Dan in Norway

For The Last Time

2006-12-01T15:38:00.000+01:00

It's been a time since my last post, I know. Enough of a time that I wouldn't be surprised if this is read by about as many people as threw me a Welcome Back to England party. Still, I took a little ten-day trip northeast in November and it is therefore my duty to here chronicle, in brief or in full, my deeds and thoughts.

I flew from Stansted on Friday the third, on Guido Fawkes weekend, so as the plane flew over Anglia I was lucky enough to get an aerial view of all the fireworks detonating below. There was less of a view coming in to land at Bergen Flesland what with all the cloud cover. Some things never change, and the constant rain in Bergen is one of those things. It barely stopped pouring for the entire time I was there.

The only escape from the perpetual downpour was a trip up to the mountains. It was the annual, week-long prayer and fasting conference at the snowy mountain lodge of Hermon Høyfjellssenter and chance not only to, er, pray and fast, but also to spend time with good Norwegian friends and, most importantly, to catch the latest film from Jon Håtveit at skifilm.no, Mind The Gap. Featuring a blatant disregard for the authority of the British Transport Police at Angel underground station, it's the most impressive freeski film he's made so far.

As well as the Bergensk rain and the death-defying antics of the skifilm.no crew, some other things that apparently don't change are the Norwegian sense of hospitality (especially Magny's), the magnetic pull of the Nice Price CD section of Platekompaniet and the way I feel about the place.

Arna is a second home and I was so happy to be able to spend some time with my family there. Bergen is still my favourite city to wander aimlessly in and my friends there remain some of the nicest people I know. To be honest it was quite a wrench to leave but the right place for me to be at the moment is in London.

And so this will be my last post on this web log. It only makes sense to call it a day now that Dan is no longer In Norway. But chillax, I'm in the process of starting a new blog. I thought about calling it something clever like Nan In Doorway, but, no. You can find it at writenothingelse.blogspot.com. Why the name? I'm not sure, but maybe I'll post an explanation of that if I ever work it out exactly for myself.

Let's Explore My Face - A Picture Special!

2006-08-05T16:14:00.000+02:00

I can't believe my countdown. It's been over a fortnight since I got my feet back on English soil but it's gone by so quickly. As soon as I was back I had to get my music together for John and Mel's wedding, at which my alter ego The Fresh Brian Dash played a set of pure cheese. Then I headed straight off for a week in the Lake District, drumming with Chris and Jen at the Keswick Convention, which was a brilliant way to spend a week. Drumming, laughing, walking, swimming, playing Deal Or No Deal and meticulously planning the next morning's breakfast strategy.

But the Good Ship Full English has sailed - now is the time to face some tough questions about myself. Where do I belong? What is the purpose of my life? Who am I?

But I'm not quite ready for them. Maybe if I build up to answering them by taking on an easier question. Like, who do I look like? Yes, I think this is the kind of issue I need to ponder to begin to find my place in this world.

I'll start my quest at the MyHeritage face recognition website. They have the technology to analyse my face and reveal which celebrity I resemble. Unfortunately, I get don't get any high percentage matches and my top three are Hugh Grant (60%), Mel Gibson (59%) and Chevy Chase (58%). It concerns me that each of these men has had a run-in with the law.

But the Internet is far from the most reliable source of information, so let's have a look at a more human perspective. A great man once said, Who do the people say that I am? So, to follow in His footsteps (somewhat), I'm going to ask, Who do people say that I look like?

Thinking about this, I recall the words of the young Shakes Carcaterra in Sleepers: I look like a lot of people. During the Adventures of Young Dan, I was told I looked like Elliot, E.T.'s little friend. With bleached hair in Canada, I was allegedly (underlined) a blond Hugh Grant. I've been physically likened to Simon Amstell from PopWorld, the T-1000 Terminator and that odd boy with the video camera in American Beauty. It should be made clear at this point that sometimes I fail to see the resemblance. But as I say, I look like a lot of people, to some crazy eyes at least.

However, the most useful lookalike claims are going to be the ones made most recently, obviously. So here are the four most recent comments, including two made this week, that are pretty much responsible for this entire pointless post. In Norway, as I read Bob Dylan's excellent Chronicles, Anne Britt and Rune decided that it could have been me on the front cover.

According to Sami Hussain, I also feature on the cover of The Sims 2 - Open for Business, as a cake-scoffing chef.

But never mind that, my brother Sam's girlfriend Emma decided this week that I look like the new Man of Steel in the poster on the left. Brilliant, maybe I'll grow myself a kiss curl.

And lastly, the old favourite, mentioned by more observers than any other in the history of people who I look a bit like - Moses from the Prince of Egypt animated movie. Specifically, just after he's fled from Egypt and lost his wig.

So what does all this mean for me as a person? Actually, that's not a rhetorical question, I've got no idea where this post is going. Maybe we should call it a day there. If you've got any clue as to how to decipher the Dan Facey Code, then let me know. Or else share your own experience of being told you look like someone else. Alright? Great. See you later.

I'll Be Gone In A Day Or Twooo...

2006-07-20T02:23:00.000+02:00

"And now, the end is here
And so I face the final curtain
My friend, I'll say it clear
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain
I've lived a life that's full
I traveled each and ev'ry highway
And more, much more than this, I did it in Norway"

So sang Frank Sinatra in the original, long-lost recording of My Way, before super-producer Bruce Dickinson suggested a lyric change to make the song less location-specific. Dickinson also demanded more cowbell.

Truly, the end is here. The big countdown clock ticks on, watched by thousands upon thousands, all over the world, holding hands, probably. My bags are packed save for a toothbrush I'll use in the morning and a sleeping bag I'm ready for now; and the house is wonderfully tidy (big, big thanks to Marthe Rosenvinge). All that remains is to finish this post that has been called for by all of one email. This one's for you, Dad.

I'm a mix of emotions: looking forward to seeing you English people that I've missed, sad to say goodbye to Arna, still slightly stressed from the last minute packing and cleaning, and sinnsykt sad to say goodbye to my Arnian and Bergenser friends. Beneath all of the more temporary feelings though, I could barely be more satisfied with the ten months I've spent here, the friends and the difference I've been able to make, how my life and myself have changed. More on those things when I get the chance to write some kind of hilarious-yet-moving Review of the Year - I probably need a bit of time to reflect. The Lake District should be just the place for that kind of thinking. I'm there next week to drum but it will conveniently serve as a gentle weaning alternative to the cold Norway turkey of immediate London.

So anyway, I suppose this may well be the penultimate post of the blog. I might keep on writing about my adventures beyond Norway though. I suppose it all depends on how interesting my life turns out to be. After all, in the words of Jacques-Yves Cousteau:

"When one man, for whatever reason, has the opportunity to lead an extraordinary life, he has no right to keep it to himself."

Det er:

"Får man muligheten til å leve et uvanlig liv, har man plikt til å dele det."

I wouldn't like to disagree with the great man. So see you soon, England. Vi snakkes, Norge.

Editing Films Will Push You Over to the Dark Side

2006-06-26T14:52:00.000+02:00

So I'm sitting in the site office tent at the summer scout camp, having major technical difficulties with the new film I'm supposed to be making. The Troubles started last night when, at the end of an hour-long video upload, the power cut and I lost the lot. It didn't help that I was missing the best, most violent match of the World Cup so far at the time. Now, in a new twist, all audio has gone missing. It looks like this project may not be able to go any further; I don't fancy making a silent movie. But never mind, it's fun other than that, and the weather just decided to get good. Plans are already afoot to teach the wondrous Indian sport of kabaddi to the scouts, and hopefully we can stage Norway's first ever youth kabaddi tournament. Photos from the camp and Norwegian-language articles will be posted regularly through the week here. Click on anything that says 'bilder' or 'bildene' to see pictures.

What Would Jack Bauer Do?

2006-06-04T14:19:00.000+02:00

It goes without saying that Satanists are pretty annoying at the best of times and this coming Tuesday will be no exception. The little rascals have noticed that the date will be 6/6/06:

1: The number of the Beast! Yes, six-six-oh-six, phwa-ha-ha!
2: Hang on...
1: What?
2: Are you sure?
1: What are you talking about man?!
2: Isn't it six-six-six?
1: Exactly. That's what I said.
2: No, you said six-six-oh-six.
1: Oh, right. Er, isn't that it?
2: Maybe. But the oh sits a little oddly, don't you think?
1: I see your point. Well what the Dickens is it then?
2: I'm not sure now, you've got me all in a fluster.
1: Hold on, I'll get my Bible.
2: I thought you were supposed to be a Satanist?
1: Well, yeah, but it looks good on the bookshelf. Leather-bound, gold edging on the pages.
2: That's true. It does tie the room together.
1: Well, how kind of you to say!
2: Not at all.

Anyway. It seems that the Norwegian Devilists have become very excited that 6 June 2006 is two thousand and five years, five months and six days since the arbitrary day incorrectly assigned to mark the birth of Jesus of Nazareth (the real one, not Robert "Rubbish" Powell). And so, last week many churches received emails from their insurance companies warning them that Satanic groups are organising themselves, over the internet, to try and burn as many church buildings as possible on that day. Seriously, what is their problem. Because they do have a problem.

It's double the bother for us, as we've got the building in Arnatveit and also the building for the upcoming church plant in Espeland to think about. So we're being organised into shifts to guard those two potential targets for the entire day, which sounds like the basis for a pretty decent series of 24, I think you'll agree. And for your part, if you wouldn't mind praying that everything remains uncharred this week, that'd be much appreciated.

