Growing up in Norway, Christmas Day was usually wildly anti-climactic. We opened presents on Christmas Eve, and by the 25th, the euphoria of the previous night’s bonanza had died. Only the lingering self-righteous disappointment over unfulfilled wishes remained.

Convention in my village dictated that the day must be spent with family.

I had just spent ONE evening with them, and while there was nothing wrong with them as such, the concept of being OBLIGED to enjoy their company was distasteful.

I longed for nothing so much as to see my friends, neighbours, or anybody, really, as long as they were not family.

In time, a grudging acceptance that a short walk was permissible in the afternoon developed. But it had to fit between two of the extraordinary number of meals taken on that day. Consequently, I was confined to my immediate surroundings. That forced me to learn to appreciate living close to nature.

Since March this year, life has had much in common with my childhood’s Christmas Day, except, I live in Brussels—not close to nature. Luckily, though, I live near a park.

There is something about the urban park; the sudden presence of green among the wreckage of what humanity curiously has chosen to call progress.

But is the park a satisfactory substitute for nature?

My younger self would have protested wildly against such blasphemy. But my older, possibly wiser, but certainly more battle-worn self has come to hold more pragmatic views of things.

Whatever the urban park may be, it is undoubtedly better than NO nature.

So, come March; I began walking in Woluwe Park every day. Soon I walked every day AND every night, and when I didn’t walk, I bicycled.

As time passed, I learned the proper place of every loose rock, every broken branch, and a good number of dead leaves. If anything changed from one day to the next, I took it as a personal affront.

While it may have set off a dormant streak of OCD in me, I firmly believe Woluwe Park to have been essential in keeping up my spirits this year.

Merry Christmas, Woluwe Saint-Pierre!

Until this year, Belgium had been more of a ‘base camp’ than a place where I spent my free time. This year changed that. Suddenly unable to travel ‘outside’, it became necessary to seek refuge from the everyday-routine domestically.

I have long been lamenting the lack of mountains in Belgium. But, one cannot in good conscience hold a country accountable for its topography.

This year, through a forced change of perspective, I have started to recognise Belgium for the many things it HAS —rather than grumble about the few things it HAS NOT.

Or at least for the most part that is true.

There are aspects to Belgium that have made me realise certain qualities that I took for granted while growing up in Norway. But, lest you mistake my intent, I hasten to point out that those qualities are attributable to nature rather than culture.

Belgium is almost wholly ‘tamed’: every surface suitable for cultivation or construction has been farmed or built. What nature is left is the parts in between.

Norway has less than half the population, more than twelve times the land area and consist, for the most part, of land that is too steep, too snowy, too cold, too rainy or too distant to be economically attractive.

Consequently, in times of controlled movement, Norway offers more nature per inhabitant than Belgium. But that is not to the detriment of natural Belgium, nor the self-aggrandisement of Norwegians. In time, and much to my dismay, I am sure we will manage to subjugate most of our nature, too.

However, to usher out an unusual year, I wish to celebrate Belgian nature each day until the new year’s bells chime.

Today, I go back to summer and two places on the Semois River: Tombeau de Geant, seen from Botassart, and Frahan, seen from Rochehaut.

The walk from Botassart to Bouillon comes highly recommended and did much to revive my spirits this year.

And why not kayak back down?

Not even as a failure had my misadventure been complete.

My walk had yielded several photos of the mountain I had wanted to climb with which I was pleased. And, the sunset had been—as is the custom of sunsets—faultless.

But… to every silver lining, there is a cloud, and that cloud was now on my mind. My car was in urgent need of liberation from the clutches of the desert.

I took to pondering over solutions to my predicament. I first went over all secular options I could think of. But having exhausted these, for the briefest of time, my mind turned to religion.

Contrary to the fundamental doctrine of my upbringing, and for the first time in my life, I found myself coveting my neighbour’s ox.

I did not wish to lure his wife from him nor to dispossess him of his house, donkey or any anything else he might hold title to. And, I did not envy him his servants, whether male, female or gender-fluid. But his ox now, that might have been useful.

Some might at this stage point out that I had arrived at holy scripture and livestock solutions rather too quickly, bypassing more conventional means of car-rescue. To understand my train of thought, it is useful to know a little about my many and varied failings as a human being.

I find those solutions best that allow my role in the making of the underlying problem to remain obscure. Such solutions can by careful choice of words, be moulded into triumphs of human ingenuity, rather than conclusive evidence of an unsound mind.

