik terugdenk aan die tijd, kan ik een zeker gevoel van nostalgie niet onderdrukken. Ik zie ons nog zitten, daar in Den Haag, wachtend op het visum. Het was een kille augustusmaand, en het miezerde; maar we genoten van het broodje haring dat we bij het stalletje gekocht hadden. Het was de eerste keer dat ze met me in Nederland was.

Pagina 13 en 14 hebben ieder drie Vietnamesische en Maleisische stempels. Ik hoor u denken: waarom heeft die jongen zoveel stempels van Maleisië? Dat is simpel: ik ben er twee keer een paar dagen geweest. En daarnaast ben ik er drie keer overgestapt, waarbij ik telkens het land in en uit moest. U begrijpt: voor Maleisië hebben Nederlanders geen visum nodig. Pagina 15 heeft mijn vierde Vietnamese visum, gekregen in Vietnam zelf, eind 2009. Het was de opvolger van het visum dat ik in Den Haag had gekregen, en ook dit exemplaar was slechts drie maanden geldig. Het was niet eenvoudig om een verlenging te krijgen zonder het land te verlaten, en ik heb er flink voor moeten betalen.

Het schrijven van dit verhaal duurt lang. Veel langer dan ik had verwacht. Dat komt doordat ik steeds word afgeleid door mijn herinneringen. Ik herlees sommige van de reisverhalen die ik drie jaar geleden heb geschreven: beschouwingen over God, over Oost-West essentialisme, over oplichterij, over mijn familiegeschiedenis, over utopisch geweld, over optimisme, over vooroordelen, over immigratiepolitiek en over verhoudingen binnen het moderne Azië. En ik realiseer me hoe gelukkig ik ben met wat ik de afgelopen jaren mee heb mogen maken. Mijn leven is af en toe een achtbaan geweest, maar ik had al deze ervaringen voor geen goud willen missen.

Pagina 16 heeft mijn tweede Indonesische visum. Dit visum ziet er heel anders uit dan het vorige: het is lichtblauw, met een beetje geel en groen; de grote Garuda heeft plaatsgemaakt voor hippe kleurtjes. Op de achtergrond staat meerdere keren het woord 'visa' geschreven - dat is ten minste duidelijk. Kennelijk heeft de Indonesische overheid dit nieuwe visum in de loop van 2009 of '10 ingevoerd. Deze heb ik gekregen op het vliegveld van Makassar, in Sulawesi. Wij waren daar samen met mijn familie, die was overgekomen voor onze bruiloft, in april 2010. We bezochten Tana Toraja, het gebied waar mijn moeder geboren is. Het was een mooie reis.

Op pagina 17 en 18 stonden verscheidene Indonesische, Maleisische, Singaporese en Vietnamese stempels. Maar er is weinig meer van over dan wat groene en rode inktvlekken. Toen ik vorig jaar in Tokyo was voor veldwerkonderzoek, ben ik een dag in de stromende regen meegegaan met een groep studenten, het bos van een beroemd heiligdom in. Samen met hen heb ik het heiligdom bezocht, het bos bestudeerd, en eikels verzameld om bomen te kunnen planten. Ik had weliswaar een paraplu bij me, maar dat was niet opgewassen tegen de hoosbui die wij op ons dak kregen. Mijn paspoort zat in het voorvakje van mijn rugtas, en raakte kletsnat. Vreemd genoeg is alleen de inkt op deze twee pagina's doorgelopen.

Pagina 19 is me lief. Dit is mijn allereerste Vietnamese visum. Ik kreeg het bij het Vietnamese consulaat in Sihanoukville, een badplaats in het zuidoosten van Cambodja. Ik weet nog dat ik het aanvraagformulier zat in te vullen, en twijfelde wat ik zou aanvinken: twee weken of een maand. Een visum voor twee weken was goedkoper, maar met een visum van een maand zou ik meer speling hebben. Ik koos uiteindelijk voor het tweede... Op dat moment had ik nog geen idee van wat me allemaal te wachten stond. En ik had al helemaal niet verwacht dat ik een maand later een stempel zou krijgen die aangaf dat mijn recht op verblijf met zes maanden verlengd was (pagina 20), en een fraai 'business'visum dat dat bevestigde (pagina 21). Dit was mijn eerste half jaar in Vietnam. Ik woonde in Hoi An, en werkte in Danang. Het was een van de mooiste en spannendste periodes uit mijn leven.