One Man Wedding

2006-05-15T22:01:00.000+02:00

Confirmation fever hit the Dalseth house this weekend, in a flurry of lawn-mowing, tablecloth-ironing and surgery. Confirmation is a very widespread tradition in Norway, with the majority of fourteen-year-old Norwegians going through the motion. It's such a tradition, in fact, that some people get confirmed in non-religious ceremonies. What they're confirming, probably they can't even tell you but they're happy to confirm it, just like the church-goers are happy to defy logic and confirm a decision made by someone else for them, when they were so young that they barely possessed the ability to blink. Sure, they have to go to a few confirmation classes but they get to wear an outfit from Lord of the Rings (which, for the girls, costs something like a thousand pounds), have a banquet held in their honour and take home between two and three grand.

Eline chose to start her confirmation weekend in unconventional style by having emergency keyhole-surgery to remove her appendix at six o'clock on Saturday morning. This meant that she missed the church ceremony but was home in the afternoon to watch all her loving family and That English Lodger tuck into a feast of smoked salmon and Potato Gratin, followed by a truly incredible spread of cakes, the like of which I doubt I will ever see again until I enter into Paradise. The proceedings of the average Confirmation Day are very much like those of a wedding, only for one person: a morning church ceremony in fancy clothes, a meal with the extended family, speeches from parents, embarrassing childhood photos and customised songs set to traditional Norse ditties. They even stand a little plastic figure, all alone, at the summit of the improbably-tall centrepiece cake.

I can't understand how confirmation fits in with anything the Bible says but then I can't think of a way to end this post either. So let me lay a quick update down for you and sign off: Eline is recovering very well and will be playing football again in a fortnight. I am preparing myself for The Biggest Game Of Football Of My Life So Far, coming this Wednesday. And the Dalseth Household (of which I can proudly call myself an honorary member) enjoys leftover cake with every meal. This is Dan, signing off from Indre Arna, Norway.

Mission and Improbable Weather

2006-05-08T23:15:00.000+02:00

Last Wednesday evening I was sat at the back of a small meeting in Voss. It felt more like a very conservative church service than a seeker-friendly gospel night and I was thinking philosophically to myself that even if we didn't see any real results from the day we'd spent there, at least we knew that we had really worked hard for the place. And who was to know what unseen future fruit would be reaped from the seeds we had sowed. Nevertheless, I did feel disappointed; there had been such an expectation among us that God was going to do some big work in Voss and I wanted the satisfaction of seeing some of that work. Then Jacob preached and eight people stood up.

Jacob is a quiet and friendly Nigerian gentleman, who was a part of the mission team from England that I had the pleasure of being involved with for these last ten days. On Tuesday he had taken the opportunity to touch snow for the first time in his life. He had to be driven a short distance away from here because, aside from the fact that Arna gets relatively little snowfall, the team enjoyed almost nothing but sunshine for the duration of their visit. I remember that on the day they landed I told them that, in terms of the weather, it was probably one of the top three days I'd experienced since my arrival in October. The following day easily joined it in the top four and the temperature just kept on rising until this weekend, which was certainly the hottest I've enjoyed in Norway. Now there are leaves on the trees and the mountains are green all over. I've barely seen a cloud in a week.

In fact, the only day of bad weather was the Wednesday in Voss, a weird little town with a pair of parallel main roads and not much else. It's the location of the area's main ski resort and the home of a number of boarding schools, neither of which do much for the community, as you can imagine. My church here in Arna is currently in the process of planting a congregation at Voss and it was with this small group of Christians that we were working with.

I joined the team at the church in Arna that morning to hear that they'd had a particularly intense prayer meeting the evening before. Some of them had continued to pray in their rooms afterwards, unable to sleep, and everyone was eager to see how God would use us that day. After a team time and breakfast, we took the 75 minute train ride to Voss.

We were greeted by wind and rain that didn't ever really let up until the evening. As well as grim weather, Voss has a heavy, imposing spiritual quality that is hard to explain but not difficult to notice. Almost immediately we set off, walking around the town, evangelizing and inviting people to the evening meeting in a building on the high street. Phil and I just walked endless laps of the long block formed by the twin main roads, stopping to pray in the prayer room after the first half hour and then going back out again for two or three hours more. Phil had seen a picture in the prayer room of all of us pushing against a massive onyx door that we just managed to shift in the end and, as time wore on, our initial enthusiasm was being tested by the oppressive atmosphere of the place. When we weren't speaking to Norwegians we were praying hard. Responses at first were either totally disinterested or shamelessly rude (elderly Norwegian men can be brutal) but as we pressed on, which took no small amount of self-discipline, we found people were becoming more and more open to talking about Jesus. My Norwegian vocabulary was tested to the limit on the odd occasion that a person said they couldn't speak English but I surprised myself by not being totally out of my depth.

At half past five, the arranged finishing time, we were outside the main entrance to the building the church meet in but Phil wanted to do one more half circuit before we went in. We did so and we were just going to cross the square back to meet the others when we met three Muslim gentlemen. Hilariously, Phil had met them when he visited Norway two years previously! They were really happy to see him again and said that they'd come and join us that evening (actually, they did more than that, one of them forced me to walk him all the way to the door of the meeting room to make sure he knew where it was).

We returned to meet the others, went for a Chinese and set up for the meeting. The Voss people ran the it, with the team contributing testimonies among the very inaccessible, old hymns. I was not optimistic but then Jacob preached; he spoke about how our life is like a car engine - we can put water in the petrol tank, oil in the radiator and petrol in the oil tank if we choose to but that's not the way a car's designed and it'll get damaged. Jacob appealed for people to raise their hand in response and then asked them to "put Satan to shame and stand up!" Three Norwegian ladies recommitted their lives to God, a teenager called Kristian became a Christian and four Muslims chose to become followers of Jesus Christ!

The five converts joined us in Arna on Saturday for a barbecue. Loads of the community turned up, and rightly so considering the amount of invitations we'd given out. We also went to Øyrane Torg, the local shopping centre, earlier in the day to give out free waffles and drinks. Unfortunately it turned out that there was a group from a local school there too, trying to flog waffles to pay for a band trip to the dream destination of Scarborough. It was a shame but after we'd given away about six thousand waffles we left in the afternoon so they could have some time to raise their funds.

There was a good atmosphere at the barbecue and Terje asked the team to perform the sketches they'd been performing at the shopping centre. Tate and myself had taught them some Ichthus mission classics - Crowdpuller, Chocolate Box, The Ribbon Sketch - that went down well. Phil then gave a short gospel message during which nobody made a sound and what must have been at the most one second later, somebody screamed, there was a bang and a car knocked a girl off her bike. There were a few nervous minutes but thankfully she only suffered some grazes and a bruise on the inside of her knee. The initial stunned quiet wore off when everyone heard the good news and it turned out to be great night with the community. Me and Øyvind performed a few numbers that I just didn't know the words for (until PA Guy inexplicably pulled the plug on us) and one of the former Muslims got on the drums and soloed like the saved.

I was sad to see my friends leave and I do miss people in England - you know who you are. But actually, it's only eleven weeks until I'm back for John and Mel's wedding, and then it's Revive. I will see you again... but not yet. Not yet!

God Speaks!

2006-04-30T23:21:00.000+02:00

This is an exciting time. The mission team arrived to Arna on Friday, made up of Radical Networkers, students from Durham and led by Phil Tate. It's been great to see him again and to get involved with the mission, especially the evangelism. It's actually been the first cold contact evangelism I've done in Norway, just approaching people in the street and trying to share something about Jesus with them, and it made me feel a bit challenged actually. I always felt like that kind of evangelism is somewhat counter-cultural in Norway, that people would find it to be very unusual. And I was right, it is counter cultural. But that's what we're supposed to be! I saw God use our efforts yesterday enough to convince me of applying myself to it more in the coming months.

Phil had heard of a certain church that would pray before evangelising and try and hear from the Lord about who he wanted them to speak to, and seeing as his personal motto is "don't be shy, give it a try" we accordingly gave it a try. The pictures and words that we got were impressively accurate and one in particular stood out. Testify!

I heard that there would be a group of teenage boys who wouldn't be interested but that there would be a someone in the group who would be. As I shared this, Phil felt that it would be someone in a grey hoodie. So, we wrote it down and went out in pairs. Phil and Tim Stone wandered over to the fountain and saw a group of teenage boys (hello...) filming each other doing street dancing. They didn't seem to be interested (could it be...) but as Phil and Tim passed them they saw, remarkably, a grey hoodie! Disco! It was an American girl who was hanging around with this group of dancers. Given the prophecies that we'd had before we set out, Phil challenged her: was she truly and genuinely interested in knowing Jesus? She said yes! She'd been studying the Bible for the last few months, encouraged by a Christian friend and the belief that knowledge can lead to faith. Phil and Tim were able to show her the piece of paper we'd written on - "GROUP OF TEENAGERS, NOT INTERESTED. ONE WILL BE, GREY HOODIE." It must have been so encouraging for her to know that the God that she was looking so hard for was also actively seeking her out.

God is good, all the time. All the time...

Halleluja, Min Sjel er Fri!

2006-04-21T23:03:00.000+02:00

It occurred to me last weekend that it might have been a good idea to run a regular Norwegian of the Month feature on the blog, profiling the winner and perhaps posting a picture of me presenting them with a handshake or something. It's a bit late to start now though and besides, Terje would win every month.

