The raft rejected by everyone

On Friday, November 14, 1947, an unusual sight made its way toward Bygdøynes. Just a few days earlier, "Goliath"—Oslo's largest crane—had hoisted the 20-ton, waterlogged Kon-Tiki raft from the deck of a Fred. Olsen Lines’ cargo ship recently arrived from Antwerp. Now, the storm-battered raft was being slowly towed toward Bygdøynes, its fate uncertain. Norwegian museums turned their backs on the raft. “It wasn’t even Norwegian!” skeptics scoffed. And those who did see its value simply didn’t have the funds to rescue what many saw as little more than a wreck.

The Kon-Tiki raft on top of the coral reef of Raroia, August 7th, 1947 (Photo: The Kon-Tiki Museum).

Just three months earlier, the crew had waded ashore after their harrowing collision with the coral reef at Raroia Atoll in the Tuamotu. Glancing back at the nine balsa logs that had carried them across the Pacific—now stranded high on the reef, with waves crashing over them each time the surf broke against the corals—they could hardly have imagined what would come next. The idea that these weathered logs would one day make their way to Norway, let alone end up in a museum of their own, seemed unthinkable. At the time, they didn’t even have the money to arrange transport. Thor Heyerdahl himself believed the Kon-Tiki raft should remain where it was, as a fitting monument to the journey.

At first, the future of the raft—anchored outside the Fram Museum—looked grim. It seemed destined to be dismantled for exotic souvenirs or reduced to sawdust. Yet just four years later, the newly opened Kon-Tiki House was drawing crowds in numbers no one had predicted, and on its way to becoming Norway’s most-visited attraction. What had changed? How did this unlikely castaway from a South Sea paradise capture the imagination of a winter-bound nation like Norway—and the world beyond? And how did six men—and one woman—manage to turn an empty bank account and debts equal to nearly US$ 500.000 in today’s money into a thriving museum, one successful enough to fund research grants for Norwegian university students?

—We would like to thank Torfinn Haugland and Annette Hurum helping us with information from the family archives.

The lifeline

Who saved the Kon-Tiki raft? The full story may never be known. It began with the enormous effort of launching the expedition itself—designing and building the raft, then setting it adrift on the vast Pacific. But even as the crew sailed westward, there was work to be done on land. Six families waited anxiously back in Norway, needing updates on the fate of the six modern-day “Vikings.”

After the raft ran aground on Raroia, the world erupted into a whirlwind of press coverage, public appearances, glittering receptions, article commissions, book manuscripts—and mounting debt. In the middle of that chaos, it was Gerd Vold Hurum who first threw a lifeline to the nine abandoned balsa logs.

Gerd Vold Hurum and Thor Heyerdahl in Callao, Peru at the end of April, 1947. Torstein Raaby and Erik Hesselberg in the back (Photo: The Kon-Tiki Museum).

At the time, she was serving as the chief cipher officer at the Norwegian embassy in Washington. During the war, she had played a vital role in the resistance movement, later becoming a pioneer within the Norwegian Special Operations Command under Leif Tronstad—the legendary figure behind the Vemork heavy water sabotage. Her wartime duties included debriefing agents who had been sent into occupied Norway, a remarkable chapter of her life that she would later recount in her book A Woman Named “Truls” (2006). Thor Heyerdahl offered her the title of “secretary” for the Kon-Tiki expedition—a modest label for a role she undertook in addition to her full-time diplomatic duties. Her behind-the-scenes contributions were invaluable: she helped organize the expedition and opened crucial doors for Heyerdahl within Washington’s military and intelligence circles.

While the raft made its cheerful journey westward across the Pacific, Gerd Vold Hurum acted as the expedition’s point of contact back on land—handling everything from logistics to press inquiries. At one point, an enthusiastic agent got in touch, eager to organize a nationwide lecture tour with Thor Heyerdahl across the United States. His grand idea? To build a massive trailer and haul the raft from city to city.

Hurum, a woman known for achieving the impossible during the war, was more than capable of handling bold proposals. But when it came to the uniquely American brand of entrepreneurial optimism—especially the kind that promised quick money—she remained firmly grounded in Norwegian pragmatism. To her, the impresario’s plan sounded just a bit too good to be true.

