Whales, orcas and polar night
Today marks the start of the polar night (or mørketid, as the Norwegians call it), a strange phenomenon peculiar to the Arctic and announcing a (very) long, cold and exciting winter ahead. I could observe a significant change in sunlight during the last few weeks, which went from your regular sunrise at 8 in the morning, sunset at 8 in the evening, to... barely anything at all. Although it will not be dark all day from now on, the twilight we are left with only lasts a few hours before night takes over.
The sun is officially below the horizon on November 27, but the tall mountains surrounding the island already block its view, which is an excellent opportunity for early celebration.
At 10 this morning, a little horde of preschoolers filled the University's Labyrint (a sort of spiral sculpture sitting in the centre of my faculty), cheerfully carrying brightly-coloured candles which they then carefully placed around the fountain. The atmosphere felt much warmer and koselig, but this was not the only surprise of the day: a man with a guitar appeared and began to sing "Vi tenner våre lykter". The children (and adults!) joined in and it was as if Christmas were right around the corner. He then closed the musical session with a more rhythmic, motivational chant called "Å mørketid" and bounced up and down with joy. Young and old alike rejoiced, welcoming the darkness with open arms and a big smile. It was genuinely one of the sweetest experiences I had in Norway. If I were to feel down because of the lack of sun, I can now recall this moment and smile to myself.
Earlier this month, I went on a boat that sailed to the fjords of Skjervøy, on a private tour organised by Jonas Beyer Petersen. Half-asleep, a friend and I arrived to the harbour at 5 am, settled in the cosy cabin with the other passengers and began a trip that would last sixteen hours. Waves shook the boat up and down, down and up, making the mountains appear and disappear from view in a matter of seconds, but calmer sea finally came around when we entered the fjords. There, in the distance, were several spouts of water coming from something hidden, a giant of the sea. A pod of orcas, otherwise known as killer whales (or panda whales, if you want to be affectionate), was travelling in front of our very eyes. It was our first encounter with such magnificent animals, and as we got closer to them I could feel my excitement mounting. It felt like a privilege to see them, even when they were flashing by the boat, as if in some sort of race against the herrings they were hunting. The most astonishing moment, however, was when she came face to face with even greater, imposing creatures: humpback whales. I could not believe my eyes when I saw them peering out from the waves they were producing, swimming swiftly past us. Some of them dived back in the water with their nearly fantastical caudal, in a graceful slow motion that did not prepare me for the spectacle that sometimes followed: whole pods of whales jumping out of the water vertically, without warning and in unision, engulfing large amounts of wriggling fish in a single mouthful.
Impressive, enchanting and memorable; what an eventful month.