Coming in second at least once though (and there's no shame in coming second to Terje; remember Roger Black getting silver behind Michael Johnson? It felt like a gold, didn't it?) would have been Øystein. Truly one of the nicest gentlemen you could ever hope to always lose at boards games to, Øystein never seems to be beaten in any contest (except Norwegian of the Month and that doesn't count because the competition is only being discussed hypothetically) and came to the fancy dress as a carton of milk. Impressive, no? He's been at Arna Misjonsmenighet for about a year, since he married Jannicke, but before that he was a long-time member of Betlehem, a congregation in Bergen, and it was with Betlehem that I went away this Easter. It wasn't my plan to take any kind of trip. Although it's the Norwegian way to go somewhere at Easter time, I felt that I'd like to have some time out in Arna, seeing as I'd gone back to England for Christmas. I also quite fancied hearing a missionary called Bruce Olsen speak at Betel church on Easter Day.

Until he cancelled. And it rained unceasing for days. And there was pretty much nobody in Arna. I watched Martin play FIFA Street 2 for what felt like two solid days and then, in a state of extreme restlessness and fearing an impending psychotic episode, baked 64 custard-filled cinnamon buns. It was then that I knew I had to make a break. I called Miriam, who had previously invited me to Radøytunet, the camp (you know, the good kind - rooms not tents) that YA, the youth group from Betlehem were running. She pulled any strings that needed pulling and I was all set. I packed in about twelve seconds and was out the door. I left both boredom-induced pastry baking and my towel well behind me.

The absent towel scenario was taken care of almost immediately by Kjetil, who kindly supplied me with one of his pair. It turned out that he and I not only shared a towel (in the long run, that is; we didn't both use it in that one trip) but also have exactly the same trainers, e-mail account and blog account. A man of outstanding taste in every way, it would seem. The confirmation, if any were needed, came after the morning service on Easter Sunday, when I got Jørgen the PA guy to play Keith Green's Easter Song. Kjetil scampered to the back of the room, in wonder and amazement, wanting to know what this amazing music was that was reminding him a bit of Queen. I can see what he means.

While Kjetil stood out thanks to his close, superficial resembling of myself, the others on the trip were also excellent human beings and I made a lot of friends. I can't set foot in Bergen these days without bumping into some familiar face, which is very nice, obviously. Radøytunet was a good place to be - the kind of place where there always seems to be somebody getting a DIY mullet from their 'friend'; the kind of place where a random milk carton is spiked with green food colouring every morning; the kind of place where you can build a flamethrowing catapult.

Yes, on one of the mornings the boys and girls were split up. After a bit of a serious talk, we men had a catapult-building competition. The one that could fire an egg the furthest won. And then out came the firelighters, the ammo required for the next target: a pile of paper and card. With no girls around to inhibit them, the boys near-instantly became savages; running around screaming 'fire in the hole' and 'medic', picking up flaming firelighters with bare hands and then juggling them back for another shot and, at one point, viciously pelting all the eggs at two sorry chumps who got themselves stranded in No Man's Land. It was good that it was only a few hours separation from the calming influence of the fairer sex. Or whatever you call them.

There were some great meetings too, often running on into the night, well beyond the scheduled finishing time. The testimony night was particularly inspiring and ended with everyone worshipping God, so grateful to Him and thus throwing worship-hero shapes and making a noise that could probably be heard in Finland.

I was interviewed during Saturday's entertainment time, welcomed on and ushered off to my own surprise theme tune. When I tell you that it was Morten the drummer shouting 'Dan the man' repeatedly you're going to think it was somewhat shoddy. Well don't, it was the catchy feelgood hit of the camp; I heard people singing it to themselves even after we got back to Bergen. The gag was simple: my English answers would be translated into a different Norwegian meaning (for example, one below-the-belt translation made out that I was a big Spurs fan) with hilarious results. Then the group were asked if they had any questions to put to me. Ingjerd had been primed earlier and asked 'har han kjæresten?' After a good deal of hubbub had died down, the question was translated, although I already knew what was coming. 'Dan, the question is: are you single?' Off the top of my head I thought of the most winning answer I could, one that would make them all love me... 'Why do you think I'm in Norway?' And the room erupted. I expect it will be the only time in my life that a roomful of eighty people cheer the news that I'm available. If I'm honest with myself, it probably had less to do with the great revelation of singleness and more to do with paying Norway (and particularly the women thereof) a nice compliment and doing so with fine comic timing. But I don't have to be honest with myself.

The camp ended with a slightly bizarre ritual in which all eighty of us made our way around a giant circle, embracing every other person and thanking them for the trip. All hugged up, I returned to Arna and, this Tuesday, went to Brann's first home game of the season. SK Brann are my local Norwegian team and have so far picked up two points from two games. Something tells me to get out while I can. We stood on the terraces with a group of Christian Brann supporters who call themselves Apostelenes Røde Gærninger, which translates as The Apostolic Red Maniacs. Quite Terrifying.

Believe it or not, there's more that I could say but let me sum up: Easter, which I always look forward to, has been a great time for me in lots of ways. As I walked down the disused railway track to Garnes, watching the sun setting over the fjord and listening to the genius new Flaming Lips album, I felt most content. Actually, I thought I was going to cry but it was probably the music.

Send Friends DVDs, Get Nice Text Messages!

2006-04-11T23:49:00.000+02:00

The reviews are in: The critics have declared Finse 2006 the finest foreign film to come out of Arna all year! Following a triumphant premiere and after-show signing session, SpeiderDan Films has been inundated with literally several e-mail orders from members of the scout group, taking a quick break from tying knots and desperate to buy a copy of Lovell's debut offering.

But it's not just the Norse who are crazy for the movie event of the spring. Over three text messages from enraptured viewers in England have applauded the work. Ellie was the first to offer her verdict: "We just finished watching it - it was really great! You did really really well! Everybody looks so sweet, u won't want to leave."

"Just watching your quality video! Shame my norwegian isn't up 2 scratch!" So remarked the ever-humble Dave of Bow. Truly, subtitles would have added nothing meaningful.

Stephen joyfully picked up on the film's highlights: "It's a piece of glory! Pure gold! That bearded man laughed so much at vomitting kid! What were they eating? Giant pitta? I love the ski wipeouts, class music selection also Dan."

Chris summed up the response with his measured appraisal: "Finally sat down to watch your dvd and of course we agreed that you're a genius!" And I'd hate to disagree with a man so full of wisdom as he.

To get your copy of the hit DVD, simply approach me in person at a scout meeting and put your money in my hand. Alternatively, wait until I get back to England. I'll be desperate to get rid of all my unsold copies and they'll be yours for the taking.

Lifetime Ambition Fulfilled

2006-04-10T21:16:00.000+02:00

On Friday, after Lars Andreas' drumming lesson, I got home to find this text message from Anders:

You have to hold the
speed limit when your
bicycle
We so you

Apparently he saw me rocketing down the long, downhill straight of the main road home, criminally exceeding the 50 km/h speed limit. Less than felonious yet not quite legal, I try to practice this discipline on a daily basis and I'd like to help you to do the same. Firstly you will need a bike and a mountain to place it on. Tuck your jeans into your socks to avoid getting all oily but let this be your only concession to practicalities that can and will make you look a fool. Repeat the mantra: 'luminous Lycra is a friend to nobody'. It is highly unlikely that you will be able to avoid uphill pedalling but you will find that taking a route that allows you to sustain the maximum possible forwards momentum will allow you to sustain the maximum possible forwards momentum.

The factor most important in your endeavour to go quite fast is the music you choose to listen to. Try to find a pacy, energetic number that is still anthemic enough to inspire your thighs to their deepest efforts. Race for the Prize by The Flaming Lips, for example, will never fail to motivate speedy travel but be advised that it is followed on The Soft Bulletin by the rather dreamy and disjointed Spoonful Weighs a Ton. In cases such as this, consider employing the 'REPEAT 1' setting on your Discman or iPod.

As I cycled home from last night's meeting I listened to Fauré's Requiem, music which is never going to help anyone break the speed limit but is beautiful nonetheless. It was a clear night and, riding up my road, I noticed what looked like the beam of a spotlight shining up into the sky. I stood my bike with the others behind the house and walked back to the road to see a natural phenomenon that I had been waiting to see for a large part of my life. They were the Northern Lights.

I don't live far enough North for them to appear as brightly as in that Coca-Cola advert with the polar bears but they were unmistakably there. Several tall, green beams standing up against the sky, fading out and glowing back in again. They lasted for about five stunning minutes from when I first noticed them and then disappeared. To finally see them was a truly satisfying experience and could not have had a better soundtrack than the Fauré that was still coming out of my headphones.

I thought about writing this post and knew I'd need details - where had I seen the lights? I looked up at the sky, found The Plough and from there located the North Star. That was the direction the lights had come from: North. Almost immediately I was aware that I really hadn't needed the stars to tell me that's where the Northern Lights would have been.

"It's the Northern Lights, Aurora Borealis: high energy particles spilling over into our atmosphere. They get through the magnetic field where it's weakest - at the poles."

A Groove, Slightly Transformed

2006-03-29T15:59:00.000+02:00

Sunday was the first day of summer and the last day of the recent cold spell. Arna has one of the milder Norwegian climates but it's been freezing for weeks. I've even heard it said that this is the longest cold spell for sixty years although Terje did admit that he received this information from 'The Old People' so it's some way from being officially confirmed.

