An Adventure in Lapland

In Search of Sami ~ An Adventure in Lapland
By Ann Lombardi

I admit I was an odd kid. While other girls at St. Thomas More Elementary
School prayed for their very own snorting, galloping “National Velvet” for Christmas,
I fantasized about owning a pet reindeer. Of course, part of my aloofness towards
horses stemmed from my tumble off a pony head first into a pile of pony poop during
Ellen Vogt’s birthday party in third grade. But my passion for reindeer had another
source: my fourth grade world geography class.

It started the day Sister Grace Maria unfolded a faded map and announced that
we’d be learning about a region in northern Europe beyond the Arctic Circle of
Norway, Sweden and Finland. She described an isolated, snowy place populated by
the “Sami” reindeer herders of the Arctic north. “These peaceful reindeer people
belong to one of the oldest cultures in the world,” the Sister intoned, beginning a slide
show that depicted men wearing red and blue woolen outfits and standing in reindeer
fur boots on the frozen tundra. “Since 1500 A.D., the Sami have worked as reindeer-
herding nomads. They use these trusty animals to pull their loaded sleds. They drink
reindeer milk, eat reindeer meat and make tents and clothing from reindeer skins.
The Sami even use reindeer tendons for sewing, and they carve reindeer antler for
tools. The warm reindeer fur is ideal for Sami winter boots.”

I was only half listening. Instead, I was already scheming to get my very own pet
reindeer. My father took the pragmatic approach. He gently tried to convince me our
backyard in Atlanta, Georgia couldn’t produce enough lichen and moss to meet the
basic food needs of a reindeer. Dad also pointed out that our scorching summer
weather might not be a reindeer’s climate of choice. Unconvinced, I resorted to several
evenings of unproductive sulking in my room after supper.

One Friday night, Dad called me into the living room for a surprise. I remained
unimpressed after I opened his package and found inside a brown, hard stub. “It’s a
real carved reindeer antler,” he said. His tone of voice was calm, but I could tell from
his smiling eyes that this was something special. “It came all the way from Finnish
Lapland. Your great aunt brought it back from a tour she took to Europe long ago.”

Although a live reindeer to go with the antler never materialized, it solidified my
unlikely passion, and as the years marched on, I still held fast to the dream of seeing the
creatures in the flesh. Perhaps this explains why forty years later, two weeks before
Christmas, I was headed to Finnish Lapland. In the decades since my father had
indulged me with the Sami-carved reindeer antler, I had become a travel agent (after
failing to marry into money to fund my wanderlust) and a world traveler. I had
frolicked with ballistic dolphins in the Caribbean, toured back streets of Moscow with
a black marketer, come in dead last in the Berlin Marathon and flirted with North
Korean soldiers on the DMZ. I had fought for my life in the Acapulco undertow,
fended off amorous Italians on overnight trains, shared sleeping quarters with a
grunting boar in the Alps and been tear-gassed in curlers outside a Seoul beauty
salon. I had romped in volcanic hot springs with a naked Icelandic guy, crashed
overnight on an Amsterdam jail floor, been rescued from quicksand by a French
tractor and munched on roasted guinea pigs in Ecuador. But there was still a void in
my globe-trotting life: I had yet to take a dream vacation to Finland’s reindeer country.

As I bubble-wrapped the treasured antler and tucked it away in my carry-on
bag, my brother Pat implored, “Come join us at the beach like last year, Ann. Normal
folks don’t head for Lapland in the dead of winter.” “Beware of hypothermia,” my
well-meaning neighbor chimed in. What did they know? Leaving friends and family
behind, I sped off to the airport. After sprinting down the crowded concourse to the
waiting aircraft, I reached the departure gate and high-fived the dapper, European
executive behind me. Before you could say “Santa Claus,” I was winging my way
across the ocean to a winter fantasy land at the edge of the Arctic Circle: Lapland!

With visions of furry reindeer, brightly-clad Sami and salmon-pink winter skies,
I drifted off to sleep for most of the ten-hour trip, jolting awake when the plane landed
with an icy thud in Helsinki. I fished around for my mittens, grabbed my backpack
and scooted to my connecting flight to Rovaniemi, the capital of Finnish Lapland.

Feeling nothing short of triumphant, I arrived at my hotel, a mere stone’s throw
from the Arctic Circle, where reindeer reign supreme! Then I sauntered up to the hotel
reception desk. A pink-cheeked clerk named Henna greeted me with a curtsey.
I inquired breathlessly whether she were Sami. Henna shook her head and
explained she wasn’t, but my disappointment was tempered when she offered to take off
the whole day to introduce me to the “real Lapland.” It turned out that at the bigger hotels
in town, organized snowmobile trips carted tourists to reindeer camps, where most of the
people wearing Sami clothes were actually just regular Finns dressed in costumes.