On reflection, however, there seemed to be no way out of this proverbial and literal hole that excluded seeking help from others. My self-preservation instincts pulled rank on my pride.

I sought in vain for mitigating factors in which I could embalm the lacerated remains of my dignity. But, as hard as I thought, I could think of nothing to justify my folly.

Back on the main road, I stopped an ageing pickup containing eight(!) non-judgemental locals who were well-accustomed to the feeble-minded eccentricities of tourists.

By their inherent goodwill, brought forward by twenty Jordanian Dinars, my car was restored to the paved surface to which it belonged, and I with it.

And then the starts came out.

I was standing on the rock formation known as the ‘Little Bridge’ in Wadi Rum, posed for a classic tourist photo.

I am not in the habit of appearing in my photographs. However, on this occasion, I needed some scale to convey the dimension of the scene.

Now, I am no conventional ‘matchbox’ and the ‘Little Bridge’ would have looked less ‘little’ with anyone else standing on it, but needs must when it couldn’t be otherwise.

I felt uncomfortable.

Many would hasten to point out that they, too, would feel uncomfortable if they were dressed like me.

But that wasn’t it.

I was, then as I am now, oblivious to fashion. The conflicting visual aesthetic of my hat, shirt and trousers were in my mind offset by the unity they displayed in their complete unsuitability for my person.

Nor was it the height of the drop.

A fall, if it wouldn’t be too far down, which in this case it wasn’t, held the promise of a good anecdote. And if it would be too far…, well, then at least it would be a memorable passage.

The ‘Little Bridge’ was not the only rock bridge in Wadi Rum, nor was it the most majestic one. But, it was the one closest to the visitor centre, and therefore included as the first stop on nearly all tours of Wadi Rum.

Its absence was likely to be noted, should it no longer be there.

The very presence of a natural stone arch is testament to rock that whithers and erodes quickly. This stone arch was not so sturdy as to be unbreakable—one day it would.

I spoke a silent prayer under my breath that that day would be some time in the distant future. And, that if it was ordained to be on this day, to make it in the afternoon.

My fear, in summary, was the prospect of entering into Jordanian tourism history as the man who broke the Little Bridge—the man who took from the world, permanently and irreparably, one of the most visited attractions in Wadi Rum.

By divine intervention, defiance of physics or sheer luck, I do not know; but, to my knowledge, the bridge is still there.

The New Year was kicked off with a bonfire, Champagne and entry-level fireworks in accordance with the latest Norwegian law on pyrotechnics. (From right to left: Natasja, Kjetil and Asgjerd).

Om vi skulle verte tekne for å ha trengt oss inn på ulovleg grunn tenkte vi å seie at vi berre var dumme turistar, noko som knappast ville vere å lyge. Jebel Hafeet, Al Ain, UAE. (Foto: Mike Cheremshynskyi)

– “That will probably be a little difficult for you”, sa den spinkle, vesle indaren i det eg klatra over metallgjerdet som stengde vegen til den verkelege toppen av Jebel Hafeet, omlag 150 meter over parkeringsplassen der dei fleste seier seg nøgde. Han refererte både til sjølve prosessen med å ta seg over gjerdet og det faktum at motbakken framfor meg ikkje såg ut til å harmonere med det generøse magemålet eg la for dagen i den heller trange t-skjorta mi.

Mike og Tor Gunnar i fin driv på veg mot toppen av Jebel Hafeet

Vi var usikre på kva gjerdet betydde. På den eine sida kunne det ganske enkelt vere eit tiltak for å førebyggje sivile søksmål frå spesielt talentlause amerikanske turistar; på den andre sida kunne det naturlegvis også vere ein del av grensa mellom Oman og UAE. I siste tilfellet ville vi vere betydeleg dårlegare stillte enn i det fyrste om vi skulle bli “fakka”, men som etniske nordmenn (og ukrainarar) levna ikkje situasjonen oss noko reellt val: vi måtte til toppen.

Meg sjølv på toppen av Jebel Hafeet, med sine vel 1 100 moh det høgste punktet i Abu Dhabi. Tor Gunnar og Mike meinte det kunne vere lurt å ikkje gjere seg alt for synleg med tanke på at vi var på ulovleg område, slikt kunne imidlertid ikkje eg late meg stanse av. (Foto: Mike Cheremshynskyi)

Al Ain Palace, det eldste hotellet i Abu Dhabi. Ein gong palasset til Sheik Zayed bin Sultan al Nahyan – no tilhaldsstad for brunstige tyskarar og kvinnelege småentreprenørar. I bakgrunnen, Le Royal Meridien med den roterande takrestauranten sin.

