I took the long way, through Copenhagen and Stavanger in order to get into Bergen. It was some effort waking up at 4 in the morning to catch the flight, but the long way was also the cheap(er) way, and I was rewarded with flying on three different types of planes, and rare breathtaking scenery.
My first glimpse of Norway was from the air. We approached from the South, crossed countless expanses of waters before finally encountering land. Beautiful land, bits of which lush green and some were yellow with blossoming flowers. Little lambs ran freely around, as brown cows grazed in an almost surreally idyllic setting. Little islets, solitary crops of land and patches of grass rose from the vast open sea, while boats skimmed through the surface of the water like darting white arrows. There was even a drilling platform, a massive metallic eyesore in the middle of nowhere, but also the source of natural wealth beneath waters around Norway and the reason why sparse 4.5 million Norwegians are among the most affluent in the world.
As plane flew closer inland, I could see snow capped peaks in the distance. Beneath us, the shadow of the plane skirted over rough, sparsely populated land of jagged rocks, hills and mountain ranges that arched over into the horizon. Then suddenly, cut into the mountains were stretches of deep, blue water, flowing like veins arteries into the land. This was the world-renowned fjord formation, a remnant of the last Ice Age, when retreating and melting ice shields carved deep ravines, impressive towering cliffs and inlets of deep estuaries that meander from the mountains into the North Sea almost along the entire length of Western Norway. Fjord country is a unique landscape, some of which have been drafted onto the UNESCO’s list of World Heritage Sites.
The plane descended slowly, and closer and closer I was to this miraculous land.
A cloud of dust. A plume of smoke, ascending to the heavens, beckoning a new beginning. Two towering icons, shaken images, muffled fear in the air. It was surreal, and I couldn’t believe it. Was this the latest advertising for another late Summer Hollywood blockbuster?
Then the second plane hit, like a remote controlled toy striking the side of the building, and leaving behind another long trail of smoke, destruction and death. A trail that would last well into the new decade of a new millennium, and the effects of which will linger for a long time to come.
Today, where two towers once stood, and which were once the very symbol of New York’s skyline on postcards, kitsch souvenirs and tacky T-Shirts, Ground Zero is a massive construction site. All around it, the remaining skyscrapers that were unscathed as the towers crumbled and collapsed like a houses of cards. In the reflection of steel and glass all around, it was as if I could still see the image of those thin white towers.
Soon, a memorial will stand where the towers once stood. Two hollow and hallow pits, with water falling into the dark abyss, will mark and commemorate the towers and people in them on that fateful day. Out of the steel salvaged from the rubble of the Twin Towers, a new battleship aptly named the USS New York is now being built, and scheduled to be commissioned as “an enduring tribute to those who lost their lives on 9/11 and […] will carry the spirit of New York wherever she goes in defense of our country”. A sculpture that had stood but not stands a few blocks away in Battery Park as a testament to the “hope and indestructible spirit of this country”.
Indeed, seven years on, New York is still abuzz with life and spirit. Perhaps less so with the economic downturn looming overhead, but when I wandered the city in the bitter cold of a clear winter’s day, the rush of people and glitter of Christmas decorations gave life to the city.
From the top of the Rock I admired the city’s impressive skyline, and indulged in my fetish for towering buildings. The Empire State Building stood before me, so much more magnificent than that 3D puzzle I have at home. Surrounding it, structures of steel, concrete, dark glass and reflecting windows each vied for a peek at the heavens above in the dense undergrowth of the Manhattan’s grid-like streets. In close to 12 hours, I had walked from Central Park, that ‘green’ (actually, white because of the snow) oasis downtown, past the glitzy and animated billboards of Broadway and Time Square down to the river bank where the Intrepid was moored. From there, I trailed the undiscovered side-streets of Greenwich Village and Chelsea all the way down to the old downtown area. The virile charging bull which famously guards one of the streets close to the stock exchange was sadly nowhere to be seen. As I wandered on, I figured that perhaps he had been chased away by a grim-looking bear.