Op pagina 22 staat mijn Cambodjaanse visum. Het is groen met wit, en op de achtergrond is Angkor Wat te zien. Ik kreeg het voor 20 dollar op het vliegveld van Siem Reap, waar ik aankwam na voor het eerst in Indonesië geweest te zijn, via Kuala Lumpur. Op pagina 23 staan twee Japanse zegels, en bijhorende exit stamps. De zegels zijn voorzien van die rare blokjescodes die je tegenwoordig overal ziet, en die je naar het schijnt kunt scannen met een smartphone - ik weet er het fijne niet van. Het eerste kreeg ik in februari 2011. Ik was toen een maand in Japan voor een workshop en een aantal interviews. Ik vertrok een paar dagen eerder dan gepland, en vanaf een ander vliegveld, omdat het land op dat moment getroffen was door een tsunami en nucleaire ramp. Het tweede kreeg ik in het najaar, toen ik drie maanden in Japan was voor veldwerk. Dit zijn dus mijn PhD-stempels.

Het schiet al aardig op. Op pagina 24 staan een paar Vietnamese stempels. Ze horen bij het visum op pagina 25: het zesde, dat ik kreeg in mei 2005. Ik had op dat moment eindelijk alle benodigde documenten bij elkaar die nodig waren om een werkvergunning aan te vragen - het aanvragen van een Vietnamese verklaring van gedrag alleen al nam maanden in beslag - maar omdat ik op dat moment net te horen had gekregen dat ik een aanstelling in Oslo kreeg, was er geen reden meer om door te gaan met die aanvraag. Ik moest dus nog eenmaal een visum voor drie maanden aanschaffen.

Pagina 26 is ook fraai. Het bevat mijn enige Chinese visum. Voordat we naar Europa verhuisden, wilden we heel graag nog een paar weken naar China en Laos, waar we allebei nog nooit waren geweest. We zegden onze banen op per 1 juli, zodat we nog een maand de tijd zouden hebben om te reizen. Nu kunnen buitenlanders doorgaans niet zelf Chinese visa aanvragen bij ambassades in Azië, maar het toeval wilde dat ik in de periode voorafgaand aan de reis Engelse les gaf aan een groep mensen die werkte voor een hotel annex reisbureau. Voor een vriendenprijsje zorgden ze ervoor dat mijn paspoort naar het consulaat in Ho Chi Minhstad (dat in het Chinees als 胡志明市 wordt geschreven, zo leert het visum mij) werd gestuurd, waar men kennelijk wat flexibeler was dan op de ambassade te Hanoi, en daar bij de juiste persoon terechtkwam. Het visum is niet bijzonder kleurrijk, maar heeft wel een boeiende achtergrondtekening. Op de linkerkant staat een soort poort, met daaromheen meerdere cirkels. Rechts staat de Chinese muur, met daarboven het symbool van de Partij - omringd door lichtstralen, als ware het de zon. Een zekere megalomanie kan de Chinese overheid niet ontzegd worden.

Op pagina 27 staan de beide stempels die horen bij ons verblijf in China, alsmede twee Laotiaanse stempels. Het verhaal van de Chinese grensovergang heb ik al eens eerder verteld. Op pagina 28 staat nog een derde Chinese stempel, vanwege een transit. Ik kreeg het toen ik overstapte in Beijing, vorig jaar december, en route van Osaka naar Oslo. Over die vliegreis heb ik niet zoveel te vertellen, behalve dit: Beijing heeft een fraai nieuw vliegveld, maar Air China is een van de slechtste maatschappijen waarmee ik ooit gevolgen heb. De staf is onbeschoft, het eten belabberd en het vliegtuig oud. Vermijden dus, voortaan.

Pagina 29 is leeg. Leeg! De eerste lege pagina in het paspoort, nu pas! Dat heb ik toch aardig gedaan, al zeg ik het zelf. Met dank aan de Vietnamese overheid.

Op pagina 30 staat mijn laatste Vietnamese visum. Ik kreeg het vorig jaar, bij aankomst op het vliegveld van Saigon, na het eerst online besteld te hebben. Een maand geldig slechts, maar dit keer was dat voldoende, want we bleven maar een week of twee. Toen gingen we weer terug naar de Noorse kou. Op pagina 31 staan de bijbehorende stempels.

Pagina 32 is de laatste pagina voor visa en stempels. Ook deze pagina is leeg gebleven.

Pagina 33 en 34 zijn volstrekte flauwekul. Hier staan in piepkleine lettertjes de vertalingen van de woorden op pagina 2 ('naam', 'nationaliteit' enzovoorts) in alle landstalen van de EU. Kijkt u maar eens, in uw paspoort staat het ook. Als u wilt weten wat het Letse woord voor 'geboorteplaats' is, moet u hier kijken.