Still, there was something in his enthusiasm worth seizing. The U.S. lecture circuit was vast and potentially lucrative. If public excitement could be sustained, perhaps they could generate enough income to chip away at the expedition’s growing debts—exhibiting the raft itself for a fee. 

The first hurdle—and it was a significant one—was simply getting the raft “home.” The crew was stranded on a remote atoll in the Tuamotu Islands, far off the usual shipping routes. From there, the French authorities in Tahiti were contacted with a request: could they send a schooner to retrieve the men? And more importantly, could the raft be towed back to Tahiti?

“Yes,” came the reply. If the sea stayed calm, it wouldn’t be a problem. But if the waves picked up, the tow line would have to be cut immediately. Still, it was a start. At least the raft would be heading in the right direction. Once romanticized as the island of dreams, Tahiti in 1947 was a different place. The war had only just ended, and regular transport was scarce. Not every boat had room for extra cargo—or for a waterlogged balsa raft.

Her efforts eventually led her to the U.S. War Department—as it was still called at the time. This was, after all, the institution that had supplied almost all the equipment for the expedition, and where the very first press conference had been held—inside the Pentagon itself. But whatever interest the military had once shown in retrieving six Norwegians and a drifting balsa raft had long since vanished from the Pentagon’s corridors.

By now, the press was painting a pleasant picture: the crew was reportedly safe and enjoying life on a deserted South Seas beach. There was no urgency, no crisis to resolve.

Faced with fading support, Gerd Vold Hurum decided it was time to think bigger. She picked up the phone and dialed none other than Howard Hughes—the famously eccentric billionaire and aviation enthusiast, most recently brought back into the spotlight on the big screen by Leonardo DiCaprio.

But even with Hughes, the ever-resourceful Hurum hit a wall. There would be no help from him either.

The Kon-Tiki raft in tow from Raroia to Papaete, Tahiti (Photo: The Kon-Tiki Museum).

At last, she turned to the old country for help. Norway, a proud seafaring nation, had vessels operating throughout the Pacific. One such ship belonged to Lars Christensen—a wealthy shipowner who had made his fortune in whaling and had once funded the Norvegia Expedition that annexed Bouvet Island back in the 1920s. As luck would have it, one of his cargo ships was near Samoa—roughly 2,000 kilometers northwest of Tahiti.

When word reached Sandefjord, the reply came back without hesitation: "Of course, we’ll stop by Tahiti and bring back both the guys and the raft."

And so, thanks to Gerd Vold Hurum’s persistence, the Kon-Tiki raft—and with it, Thor Heyerdahl, Herman Watzinger, Erik Hesselberg, Knut Haugland, Torstein Raaby, and Bengt Danielsson—made it back to the United States. On Monday, September 29, they disembarked in San Francisco from the cargo ship M/S Thor I. Their next step was to ready the raft for public exhibition in one of the city’s parks.

But just as things seemed to be falling into place, an unexpected surprise surfaced: the office staff at Lars Christensen’s company forgot to mention they’d be sending an invoice—for US $8,000, or US $ 80,000 today.

The raft on a USA tour?

The plan was simple—at least in theory. The Kon-Tiki raft could be put on display in San Francisco, drawing curious crowds and generating much-needed income for the expedition. It was Gerd Vold Hurum’s idea, inspired by her conversation with the enthusiastic agent.

They began exploring the possibility. But even in America—the land of entrepreneurial dreams—there were hurdles. The city required the rent for the exhibition space to be paid in advance. The site had to be fenced off, tickets printed and sold, and guards hired to watch over the raft day and night.

They might have been able to manage all this on credit. But the city council had one more demand: a financial guarantee that the raft would be removed once the exhibition ended. And then came the final blow—a detail that changed everything. If the raft was to be displayed in the park, the city would not allow an admission fee. The exhibition had to be free.

With no money in the bank and a mountain of debt, the idea collapsed. Without a sponsor—and with no financial support from the Norwegian embassy—an American tour for the Kon-Tiki raft was out of the question.

 As if things weren’t difficult enough, the harbor authorities now demanded payment for each day the Kon-Tiki remained docked—and ideally, for its removal too. Time was running out, and once again, Gerd and the crew had to improvise.