It has also been unusually dry over the last few weeks. So dry, in fact, that last Sunday we were a week away from a water shortage. I find this to be ridiculous. Ask Dave and Anna how much it rained when they were here in the autumn. Any place that breaks records for rainfall in November and then flirts with drought in March can only be regarded as careless in my opinion.

Anyway, it being so dry has meant that there has been a lot of dust in the air in Bergen. It comes from the metal-studded winter tyres that some drivers use on their cars churning up the road surface, creating a dust cloud that is visible from the top of the surrounding mountains. What annoyed me is that while the tyres are only neccesary for about half a dozen days every winter, the use of them in these dry periods gives certain people breathing problems. Why not take the bus six times a year? Or, if that's not possible, these drivers have to decide if they value their ease of travel and getting to work for six days higher than the lungs of someone else.

Drums, please! Wick-a-wick-a-wick-a-wick-a... Here it is...

In celebration of the first day of summer I listened almost exclusively to old-school hip hop on Sunday, most repeatedly the seminal Summertime by Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. I feel that this action may have swung things weather-wise and as a result Arna is once again moderately cold and often raining. Hopefully spring will get its act together soon.

On Sunday evening I went to Betel, a church in Bergen to hear the gospel choir from Ansgar School of Theology. I was asked to welcome people on the door and my colleague in this task spent a large part of the time either pointing out the choice single girls in my age bracket or sharking for the ones in his. He divided the people we were welcoming in a very similar, unorthodox way. The concert itself was great fun and I especially enjoyed the times when the synthesizer and lead bass combined to create that Kanye sound, like the opening track on The College Dropout.

This week I finally finished the scout film of the trip to Finse. Technical problems had risen up at every turn, not only delaying the finished product but making the process a bit of a chore at times. Now that it's completed I have mixed feelings about the project. On the one hand I think it's a good home video (although spending so many hours working on it makes it hard to judge just how good it actually is) and I know it has a killer soundtrack. Moreover, the chances are that I have become Arna's first foreign film director. Oh, how I exude culture. On the other hand though, it is only a good home video. I find it hard to think of how much time I spent on something so trivial when there is far more important work to be done; I don't think I can justify it. Maybe God will use it open a door to send me as a missionary to Hollywood but at the moment I don't think that's His plan.

I was asked by one of my youth recently about what I'm going to do after the summer. They said that they knew that I wanted to do what God wanted, but wanted to know what it was that I actually wanted (if you follow). I can honestly say that I'm not just giving the standard youth leader answer when I say that I want to do what God wants.

We use the word 'want' in different ways. Sometimes it only expresses desire, like the way that, at the moment, 'I want sausages' (normal British bangers just don't seem to exist here, they're beginning to occupy my thoughts). But if someone says to you, 'You want to eat those sausages before they get cold', then they're also indicating what is best for you; what you ought to do. They may even add the abstract 'believe you me' if that's what is called for. And I think that's how I feel about God's will. I was never Al Capone but I know there have been times in my life when I haven't been doing what God wanted and to sum it up, it is rubbish. It wasn't good for me and I don't want to live that way. The only place to be is in His will; not only is it the best for me but it's what I truly desire. I want to follow where God leads me. And so, my friend, do you. Believe you me.

Yeah Boyee!

2006-03-21T16:07:00.000+01:00

Casa Feliz is usually a low-key affair. Every week there is a game, a few songs of worship and a short talk but, other than that, it's just a space to chat, play cards and eat pizza. It's important to have that format so that there's a chance to have decent conversations with the youth. Once a month though, we put on some larger kind of event. This Friday we held a fancy dress party and I think it went down as one of the best Casa Felizes yet.

The outstanding effort of the evening was undoubtedly made by Øystein (or, more accurately, his wife Jannicke) who turned up dressed as an impeccably detailed, six foot milk carton. I went as an eighties b-boy in my vintage Arsenal tracksuit and some assorted sweatbands. As I was doing the talk, the game and playing bass I had to wear something relatively practical and less distracting. While the 100% polyester caused an immense static build-up, I was happy to find out how much more comfortable a wristband makes bass playing.

I chose a multicoloured Adidas sweat rag to wear on Sunday, when the youth led worship for the family service. We spent almost all of our preparation time learning kids' songs and I feel it is my duty to report that the Norwegians have mangled the chorus of "Who's the King of the Jungle?", giving it a truly bizarre, horrible melody. But the youth did well; I knew they would.

After the service, a bit of time spent on the scout video and a short walk in the mountains I cycled home for dinner. I knew what the main course would be - my first taste of that controversially-eaten marine mammal, the whale. I don't know much about the issue of whaling but I do know that the meat was already dead, bought and cooked so to refuse it would have been pointless and ungrateful. I was a few minutes late so they had already started but there was still plenty left for me. You might say that they saved the whale.

Four Weeks, Sorry

2006-03-12T23:56:00.000+01:00

This Norwegian year (or whatever period of time it ends up being) has so far afforded me more new experiences than I know how to put across. I've had the chance to do things that I otherwise would never have had the chance to. Even the daily routine is hard to take for granted - cycling up and down hills, overlooking the frozen fjord, surrounded by mountains and, at night, under a clear, starry sky. The weather in Arna has been beautiful lately; cold but beautiful. It's been roughly somewhere between five and ten degrees below freezing but the sun is out, the sky is blue and the days are now long enough that it's actually worth calling them that. There's a lot to love about the Norwegian way of living and even more to love about the life that the Lord called me here for.

I'm really enjoying my work with the youth worship group especially and each member has really grown in both their playing or singing, and their attitude and focus. They are learning to listen to and play off of each other too and I'd love to see that increase to the point where they feel totally free to listen to and follow the leading of the Spirit as they play and sing. If you're praying a bit later, why not give them a mention? See 'A Fistful of Ham' for a rundown of who exactly is who.

Casa Feliz continues to attract a good number of young people who otherwise wouldn't see the inside of a church but, obviously, we're all for getting more of them in and accordingly I've produced a gaudy monstrosity of a flyer to go out via the youth of the church. I wish that you could see just how unsubtle it is - primary red and yellow, with something like a hundred stars crammed onto an A5 sheet. Elton John would reject it as 'too loud'.

Not last Friday, not the Friday before that, not the Friday before that, not the Friday before that, but the Friday before that (that's right, I haven't posted in a while), on the tenth of February, a bunch of Torbjørn's Colombian friends came to Casa Feliz and taught us all to dance the salsa. The Norwegian chaps, rock hard as they may be, proved beyond a doubt their lack of rhythm and coordination on the dance floor. Naturally, I set the room ablaze with my moves. The South Americans had a few moves of their own on the football pitch the next day, as they triumphed over Europe in an intercontinental clash of four-a-side in a school playground.

That evening, I had a small, unusual birthday party. It was particularly unusual because my six companions were all aged between thirteen and seventeen years. Accordingly the party involved both Haribo Starmix and stupid games, although to be fair I brought the Haribo and instigated the tightball. I did, however, draw the line at being swung twenty-three times by John Håvard and Magnus. As I'm not much younger than their combined age I felt it right to maintain some air of maturity. And, allow me to be frank for a moment, if you know me at all then you know that I'm not even getting swung once on my birthday, or any other day.

The following Monday, my official birthday, I went into Bergen to buy presents for Tim and my mum and was thinking about having a quiet night. I had heard around the house some mention of cake so I planned to eat brownies, then maybe watch a film and - let's face it, I'm twenty-three now - probably fall asleep before the end. But while I was waiting for cake that evening, writing an e-mail, I was surprised to find a company of Norwegians singing in my hallway. Effortlessly mono-tasking, I didn't realise there was anyone there until they were almost finished with 'Happy Birthday' but that is of no consequence; when I did notice I was genuinely surprised. It was lucky that I'd ran a hoover around the place earlier; an activity that roused Anne Britt's suspicions that I'd smelled a rat. In truth I had no idea and was only engaging in a little spring cleaning. Anyway, it was a touching gesture for them all to turn up and, saving the evening from any awkward tension, there was still plenty of cake.

You know that feeling of bewilderment when you wake up in another person's guest bedroom? The confusion of not knowing quite where you are, or how your bed moved, or indeed how your room changed size and was redecorated without you noticing is one I'm sure that many of us have felt. So just imagine my freak out when I awoke to find that my bed had not only moved but had also become a sleeping bag, and that my room had become significantly smaller, cave-shaped and snowy. The shock quickened the realisation that I was in fact in a small snow cave.

Graham Geddis told me (on a previous occasion, he wasn't sharing my snow hole) that a year in Norway would furnish me with all the anecdotes I'd ever need. He was not wrong. I'm rapidly building an impressive stockpile of chestnuts, yarns and adventures to be wielded both at my discretion in everyday conversation and also in preaches and small groups to drive home some profound nugget of wisdom. And two weekends ago, I hit the mother lode - the scout winter trip to Finse.

The now-engaged Tim and Vikki flew in on Thursday, the day before the trip, and we spent quite a few hours trying to borrow all of the equipment that we needed. Skis, mittens, woolly underwear; we found the final few items on the list literally minutes before the train arrived to take us to Finse. Every year the scouts stay for a weekend at this remote spot with a population of no one, although there are some winter holiday homes. To give you an idea of the landscape, let me tell you that Finse is where the young Jedi Luke Skywalker was attacked by the wampa ice creature in 'The Empire Strikes Back'. Yes, we had come to the ice planet of Hoth.