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“Those reindeer excursions are arranged by the tourist office and you get a
certificate for crossing the Arctic Circle,” Henna said. “But if you can ski, we can go to
a secret place where there are no other tourists. You do ski, right?” she asked.
“We don’t get much snow in Georgia,” I answered, clearing my throat. “But of course I
can ski.” At this point, I felt I’d say anything to convince Henna to lead me to the land
I had dreamed of since my childhood.

There was an uneasy silence. “Well, I guess if you can walk, you should be able to
cross-country ski. Let’s go search for Sami reindeer!” said Henna. With our fur-covered
rucksacks and long, skinny skis in tow, we ventured out into the snowy woods. Piercing
rays of sunshine ricocheted off the bright landscape and temporarily blinded my jet-
lagged eyes. “You’d better get out your sunglasses right away,” Henna advised.
Glistening fir trees in thick white coats dotted the winding trails. “Incredible!” I
gasped, enthralled by the winter paradise.

“Time to put on our skis,” Henna called out. Miraculously, my middle-aged body
stayed vertical as I wrestled with my gear. “Not bad for a southerner,” I marveled
out loud. Then Henna tapped me on the shoulder. “Ann, you have your skis on
backwards.” I promptly fell flat on my face.

Muscular men with tight buns and one percent body fat zoomed past me in silver,
skin-tight ski togs. “Some of these cross-country skiers are Finnish Olympians,”
proclaimed Henna proudly. By that time, I didn’t care. I had lost all feeling in my feet
and legs. My nostrils were making funny crinkling noises, like the sound ice cubes
make when you pour lemonade over them. “Cover your face with your scarf so you
won’t get so cold,” Henna said. It was too late. My wool muffler had iced up and was
now stuck to my bottom lip.

For crying out loud, why hadn’t I bothered to study Mrs. Messner’s Girl Scout first
aid book on warning signs of frostbite? I was having major trouble breathing, so I gave
my muffler a tug to make way for more fresh air, and in the process ripped a chunk of
skin right off my lip. I didn’t dare lick my injured mouth, certain that the sub-zero
temperatures would weld my lips together in just a matter of seconds.

“Come on!” yelled Henna, a full 100 yards ahead of me. “We are almost ready to
cross the Arctic Circle.” Pumping my fists wildly in the frigid air, I shouted with
renewed vigor. I felt the spirit of Sir Edmund Hillary at the summit of Mount
Everest. But then, we were back on the trail again, slogging for what seemed like
endless hours. Finally we skidded to a stop, just short of a huge herd of startled
reindeer.

The animals had gigantic antlers, something I didn’t recall from my grade school
slide show. I couldn’t help but picture the dozens of sorry tourists lying gored and
crumpled on the streets of Pamplona, Spain after the annual Running of the Bulls.
Just in case the reindeer were mounting a surprise attack, I glanced around nervously
in search of an escape route, but the hundreds of brown eyes which followed our every
move made a getaway seem improbable.

Henna and I carefully glided our way to a hut, a tall teepee covered with beige
reindeer hides. Thick gray smoke was billowing from its open top, lingering over the
tent like a feathery wreath of clouds. The tiny, athletic man who came out of the
reindeer hut was straight from my fantasies, complete with his chiseled, ruddy face,
blond hair, and high cheek bones. He sported a red woolen shirt underneath an
embroidered blue tunic with reindeer skin knickers and a bouncy skirt trimmed in red,
yellow and blue braid. Knee-high fur boots curled up at the tip of his toes, and on his
head sat a floppy, blue cap with four long points and a wide, scarlet headband. He
looked like a cross between an Arctic Keebler Elf and a court jester in winter-wear. I
took a deep gulp of the bone-chilling air at this life-defining moment: my first live
encounter with a Sami reindeer herdsman! Here I was face to face with a man who held
down the job I’d envied since grade school. How could I ever be content back at the
office again?

“R-r-r-r-o-o-o-varsen silia sil la la-a-a-a-a,” the Sami called in a deep voice. He
motioned for me to come forward. “What’s he saying?” I whispered to Henna. “I
think he wants you to try out his reindeer sled,” she winked. I popped out of those skis
like I had a beehive in my britches and vaulted excitedly onto the sled. Unfortunately,
it was designed for someone about 4 feet 10. I made the best of it, trying to ignore the
fact that my cramped knees came precariously close to a strategic part of the reindeer’s
anatomy. Before terror could take over, I grabbed the reins and yanked sharply.

The critter took off like its tail was on fire. “Noro roto na-a-a-ar-a halia-y-a-a!”
bellowed my new Sami friend. “Halia-y-a-a-a-a!” In an instant, we were racing.
I could hear Henna screaming something at me, and my own voice yelling “S-t-t-o-o-o-
o-o-p!” My whole life flashed before me, along with snow and sky.