With a hoard of people, probably the majority of whom were tourists, I took the ferry to Staten Island, and back. As the ferry cruised across the Hudson, I looked back at the city, reflecting in the golden hue of dusk, against a dimming sky of blue. Seagulls flew, waves calmly lashed, and in the distance, that French lady of liberty stood, her flame reflecting in the sun. How many millions have sailed across these very waters, been equally surrounded by the song of seagulls, and longed for the land ahead?
I continued my walk, this time going north, past familiar signs and that pagoda-like gate which unmistakably, like every else in the world, marked Chinatown. I continued further, up broad ways and avenues till the bright lights of glamorous stores and shops came to life at night.
On the streets of New York, millions went about their daily lives in, hurrying past this leisurely traveller who saw sights and signs that perhaps many because of their haste to get to places look at daily, but cannot see. With the playful display of changing light of day, I wandered around the city, peeking into alleyways, up at the confined spaces between skyscrapers. I walked over iconic manholes from which dense white clouds escaped, while in the background rang the sirens and horns of speeding busses and cars, as screeching wheels echoed in the labyrinth of rails below. It was like another world, a world of and in its own, with so many sights, smells and surprises.
New York, New York… I had made it there. And now I can make it anywhere.
His eyes were hollow, his mouth contorted in frozen agony. Silver skinned, his helmet sat crooked on his head, as he looked on to the wide field around him. The platoon stood still, rifles at the ready, their military ponchos wavering in mid-air. A breathtaking, awing sight. A sight even more eerie at night, I was told.
I stepped silently around the Korean War Memorial, and saw the reflection of the sculptures of soldiers on the black memorial wall. A reflection of the past, projected so vividly and harshly through to the present. Silhouettes, images, impressions of soldiers, civilians, war planes, hallowed villages, broken men, women and children appeared as I stepped close. A tribute to those who fought and died. How many nobody really knows. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, a million or more civilians, not to mention the many, many lost in action. “Freedom is not free” reminds a plaque towards which the sculptures of war-forlorn soldiers are marching. And the Land of the Free paid much of the price in conflicts large and small throughout the past century. Not to conquer, but supposedly in the defense of freedom, in the perpetuance of democracy, and in the struggle against tyranny.
Guam, Vietnam, Normandy, Tripoli, Formosa, Iwo Jima, Pearl Harbour, Berlin, Arnhem, Afghanistan, Iraq… “Countries they never knew and peoples they never met”. The heart of
Walking around, you cannot but feel what sense of pride this nation has achieved politically and militarily in its relatively young age. A nation born out of and shaped by revolutions and the barrel of the gun. A nation bound by the bonds of brotherhood, bloodshed, and that common belief in the cause of that much trumped—but often empty-of-meaning— idea(l)s of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. Its prowess is known, its greatness is felt, at times in desperation and need, and at times in shows of hypocrisy and big power arrogance. A great nation, no doubt. One that as a citizen of this world, and as a witness of (hu)man-made histories and tragedies, you either develop a feelings of hate or love towards.
Reflecting in a narrow pool is watery image of the
A stern-faced
Fourteen years ago, a boy skipped around the steps of these great monuments and posed candidly for pictures wearing an oversized T-shirt bought from a souvenir shop somewhere, He thought it was ‘cool’ to wear something which had the seal of the United States of America on the back and front. Fourteen years later, I wandered through the same streets, paths and alleyways of
Perhaps there is a(n unhealthy?) sense of cynicism and criticism through the lenses which I see things today. A sense heightened by the forms and declarations I have had to fill in even before boarding my plane to the States. One cannot feel a bit apprehensive when the ‘greeting’ at the airport is having yours baggage poked and prodded, checked and scrutinised, not to mention having to take off your shoes and being subject to a body search. All in the name of national security… in the ironic state of insecurity, suspicion and “fight terrorism” which the country finds (or has trapped) itself in today.
The
A view. Waters silent, reflecting the sky and clouds on high. A mirror image wavers, almost a perfect parallel world in the water. A broad lake, cuddled by mountains. Mountains, the faces of which teem with trees. Trees, glowing in shades of yellow, orange, brown and the blends of these colours that can hardly begin to describe. A rare sight, one I have only till now heard talked about, but it lay before me, surreal like a tranquil dream, yet instilling an inner calm that was and felt so very real.
Riding across the vast Canadian landscape, I still cannot believe that I am in a new undiscovered country.