On the first night, Tim, Vikki, myself and about a dozen scouts slept in snow holes. We split into groups of three or four per hole and spent about five hours tunnelling, excavating and shifting snow. We also had to saw bricks out of the snow to build a roof and close up the entrance. Eventually, at about three in the morning, Tim, Magnus and I had a decent sized cave to sleep in. I can't pretend it was the best night's sleep I've ever had - certainly not in the same league as a stay in the guest bedroom at Rose Cottage - but considering we were sleeping in a small, icy cave, it was quite cosy.

The next day was one of cross-country skiing. Some went a trip round a mountain, I went with two of the scout leaders across a frozen lake to find a hole to drop through into a cave. In the evening was a kind of talent show with every troop putting on a contest or sketch or something. One group just got me and Tim onstage to play chubby bunnies, something that ordinarily I'd love. I'm a fan of marshmallows so to force feed myself with the fluffy treats is no chore as far as I'm concerned. Unfortunately, there was a shortage of sweets on Hoth so we had to use screwed up toilet paper instead. My mouth was dry enough to be considered suitable for something requiring storage in a warm, dry space. The rest of the trip involved a lot more skiing, a little vomit, two toilets between sixty-three people and a lesson in navigation by the night sky. After everyone got dragged along on their skis by a skidoo, it was time to go home, reeking like you can't imagine.

Once back in Arna, there was time for a little eighties karaoke. I was undefeated. Only Anders can beat me; I can't match him at 'Heaven is a Place on Earth' or 'The Final Countdown'. That said, I can wipe the floor with him at 'Ice, Ice, Baby'. The next day the three of us caught the morning plane back to Stanstead. I thoroughly enjoyed watching Arsenal become the first British team to beat Real Madrid at the Bernabeu and then caught the train to Greenwich. The Tates were picking me up from the station and from there we'd travel down to Ashburnham for the Ichthus Worship, Prayer and Fasting Conference. But naturally, as soon as I set foot back in South London, there was a pastoral visit to be made. You can take the man out of New Life but it doesn't take long to get back into the New Life way of getting things done.

The conference was excellent and I felt like I'd got a renewed focus for my final four months in Scandinavia. After another pastoral visit on the way home, Debs gave me a free haircut, making me once again resemble 'The Prince of Egypt', just after he flees and loses his wig. That's not to say it wasn't a great cut, just that I don't seem to be able to avoid that look when I've got short hair.

After a birthday breakfast with the Oranges, a chemical spill on the M11 defeated Lucie's bid to get me to my flight on time. That was no great disaster for me though, I got to be at New Life for the family service and witness Phil's intense John the Baptist. Revolution!

Then I came back to Norway and since my return I've spent almost all of my time editing the video footage of the Finse trip. It's a long process but quite satisfying when things go right and it hasn't quite eaten up my entire life. I visited a church in Bergen called Bethlehem a couple of times this week. They were having a week of 24/7 prayer and it was great to be able to be a part of that. Then yesterday, my congregation in Arna held a day of prayer and worship. It was a good time and the evening meeting was a jumble of prayer, testimonies and different kinds of worship. Anita performed another incredible dance and I led the congregation in a partner-swinging rendition of 'The Happy Song', for which they offered me a Britney headset mic. I was disinclined to accept as the combination of the microphone and the country style music would've made me feel far too much like Garth Brooks.

If you've read this entire post then I am not unimpressed. I appreciate that it may have taken several sittings. And if you've come this far, maybe you're willing to come a little further. I'd like to extend to you the offer of a Norwegian visit. Not a Norwegian visiting you, you understand, but know that if you feel like a visit to the only city in the world surrounded by seven mountains and seven fjords, then I have a comfortable sofa and would love to show you around (probably - there's no way of knowing exactly who visits this blog, although the length of the post will probably have driven away most casual readers). Just so you know that the offer is on the table.

I Love the Smell of Beef in the Morning

2006-02-09T11:54:00.000+01:00

As I cycled home tonight, I realised that I have changed since I came to Norway. This thought occurred to me when I noticed that I wasn't feeling incredibly sick due to physical exertion. Actually, the very fact that the notion struck me was an encouragement; normally at that stage in the journey I'd be scanning for houses of people I know that might be persuaded to run me home in the car. Or cars of people I don't know, for stealing. A year of Radical Network, involving much sitting and only time for the odd run around the park with Chris and his throbbing knees, left me in poor form.

Today however, my form is indefatigably good. Along with all the uphill cycling, I put this down to good Norwegian food. On Sunday I feasted on wild elk, on Monday and Tuesday enjoyed some delicious salmon and yesterday partook of the great and ancient food of viking kings - beef and red pepper lasagne. There is a lot more home cooking over here, from the youngest to the oldest; ten-year-old Simen often gets home from school and rustles up what I can honestly say are the best brownies I can remember tasting.

The Norse do have one secret weapon though. Produced in Arna's Toro factory are a wide variety of stocks, powders, soups and flavourings. They are not only the cook's best friend but also the reason that the area surrounding the fjord frequently smells of meat. Strolling back from the station, it's no surprise to be greeted by the potent and inescapable waft of roast beef crisps or cream of chicken soup. While it's certainly not so welcome as the fresh, Scandinavian air my lungs usually trade in these days, I remind myself of the Greenwich brewery, inhale deeply and give thanks.

Man who Catch Fly with Chopstick Accomplish Anything

2006-01-26T23:34:00.000+01:00

Apologies from the start for what will be a short post. Tomorrow morning I'm off for the weekend to the Christian youth festival Impulse. On the subject of youth festivals I was describing the increasing largeness of the Soul Survivor events to a Norwegian today:

"I think they have three weeks back-to-back now, due to all the applicants."
"All the Africans?"

Upon my return from Impulse I'll be pleased to be attending a happy tenth birthday party. It's been a while, what kind of present do they expect? I suppose a bottle of wine's out of the question.

I've been doing a lot of talking lately. Not just the regular kind, but while standing up, to a number of people, about Jesus. The most recent was yesterday: I went into Bergen to talk at the Christian Union of a secondary school that seems to be called Daniel-san. I'm not sure if Mr Miyagi is still the headmaster or if he just founded the place. I was really pleased with how well it went - it was my first talk without a translator. Not that I spoke Norwegian, they were just extra smart kids. Of course they were, look what their school's called.

For Happiness, Try Music

2006-01-18T23:59:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, Marthe directed me to a shop that I could purchase brake pads from and then as a sort of bonus took me to what is possibly Bergen's only charity shop. It was an immense Salvation Army joint, that I estimated was roughly big enough to park seventy Ford Escorts. In the music section (which, I probably don't have to explain, was larger than usual) I picked up a copy of Skee-lo's "I Wish" (including a cappella track)and two early Petra albums for next to nothing! Petra were a band that never failed to amuse Tim and I when we used to come across them in the early nineties Christian soft rock scene (primarily due to the frontman's swivelling power-punch dance) but this was an album from 1981! I got to hear a side of them I'd never heard before, most notably in the song "Killing My Old Man", an apparent anthem to patricide.

It's fair to say it's been a time of unexpected musical comedy treats. Tonight, to my surprise and marginal delight, I found out that Kurt Nielsen, winner of World Idol for 2003/2004, is from my very doorstep. Not that he's fallen on hard times and curls up to sleep by the bins, but that he is from Arna, a town with a population of just twelve thousand! On the night of the final, the man described as "a marketing challenge" was addressed by the Australian judge thusly: "You have the voice of an angel and the face of a hobbit. If we were looking for a Middle Earth Idol I think you’d be a hands-down winner." Kurt, a plumber by trade and father of two, is the possessor of the biggest selling Norwegian single of all time, a cover of Tal Bachman’s “She’s So High", which went platinum eleven times over. His album, "I", went platinum the day it was released.

So, naturally, when I sat down to get my first taste of the Norwegian version of Pop Idol I had high expectations of the kind of quality I'd be hearing, especially as I was joining the competition mid-stage; I expected a series of polished performances from the remaining hopefuls. Instead I got an hour of stunning comedy as the potential idols (who were, on the whole, slightly rubbish singers anyway) split my sides. Everyone that I heard opted to sing in English and although they very nearly nailed the pronunciation, the slight Scandinavian accent underpinning the songs made the performers sound like they were slowly slipping under the effects of a tranquilizer intended for a large farm animal. I broke three ribs, they were so tickled.

It's not called "Dan In England"

2006-01-16T19:55:00.000+01:00

Ah... Britain. Yes, the reason for four weeks of silence here at Dan In Norway is that three of those weeks were spent back home in England. It was a great holiday - seeing family and friends; getting along to South Street, Bible School and the mighty New Life; receiving a toilet for Christmas. I also got the haircut my impeded vision so desperately needed. I considered Dave Ross' suggestion to keep the fringe and have my eyes lowered but went for the cheaper option.

Now, it would be right and proper to include in this, my first post of the new year, some kind of summary of the year gone by. But that is what the Old Posts section is for; follow those links on the left to find the chronicles of my first three Norwegian months including much rain, some debate about scouting, the world's longest road tunnel, English visitors, potato-peeling and the death of mandarins.

However, I am now returned to Scandinavia. Apparently Arna had enjoyed two weeks of blue skies before my reappearance but the day my plane touched down the rain began again, along with bicycle-wobbling winds blowing directly against the uphill ride from my house to the church. This week I have paid back for Christmas indulgences. I have paid in full.