The simplest solution was also the most desperate: find a Norwegian shipping company willing to transport the raft back to Norway—this time, free of charge. Fred. Olsen might have handled the job from Antwerp, but that was still a long way off, and volunteers weren’t exactly lining up to help.

Then, finally, came a stroke of luck. One of the ministers in Einar Gerhardsen’s cabinet, quietly stepped in. He arranged for the transport to be covered—on one condition: no one could know he’d paid for it.

And so, the Kon-Tiki began its transatlantic journey as deck cargo aboard a freighter from the Westfal-Larsen line, bound for Antwerp.

“Home, sweet home”

Alf Prøysen, one of Norway’s most beloved singer-songwriters of the 1950s, once captured the quiet heartbreak of being unwanted in his song The Teddy Bear’s Song:

“I wasn’t even unwrapped. He put me away in a storeroom—
And I, who thought that wealthy teddy bears were living the good life.
Rather, it would have been better to be given to a friend who really loved you,
even if she was poor.”

He could just as easily have been writing about the Kon-Tiki raft.

When it arrived in Oslo in early November 1947, on the deck of a Fred. Olsen cargo ship, no heroes’ welcome awaited it. The raft, still soaked with seawater, was so heavy that the ship’s own crane couldn’t lift it. In spite of their deepening debt, the crew had to hire Goliath—Oslo’s largest crane—to lower the twenty-ton raft back into the sea. The cost was US $1,000, or about US $10,000 today.

The raft still floated under its own power, but only barely. It had to be towed to Bygdøynes, where it was moored “on sway,” as the term went back then—tethered only to an anchor, adrift and isolated just off the point.

Winter closed in and snow began to fall. And the Kon-Tiki froze into the ice—lonely, forgotten, and abandoned.

The raft on land, Bygdøynes, spring 1948 (Photo: The Kon-Tiki Museum).

 The Kon-Tiki wasn’t entirely forgotten. As Knut Haugland wrote in his article The Kon-Tiki Museum 10 Years On:

“It lay waiting all winter, frozen in the ice and weighed down by snow, visited only occasionally by a loving couple who found shelter in the bamboo hut.” (Haugland 1960:2)

One other visitor made his way to the raft that winter—a resourceful Supreme Court lawyer, who lived up on the hill overlooking the bay. Curious and perhaps a bit sentimental, he ventured out onto the ice. There, he gathered and salvaged some of the scattered equipment and balsa wood left behind—debris strewn about by the visiting teenagers.

He never told the expedition team. His rescue mission was entirely self-appointed and, at least in his mind, altruistic. But years later, in a moment of brandy-fueled bravado, the lawyer made a dramatic phone call to Knut Haugland. It had just been announced that a permanent museum as going to be built on the site, and he was livid. If they didn’t scrap the plan, he threatened, he would burn the equipment and pieces of the raft he had salvaged four years earlier.

Unbeknownst to the lawyer, Haugland had gone to school with the chief of police in Oslo. Twenty minutes after the call, uniformed officers knocked on the Supreme Court lawyer’s door. Whether justice was served in the legal sense, the story doesn’t say—but one might safely assume it was.

The Supreme Court lawyer was not the only one who had taken loose parts from the Kon-Tiki home with them. In 2023, the museum’s curator was sitting down for lunch when the phone rang. The museum shop had received a visit from a retired professor with a large piece of balsa on the luggage rack of his bicycle, which he wished to return. The professor had been at Bygdøynes on a winter day as a young boy, and since then, the piece of balsa had accompanied him. For many years, it had decorated his office at the University of Oslo, but now he needed to make room for the next generation. “And his wife wouldn’t allow him to keep it at home.” Perhaps the Professor would still had, what was really a part of one of the crossbeams from the raft, if he had been a widower.

By the spring of 1948, the Kon-Tiki raft was still afloat—but barely. Moored in the brackish waters off Bygdøynes, exposed to sewage runoff and neglect, it had begun to rot. The ropes were fraying, the wood softening, and time was clearly taking its toll.

On Wednesday, May 5, 1948, Morgenbladet ran a blunt headline across its front page:

“Kon-Tiki lives, but the raft is rotting.”

