[ sherpas, B-sides, steppes ]

Spring has sprung, hormones fluttering the air.
In a particularly realistic dream, Martin/Implode and I run off together to Sandefjord to squat an abandoned garage, drinking longpints in village pubs with weather-worn fishermen and depressed local poets.
In the course of just two rainy springtime months, we open a ragga jungle club in the revamped remains of an old fishfinger factory. The clubnights are a great success. The local youth loves us. Healthily sceptical, we decide to finish it off, and spend the money on a two-years trek to visit throatsinging monks in Inner Mongolia instead.

-Arriving in Ulan Bator, Martin is chatted up in the hotel bar by the vulgar (but big-busted) daughter of a resident BBC-reporter, and buggers off without warning, I'm left alone to pay the bill.
Lost in depression, I aimlessly wander the streets, but then miraculously bump into Julia Roberts' TV-team, they're back in Mongolia to film a follow-up to the 2002 success "Living With Horses", but they've yet to find a suitable sherpa to follow them and carry all the expensive camera equipment and Ms. Roberts' make-up bag. I take on the task readily, and they give me $500 upfront- I'm saved the humiliating agony of 2 years' washing-up debt repayment.

Both filmstar and crew turn out to be great, likeable characters, we get on mighty fine, the three-month steppe trek is only interrupted by a minor case of sunsting (Bill, the asthmatic cameraman) and an 'incident' with a sprained ankle: When I trip over the provisional outdoor lavatory, late one night after we've grilled some tasty possums with a family of friendly ex-nomads, on their way from high-tech city living to the annual Horse Race in Karakorum- they left the grill-spears clumsily scattered around on the ground, and in my rush to empty my aching bladder before being discovered by bloodsucking vampire insects, I don't bother to bring a flashlight with me, just running out in the pitch-dark night, hence the nasty result: Lots of uncomfortable tripping over sharp hurting objects and loud scandinavian swearwords which wake up the entire camp- I'm devastated.

The crew decides to continue without me, they pay for a pirate minitruck-taxi to pick me up back to the capital, but not before a tear-filled goodbye with lots of sparkly, american friendliness and group-hugging, from Julia I get the biggest hug of all, as she hands me a signed copy of an obscure 80's record where she duets with Winona Ryder and Michael Douglas (the B-side is a 'dance'-remix featuring Jazzy Jeff and Kenny G)..."It was SO nice working with you, give me a call if you pop by L.A. sometime, hon", she beams.
I accept my fate with stoic smiles, and eagerly long for the comfortable return of hot water showers and free dental floss. It's nice to be back among people again, rumours of my existence spread fast, and I soon get work as a combined nanny/au-pair/shop assistant/fashion model in the household of local Khöömïï-pop star, Sansar Huu (Son of the Cosmos). After a year of hardworking, ethusiastic fun, I've saved enough for the airfare home.
-Later, when i awake from the dream, I switch on the morning news to find that a catholic nunnery in Stokke (not far from Sandefjord) has burned to the ground.
-I decide never to sleep again.