En dan zijn we bij de kaft aangekomen. 'Het eigenmachtig aanbrengen van wijzigingen of aanvullingen maakt het paspoort ongeldig', staat er. Ik neem aan dat wijzigingen als gevolg van een flinke regenbui daarbuiten vallen, alsmede wijzigingen met balpen, aangebracht op visa door onkundig ambassadepersoneel. Daarboven staat in drie talen dat dit paspoort eigendom is van het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden. Ik dacht het niet. Dit paspoort behoort toe aan niemand, behalve aan mij. Dit zijn mijn verhalen, waar het Rijk niets mee te maken heeft.

Hoe dan ook: ik kan niet wachten om weer op reis te gaan.

La dolce vita

We have spent a lot of time at airports and on airplanes, these past couple of years. As a transnational couple living in a third country, we have to get on a plane whenever we want to visit our families. We also have to take the plane for work (research and conferences) and holidays, as travelling overland from Norway to other European countries is generally much more expensive and time-consuming than flying. As a result, travelling by plane has long lost its appeal, as have airports. I prefer travelling by train, not only for environmental reasons, but also because I find it much less stressful. But alas, there are no fast trains connecting our current home city with other cities, so if we want to travel abroad we have little choice but to fly.

We could of course spend more time travelling in Norway. It is a beautiful country, after all, and we still have not seen much of it. But for all the good things of Norway, there are some important things we miss there: fresh and tasty vegetables, affordable restaurants and bars, hot and sunny weather, and, of course, our friends living in other countries. Hence, we do want to travel abroad every now and then.

In contrast to most other airports, the coffee at Florence International Airport tastes good and is fairly cheap. I enjoy a last cup of cappuccino. The café is noisy and crowded, but we have a great view of the planes, landing and departing against the background of the Tuscan mountains. We have just spent a wonderful autumn holiday in Italy, and are now waiting for our plane back to Oslo. After ten days of soft sunlight, fresh pasta, rolling hills with vineyards, impressive renaissance art and delicious gelato, our batteries are charged, and we are ready for Norway’s dark season.

Our trip started in Rome, where we attended a friends’ wedding. We had been to Rome before, and have many good memories of the place. It was good to come back. The wedding was great – the mass took place in a lovely little church in Ostia Antica, followed by a dinner party somewhere in the countryside – and we were happy to see our old friends. We also spent a relaxed day in Rome, visiting the Colosseum and strolling around the Palatine (where I got a spontaneous eureka-moment, and decided to change the structure of my dissertation), and enjoying some nice food.

After three nights in Rome, we took the train to Tuscany. We had rented an apartment near the town of Empoli, halfway between Pisa and Florence, at a place called Villa Somelli. The apartment was basic, but fine, and wonderfully quiet (it was low season, after all). The surrounding landscape was magnificent: rolling hills with vineyards, olive trees, patches of woodland and blue skies. It was sunny most of the time, and around twenty degrees, so we could still enjoy the outside swimming pool. Here we spent a long week with my family, to celebrate my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary.

Boarding time. In addition to my backpack, I carry two transparent plastic bags, each filled with three bottles of wine. I get many strange looks. "If you need help with that, just let me know," a Canadian tourist jokes. I try to explain that I am not allowed to open the sealed bags because of security reasons, but he does not seem to understand what I am saying. Thinking that he has found a fellow alcohol-lover, he starts talking about the great port wine he had the other night. I try to explain the reality of life in Norway: how we can’t buy wine in the supermarket, as only state-owned liquor stores are allowed to sell it; how these stores are closed on evenings, on Saturday afternoons, Sundays and Saturdays preceding religious holidays; how the cheapest bottle there costs about twelve euros. He looks at me pityingly, then tells me that, in his country, one can buy delicious local wine for less than five dollars a bottle. Canadian wine…?

He is not the only one interested in my bottles, though. When we get off the airplane in Frankfurt, the stewardesses look at my bottles eagerly. "Was hast du heute Abend vor...?" one of them asks me, somewhat inappropriately. Apparently, for some people the mere suggestion of alcoholic overconsumption is enough to forget decorum. I cannot help smiling. Importing a few bottles of chianti turns out to be quite an ordeal.

We could have easily spent a week at the swimming pool and in the kitchen, enjoying the landscape, autumn sun and fresh food, not really doing anything. But this was the first time we were in Tuscany, and we had rented cars, so we made a lot of day trips. We spent two days in crowded Florence, where we visited the Galleria Uffizi, walked in the historical city centre and the not-so-touristy-yet-very-pretty neighbourhoods south of the river, and bought nice clothes. We went to the lovely walled town of Lucca, where we climbed a tower and visited an excavation site. We also went to the mysterious hilltop town of Volterra, the strange medieval skycrapers of San Gimignano, and of course the tower of Pisa. We had a delicious dinner in Greve in Chianti, and explored beautiful Sienna, with its extraordinarily richly decorated cathedral. And we ate lots of ice cream.

