Consumption

I have blood on my hands and only some of it is mine. The rest has splattered from the scores of mosquitoes that, over the past eight weeks, I have become proficient at killing. An engorged mosquito can hold three times her body weight in blood meals. Her own blood is a clear-ish fluid called haemolymph. It sloshes around her body, churned by a heart in the middle of the gut, just above where she stores your siphoned blood. Humans have discovered over 3,500 species of mosquito and I hate every single one.
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Foodstuff

The whiff of a particular food during a particular scene of Pixar’s Ratatouille transports a particular character back to childhood. Aromas evoke a subtle blend of memory and emotion and this scene always brings a little tear to my otherwise gristled, Saharan eyes. I won’t spoil it with particulars – go watch the film (warning: the food in the Blu-ray version looks so realistic, you’ll grow hungry within the first few minutes).

Food is an experience and flavour its essence. Flavour emerges from your senses and expectations, from swirling combinations of smell, sight, sound, feel and, of course, taste.
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Divisions

I’m thinking about women. Drag your mind from the gutter – not in that way.

“Women are a forgotten part of the Saami story,” Marie says. She describes herself as a herder and a nurse and a feminist. She keeps her sunglasses in the fruit bowl. That’s not a euphemism and Marie isn’t her real name.
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The Lean Island

This is what the end of the world looks like:

End of the world

Where there’s no more land to traipse, no further to go, the sun at midnight is far from set. This is the essence of døgnvill – the jet-laggy feeling of not wanting to sleep because of the sun. This is how the sky might look from a London park after an all-nighter. But I’m sober and I’m tired and I smell of reindeer.
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Into the field

At a young age, I gave up learning the names for clouds. I’d put myself in the category of people who are not natural taxonomists. Now I can only appreciate them in a whimsical, unscientific way. They are more than visible masses of suspended particles. (Indeed, I’ve wittered on about clouds before.)
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The Clocks of Tromsø

Tromsø is unsure what to do with itself.

The city is a party haven and host to the chess World Cup. It’s full of bikers and caravaners. You can walk across the main island in a few hours, down the main drag in a few minutes, and everywhere you walk, you walk into restaurants and hairdressers. Everything is manageably sized, an enlarged SimCity, boasting several ‘northermosts’: university, planetarium, botanical garden, cathedral, symphony orchestra, brewery, and Major Burger Chain Franchise Outlet.

The city’s clocks captivate me. Natural ones and mechanical ones: dandelion clocks and clock tower clocks.
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The Cold Part

Jot’tit lea buorit go orrot is a traditional Saami saying that translates as, ‘to move on is better than to stay put’. Over the next two months, I’ll spend my time travelling across the pastures of Finnmark to find out exactly what that phrase means.
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