Gunnar Garfors - 198: How I Ran Out of Countries*

GUNNARGARFORS

HOW IRAN OUT OF COUNTRIES*

Smashwords Edition,License Notes

This ebook is licensedfor your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold orgiven away to other people. If you would like to share this bookwith another person, please purchase an additional copy for eachrecipient. If youre reading this book and did not purchase it, orit was not purchased for your use only, then please return to yourfavorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you forrespecting the hard work of this author.

2015 GunnarGarfors

garfors.com

First published in 2014in Norway by Det Norske Samlaget.

TRANSLATED AND ADAPTED:The author

COVER PHOTO: LindaCartridge

COVER DESIGN: JohanneHjorthol

FONTS: Garamond andIndustry Inc

ISBN:978-0-9964785-0-2

* By VisitingRandom People on Incredible Travels to Every Country in the WholeWide World

This book is based on factual events, as I rememberthem. Dialogues have been reconstructed to the best of my ability.Some given names have been changed. Full names are real, unlessotherwise stated.

There are some90 photographs in the Norwegian version of this book. You can seemost of them online by visiting garfors.com

Thank you for flying with us! thecaptain said over the crackling speakers of the aging Boeing 737,representing a less than famous European airline.

He could havesaid whatever. I wouldnt have cared less. I had been to 197countries. This was to be my last. I would soon have visited everycountry in the world. All 198. With a story to tell from each andevery one of them.

The instant theplane touched down I felt goose bumps all over my body. I was aboutto finish my project. Every country. The madness. My lifes work. Ifelt empty. What now? I felt despair. Never another new country tovisit? Never that peculiar sensation when you are about to ventureinto unknown territory? Never any more forced thoughts abouttravels, impossible visas or erratic route combinations?

But I washappy, more than anything. Joyful, ecstatic, upbeat. And my legscarried my body at a very high speed from the plane across thetarmac, and I was among the first five people in the queue.

I soon reachedinto the air in a celebratory stretch just as my passport was to bestamped by a policeman, in the grim airport of a remote Africancountry. This was it. The venue didnt quite match the occasion.The concrete walls were cold, white and ugly. I noticed some lapisblue graffiti in a couple of spots near the floor - bored queueingpassengers were to blame, I guessed.

The airconditioners made unhealthy sounds, so did the impatient people inthe queue behind me. They wanted to get through passport controlASAP. So did I.

I was virtuallyinside! Although it looked like my bizarre behavior made the greyhaired policeman think twice. Should he not stamp the passportafter all? Would he order me to return on the same flight? Couldhe?

Shit!

Most of thefuss had started as a bet with my good friend, Ola Akselberg. MyMuslim friends joke that I dont need to marry as long as I havehim, because he nags me more than four wives ever could. Its agood thing he lives on the outskirts of Oslo - I can barely hearhim downtown where I live, on the shortest street in Norway.

I was hosting aparty at my place when I told him, Ola, I will visit every countryin the world.

Every country?How many countries are there? he asked.

197, Ireplied. This was 2009, two years before South Sudan was welcomedas a member of the United Nations and the number increased to198.

Ha! There isno chance in hell that you will make it! he assured me.

Oh, no? Iasked, offering him my hand. You wanna bet?

OK, but youhave to finish by the time you are forty, he stipulated.

My hand wasstill there. Ola grabbed it and we shared a long handshake. The betwas official. We even had witnesses. There wasnt too much atstake, though. Only honor, glory, and beer. One beer for everycountry. I had 112 countries left at the time, and I had to visitthem within six years to win.

Months passed,and the odds of me actually managing to visit every country beforeI turned forty were rapidly diminishing. Ola even agreed to add abottle of rum to our bet when South Sudan became independent. Olais a fair guy.

Fair, with oneexception. He organizes his annual sheep head-eating party everyJanuary, something he has done since the 90s. If you miss two ofhis parties, for whatever reason, you are banned from futureparticipation. You will also be punished for not finishing yourhead; for not drinking enough aquavit (a strong liqueur flavoredwith caraway seeds); or, for refusing to eat at least one sheepeye.

The problem isthat Olas sheepheads are too good, so we will accept pretty muchany rule. Unfortunately, Ola has realized this. Our little revengeis his nickname, which came about during the height of theSeinfeld sitcom fame: The Sheep Nazi.

But, being afair person myself, I cant really blame Ola for the predicament Ifound myself in. My fate as a traveler was sealed long before thatbet, and long before I had ever met Ola. I developed itchy feet ata very early age.

I was fouryears old, and lived in Naustdal with my mother and little brother,ystein. Naustdal is a village on the West Coast of Norway, tinybut beautiful, with fjords, mountains, glaciers, rivers,waterfalls, forests, and islands.

Mom had takenus on a walk down the road to the mailboxes. The envelope hunt wason. It was always exciting. Would the envelope from Dad be theretoday?

The envelopewas unmistakable. It was white and thick, with a blue and reddotted line around the front. A blue box in the bottom left cornersaid, Par avion, and the stamps had strange characters on them.Even I could tell.

We ran backhome with our prize, and I got to open it. ystein wanted to, buthe was just two. Only four-year-olds got to open specialenvelopes.

There wereseveral sheets of paper inside. They were boring. They were forMom. She had to read them later - we insisted on being read toaloud first by Dad.

I inserted theaudiocassette into the little stereo on the kitchen table andquickly pressed the play button.

ystein smiledin awe. Dads voice was loud and clear on the tape. He worked as amedical doctor on Royal Viking Sea, a cruise ship that was sailingon the other side of the world. I didnt quite understand how. Momhad told us that the world was round, so didnt that mean Dad andthe ship would be sailing upside down? Never mind, that wasntimportant. Dad worked there, and he spoke to us, so it couldnt betoo bad or too dangerous.

It was like awalkie-talkie, except that it took forever to get a reply. We didof course insist on replying to our dad in the same manner. Werecorded stories about our lives in Naustdal, Mom wrote a letter toDad, and we put all of it into an envelope and sent it back to theother side of the world. For it to travel that far, we had to put alot of stamps on it. Most of them had the head of our king on them,King Olav. He looked like a nice man.

It must havebeen amazing for our dad to hear his two sons tell stories from farafield, with Mom inspiring us in the background. It wasnt alwayseasy to keep telling him stuff for many minutes on end. Our mom isfrequently heard asking us questions to make sure we didnt forgetanything.

Dad, on theother hand, always knew what to tell us. He shared stories aboutthe Forbidden City, the Great Wall, and about boats that had to bemaneuvered by long sticks. I remember wondering why they didnthave oars in China. He also told stories about grizzly bears inAlaska, about police officers riding on horses in Canada, and kidsriding on boards with wheels in California.