Norway: The Secret Bunker
By Benjamin Keene

A kung fu instructor, the man sitting across from me was also in the Royal Norwegian Navy and looked the part: the tight jersey he wore atop dark blue cargo pants and combat boots did little to conceal his muscular upper body. He told us he had served in Afghanistan in 2001 but had since spent his time in Norway’s rural northern counties detonating old World War II ordnance. My grandfather had himself been a sailor in that conflict, and I detected a similarly dark sense of humor in our loquacious drinking companion as he entertained us with his military misadventures.

In one story, his commanding officer received a phone call from an elderly woman who had found explosives in her barn, and promptly sent him out to investigate. When he arrived at the small farm with his partner, she calmly led them to her discovery as if she had asked for a tree stump to be removed. On another assignment he drove a truck nearly the entire length of the country to carry out his orders, such as they were, only to be instructed to return to base immediately upon reaching the intended destination. Apparently someone at the top had changed his mind. Perhaps the riskiest mission described involved boating out to a remote part of the vestfjorden in a rubber raft to retrieve a submerged bomb. Listening to him describe the extreme beauty of the setting, it was if somehow he didn’t understand that a bad day at work could have some seriously unpleasant implications. 

Bald, and quick to laugh, he anxiously campaigned for us to remain at the bar and continue drinking with him into the night. He had run out of stories, but that was no reason to go to bed now. Already two cans of Kilkenny ale closer to earnestly considering nearly any irresponsible idea, I hesitated for a single moment, a period of time almost long enough to seem thoughtful. And while I realized that his liver had likely been through its own rigorous basic training, there was something about his argument that I found compelling.

“Just one more glass of wine then?” he asked rhetorically.

Could I really refuse?

Ultimately curiosity prevailed, and we agreed to follow him to an abandoned bunker in the hillside up the road. My trip to the city of Harstad had taken me across the Arctic Circle the day before, and the air felt appropriately chilly, as we stepped outside into the wee hours of an October morning. Excitement helped to warm my extremities somewhat, and knowing the distance to our next destination was less than a mile made his proposal all the more persuasive. Granted, I still didn’t know the name of this man standing next to me (my poor ears had all but given up trying to understand anyone), but then again invitations to explore government property aren’t exactly commonplace. Consequently, I dismissed the nagging voice of reason urging me to abandon this foolish errand in favor of a full night’s rest.

Walking in two pairs along silent streets, my friend Kari and our guide in front, her Norwegian friend Cathrine and I following close behind, my fog of intoxication lifted long enough for me to catch a glimpse of my surroundings.

I began to think about travel in terms of giving in, letting the cumulative experiences of days and weeks spent abroad determine their own outcome. Too often perhaps, concerns about seeing the authenticity in the places we visit ensnare us in nets of preconception. We pore over guidebook after guidebook and obsessively consult websites, willing the business of travel to take us by the hand and faithfully show us the full array of world cultures, their oldest customs and historic traditions.

On my first visit to Europe as a student, I was guilty of over-planning an itinerary around what I believed were the top attractions on the continent. It seemed like the right approach at the time. Each morning my eager friend and I dragged ourselves out of bed at seven sharp to take in as many museums and cathedrals as we possibly could before dark. We kept up this routine for three weeks until the last thing we wanted to see was another fresco or flying buttress. That night in Norway, miles from anything I would have once dreamed of spending money to get to, a line from Moby Dick suddenly sprang to mind. The truth about this relatively remote part of Scandinavia couldn’t be found in a map or a guidebook, but that was precisely what made it worth visiting.

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