Other than the near gale winds things are largely as I left them. The sun still barely makes an effort to get higher than the mountains, the countryside is still pretty and the Norwegians still enjoy a good game of Fantasi - a shocking travesty of entertainment. Imagine charades (which is barely fun itself) with added coded gestures to make the time no fun at all. For example, pointing at different areas of your right arm indicates a geographical location in Norway - it's the kind of amusement you would only indulge in on the last day of term at school when the maths teachers let you play a so-called game that actually involved more learning than good times. The Norse seem to dig it though.

Tomorrow I must try and get some new brake pads. They have been steadily wearing thin and last night it got to the point where I decided to test if I would be able to use the side of my trainer as a makeshift emergency brake. I found out that Converse will not stop a bike.

A Word from Our Sponsor

2005-12-15T23:32:00.000+01:00

For a while today I thought I might have travelled back in time. During a conversation with Marthe, who was revising British history earlier today, I enquired as to what century Norway believes we are in. Her response caused much controversy and dissension among the Norwegians, with one group claiming the official line is that we are in the twenty-first century while a rival faction asserting that the orthodox view is that here, in the present day, we live in the twentieth century. Now, it still isn't clear what the authoritative definition is and, try as I might, I just couldn't explain the logic of the system with enough beef to win the crowd. Tine left convinced that even though the system says we are in the twenty-first century, it is not a logical conclusion. To back this up she reminded us that you wouldn't say a baby was one year old if they had only been alive for six months. Yes, of course this makes no sense.

Sam, my younger brother, then made a good attempt to be king of the nonsense when he admitted that he calls oranges, mandarins, clementines and nectarines all by the name "orange". Who knows what he calls a pumpkin. It doesn't matter because Tine stole the show with the unexpected, bizarre utterance, "mandarins are dead". Is anyone able to either confirm or deny this?

Sam arrived today along with Lucie, who was more than a little bit excited that it was snowing. On the way to meet them it began to fall and I remarked that she would be wetting herself when she saw it. Apparently that is not a common metaphor in Norway so I did my best to clear up any possible confusion. Sam and Lucie will be here until Monday and despite their apparent exhaustion it looks like it could be a busy time.

This evening we were hosted by the wonderful Magny Livden and her husband John Øyvind. Magny runs her own business, producing home-made soap in their converted garage, and has kept me amply stocked since the first week of my arrival in Arna. Perhaps she took pity on my thoroughly un-Scandinavian complexion but, regardless, it truly is the finest smelling stuff this side of her freshly-baked bread. Do the right thing and order some from her website. Handmade soap is the perfect Christmas present, I hope.

The Latest

2005-12-10T18:13:00.000+01:00

This post has been a long time coming, but it's been hard to find the time to blog lately. As well as all the usual activities, I've had more school work and revision to do. I also went on a weekend away with the Rovers, the oldest scouts, which involved such big fun as cooking hotdogs in the snow and being woken up at three in the morning for a wide game. The early wake-up was no bother at all because Øyvind and I won. Going on the trip meant that I sadly missed most of Simen's tenth birthday celebrations. I did, however, give him a football which he described (in Norwegian) as "the perfect present". I had no idea when I gave it to him, but one week earlier his last football met its end under a car. So that worked out well. Yes, times have been busy.

They'll be less busy in my final fortnight before a seasonal return to England as I am done with school. The four weeks of lessons the church bought for me are up, ending with a test of the first five chapters, which I thought was easy, although I will possibly never know my result. Church activities are also winding either up or down; the final Casa Feliz of the year was yesterday, the last normal scout meeting the day before that and KKU will finish for Christmas on Tuesday. And now the weather.

It hadn't rained for a little while but today's unceasing downpour made up for that. This is good news for cycling as the last bit of ice on the roads has been washed away but bad news for Sam and Lucie who had got their hopes up for snow when they visit next week. As I made it clear time and again, the weather will almost certainly be wet and cold - but not cold enough for snow.

My english visitors can look forward to Sunday's scout activities though, carrying blazing torches up a hill together with two hundred or so others. At the walk's end, we will gather around a stage the Rovers half-built today and will finish this week. I was both impressed and amused as I watched them construct the thing. I just couldn't imagine Sarah and Chelle from New Life happily nailing a wall together in the driving rain, in the middle of a wood. But then again, Silje and Sveinung probably wouldn't even know where to begin a happy-slap.

Wear Two Pairs of Socks

2005-11-29T22:31:00.000+01:00

I am grateful for heated flooring. It is getting cold outside - five below zero at the moment - still snowing and the fjord looks like it's beginning to freeze over. If it snows through tonight then it will definately clinch a sledging session tomorrow evening. It shouldn't be too hard to persuade people to come out for that. Of course the place looks beautiful, especially when it snows hard and makes everything go into slow motion. Days are much longer now too, as all the white makes the dim hours that much brighter. I've even got used to dressing for the weather; going to school in wellington boots and two jumpers doesn't feel so weird anymore.

The only negative about all the snow is the way it limits transportation; not in the same way that a light dusting of snowflakes grinds England to a halt, but I mean that I can't ride my bike. I had to walk to church this evening but multiple layers of clothing kept everything in good comfort and it's a small price to pay really. The Londoner in me was suspicious of any groups of youngsters hanging around, wary that they might be wrong 'uns intent on pelting me with snowballs, but I had nothing to fear.

I am anxious about one thing though: my increased sock use means that if I don't put a wash in tomorrow I could be out of clean ones. I mean that in a very real sense.

A Fistful of Ham

2005-11-27T23:18:00.000+01:00

Question: What is a good name for a band? Or, to be more specific, what is a good name for the youth worship group here in Arna? When we played at last Sunday's scout service, John Øyvind wanted to introduce us with a name. At this point we realised he couldn't, as we didn't have one. So I'm calling on you to help christen the band. To help you with your suggestions, let me tell you something about the members of the group:

Fifteen-year-old guitarist Øyvind stands a towering 6'2" tall and couldn't be a nicer, more sociable chap. He can always be relied upon for a light-hearted chat or a bit of banter and as we laid many tables last Saturday we had a good old chuckle that the Norwegian for "dish" sounds quite a lot like the English word "fart". Øyvind loves the Chili Peppers and could launch into Californication at any given moment. Sharing vocal duties are Marthe and Anita. Marthe, sporting dreads, sends text messages in increasingly complex and colloquial Norwegian, throwing in a bit of Swedish too, for who knows what reason. She has recently begun developing her own take on the worship leader hand communication signals expertly employed by Jennie Orange and has the rip taken out of her at school for speaking English with a British accent. Good on her. Anita is possibly the person you'd be most likely to find at the church if you were to drop by at any random time. She puts in a lot of hours and, as far as I can remember, is the only singer I've known who has also perfectly mastered the use of PA equipment. It should also be noted that she is an excellent dancer.

The rhythm section is comprised of a drumming sibling tag team (Miriam and John Håvard) and a ham-fisted Englishman on the bass. John Håvard is a proper Barnabas - I think that every time I speak to or text him he encourages me about how "flink" I am at "norsk". He is a big fan of the Beatles, Elvis and other pop music of the sixties, and regularly invites me round for Indiana Jones or some other quality film. His older sister Miriam is both dreadlocked and allergic to milk. She claims to hate speaking English even though she is rather good at it, and has no small amount of talent when it comes to art. She is also emerging as something of a multi-instrumentalist, filling in on guitar for the absent Øyvind at Casa Feliz this week. Now this is where I come in, slightly old and out of place, fumbling desperately for a bass line that isn't chronically cheesy. I wish I could hit those amazing, discordant notes that sound so impressive but, sadly, I lack the necessary skill. On occasion I am required to play guitar and, to my great joy, drums.

So to the question of names. I've never been in a band that lacked an outstanding name - The Little Ferrets, Agent Bosco Sumo Monkey and Aaron's Beard clearly testify to that. Therefore it is quite important that this one doesn't let me down. Care to comment?

If You Play with Fire, You'll Wet the Bed

2005-11-20T23:10:00.000+01:00

I'm not sure how true this is but it is a genuine example of Norwegian scare tactics; a phrase used by the old to make the young behave - that's what Anne Britt told me when Simen was messing around with a candle at dinnertime today. Norwegians have some curious expressions. For example, if you want to make sure your friend knows that what you're saying is reliable, you may say (in Norwegian), "And you can take that as good fish."

There are some good fish up for grabs now, as I tell you that I was inducted into the scouts today. The ceremony was painless, even enjoyable; it involved a handshake and the collection of a neck scarf-thing and the leather hoop that secures it - I think they're called a toggle and woggle. I wore my new uniform with pride, especially as it enables me to not frighten old ladies if I carry a knife, apparently. That was explained to me this afternoon but I'm not sure I fully understand. And to those of you who think that it's funny to become a scout (that is, all those from Hackney), I would say that while I too once held your unenlightened view, it is important to remember that Indiana Jones was a scout. And that is the end of that.

A good amount of rain today washed away practically all of the snow and ice, so it's less hazardous to walk or cycle. The feeling of Christmas has also weakened slightly too, which is right and proper in my opinion - mid-November is slightly premature for a festive atmosphere. As if to confirm the emotional postponing of Yule, today I ate reindeer, in a very nice casserole with mushrooms (Anne Britt is an excellent cook). The meat tastes rather like beef, I suppose.

