Chapter 7 – The Housemates
The medical
On Tuesday, August 20, we were scheduled to do the compulsory TB tests, applicable to all visiting students. It rained quite a lot on that day. We were dripping wet by the time we went to Arne Rettedals Hus (ARH) at noon. I found many other foreigners there. We were all on queue, waiting to get to the registration desks and get this TB thing done with.
“You are really students? We do not see your names?,” the attendant looked at Oby who got to the desk first.
“We are four PhD students,” he represented our voice, and beckoned us to join him at the counter.
“Oh! That! I see,” she said and paused, then continued, “You people are employees, not students!”
“Really?,” we asked almost in unison, examining our badges again. It was written “Ansatt” with an “Ansattnummer”
We were informed that our records were not amongst those of the students and that we had to visit the medical offices in town to conduct these tests. She scribbled some undiscernible address, doctor style, on a stick notepad and handed it to our four faces. One of us took it.
“Can you come there tomorrow, as eight?”
“What a wasted day!,” I mouthed as we left ARH and walked back to P-10.
Welcoming party
The previous day, a Monday, an email had been sent to the Faculty of Science and Technology mailing list informing the recipients of a meetup. It was short and to the point. I also noted that the emails tended to be multi-lingual, first in Norwegian, then an English version below it.
Hei,
Vil ønske alle hjertelig velkommen til grillfest i morgen mellom klokken 14:00 – 16:00. Arrangementet finner sted utenfor Ivar Langens hus.
Hi,
We would like to welcome everyone to a BBQ tomorrow between 14:00 - 16:00. The event takes place outside Ivar Langens hus.
Apart from not knowing where IVH was, the Kenyans were a bit hesitant. We thought it was one of those tricks to let us out in the open with our guards down, then we get hit by some unpleasant surprise. Nonetheless, Oby and I had decided that we shall face whatever comes our way and would check it out.
When Oby alerted me that it was time for the walk, at around 2pm, I was still seated at my Room 217 facing the window as usual, occasionally looking outside the window to take in the greenery, while working on my research project writeup.
“Give me a minute, though I suggest that we leave at two-thirty.”
“OK, I shall wait,” he assured behind my closed door.
At two-thirty I left the room and bumped onto Isaac, my immediate neighbour, who was crossing the corridor to the kitchen that is just opposite his door.
“You guys go, I am not going,” he told us. I came to learn that he did not like social functions much.
Mutua who stays in the room adjoining the kitchen had already updated us on WhatsApp that he was too relaxed in his room to leave.
I knocked Oby’s door, one skip from Isaac’s but there was no answer. I tried the door handle and found it locked. He must have left already. He was meant to have the direction to the ‘hus’ where this meetup was taking place. It was too late to go back to the room and open the net and look for the location of the party on the campus map (Mazemap). This maze has previously help me locate some buildings at UiS. Now it was too late to refer to it. I just had to figure it out on a trial and error basis.
However, to give some meaning to my walk, I decided to just walk to the end of the compound and head to the Kiwi supermarket, where I could get some provisions. As I took this walk, I would look around and see if there was anything like a party. I was still minding my own business when all of a sudden I noted a big group of students just in front of the subsidiary parking that is at the perimeter of the compound. When I got near the group that was just on the right of the walkway, I did notice that they were feasting and generally on small talk. I thought that this must be the BBQ, but the fear of the unknown kept me walking past.
I could not see anyone familiar. Just when I was about halfway through the crowd on my right, I did notice one of the students whom we had met during the orientation. I remember he had said that he was from Malawi. Being the only familiar face, I did gather the courage to cross my walkway and get into the big open yard and went straight to him. He was chatting with three other people.
“Excuse me, could this be the get-together?”
“Ah, you said, you are… let me see… yes, President Obama,” he said excitedly, extending a hand, “This is sure the ba-be-ku. Please grab something,” he motioned to the food tents at the middle of the yard.
I spotted Oby somewhere in the mostly standing crowd. A few of the people were seating. There was nothing formal. Just a conglomerate of people – singles, duos, trios, quartets, bigger groups, but nothing formal or even an official programme of any sort. I had imagined that this BBQ would be surely a ‘BBQ’ as I know it back home. It turned out to be ‘fried’ instead of ‘roast’. But the fried were still good-enough-pretenders for a real thing. I served myself on a paper plate – some sausages, some chicken and some boiled potatoes, unpeeled.
We had some buns, which should eventually be turn into burgers. I skipped them. I saw people taking sodas, but I did not find any myself. Oby would later confirm that the sodas were surely available but were ‘very popular’. But with sodas going for $3, it surely must be popular, especially when you get it for $0. The only reason why Mutua got into the feast was because we shared some sumptuous platefuls on WhatsApp. Isaac stayed put. He would later say that he prefers his coffee to anything else. That statement would turn out to be true in the three months of our stay.