When we arrive in Oslo, it is already dark. It is about twenty degrees colder than Tuscany. Before long, the year’s first snow will fall, and we will struggle to stay awake during long, dark afternoons. The contrast is striking. But then, the grass is always greener on the other side. And we only have to endure the darkness for about two months – in January, we will take an extended ‘working holiday’, spend a couple of months in a faraway country, and continue writing our dissertation (respectively thesis) there. Thus, for the time being, we will keep on travelling, moving from place to place, and dividing our time between different countries. More planes, more airports, and more passport stamps. But I am not complaining. I am grateful I can travel, and get to know many different places. I am glad I am one of those people with multiple homes.

Rotsblog walking GR 5 (5): The last story

Sadly, now that several months have passed, I have to admit that my plan to keep a serious walking blog about our last GR5 trip, combining route descriptions with accommodation reviews and philosophical reflections, was too ambitious. I did write stories about the first, second and third day, but then I got busy writing other things (a conference paper on notions of ‘sacred space’ in Japanese academic discourse, a book chapter on Shinto responses to last year’s natural disasters, and of course my dissertation), so I did not have time to write more walking stories – or any blog post, for that matter. As the trip is about four months ago, I do not remember details of the path, landscape or accommodation well anymore, so I have decided not to continue this series. Tant pis; I will try again next time. For now, there is one last, not yet posted route description and hostel review I would like to share (see below). It has been in my drafts folder for months, waiting for me to finish and post it. It is a description of our fourth day in the Jura, and a sequel to the story of day three. 

As for the subsequent days, let me summarise them by saying that:

a) Geneva is one of the worst cities I have ever been to, filled with rude people, top-notch scams and commodity fetishism, living testimony to the lingering validity of Marx’ observations regarding power and capital;

b) The UN are not part of the solution to the world’s problems (inequality, exploitation, environmental destruction, violence), but part of the problem, as they reify and legitimise the very power structures that (co)produce those problems;

c) The area of the French Alps immediately south of Lac Léman is stunningly beautiful, offering magnificent mountain landscapes, and is one of the most fantastic (if challenging) walking destinations I have ever been to – highly recommended, but not for the unexperienced (in any case, bring a walking stick);

d) Meeting wild ibexes on top of a mountain is a pretty cool experience;

e) Many mountain refuges do not open until the end of June or beginning of July, so if you go walking in June (as we did) call ahead to check whether they are open or not (booking accommodation ahead is generally a good idea, as some places only have a few beds – but don’t leave your credit card details, as injuries or bad weather may cause delays);

f) My dad and I have now walked all the way from Pieterburen to Samoëns, and are gradually getting closer to the Mediterranean Sea;
 

View Larger Map
 
g) If you fly back from Geneva airport, do not stay in one of those ridiculously overpriced Genevan hotels, but in a cheap hotel in the neighbouring French city of Annemasse, from where you can go to the airport in an hour and a half or so by taking a bus, tram and trolleybus.

Well then, apropos day 4:


Day 4: Chapelle-des-Bois - Le Bief de la Chaille 

June 17, 2012
24 km  

Fortunately, the fever does not stay very long. On the next day, I feel much better, and we can continue our journey. My carefully designed walking schedule needs to be revised, but so be it - if your body gives you clear orders to take a day off, you have no choice but to obey.  Sadly, though, the delay will have some other unpleasant consequences; the hostel in Geneva that replied to my email by saying I could cancel will later change its mind, and end up charging my credit card for a night we are not spending there. But today, as I have only seen their first email ("so kind of them," I thought naively, not knowing that one day later I will be yelled at and lied to) we are not aware of this yet - had we been, we could have walked to the French-Swiss border and taken a train in the evening. Anyway, we continue our walk, happily and healthily. Today is our last day in the French Jura; we are rapidly approaching Lac Léman, the lake that divides the GR5 into a northern and a southern half. One more day in French forests, before we cross the lake and face our next challenge: the Alps.
 
Chapelle-des-Bois is located next to a high rocky plateau that rises up from behind the village. We choose not to climb the plateau immediately, but continue south for a while, through the village and a lovely green valley. We pass several gîtes and chambres d’hôtes – apparently, this is a popular tourist destination, but as French summer holidays have not started yet it is still fairly quiet. Eventually, we do have to climb the plateau. After a short but steep climb, we enjoy a beautiful view of the valley below. This is the Roche Bernard (1290 metres).
 
