A traveller wanders through Longyearbyen, a coal-mining town in Norway’s Svalbard archipelago, where she gets acquainted with 24-hour darkness, polar bear warnings, and abandoned (potentially) haunted mines, while learning how communities survive in this uniquely gloomy climate.
When I leave the hostel at ten in the morning, it is still dark. It has been dark since Wednesday, and it is now Saturday.
Circadian rhythm well and truly derailed, I’ve settled into a routine that forces me out of bed. Wake up and peek through the curtains at the snowy mountain backdrop. Then, a visit to the communal dining area for a breakfast of cheese on knekkebrød washed down with extra-strong coffee. Now, I have the energy to tackle the challenge of getting dressed: a base layer of thermal leggings, thermal top, thermal socks; a couple of t-shirts, waterproof trousers, a jacket, a coat; finishing with a buff, scarf, and hat. I’m boiling hot already as I walk through the hostel, past the handwritten sign tacked to the wall by the entrance: Polar Bear Safety Course, December 10th.
Bracing myself, I open the front door, the subzero air nipping my face. Gripping the handrail, I tread carefully down the stairs–the hostel, like all the wooden shiplap buildings in this town, is built on stilts to protect the vulnerable permafrost beneath.
On my third day here, I’ve just about adjusted to the 24-hour darkness, but the silence is still unsettling. Gjestehuset 102, where I’m staying, is a former mining barrack located on a long road at the very edge of the town–a town called Longyearbyen, located at the very edge of the world on Svalbard, a remote archipelago fictionalised in books like Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights and demystified on social media by residents like Cecilia Blomdahl. Longyearbyen’s nearest city is Tromsø, where I boarded my flight, over 900km away across the Arctic Ocean. The world’s northernmost town is home to most of Svalbard’s 3,000 residents, the same number as the region’s polar bear population.
The remoteness, as well as the sound-muffling snow and limited traffic, creates a dead silence I’ve only ever experienced in deserts like the Sahara and Wadi Rum. But daytime in the desert wasn’t dark. Here, the shadows and the silence heighten my senses, and every small movement plays tricks on my eyes and my mind. I brave the less populated road that connects Nybyen, or New Town, to the Old Town. My route passes by two triangular polar bear signs, boundary markers at the end of Longyearbyen’s four roads.
The artificial glow of the streetlights struggles to reach beyond these signs; I stare into the maw of darkness, where, beyond, unforgiving wilderness awaits. Even if I wanted to, I can’t venture into that wilderness alone. Among other unusual restrictions in Longyearbyen–a beer and liquor ration, and a ban on owning cats, picking flowers, giving birth, and being buried–you can’t step beyond its boundaries without a firearm for polar bear deterrence. However, while these signs stop visitors from leaving Longyearbyen, they don’t stop polar bears from entering. Although a rare occurrence, I’d already spotted suspiciously large prints in the snow and, on a snowmobile trip the day before, watched (from a safe distance) a helicopter chase a bear away from the town.
Head filled with polar bears, my heart stutters at a flash of white, but it’s only a harmless flock of ptarmigan, the only land bird that sticks around during the Polar Night. Adrenaline spiked, I walk as quickly as the deep snow will allow, gaze fixed on the buildings ahead of me. Possible shelters, perhaps, if a polar bear does detach itself from the shadows. Above me, tucked into the mountainside, the first coal mine in the area that helped Longyearbyen develop into a permanent settlement, now long abandoned after a 1920 explosion that killed over 20 workers. If that mine isn’t haunted, then the nearby graveyard certainly is: a small gathering of crosses alone on this empty road, marking the victims of Spanish influenza. I shiver from the cold, or from the possibility of what might be watching me–ghost or predator.
The Old Town, almost destroyed during World War Two, has a post-apocalyptic vibe thanks to more abandoned mining infrastructure and the wooden steps leading to nowhere, remnants of Longyearbyen’s first hospital. My nerves are calmed, however, by the world’s northernmost church, a red rectangular building whose warmly glowing windows are the first sign of life since I left the hostel. While a primitive part of me has enjoyed the Type Two fun of this isolated route, I’m relieved that I’m just one-bridge-across-the-river away from the town centre.