It was while the three of us were comparing notes at the yard, sausages in hand, that we met him. He made the first move.
“Habari yenu,” someone said from behind, extending a hand while we turned.
We hesitated for a second. Who could be that language unconscious?
“You are Kenyans, right?”
We nodded, saying nothing.
“Jambo wote. I am Joseph. I am from Tanzania.”
“Brother!,” we shouted almost in unison as we greeted.
“Ndugu, naomba ujitambulishe vizuri. Wewe mwana Bongo kweli,” I asked him.
“Natoka Tanzania. Baba yangu atatoka Tanzania ata ingawa mama anatoka hapa Norwe.”
We discussed animatedly as we exchanged notes. He updated us on many issues about this place. He had spent his early childhood in TZ, but immigrated permanently to Norway for this high school and university education. He updated us about the international students association of which he was the president.
“What an honor to have two presidents with us here!,” I updated the group of four.
“Oh, but you are retired,” he fired back.
We laughed out loud. We talked about life of international students. We talked about the perception of Africa and the need to debunk these misconceptions. In their small way, he told us, his organization is trying to do exactly that. Apart from hosting international students meetings, they also have occasions to showcase and talk about African culture.
“And on that note,” he concluded, “I would like to invite you to the next international students meeting, to be held today at six to eight at Studentenes Hus.”
“Student what?”
“Students Centre, the building just next to the bus stage, the blue one. However, should you miss today, know that we meet every two weeks on Tuesdays, at the same place, at the same time. Try to attend.”
International meeting
We decided to honor the invitation, despite the short notice. The four of us left for the international students meeting while it drizzled. We did not know what to expect. Would it be a big deal? Would we see anyone familiar? Would it be fun or dull? What if…? Too late, we were knocking on the door of S-Hus already. We got in and found introductions ongoing. There were about thirty people seated around three tables. Each table had seats on either sides, with people facing the tables.
Being latecomers, we found ourselves seat-less, but later pulled aside some standalone high seats, the bar-high-stool type. Listening to the introductions enabled us to learn that we had all regions of the world represented. We students from Europe, Asia and Africa. The countries represented were just so many. I remember Tanzania, Uganda, Nigeria, Cameroun, Eritrea, India, Sri Lanka, Russia and more. Joseph was there, presiding over the introductions.
After the intros, we were released to do whatever we wanted – that is, play any games that we wanted to, or just chat, or just hang around, or dance, or just listen. The crowd would soon disperse to the various tables and... let the games begin. I joined a table to play some very nonsensical card game. Any number of players could participate. The cards were of two colours, white and black. The white cards were many – probably one thousand. The black ones were few, maybe fifty. The cards were put on the table in two piles as per their colour.
Each player drew ten white cards. Then going around the table, the first play would draw a black card which has a question, then read it loudly for all players to hear. Each player then looked at the contents written on one side of their white cards and then threw onto the table one card that they believed to be the ‘funniest’ response to the question that was asked. The player who asked the question would then decide on the funniest answer, according to them. Remember, not the right answer… but the funniest as judged by the person asking. Didn’t I tell you that it was nonsensical?
However, it was quite enjoyable, leading to breaking of lots of ice and generating so much debate. When a black card asks, “What would President Obama want to have on the plane?”, and we have all manner of white cards that have responses such as “Skeleton in the closet”, then you can understand why this was a thrill. Of course, the funniest chosen player keeps the black card and the final winner after everybody has gone round asking, was the player with the highest number of black cards. Oby and I, without cheating, won the game by a tie of three black cards each, by the time that the game came to an end. Many other players had nothing to show for the many minutes of play!
The medical – 2
We had no idea whatsoever where we were going when we got that Wednesday morning “buss” at eight at UiS stage. We just paid our NOK19 at the machine and got in. We sat and started listening to the now familiar, “Neste stop….” followed by the name of some stage name.
At least I had tried to study the map, despite the unintelligible handwriting on the scribbled note that the TB doc had given us. We had earlier shared this note on WhatsApp and asked whoever can make sense of it to do so. I knew that the stopping point would surely be somewhere before Little Asia. We were almost in town before we realized that we needed to alight, since it seemed like we had gone too far. We got another bus back, for about 1km and we alighted at that stage. Then we started looking around and there was nothing familiar. We had been advised by the school-of-life not to ask the locals any questions, since they like to be left alone. However, we still asked two passers-by on how to get to “Torgveien 15C, 4016 Stavanger”
Each of them would first start with, “Have you checked Google map?”
“But how can we check Google map when we do not have internet on our foreign phone numbers?,” I almost responded, but did not, instead I found myself explaining that we did not have Norwegian telephone lines.