I could say more about this busy weekend - Columbia Day raised 80 000 kroner through the longest raffle of my life; Graham Geddis, long gone back to England but still greatly loved in Arna, won a child's mountain bike; I drove a Norwegain car (or possibly minivan) for the first time. But, friends, let me leave you with one final expression - you may use it at your own discretion and convenience. Suppose two of you are in a deadlocked argument about some decision. We all know that one of you will have to give in and just let the other person have their way. You may not like it, but you'll have to put up with it; or, as we say over here, "You have to eat your camel."

Good Times

2005-11-16T23:57:00.000+01:00

Perhaps it's time for a brief update: my texts to John Håvard are significantly improved. They take far less time to write and are certainly less surreal in use of Norwegian. I feel this is a good sign that the lessons are working. At school on Monday we were taught that the word for "extreme weather" is "ekstremvar" and that the phrase "det regner mye i dag" means "it rains much today". That is one observational conversation piece that I could have done with over the last couple of weeks - it would have got a lot of usage, that's for sure. This November has been raining like the clouds are going for a place in the Guiness Book. They're on their way too, as the record rainfall for the month has almost been broken on the sixteenth. The heaviest rain started on Sunday evening, during Anita's baptism. The storm just didn't give up for twenty four hours. It was getting ridiculous; going to school dressed like I'm headed for an arctic quest.

Tuesday morning was better though, just clear and cold. I missed my train and went into the shop inside the station for a minute. When I came out it had all gone dark. Confused for a second, I looked over towards the edge of the sheltered platform... Gutted. Another storm and a ten minute walk from the station wondering how my slightly sketchily waterproof bag is coping with the downpour. But hold on a second, I'm not sure that's rain, it's SNOW - Alright! The good old white stuff continued to fall for most of the rest of the day and was still at it by the time I went to sleep.

If I had the technology to place a photo on here, I'd love to. Then you could see how pretty the whole place has become - even more so than usual. Naturally, Sigur Ros have been on heavy rotation in the CD player; the combination of sound and scenery is hard to beat. It's also good to see pensioners not giving in to a bit of ice on the pavement; coming out with their ski poles to take on the weather. Best of all, though, was that there was enough snow for a sledge session tonight. Some of the sledges are hilarious contraptions including steering, brakes and front suspension. The brakes remained unused. We did a pretty exciting hill run a few times and then hit the road, which was mostly ice, for some high speed pursuits in which John Håvard was closer to getting run over than I'd like him to be. It was great fun, as you can imagine. The evening also provided me with the first opportunity to make use of all my New Life gifts at once. Not only were the hat and gloves where they always are (on my head and hands, respectively), but I also sported both pairs of ski socks at the same time. Thanks, Ichthus New Life - I didn't get cold.

Eple Means Apple

2005-11-13T23:36:00.000+01:00

"Hei. Hyggelig å se deg. Jeg snakker litt Norsk men ikke så mye." Just three of literally several Norwegian sentences I am now proficient in. Despite Thursday's disappointing lesson (I had cold, wet feet as the teacher announced an outbreak of lice at the school), the course is going pretty well. My teacher seems like she knows what she's doing and the classs is full of different nationalities - Brazilians, an Italian, a Sri Lankan, one from Congo - which is a refreshing change from generally monocultural Norway. I find it slightly offensive that even now I am "22 år gammel" I've still got homework to do but my skills are definitely increasing. I estimate I must be at least halfway fluent.

When the day comes that I speak Norwegian all the time I'll certainly miss the slightly bizarre Norwegian use of English. Example:

"Dan, what are you doing?"
"I'm plugging in this lamp."
"No, what are you doing tomorrow?"
"Oh, right. Er, I'm going apple-picking."

I was not joking. Yesterday I went with Kjellmartin's dad, Svein, to collect all the organic apples that will see him and his wife through to next May, plus one hundred litres of apple juice that the Juice Man made in front of us. It took about fifteen crates of apples; first they put them in one machine that crushed them into chunks and then into a tank that squeezed the juice out of them through a membrane. Svein is pretty serious about eating right - he's a man that favours sour milk and grinds his own cornflakes.

As fun as all the apple-related activities were, the primary reason for the ten hour day and one hundred mile round trip was to travel through the world's longest road tunnel, Lærdalstunnelen. It burrows 24.5km (just over fifteen miles) through a mountain two and a half hours away from Arna but, despite its length, Lærdalis unique among tunnels, thanks to the positive effort it makes in catering for claustrophobics. Driving through it, smaller tunnels appear to lead off to the left and the right but are actually dead ends, designed to keep the driver's mind active and the panic attacks at bay. Most impressive, though, are the three large rooms that open out at 6km intervals, lit by blue lights that make you feel a bit like you're back out in the open for a few seconds. Here are the facts, tunnel fans. I'd better do my homework now.

Learning

2005-11-06T22:57:00.000+01:00

The more time a person spends in Norway, the more they will have the realisation of just how hard the average local is. Norwegians are constantly hunting, cross-country skiing, chopping wood and batting not one eyelid at the prospect of running up a mountain. When Martin, the twelve-year-old of the Dalseth family, was skiing two years ago, he found his path was blocked by a hapless young girl. He had two possible options and he chose the honourable, hard route - into a tree. Miriam, who drums for the youth worship group, has to wear glasses ever since the blunt scout knife she pulled out of a piece of bark found it's way into her right eye. She did not cry (well, not for a good hour). Every February, the scouts go on a trip - they find snow drifts, dig into them and spend the night in the holes. When the trees on the side of a mountain in Arna caught fire, all the men of the town walked up to beat it out. Martin's dad Rune, who is an auditor in the city, built most of his own house. And you should see the place.

Even his wife Anne Britt is tough. Dave and Anna Howey found this out when they came to stay at the Dalseth residence for a few days. Anne Britt asked them if they wanted to come out for a walk with her and her friend Solbjørg and they ended up spending two and a half hours ascending and descending the 500m high peak of a local mountain in driving rain. At the top, Anne Britt remembered she had to take Martin for a haircut and promptly ran back down the mountain. When I saw them next, she told me she had taken them on the "Housewife's extreme lunchtime walk". While the extremity of the trek certainly wasn't wasted on the Howeys, it was the fact that a neighbour does the same walk five times a week in the dark that impressed them the most.

It was, of course, great to see Dave and Anna and we spent yesterday walking around Bergen. We took the Fløibanen (a funicular - imagine a tram pulled by wires) up Mount Fløyen, which overlooks Bergen. At the top, as we discussed how incredible it was for a city to spread out and thrive over such a harsh area, I commented that "the harbour is probably the key." I had no idea I was uttering one of the finest puns that Fløyen will ever hear. We walked back down, being constantly passed by Norwegians running up and down the mountainside like it was the easiest thing they'd ever done. Norwegians have an affinity for mountains, which is convenient really. From Monday to Friday this week I had been up a different mountain for the annual prayer and fasting conference that my church runs in Hermon, a ski resort one kilometre above sea level.

John Håtveit, the son of Hermon's owner, makes ski films for a living. He produces amazing DVDs featuring, among other world class skiers, his brother Andreas. Visit skifilm.net to see clips of madcap ski stunts and the trailer for "Strike", his latest DVD. He kindly gave me a copy of it and it's really quite an exciting film.

At this point an important update should be made - no longer is the longest tunnel I've ever been through a pathetic 2.77km. On the way to Hermon, we smashed the old record, replacing it with the awesome new acheivement of 11.4km, that is, seven miles through a mountain. Fantastic.

There were plenty of visitors from England at Hermon - Roger and Faith, Chris and Jen, Graham and Angela Geddis, and Kjellmartin, who I roomed with. It was so good to see them and to even celebrate Chris' birthday in the most unlikely way an Orange could - by eating nothing. The series of talks about the Holy Place were absolute treasures too; almost enough to make up for the fact that I'll miss the climax of Revelation at Bible School this year.

Hermon was also the occasion of my first attempts at song lyric projection in a foreign language. I felt I performed reasonably well, although the frantic search for the songs I needed did affect me. I even had a series of dreams, each in a different foreign language that I didn't understand and was desperately trying to figure out. But it was good to do, not least because it helped me progress a bit in Norwegian.

It was probably inevitable that I would begin picking up Norwegian through doing acetates, and thanks to five days of song projection, my pronunciation of the language is greatly improved. I even know a Graham Kendrick chorus in the native tongue. Sadly though, acetates are not enough. I imagine that, along with grammar, my vocabulary would develop poorly. It's all very well knowing the Norwegian for "atonement" but not if you can't work out which is the men's toilet. So tomorrow I am starting my Norwegian language course at Nygård skole in Bergen. It looks like it's going to be intense - half eight until noon, five days a week, for four weeks. Seventy hours of lessons will hopefully get me to somewhere approaching fluency but please pray that I'll take to the lessons well; I'm finding communication to be awkward at times.

Whenever I send texts to the youth that don't speak so much English I try to throw together some Norwegian using the books I've got. Of course, it often comes out like an idiot toddler might sound, but my meaning is usually communicated. Once though, I was made a mockery of by careless use of predictive texting. Sending a message to John Håvard, I meant to write, "Snakker jeg så dårlig norsk?" This is a question from my reliable Norwegian phrase book, translating as, "Do I speak that bad in Norwegian?" But one inadequate press of the 5 key left the predictive text to come up with, "Smaker jeg så dålig norsk?" Tragically, this small change twists the sentence into, "Do I taste that bad in Norwegian?" Not only a surreal question, but one that I certainly didn't have the desire to ask. John Håvard has coped with the ordeal tremendously though, so no harm done.