Longyearbyen’s town centre is a contradiction. For a remote Arctic outpost surrounded by wilderness, it is surprisingly cosmopolitan. Thanks to Svalbard’s visa-free policy, around 50 nationalities live in Longyearbyen; these residents, as well as us tourists, get to enjoy the varied infrastructure of shops, museums, hotels, a gallery, a supermarket, and even a commercial microbrewery, where a small percentage of water used for brewing is from the thawed ice of a 2,000-year-old glacier.
Aside from the polar bear paraphernalia and the ‘no firearms’ signs outside of the supermarket, the centre of Longyearbyen, with its cute colourful buildings, feels like a normal Norwegian town. Right now, it’s also Christmas, the cosiness amped up by decorations and a giant lit-up tree (a rare sight in Svalbard, where no trees grow naturally).
Another unexpected surprise about Longyearbyen, which imports virtually everything, including food, is its lively culinary scene. There is Huset, a Nordic fine dining restaurant; the aptly named Svalbar, a trendy gastropub and community hub; Fruene, a chocolate shop that also serves coffee and savoury snacks; and even a Thai takeaway.
One I’ve visited every day is Café Huskies, not only for the hygge decor but also for the opportunity to hang out with dogs. I order a raspberry hot chocolate, sink into the sofa next to Tequila, one of the resident white huskies, and chat with the friendly owner, Martin Fiala, about living and working in Longyearbyen, particularly during the Polar Night.
‘I can’t just stay inside and hibernate; I have to find things to do, because the darkness magnifies problems, and you can easily get cabin fever,’ explains Martin. ‘But the darkness makes me slower and more tired, and I need more sleep, which means I can’t get as much done. I also have to focus more on my basic needs, like eating well. A good way to cope with the Polar Night is to embrace the change in seasons, something many people don’t do further south.’
Despite these challenges, living in Longyearbyen makes Martin feel more alive. ‘I have one life. I want to maximise on unique experiences, and it’s easier to do it in Svalbard.’
There seems to be a concentrated number of awesome people, too, I add. Martin is full of fascinating stories and an inspiring life philosophy, as was my snowmobile guide, Nadja.
‘Well, you can only be here if you want to be,’ says Martin, referencing Svalbard’s lack of native population, which means most Longyearbyen residents have moved there to work in its three primary industries: coal mining, scientific research, and tourism. ‘Svalbard attracts a specific type of person. Most would look at this place on a map and refuse to move here, which means it attracts curious and interesting people who are mostly all excited by what the area offers.’
There is certainly a lot on offer, which I’ve noticed from my short time here. Even in the Polar Night, the list of activities is endless, from speeding across the tundra in snowmobiles and dog sleds to exploring ice caves and coal mines. For locals with a firearms licence who can leave the town’s boundaries independently, and who know how to navigate and survive in the wilderness, true freedom can be found.
‘I can do whatever I want. I can get a boat and land in untouched places. I can spend a week skiing on a glacier, or spend five weeks crossing the archipelago. The bucket list gets longer as I meet crazier locals who give me new ideas,’ laughs Martin. ‘I can also experience the excitement of the explorer lifestyle but with creature comforts.’
However, Martin touches upon the very real-world challenges that overshadow Svalbard’s magic. Due to its Arctic location, both the archipelago’s human and non-human inhabitants are vulnerable to climate change, from melting glaciers to thawing permafrost. And, for a place most people can’t find on a map, Svalbard is a geopolitically strategic location, leaving it vulnerable to rising NATO-Russia tensions. Aside from these global issues, Longyearbyen locals also face limited housing, jobs, and residency rights. This transience, as Martin points out, means it’s a ‘privilege’ to live here.
It is also a privilege to visit Svalbard and explore a place of true polarity. A place that, as a tourist, you can book a high-stakes adventure in an otherworldly landscape, and then return to the familiarity and comfort of a cosmopolitan town. A place that, as a resident, you can embrace the freedom of a solo trip in the isolated wilderness, while also being part of a dynamic, supportive, and close-knit community. A place that is geographically remote but globally connected due to its significant role in geopolitics and international scientific research.
The next day, I had to go back home. I thought I’d be craving the sun, but I’d started to enjoy the predictability of the constant darkness, and its unique magic. During the Polar Night, even the most ordinary things, such as a stroll through town, become extraordinary. When I saw my first sliver of light from the plane window, I was hit by unexpected sadness, because daylight meant I’d truly left Svalbard behind. But as Martin and everyone else I met reassured me, the call of the Arctic will always draw you back.