The rest of the day, we walk through forest. Dense, mixed forest. It is getting hot, so we are happy to get a bit of shade. The roads are wide; in the winter, they double as cross country tracks. We have lunch – no dry bread, the leftovers from yesterday’s dinner, yummy – near a cottage in the forest. In winter, it provides shelter for skiers, but today it is closed. We play quiz games, chat, and try to ignore the pain in our feet. Then we descend to the border town of Les Rousses. It is an ugly place, that seems to attract the wrong kind of tourists; after an overpriced glass of ice tea, we are happy to leave the place. We pass an old fortress with blatantly nationalistic information panels, then walk for a couple of kilometres on a quiet country road. Finally, we arrive at the youth hostel of Le Bief de la Chaille, peacefully located in between a forest and rolling grassy hills. The border is around the corner, yet nowhere to be seen.
 

Bief de la Chaille youth hostel

Auberge de jeunesse de Bief de la Chaille
*** (3/5)
€25,- p.p., including breakfast 

Fairly basic youth hostel, on a quiet an beautiful location. There are drinks for sale (if you book ahead, they may provide dinner as well, but as we did not do this I am not sure). There is a small kitchen for guests, which is very convenient. The bunk beds and showers are basic but OK (bring your own sleeping bag). Lots of stairs – the room for shoes and skis is inconveniently located two floors below the bedrooms – which can be a bit of a pain after a long day of walking. Nice garden. The breakfast was basic, the bread not very fresh. Not particularly good value, but the place earns extra points for its sustainability: recycling is strongly encouraged, and lights switch off automatically.

Rotsblog walking GR5 (4): Sunny French Siberia

Day 3: Mouthe - Chapelle-des-Bois

June 15, 2012

21 km

Few villages in France are as beautifully located as Mouthe. It lies in the middle of a small green river valley, surrounded by forests, happily isolated from the outside world. This area is called "la petite Sibérie" - apparently because it gets very cold and snowy in winter. Today, however, the weather is absolutely fantastic - warm and sunny, with a gentle breeze.

Mouthe

The walk through the valley is pleasant. After a while, we enter a forest, and follow shady forest paths for a while. Then we leave the forest, and walk through an empty valley. On our left, the forest continues; on our right, there are rolling grass fields. Flowers are in bloom everywhere. Cows are drinking from a nearby stream, their bells tinkling quietly. After two hours or so, we reach the village of Chaux-Neuve.

Between Mouthe and Chaux-Neuve

We are eagerly looking forward to a cup of coffee with cake, but we are not very lucky. Chaux-Neuve does have a gîte-café-restaurant, but it is closed during lunch time; so is the bar-tabac. The only hotel is in the process of being rebuilt - who knows, it may never reopen. Fortunately, though, there is a fromagerie selling local cheese, yoghurt and drinks. We sit on the bench next to it, surrounded by beautiful flowers, and enjoy an early lunch with some delicious locally produced food.

As we are sitting there, an old lady approaches us, and starts mumbling about "putting papers on the grass". I am not quite sure what she is getting at. "Vous êtes Italiens?" she asks disapprovingly. "Parlez pas la langue?" The last time I was told I do not speak French was fifteen years ago, and I am not amused. "Nous sommes Hollandais," I answer. "Est-ce que nous pouvons nous asseoir ici?" "Yes, yes, but I take care of these flowers, so don't put papers on the grass." I finally understand what she means, and I assure her that we will not litter. She nods, walks back to her house, and sits down behind the window to continue spying on us. Too bad she did not notice the fact that one of her neighbours' dogs had used her flowerbed as a toilet.

We continue our walk through the beautifully hybrid Jura landscapes. Fields become forest, forests become fields; nature and culture are intertwined and inseparable. We see several old farms. After a while, the forest gets more dense. We have to climb, but not as much as yesterday. There are no other walkers to be seen. Every ten minutes, a black SUV with a huge dog behind the steering wheel passes by. We wonder what he is doing here, driving around the forest; we also wonder where his human went. Admittedly, for a dog he drives quite well, albeit a bit too fast. We stop at a clearing in the forest, called "Chez l'Officier", and have our second lunch.

The last kilometres go through dense forest. The paths we use double as ski tracks in winter - this is one of France's most popular cross-country skiing destinations. Today, however, it is hot, and we are getting tired. When we arrive in Chapelle-des-Bois - a small village with a pretty church, surrounded by cross-country tracks, located near a high plateau - it is 5 pm. Time for a bath, and a nice dinner.

Review: La Maison du Montagnon, Chapelle-des-Bois

€28,- per night per person in a triple room, including breakfast.

***** (5/5)

Excellent accommodation, ideally located for walking trips (in summer) and cross-country skiing (in winter). The triple rooms are a bit small, but the beds are comfortable and the sheets clean. There is a restaurant where you can have a 3-course dinner for €16,- (with fresh herbs from the garden), as well as kitchen facilities and a dining room (with outside terrace) so you can make your own food. The sauna and steam bath are very nice after a long day of walking. The staff are friendly - when we had to use the internet because of personal circumstances, they kindly allowed us to use their own computer. Nice breakfast buffet. If you are on a long-distance walking trip, this place is ideal for a rest day.