The joy ride came to a sudden halt when we rammed into a mammoth snowdrift at
30 miles per hour. The impact of the crash sent me flying smack into a mound of
partially-frozen reindeer muffins. Henna and the Sami cackled hysterically, slapping
each other on the back as they doubled over in laughter. “That was super!” laughed
Henna, her face crimson red.

Pride still intact, I calmly brushed off my shoulders and my backside. Though my
performance was less than stellar, I was sure that with a little more practice I’d
be a natural behind the reindeer reins. And besides, what were a few aches and pains
to live out a life-long dream! Bidding farewell to the herd and my dear Sami pal, I blew
them a kiss. Then I snapped my skis back on and rejoined Henna on the trails. For a
long stretch, the only sound besides my heavy breathing was the crunch, crunch,
crunch of our waxed skis against the icy snow.

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Seven hours later, I emerged from the frigid forest, wobbly-kneed and bruised, yet
victorious. We trudged back to the hotel, where we chugged down steaming cups of
hot, black coffee. Henna disappeared into the back office. Minutes later she reappeared
with an official-looking “Lapp Reindeer Driving License” she had whipped up on the
computer in my honor.

I thanked her profusely and headed back to the safety of my room. Flinging off my
stiff clothing and my ice-encrusted backpack, I buried myself in my thick, fleece
bathrobe. Then I collapsed on the bed for a hard-earned catnap. Thirty minutes later,
I made a shivering beeline for the hotel sauna.

A-a-a-h, the sauna, a quintessential Finnish ritual. I could hardly wait to take in
the raw pleasure of it all. I opened the heavy door and peeked inside the cedar-lined
room. Three buxom, blonde beauties were lounging buck-naked on long wooden
benches at the front of the heated chamber. I instantly felt fat and badly
claustrophobic. The air was incredibly thick and hot, and the room quite small and
dark. I quickly shut the door and debated what to do. Sucking in tightly, I stripped in
a nano-second and sprinted into the chamber. Then I slithered to a far corner of the
bench so as not to intrude and tried to talk myself out of a serious panic attack.

A few minutes later, one of the girls jumped up without warning, reached into a
bucket and pitched a scoop of water onto the wood-burning stove, creating a sizzling
plume of steam. The scalding steam blasted me smack in the face. I could contain myself
no longer. Afraid I would pass out before I could exit, I shrieked “I’m trapped!” at the
top of my lungs. Within seconds, the trio of slender beauties snatched up their towels
and left in a huff, scowling at me for disturbing their inner peace.

Finally I stopped hyperventilating, and I felt a relaxing calm spread over my limp
body. With a new sense of well-being, I decided there was no way in hell any Finn was
going to trick me into rolling in the snow or plunging into an icy lake to wrap up my
“authentic” sauna experience.

While I was daydreaming in the buff about the day’s remarkable conquests, there
came a loud rap on the door of the steamy sauna cubicle. The door creaked open and a
beefy, red-faced woman in a white uniform marched right up to me. I noticed she was
carrying a bundle of unusually long twigs. I also observed that her forearms were
bigger than George Foreman's.

"You want I beat you?" she smiled. Surely I had misunderstood. "You want I beat
you?" she repeated. "Finns think very good for circulation." I was certainly not into
flagellation at this stage of my life. I was still recovering from the brutal massage I had
endured in Budapest a year ago. Besides, my wiped-out body had taken enough
beating today. "Kiitos, but no thanks," I said in my best broken Finnish. "My blood is
circulating just swell."

That evening after my sauna, I enjoyed a scrumptious meal of savory salmon with
arctic cloudberry sauce and roasted potatoes in the cozy, hotel restaurant. As I gazed
out the window at the twinkling polar stars, I started plotting how to bring my Sami
reindeer home to Georgia where he belonged.

Bio
       Ann Lombardi is a 24-year veteran travel consultant, born-again “athlete”, and former
E.S.L. teacher with a knack for misadventure. She has been heard on FOX, NPR and Clark Howard’s
“Friday Flyer” radio travel show, and is often quoted in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and travel
industry magazines. The former host of Washington D.C.’s “The Trip Chicks Travel Show” on FOX Talk
Radio WMET, Ann is now heard in the Atlanta area every Monday from 3 to 4 p.m. Eastern on 1620
AM’s “Travel Talk: Escapes.”

       Ann’s zest for globetrotting has led her to Europe, the Americas, Asia and the Caribbean.
Among her fondest exploits are finishing dead last in the Berlin Marathon, bailing out of a glider
plane in Switzerland, hitching a ride in spiked heels on an Amish horse and buggy, touring Moscow
with a black marketer, surviving the riptides of Mexico and getting arrested in a junkyard in Korea.
She hangs her backpack in Atlanta, Georgia, where she is writing her first travel book. Check out her
company’s website at w ww.T heTripChicks.com.

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Photograph by Matti Tirri