The accompanying article painted a grim picture:

“The Kon-Tiki raft, which was sent here last autumn from America, has wintered without a human hand touching it. It is completely rotting, and a decision must now be made—should it be preserved as a museum relic, or is it so scientifically insignificant that it can simply be left to rot?” (Morgenbladet, May 5, 1948)

The question hung in the air: was this once-famous raft worth saving—or had its moment already passed?

In the end, it was Knut Haugland who stepped forward to save the raft. Even before Kon-Tiki had reached Oslo, Thor Heyerdahl had offered it to the Norwegian Maritime Museum for exhibition. But the answer came quickly—and it was a no. Their reasoning? It didn’t count as a Norwegian ship.

State support? Out of the question. Municipal help? Just as unlikely. “Although we hadn’t asked for anything, we knew the situation well enough to understand that it wouldn’t have helped to ask for anything substantial,” Haugland wrote twelve years later, choosing his words carefully. He added, with equal restraint, that it’s “not easy to request public funds when you’re a party in the matter.” 

The first priority was simple—but urgent: the raft had to be saved. It needed to be brought ashore, dried out, and stored somewhere secure.

Hauling the Kon-Tiki out of the water and moving its massive balsa logs into dry storage beneath the shelter of the Fram Museum’s overhang, came at a price: US $375—equivalent to US $ 5,000 today. With no funds of their own, Thor Heyerdahl and Knut Haugland turned to an old wartime acquaintance, now a successful businessman, who quietly agreed to foot the bill.

Meanwhile, the invoices kept arriving. When asked for a comment, Herman Watzinger—the engineer who had overseen the raft’s construction and served as Heyerdahl’s second-in-command during the expedition—responded with a mix of frustration and dark humor:

“Personally, I’m almost in favor of blowing the raft to pieces. But Thor is coming down from Lillehammer on Saturday, so we’ll see what happens. The raft looks terrible right now, but it won’t take much to get it back into decent shape.”
— Morgenbladet, Wednesday, June 3, 1948

But the journey from salvaging the raft to securing an exhibition space of its own was long—and at times, utterly dark. There was little enthusiasm from public institutions to support a building dedicated to the Kon-Tiki raft. In fact, the Norwegian government showed so little interest in preserving the nation’s proud maritime legacy that even the Fram Museum and the Norwegian Maritime Museum were privately founded and operated.

The newspaper Morgenbladet raised the alarm with a stark front-page headline on Thursday, June 3:

“The Kon-Tiki Raft Has Become a Wreck. The Museums Have No Space and No Money for a Building.”

"Once upon a time, there was a Kon-Tiki raft...
It sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale—and in a sense, it is, for fairy tales speak of past exploits. But the raft is no more.

The first pile of balsa logs, bamboo poles, mats, steel wires, and old provision boxes, now drying on land beside the Fram Museum, is no longer a raft. All winter, it lay exposed to the weather, the wind, and the great forces of the sea, moored by the Fram Museum.

The bamboo cabin withstood the weight of the snow through the winter, thanks to the maritime museum’s gardener, who occasionally shoveled snow off the roof. But when the rest of the raft was pulled ashore eight days ago, the cabin had already been completely destroyed—by shady individuals.

Norwegian shipping companies brought the raft home last year, free of charge, all the way from San Francisco to Oslo, believing it deserved to be preserved in a museum. And it does. Even in its current state, visitors are still happy to take a curious walk around the wreck before entering the Fram Museum. Letters continue to arrive at the Maritime Museum from Swedes, asking if they will be able to see the Kon-Tiki raft when they visit.”

(Morgenbladet, Thursday, June 3, 1948)

Fundraising pamphlet for the Kon-Tiki house.

Even after being transported to Oslo free of charge, three museums still turned down the famous balsa raft. They did not consider the raft a Norwegian vessel—it came from Peru, halfway across the world. It was seen as foreign, both geographically and culturally. And although the Kon-Tiki expedition had captured the public imagination, the raft itself didn’t qualify as cultural heritage. It wasn’t an original pre-Columbian artifact built by ancient Peruvian sailors, but rather a modern reconstruction. It lacked the authenticity museums typically require: it was neither prehistoric nor ethnographic. In the eyes of the experts, it was an oddity.