Grunna innrykk av feriegjester vart leilegheita til Oskar midlertidig overfylt og som sist ankomne nordmann i Abu Dhabi vart det mitt lodd å forflytte meg til Al Ain Palace for nokre dagar. Her fekk eg oppleve ei ny side av Abu Dhabi. Eg hadde eigentleg forestilt meg at dette emiratet, som er strengt religiøst, ville vere litt restriktivt når det kom til slike ting som omsetning og konsum av alkohol og seksualtenester, men det var feil; på Al Ain Palace var omsetninga av båe varekategoriar i full gang allereie i sekstida på kvelden når eg kom attende frå arbeid.

Dei to fyrste nettene hadde eg den tvilsame gleda av å ha ein tyskar på naborommet. Klokka sju om kvelden var han i gong med det eg trur må ha vore dagens fyrste runde med “kinesisk take-away” som småentreprenørane vert kalla her nede. Hadde det vore jentene som laga ein så fælsleg lyd som eg høyrde frå naborommet hadde eg ringt politiet. Det var imidlertid tyskaren sjølv som stod for lydane; det må venteleg ha vore uttrykk for noko han tykte om, men det høyrdest knappast slik ut for utanforståande eller -liggande.

Men det er ikkje nok med det. På hjørnet av Al Ain Palace ligg eitt ulovleg men “akseptert” alkoholutsal. Her kjem ikkje-heilt-rettruande muslimar i bilar med sota ruter og kjøper brennevin i diskret forpakning som vert plassert rett i bagasjerommet, teke imot betaling for gjennom ei smal glipe i bilvindauget og sidan aldri meir spurd..

Det mest underlege ved dette er at Al Ain Palace det eldste hotellet i Abu Dhabi, og at det tidlegare har vore palasset til den mykje omtykte Sheik Zayed, grunnleggjaren av UAE. Såleis burde alt liggje til rette for at hotellet kunne ha vore mykje meir attraktivt enn det er i dag – om det berre hadde gjort litt meir ut av historia si og litt mindre ut av ekstratenestene som vert selde på staden.

Two thinkers thinking! Myself (left) and a dromedarian at a camel farm on the Abu Dhabi – Al Ain road, Abu Dhabi, UAE. (Photo: Mike Cheremshynskyi)

Burj al Arab sett frå souqen Madinat Jumeirah. Ikkje tvil om at det er eit storflott bygg, men er det ein turistattraksjon dersom ein ikkje bur der?

Etter å ha forbrote meg mot Sabbaten på fredag og arbeidd mesteparten av dagen tok eg og kolleaa Mike oss fri laurdag for å ta ein kikk på Dubai. I motsetnad til Abu Dhabi er Dubai velkjent for folk. Folk som ikkje har vore i Dubai trur gjerne at alt der dreiar seg om off-shore båtrace; om luksushotell; om raske bilar; og om søkkrike sjeikar – noko som forsåvidt stemmer godt overeins med røyndomen.

Mike delar mi interesse for å farte kringom med svære, dyre kamera som tek bilete som til forveksling er like dei bileta ein kan ta med knøttsmå billegkamera – såleis levna det liten tvil om at vi må ha sett ut som om vi var råka av eitt alvorleg tilfelle turisme, der vi stod og fotograferte alt som fotograferast kunne. Det er ein del det, i Dubai.

Det er litt underleg at ein så stor by som Dubai vert berømt for noko så ubetydeleg som eitt hotell. Det er ikkje til å stikke under ein stol at Burj al Arab er ein markant bygning – men eg tykkjer hysteriet om denne overnattingsinstitusjonen er sterkt overdrive. Likevel måtte eg naturlegvis ta eit bilete av stasen (over).

På Madinat Jumeira Souqen kan ein få oppjustert vasspipesamlinga si. I dag tek eg den raude vasspipa, takk!

Eit fossefall i ørkenen. Som alt anna i Dubai; kunstig – men fint likevel.

Imponerande takboge i Mall of the Emirates. Truleg ikkje dimensjonert for store snømengder på taket…

…men like fullt dimensjonert for store snømengder inni! Ski Dubai: ein 400 meter lang skibakke med 150 meters høgdeforskjell inne i Mall of the Emirates.