All the way to Norway

Say Norway, and I would — almost always — picture a woman in a bunad . The traditional flared skirt, with a balloon-sleeved blouse and a long white apron, was to me an image of the country’s richly layered history. Now say Norway, and I think of the fjords, deep and majestic.

I never thought I would one day visit Norway to see its fjords. Yet, there I was, on a flight to Oslo, its capital, from India. Travelling 2,500 km north of the equator, I crossed the Arctic Circle to the western coastal town of Bergen, the gateway to the fjords.

Fjords (pronounced ‘fiords’) are deep inlets lined by rock formations rising from the seabed, formed over millions of years through successive glacial cycles. For a visual perspective, think of them as the national highways of the seafaring traders or the warrior Vikings sailing in with their conquests on dragon-headed warships. The waterways in Venice in Italy and in Alappuzha in Kerala are similar, yet dimensionally different. The fjords in certain regions rise as high as 2,407m. In winter, they are shrouded in snow, white towering sentinels flanking the entire route.

At the Oslo Central Station, I boarded the NSB train to Bergen. Known as the city of seven mountains, it was Norway’s capital in the 13th century. I set out on a seven-hour, 500-km cross-country visual treat. I passed by silver birches, spruce and pine, lakes, and large tracts of farmland marked by bales of hay. At Finse, the highest station at 1,222m above sea level, snow-capped mountains loomed ahead.

The train swished to a stop in Bergen at 10.25pm, and there was still light enough to trudge to the pre-booked budget hotel a few blocks away. A light drizzle accompanied me to the doorstep of a pub. The bartender, mixing cocktails, guided me to a door inside the building. I entered, expecting a welcoming smile at the front desk. Instead, I was greeted by rows of inanimate black electronic devices. Panicking, I reached for my phone to access the email confirming my hotel booking. Right on cue, a message arrived with a number code to punch into the device that had my room number on it. I did so and the device opened, revealing a perforated key card inside. This was my visa into the seemingly unmanned hotel, with no staff in sight. Up I went in a lift and found my room at the end of a corridor.

The next day I was up and ready for the cruise from Bergen to Mostraumen (the narrowest point where the boats can go through) on a catamaran called the Rygertroll. How typically, mythically Nordic, with their penchant for the three-headed trolls that are said to hang around the water. The interiors of the boat reminded me of a restaurant, with seats arranged around tables, affording every tourist a view of the scenery that was soon to unfold. A large sundeck promised a close encounter with the fjords.

Seen from the vantage point of the catamaran, the beauty of Bryggen’s landscape was a treat to the eye. Bryggen figures on Unesco’s World Heritage List. The area was ravaged by a fire in 1702, and the buildings were rebuilt on the old foundations and stand as fine examples of urban lifestyle in the Middle Ages.

As the boat sailed through the waterway, we went past warehouses built in white, brick and brown, on the waterfront, by the Hanseatic League (a traders’ association in the medieval ages). Mansions and hamlets peeped out through the vegetation. However, habitation began to thin as we moved on. I couldn’t help imagining a time when women in their bunad tended to their homes, while the men farmed and fished. Did the mythical trolls prance around in those mountains?

The doors to the sundeck were thrown open when we neared Mostraumen. We climbed onto the deck and felt the whiplash of the cold wind on our faces. At touching distance, the fjords loomed over us, like Goliath did with David. Yet, they didn’t appear menacing or foreign. With signs of habitation here and there, the fjords seemed to be sending out an invitation and a sense of warmth and reassurance to those gazing upon them.

The tour was over too soon. The fish market at the wharf beckoned. Fish of every hue and size were on sale and cooked the way you chose. I opted for batter-fried prawns and fries, and seafood paella. Loath to leave the waterfront, I strolled across to a stall selling bottled caviar.

As I picked up a jar, the vendor identified me as an Indian and informed me that he often travelled to India. “Do you know of Mata Amritanandamayi,” he asked.

“Indeed I do,” I replied, and the distance suddenly melted.

The Norwegian word fjord means “where one fares through”. I had fared through it — and how!

Litta Jacob is a freelance writer based in Bengaluru