We made it to 15C after many lost turns. We went to the third floor, which turned out to be administrative offices for the Stavanger health services. There they explained to us that we were ‘very borderline’ cases in terms of compulsion to take this TB test. We were just 1-day above the 3-months exemption period. And that being just on the border also meant that we were not going to take all prerequisite medical tests. We would just take one test, the chest x-ray and we would be done. A blood test would have been compulsory, ‘for free’ had we been staying longer. We were directed to the next block to do our x-rays. We left the current block, walked out, walked round and accessed the next block.
We got into a very clean and very empty facility. It looked like a hospital wing, likely to be the radiology unit of the hospital. We waited for our turn and finally got the rays through our chests.
“If we see something, we contact you. Otherwise we don’t,” the attendant told us in parting.
We had already read on the registration and information forms that this test was a legal requirement and there was no two ways about it.
“And no worry, treatment free. Only dental you pay,” the attendant reminded us, lest we forget.
We walked back to the highway and took a bus for the short 1km ride to Asia for some shopping. After that we took another bus back to UiS. The day was done. It was now about mid-day. Then when we thought we knew it all, I saw on my bus ticket that it has been the printed at 07:33 for the Nord-Jaeren route. I may not understand Norske but “Gyldid til 08:33” seemed to meet “valid until 08:33”. It seems like we had overused our tickets by over four hours, since we had last used the same ticket at about noon.
However, it could have been worse. Our MSc colleagues had already confessed that they do not even bother buying tickets anymore – thanks to the ‘back door’ of the bus. They just get in the bus with all the confidence in the world and take a seat. Of course, they use the back door that is far from direct scrutiny by the driver. Their day would however be numbered the previous weekend, when after a drinking spree in Stavanger town that ended in the wee hours, they had forgotten about their ‘back door’ trick and instead got in the bus through the front door. They proceeded to take their seats, their heads very light with alcohol, while their pockets were largely empty due to the hefty $8 per drink bill. They had even confided in us that the price of drinks could make one to be drunk after just one drink.
There they are seated, but the bus was not moving. The bus usually takes off immediately the passengers have all got in or out. This time, nothing doing. Nobody was getting in, none was getting out, but the bus stayed put.
“Hey, where is your tickets?,” the driver looked back and waited. From his position, he would have expected anyone getting in to either show a ticket, swipe a bus card, or scan a phone app. None of that has been done by our countrymen.
“Ati, what!? Huyu msee anasema nini manze?,” they stammered, wondering if they had heard right.
“Your tickets!”
“We don’t have!”
“Out!,” he commanded, “Or pay up!”
They ended up discovering that there was a surcharge of Kr.10 when you pay up cash in the bus, their already empty pockets now emptier after parting with Kr.29 each. In fact, they become sober with reality as they rode the 30 minutes back to UiS.
That evening run was another ‘O’ around UiS and another ‘H’ on those hills. These are now my default run routes as they have lessened my chances of getting unexpected twists on those main roads. I took my three gadgets once more and they reported a final outcome as follows:
Runkeeper, the very one that reported that it could not receive GPS signals – 1.54.41 – 22.14km
Endomondo, the default timekeeper, which works, until it does not – 1.54.42 – 22.52km
The very reliable analogue, which goes crazy when the CR battery is running low, but I have new batts now – 1.54.50 – 23.32km
I however still missed the runs on the main roads due to the fear of the unknown whenever you were out there.
“I must do a road run next run just to reconfirm that I still have what it takes,” I did a self-talk.
All this as I realized that there was a ‘Stavanger marathon’ with 42k, 21k and 5k on the cards, scheduled for Saturday, August 31, 2019. There was no 10k run event!
“What marathon starts at mid-day?,” I found myself asking when I saw the 12.40pm starting time.
But that was because I was reading the Norwegian version of the page and when I saw a time, I just guessed that that was the start time. I would soon realize that that time was actually the medal award ceremony for the 42k. A few clicks here and there on the organizers page and I would soon get an English version with the marathon information. The full marathon would surely starts at 9.00am.
“That is more like it,” I said reassuringly, with a sigh of relief, as I reclined briefly to break the tension.
The registration fee for this marathon was however quite steep. This marathon would be the most expensive marathon that I would ever register for, if I managed at all. The cost was NOK690.00 + NOK17.50 service fee = NOK707.50. There was also talk of an additional license fee of NOK30-50. This marathon would surely render me bankrupt, if I went ahead with it! The registration process was also not easy. There was an online registration portal, but there was a requirement that you… ‘must belong to a running club in Norway’
Do they really want any foreigner to attend this run, when we do not belong?
When I finally hit the “Pay” button on the online registration page, I did confirm that I would surely be charged 690 + 17.50 + 50 + 15.07 (processing fee) = NOK772.57. That single registration now goes on records as the most expensive single item of expenditure in Norway, setting me back KShs.9,271.00, after currency conversion, bank charges and forex adjustments. I was feeling bad, very bad indeed, after that figure showed up in Kenya shillings on my bank statement.
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