La Maison du Montagnon, Chapelle-des-Bois

The walking body

I.

 Unexpectedly, I got sick. When I woke up in the early morning, I had a fever and a headache. I tried to get out of bed, but I was so dizzy I could hardly walk. I felt hot and was sweaty, yet my body was shivering. It was clear that my body did not want me to continue walking. I had to take a rest, so we had to stay in Chapelle-des-Bois for at least another day.

Why did this happen? I had been walking quite well, the first three days. We had not started too ambitiously - the distances we had walked were average, certainly not too long. My backpack was not very light, but as I did not carry a tent or camping mattress, it was not too heavy either. On the night before, I had not felt bad at all. I had used the sauna and steam bath, which was very nice. Afterwards, we had enjoyed a big dinner with good wine, at a quiet place with a great view. Actually, I had not felt so relaxed in a long time.

It must have been the unusual combination of physical exercise (60 kilometres of walking in three days, with backpack) and relaxation (sauna, steam bath, food and wine) that triggered it. Usually, you do not get sick when you are in the middle of a busy period: you get sick when you have finished your job, leave the busy time behind, and take it easy for a while. Something like that must have happened. Frankly, writing a PhD dissertation is not exactly the same as your ordinary office job - it is quite a responsibility, and a lonely process, for in the end you have to do it all by yourself. The obligation to finish within three years also causes a significant amount of stress, and leaves little time for any peripheral research or writing activities. In addition, living in a foreign country with a strange climate can be demanding at times, emotionally as well as physically. Do not get me wrong: I love my job, I would not want to do anything else, and I am very happy with the facilities and supervision I get here. But perhaps I should not be too surprised if my body occasionally tells me to take a break.

II.

You may not have noticed it, but when I write sentences like "my body did not want me to continue walking" and "my body occasionally tells me to take a break" (as I did in the previous paragraphs), I am making an artificial distinction between "me" - the individual subject - and "my body" - an object, used by "me" yet an ontologically separate entity. Thus, I differentiate between an abstract, imagined self, and the physical aspect of the self. As I imagine my body to be some sort of external agent, I alienate myself from it. My thinking is based on the notion "I have a body" rather than "I am a body". Why am I doing this?

In fact, when writing this kind of sentences, I am standing in a long tradition of thought, going back to ancient Greece. Plato, for instance, famously distinguished between the physical world and the world of ideas. The former, he argued, was a mere shadow of the latter; thus, the world of physical matter, bodies, food and mud was inferior to the world of the mind, the spirit, the good and the beautiful. According to Plato, it was the duty of the philosopher to escape from the material world, and discover the perfect world of ideas supposedly underlying it. In effect, he denied the actual world, while constructing an imaginary perfect world. This dualistic, escapist worldview was embraced by western Christianity, which conceptualised the physical world as sinful and evil, and the imaginary spiritual world as good and desirable. Christian theology denied people their physicality, and continues to do so today (as exemplified by the Catholic church's celibacy myth).

This existential mind-body dualism (including the implicit understanding that the former is superior to the latter) is reproduced in modern philosophy, science, and medical practices. Descartes' famous statement "I think, therefore I am" is illustrative as much as it is foundational. Why define existence on the base of thought? What about "I eat, therefore I am", "I walk, therefore I am", or, pardon my French, "I fuck, therefore I am"? Human beings are eating, walking and fucking subject, as much as they are thinking subjects - perhaps more so. Yet, classical positivist science is founded on the assumption that mind and body are ontologically opposite entities, just like object and subject are. They may be interrelated, but they constitute a dichotomy, rather than a unity.

It took 'Western Man' a lot of time to realise that he does not have a body, but that he is a body. Nietzsche was the first prominent philosopher who severely criticised the mind-body dualism, and the denial of the physical body, defining the history of European thought - but Nietzsche was ahead of his time in many respects. Later, in the twentieth century, the French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty developed the notion of embodiment, and made the important observation that

one's own body (le corps propre) is not only a thing, a potential object of study for science, but is also a permanent condition of experience, a constituent of the perceptual openness to the world. He therefore underlines the fact that there is an inherence of consciousness and of the body of which the analysis of perception should take account. The primacy of perception signifies a primacy of experience, so to speak, insofar as perception becomes an active and constitutive dimension. (From Wikipedia)

In other words: every experience is bodily (and, as a result, situated and partial rather than objective). Not until recently did this important epistemological insight gain widespread acceptance in the social sciences and humanities. Finally, in recent years, the mind-body dichotomy has been challenged by a number of interesting studies in a variety of disciplines, to the point that it may be appropriate to speak of a paradigm shift. Nevertheless, in common parlance as well as in society, the dichotomy continues to influence ways in which we structure the world. Few people question the distinction between 'mental' illnesses and 'physical' ones, for instance, and we continue to perceive ourselves as souls/minds/spirits inhabiting a body - rather than, simply, as bodies that feel and think. In the end, each and every one of us is a body that eats, walks and fucks as much as it thinks, talks and writes; we are singular and unified, now matter how much we like to alienate ourselves from ourselves. 

