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Golden Bodies My meter indicated seven hundred forty-four kilometers cycled during our week in Norway. On a Sunday morning, an unobtrusive road sign announced our entry into the Konungariket Sverige (Kingdom of Sweden). No border guards. No passport checks. The first sign for a town pointed to a place named Ed. Another pointed to Mo. The caution signs were blue and yellow--Sweden's colors. A fellow watering his lawn filled our water bottles. His granddaughter was a typical Swedish child: hair so blond it was almost white, skin bronzed golden brown, bright blue eyes and cute as a button. Most of the Swedes were extremely good looking; their natural good looks were accentuated at this time of year by tanned skin. If sun tanning was out of fashion, someone forgot to tell the Swedes. An open grocery store in Hallevadsholm thankfully accepted visa. Sitting beneath a stately tree on the short trimmed lawn of the closed railway station we slurped yogurt. After lunch I noticed the little old woman who tried to talk to us before lunch had almost made it down the street. Two hours. She was averaging a block an hour. The poor thing stared longingly across the busy highway. I was sure she would have crossed if not for fear of being hit. After lunch, a meandering country lane to Svartborg turned to gravel. Some parts were so steep I kept spinning out. We passed a kerchiefed old woman wearing a holey yellow sweater herding milk cows up the road, pumping a rickety bike in her rubber boots, a switch in one hand. She waved the switch at us as we passed. A couple of hundred meters later Sharon and I stopped to take off our fleece pullovers. The woman came pedaling back. She disappeared round the corner reappearing a few seconds later, coming back towards us. As she passed this time, she pointed to a promontory beside the lake saying, "That's a good spot for camping." Swedes took their "every man's right" public access to free camping seriously. Munkedal had a bank machine and we withdrew a thousand Swedish kronors. Swedish krona (crown) exchanged about five to every Canadian dollar. Out of town we took the wrong road and climbed a steep hill. Down the other side, we hit the jackpot: a sign showed not one, but two, dead-end roads pointing off into the distance. Somehow, the busy E6 highway we had seen on our way into town had disappeared. We retraced to the top of the hill and asked directions from folks sitting in their yard. Following their directions back through Munkedal, we found E6 and took it as far as a turnoff, retreating from the steady drone of traffic. No Camping signs, dashed my illusion of Sweden being blessed as a freelance camper's paradise. The tourist literature declared any field or forest fine for freelance camping. I wondered how actual enforcement of those signs took place. Opting not to find out we continued to more conducive possibilities. Sweden outlawed flatulence. I continually saw signs for Infart and Utfart. My favorite was Hinderfart. It sounded like a squash rule: "Hey, Hinderfart! Replay that point. I couldn't see the ball--my eyes were watering." When I rode past a sour-pussed geezer hanging over his fence I half-expected to see a sign: Oldfart.Past Rotvik we found a small lake. It looked like an ideal place to stay. Facilities and firepits. Unfortunately, things were not always as they appeared. At the trail head there were two outdoor toilets. We hadn't seen outdoor toilets at a road pullout since we left North America. I opened the creaky door and entered. Sharon went in the other. Instead of a long drop as I expected, there sat a white pail. I gingerly snapped open the lid, greeting a brimming pail of fetid soupy shit. For the pail to be that full and sickly, someone must have dumped their motorhome toilet. I dropped the lid. At the same time a scream from Sharon pierced the stench. Had she discovered the same thing? Nope. Something worse. She stumbled out of the stall clutching the nape of her neck. Angry yellow jackets swarmed above her head. The door hung open and I could see a huge paper wasp nest suspended from the rafters like a foreboding ashen moon. The bees knew she was going to open that beastly pail and stung her before she could release the ghastly odor. She yelled at me to flee. Allergic to bees when I was younger, I didn't wait to be told twice. We pushed our bikes to a clearing away from the nest--the angry yellow jackets still hovered about. At a tent site I found a barely used disposable barbecue. Packing it in a plastic bag I tied it onto the back of my bike. A slightly dented Teflon frying pan laid nearby; I took it for Arran and Rebecca. I prepared our finicky stove. Every evening I took the jet out and cleaned it, before even attempting to light the stove. I rapped the fuel delivery tube on a rock and, wonderously, a lump of lead fell out. At first I thought it was a tiny rock, but on closer examination, I found I could scrape off the soot and it was shiny underneath. We made pizza on flat pita bread with hamburger, cheese, tomato and pineapple. Divine. The stove no longer sputtered and flared: it had made a complete recovery. |
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