The Weather and Sausage Report

2005-10-26T19:04:00.000+02:00

Yesterday was a pretty stormy one, and the first fall of sleet. It fell hard and when it wasn't there was plenty of rain to do the same. Thankfully, Anne Brit offered me and Martin a lift to KKU. KKU is the name of the Tuesday night church youth group and stands for the Norwegian for "Coolest Night of the Week." After the meeting the youth worship group had a practice and I stayed around as I've just taken on the role of helping them along. I am essentially Obi Wan Kenobi. Or Gandalf, if you like. But those old guys never rocked the bass guitar! Oh no. The group didn't have a bass player and so I'm winging it until they find one or I attain enough skill to not need to wing it. Jesse, Sammy, Rob - watch your backs. The main song we played last night was a Norwegian translation of the song "Ancient of Days", made famous by Ron Kenoly's "Lift Him Up" video, a film of live worship from somewhere in America. For the concerts, Kenoly had assembeled an astounding array of Christian musical talent including percussionist Alex Acuña and, almost outrageously, Second Chapter of Acts' Matthew Ward on backing vocals. I did my best to emulate the unforgettable bass player, surely the highlight of Ron's band for anyone who's seen the performance...

Before KKU (which is one letter away from being a distinctly less cool club) I ate with the family. Not Ron Kenoly's family, of course, but the Dalseths, who I live with. When I wrote about how Norwegians peel potatoes at the table I had no idea that just over a week later I would be sat at the dinner table peeling a rather large hot dog sausage. But that is the very thing that I was doing and I learned that it takes no small amount of skill to skin a hot dog cleanly. The most profound lesson I've learned, however, is that when in Norway, never accept a "merrabitt" when offered. It translates as "the bite of a female horse" and involves the perpetrator grabbing a fistful of the victim's inner thigh, as hard as his strength allows. It's less than pleasant and I bet they don't put that information in the "Lonely Planet" books.

Amen, Amen, Lego Humin

2005-10-23T17:33:00.000+02:00

To say that I've experienced a language barrier in Norway would probably be a slight oversatement. Possibly more like a steep language curb, I reckon. Most people here are fluent in english (even if they almost all tell themselves that they know next to nothing of the language) with only the very young and the very old being hard to talk to. However, my lack of Norwegian is a slight problem during meetings. I can't expect the whole church to speak english on Sunday mornings just to make it easier on me. I've asked them and they said no. I accept their decision. So tomorrow I'm catching the train to Bergen again to sign up for Norwegian lessons at a school for foreigners entering the country. Apparently they assess you as to whether you should be in the slow, medium or fast group based partly on how you've managed learning other languages. I'll be taking along my New Testament Greek pass certificate, for sure.

Unfortunately, I don't know how long it will be until I can start my lessons as they have to wait for the course to be filled up before it goes ahead. So if you wouldn't mind praying that things get a move on, I'd be most grateful. There's been talk of getting me a Learn Norwegian CD-ROM but other than that my only current aids are a phrase book (thanks go out to Tim Stone) and some infants picture books. That's not a joke.

Amen, amen, lego humin... I have, clearly, still got it. But please, for the sake of consistency, may all comments on this post be made in English. Thank you.

Songs (Protest and Otherwise)

2005-10-21T23:20:00.000+02:00

Last Saturday, at the Annual Scout Jamboree Day, there was karaoke action on the PS2 and one of the available songs was A-ha's seminal pop hit, "Take On Me". Surprisingly, I had to push for its first play (probably not a song from the average scout's era, to be fair), but once they'd heard the music that will surely one day become their national anthem, they knew they'd struck oil. Rich, eighties oil with a then-groundbreaking video and still-hyperactive synth solo. The tune endured numerous plays that day. What a coincidence then, that when I took the train to Bergen on Wednesday evening I was shown a sculpture and sometime fountain designed by Morten Harket, lead singer of A-ha!

Marthe did quite well to hide her immense pride as she pointed it out. Scandinavian cool. At the time I was queuing up with a few of the youth from Arna to get into a free Kings of Convenience gig. Kings of Convenience are probably Norway's most successful indie duo, sound very much like Simon and Garfunkle and are comprised of Napoleon Dynamite and Frodo Baggins, as this picture goes some way to prove.

The gig was free because it was being held in protest against the infamous Clear Channel Outdoor's recent attempts to have adverts allowed at Norwegian bus stops. However, the Ringbearer said that the Kings of Convenience weren't there to protest, but to celebrate in anticipation of it not going ahead. Norway is hilarious.

Cultural Differences, Part One - Time and Potatoes

2005-10-18T12:40:00.000+02:00

After one week in Scandanavia a few distinctions have become apparent between the way of life I'm used to and how things are now so I thought I'd share the less obvious ones with you:

1) TELLING THE TIME - In England, if I was to say "see you at half four", you would understand that we were to meet at 16:30; that "half" means "half past". But in Norway, "half four" means "halfway to four", that is, 15:30! It took a couple of separate explanations for me to understand this.

2) MEAL TIMES - I still haven't fully grasped the eating schedule here, but my current understanding is that you have breakfast first thing, lunch at 12 noon, dinner at about 4pm and tea roughly at 8pm. Tea could be a sandwich or two, waffles, something like that.

3) PEELING POTATOES - Whereas the english way of serving boiled potatoes is to peel, boil and dish them up, the norwegian way is to just boil them. Then, at the dinner table, everyone stabs a fork into a potatoe and skillfully peels it with their table knife. Never in my life had I witnessed such a dinner-time act.

With your new knowledge you should be able to navigate Scandinavia without looking like a foreigner whatsoever. Congratulations.

Sim Cards, Waterproofs and a Scout Marathon

2005-10-15T12:40:00.000+02:00

I wasn't going to write this post. If I update too much, Dan In Norway might turn into a flabby beast like satellite television (or any other kind of television, for that matter); a lot of nothing. It's best if I keep the blog lean. But today's scout activitiy brings with it fifteen hours of broadband access; I think I'll make the most of it.

Regular readers will be relieved to hear that my shopping yesterday was an all-round success. I'd bumped into a couple of the youth at Arna station who were going into Bergen for hats and a film. Hats made sense - although the rain's stayed away since the twenty-four hour downpour on Thursday, the temperature's really dropped (-2 today, I think). But they showed me to a sports shop I wouldn't have found otherwise and got rain trousers and uber-wellingtons for not much money. Good. I also got a bit of a guided tour of Bergen (fish market, blue stone meeting point, record store, et cetera) and made my way back to Arna, where I found the sim I needed.

In the evening we had the first Casa Feliz, an evangelistic youth group that went down really well. Plenty of non-Christians there and while it was mostly fun and games (a murder mystery...) they all stayed for the worship time and bite-sized preach.

Today is the day of the International Scout Jamboree. In Arna that means that we've all come down to a local secondary school for continuous movies, video games and internet, starting at 11am Saturday and finishing at 2am Sunday. I've qualified for the second round of the doubles dance mat tournament and look forward to some Indiana Jones at 1am. Raiders of the Lost Ark is one of my all-time favourite films.

Right. Tomorrow I'm going to Torbjorn's to watch Brann, who are my new Norwegian team. They're the local team, sort of mid-table but still the best-supported team in Norway (so I'm told) and their name means "fire". But for now I think I'd better try and hook up to the Arsenal commentary before they call me for karaoke. The question is: which will be less torture?

Two Thousand Seven Hundred and Seventy

2005-10-13T22:03:00.000+02:00

Well, the flight was safe, early and cheap as the lady at the check-in desk knocked loads off the price of my overweight baggage. The first couple of days in Arna were unusually warm and then the rain came. It rained for the whole of last night and all of today. It's due to get better but try telling that to my socks. My host family, the Dalseths, are lovely and the cooking is good. I'm straight into the thick of meetings already and yesterday travelled with Terje to Vos for a cell group/potential church plant meeting. It took about an hour to get there but the route was amazing. Lucky for me, one of the tunnels is having work done on it so we had to take the scenic route. I saw Norway's largest in-land island and lots of fjords. The whole car journey was stunning. We went through loads of tunnels, too. At the entrance they say how long they are and the longest I've been through so far is 2,770 metres, getting on for two miles! I'll keep you updated on developments in the area of Dan Record Tunnel Length as much as I can but Norwegian keyboards are taking some getting used to (extra letters: å, ø, æ).

Well, I'm not There Yet...

2005-09-27T20:06:00.000+02:00

...but I will be on Tuesday 11 October. Catching the 1150 Norwegian Air Shuttle from London Stanstead, I'll be breathing fresh Bergen air by 3pm local time.

This is Norway:

The red circle roughly shows the part of Norway where I'll be living. It's a town called Arna, near the city of Bergen and, confusingly, in the municipality of Bergen. It is in the county called Hordaland. Bergen is the second largest city in Norway, and is known as "THE GATEWAY TO THE FJORDS" among the Norwegian Tourist Board, so that's nice.

I'm in Arna to work with the youth of the local Ichthus link church; discipling as best I can and hopefully inspring them about local church. Interestingly, I'll also be working alongside the Arna scout group; tying knots as best I can and hopefully surviving eskimo rolls.

Then, come the summer, I'll be winging my way back to London. In the meantime, this is my record of what's going on in Norway. You might as well read it, I've got to be in your top five Englishmen in southwestern Norway, at least.