III.
If you write a PhD dissertation in a field like mine, you basically spend your working time doing three things: reading, writing, and procrastinating. When you are constantly sitting behind your computer or reading books, it is easy to forget that you are a body; easy to conceive of yourself as merely the product of your thoughts. Not until you get pain in your neck or shoulders do you remember that those thoughts actually take shape in a living body. The body is easily forgotten, easily ignored; your world easily reduced to abstract ideas, where there is little or no place for physical matters (not until they start distracting you from your thoughts, at least).

That is one of the reasons it is good to go on a walking trip. You may get lost in your thoughts sometimes, but you are often reminded of the fact that you are a body, sometimes forcefully. After several hours of walking, it is hard to ignore the soles of your feet, or the blisters on your toes. Your shoulders hurt from your backpack, the muscles in your legs hurt from the climbing and descending. You may catch a cold and get sick. But after several days of walking, you feel yourself getting stronger. Your legs get more powerful, and every day you climb a bit faster. Fat gives way to muscles. Your skin gets tan, you grow a beard (if you are a man), you get more handsome. You eat a lot, you enjoy it, but you do not gain weight as you burn the calories afterwards. You sleep better, and get new energy. You are a body, and you have rediscovered it.

But try not to forget it when you are back home.

A strong walker

Rotsblog walking GR5 (3): Jura landscapes

Day 2: Métabief - Mouthe

June 14, 2012

22 km

Métabief is a well-known skiing destination. There is a number of ski lifts and pistes in the immediate vicinity. In the village itself, there are several shops selling sports gear. There is only one small grocery store, though, inconveniently located on the wrong side of the village, away from our trail. But we do have to go there, as we need to get some food and drinks. By the time we finally leave the village it is already getting late. It is a warm and sunny day, completely unlike yesterday.

Métabief

We start the day with a long and serious climb: the first mountain of the week, Le Morond (1420 m). The first part of the climb goes through forest. Later, we pass half-open grassland. In winter, this mountain is popular among downhill skiers; in summer, it is used by hikers and mountainbikers. It takes about one hour to walk from Métabief to the summit of Le Morond, and the last part of the climb is very steep. When we arrive, we are surrounded by beautiful views; green mountains and valleys, as far as we can see. In the south, snow-covered Alps are floating in the air.

Climbing Le Morond

We continue our walk along a high mountain edge, towards Le Mont d'Or, the gold mountain. The views are absolutely stunning, and we enjoy our walk to the fullest. We are not the only ones walking here - during the summer holidays, this place probably gets very crowded, but fortunately we are early this year. Our trail does not lead us to the summit of Le Mont d'Or; in stead, we turn right, away from the popular mountain edge. The landscape changes. We now walk through hilly grass fields, surrounded by woodland, populated by big cows wearing bells around their necks. Every now and then, we pass a dilapidated old farm building. There is no human being to be seen.

Le Mont d'Or

We get a cup of coffee at the Chalet la Boissaude, a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, then enjoy a late lunch out in the field. Next, we continue our path through the rolling semi-rural, semi-wild landscapes. The grass fields give way to forest, which give way to fields, which give way to forest, and so on. The fields are filled with colourful flowers. The road is uneven, long, and has many holes, caused by the cows walking around here. Our feet hurt, and we play quiz games to get a bit of distraction. Fortunately, the last kilometres go through more dense forest, on easier terrain. At the end of the afternoon, we descend to the source of the river Doubs, and walk into a lovely green valley. We follow the river to the charming village of Mouthe, where we are going to spend the night.

The river Doubs, near Mouthe

Review: Chambres d'hôtes La Chaumière, Mouthe

€25,- per night per person (including breakfast; dormitory-style, no sheets or towels).

** (2/5)

Once upon a time (i.e., ten years ago), many French villages had a so-called gîte d'étape, where walkers and cyclists could spend the night in a bunk bed for around 8 euros per person, and use the kitchen. Today, many of these places have disappeared, while others have been transformed into hostel-type group accommodation, or bed & breakfasts. Mouthe still has a gîte d'étape, but we cannot stay there, as the entire place has been rented by a school class - an annoying practice, that happens all-too-often these days. So we stay in a bed & breakfast, called La Chaumière, that offers a 'special deal' for walkers - a bed in a small dormitory room (four beds), where you are supposed to use your own sleeping bag and towel. However, at €25,- per person, this can hardly be called economical. The room looks pretty, and the shower is hot. Unfortunately, though, the mattresses are old and uncomfortable - for that money, one would at least expect a decent mattress. Breakfast is included in the price - it is basic but OK, except for a disgusting frozen kiwi. In addition, it is quite odd, to say the least, that check-out time is as early as 9am - something we were not informed about when we made the reservation.

Nature-culture landscapes

One of the fundamental myths of modernity is that there is a thing called 'nature' - a category encompassing most non-human animal species, plants and trees, as well as landscapes that do not show obvious signs of human involvement - which is diametrically opposed to things called 'society' and 'culture'. The former is seen as the origin of life, not influenced by human action but preceding it, as 'pure' and 'wild'. The latter is seen as shaped by human action, and antithetical to the former. Forests are generally perceived as 'nature', as they are composed of trees and plants; even though they may have been planted, and even though they may have taken shape in interaction with human farming and foraging practices. Buildings are generally perceived as culture, as they were built by human beings; even though the materials with which they were built were taken from the soil or the forest, and even though they are inhabited by a variety of organisms interacting with each other (humans, dogs, cats, plants, germs, mice, cockroaches and so on).

The distinction between nature and culture has significant consequences for our perception of reality, and for the ways in which we imagine and shape societies and landscapes. It is reproduced by academia (the institutions that produce, sanction and discredit truth narratives in modern society), where the study of 'nature' is carefully separated - by means of institutional, linguistic and subcultural boundaries - from the study of 'culture' (including literature, religion, politics and so on). It is also reflected in landscape production. Planners, policy-makers and politicians have divided space into areas used for 'human population' (culture), industry (culture), agriculture (culture), and 'nature'. Following nineteenth-century American conservationist ideology, 'pure' nature is perceived (by planners and environmentalists alike) as being 'wild' and 'untouched' by human hands. Hence the forced displacement of native communities after the construction of 'national parks', for example in Africa (and the subsequent forestation of savanna landscapes, when there is no more cattle to eat small trees). And hence the lack of interest in rural, agricultural landscapes on the part of most environmentalists, despite their ecological significance.

Recently, the paradigmatic nature-culture dichotomy has been questioned by a number of scholars. They have challenged structures for academic knowledge production, landscape divisions based on a strict nature-culture dichotomy, as well as the anthropocentric bias in the humanities and social sciences. In stead, they have drawn attention to ways in which human societies interact with and are shaped by a variety of non-human (animal, material, microbial) actors. On the other hand, they have also pointed out that many supposedly 'natural' landscapes are 'cultured', have histories, and are co-produced by human actors. Well-known scholars who have contributed to this paradigm shift include Donna Haraway, Tim Ingold, Bruno Latour and Anna Tsing. Their work is intriguing, as it challenges well-established categories. I am currently in the process of reading Anna Tsing's masterpiece Friction, based on ethnographic research in Borneo, in which she looks at the interplay between globalisation, deforestation, environmentalism and spatial practices. Highly recommended.

One of the things I like about walking is that it always makes me realise that landscapes do not obey maps. On the map, space is clearly divided: human settlement is red, roads are yellow, industry is grey, agriculture is light-green, forest is dark-green, water is blue. In reality, though, the boundaries between fields and forests are fluid, as are the boundaries between human settlements and surrounding 'nature'. Cows leave their 'agricultural' land, and walk in the forest, where they change the ecosystem by eating certain plants. Fields are forgotten, give way to trees, and become forest. Other forests shrink, as villages grow and push them away. Meanwhile, however, some houses are abandoned by human beings, and claimed by bats and birds. 'Natural' forests are used by people, who come to log and replace certain tree species by others. Fields used for agriculture, on the other hand, house a variety of species not controlled by human actors; they are inhabited by flowers, insects and 'weeds', who do not care about spatial divisions. In Europe, there are hardly any 'untouched', primeval natural landscapes. Every landscape is historically and culturally shaped, as much as it is shaped by environmental factors. Meanwhile, 'cultural' landscapes - not only those used for agriculture, but also cities - are full of non-human actors that exercise influence on places and their historical development.

When you walk in the Jura, you realise that there is no such thing as a distinction between 'natural' and 'cultural' landscapes. It is not even easy to divide between forest and field, let alone between nature and culture. Nature and culture are intertwined, and take shape in continuous interaction. The landscape has a social history, as much as it is part of a natural environment.