Despite the popularity of the Kon-Tiki voyage, the expedition had not yet crossed into the realm of history. There were no compelling academic arguments for preserving the raft. As one expert noted, the public interest might draw a crowd at first, “but it was a venture very much of its time, and therefore unlikely to hold lasting relevance or educational value—and eventually, its revenue” (Haugland 1960:4).

In the absence of institutional support, the responsibility for preserving the Kon-Tiki had to fall to private hands.

One would expect the press to have championed the cause. There’s no question that the Kon-Tiki expedition had captured widespread media attention and was immensely popular with the public. Not least because the book Kon-Tiki: Across the Pacific in a Raft was published in 1948—a release that should surely have bolstered support.

Yet, if you look closely at the media coverage, most of it focused on Thor Heyerdahl himself and the global stir caused by the voyage—not on the raft and its uncertain future. It’s as if the establishment quietly acknowledged that preserving the raft would be a costly and complicated endeavor.

But regular people did take up the cause. On Thursday, May 20, Arbeiderbladet published the following letter to the editor:

Vandalization

If you spit over the railing at the ferry landing at Bygdøynes, you should follow the spit with your eyes. Because by doing so, you are merely doing what the entire nation is already doing—in sluggish ignorance.

Hidden and forgotten by all, reshaped only by the oily waves of the inner Oslofjord, lies the greatest testament of our time to Norwegian perseverance and scientific spirit:

The Kon-Tiki raft!

Its name echoed through the world’s press and placed Norway on everyone’s lips.

But we are Norwegian—and the vessel now lies in Oslo’s sewer! Meanwhile, the public is carving walking sticks from the bamboo poles of the Kon-Tiki’s hut.

‘Wouldn’t it have been better if the raft had drifted into a sawmill in Tahiti—so we could’ve had it sent here by parcel post?’

—Gunnar T. Jensen”

Indeed, a few newspapers covered the raft’s deteriorating condition, but only Morgenbladet—which at the time functioned more as a traditional daily paper—truly championed the idea that it should be preserved and exhibited. The newspaper launched a fundraising campaign that managed to collect around US $3,750.

It would be inaccurate to suggest there was overwhelming public demand for a dedicated museum to house the Kon-Tiki raft. Still, individual supporters—primarily private business people—began to step up. On June 12, a total of US $875 was raised during the wholesalers’ general meeting in Trondheim. A week later, another US $384 had been collected. Among the contributors were manager Bredo Eriksen, who donated US $125, an anonymous resident of Larvik who gave US $250, and others who sent in smaller sums—1, 2 or 5 dollars at a time. Remember, US $1 in 1949 would be around US $14 today.

Yet as so often happens, the actual costs soon surpassed the early estimates—hardly a surprise, even in 1948. In May 1949, three prominent Oslo businessmen launched a second fundraising campaign to build a permanent home for the raft. The effort was led by grocer J. Johannson, shipbroker H. T. Gram, and shipowner Sverre Ditlev-Simonsen, who also happened to be the chairman of the board of the Norwegian Maritime Museum.

In total, the two campaigns raised US $6,500 ($87,000 today), an amount considered sufficient at the time. Architect F.S. Platou was commissioned to design a modest wooden structure, approximately twenty meters long, with the raft mounted on concrete pilings over a dirt floor. There would be just enough space for visitors to walk around the vessel. The plans included windows high on one wall and a raised section of roof with additional windows to let in light.

A building permit was submitted to the city of Oslo, and a request for timber was made to the national authorities. Building materials were scarce just a couple of years after World War II. The Norwegian Maritime Museum offered a plot of land, as the museum itself was still operating as a temporary institution. Construction of the simple structure was completed by October 1, 1949.

However, the building wasn’t formally handed over from the fundraising committee to the newly formed board of the Kon-Tiki House—as it came to be called—until the days between Christmas and New Year. The board comprised Kristian Kielland, director of the Norwegian Maritime Museum; Professor Guttorm Gjessing, head of the University of Oslo’s Ethnographic Collections; and Thor Heyerdahl himself. Daily operations would be overseen by Knut Haugland. As Dagbladet reported: 

“There’s no South Sea atmosphere out at Bygdøynes today, but there lies the Kon-Tiki—the balsa raft from the warm ocean—housed in a newly built, yellow structure right next to the famous Fram. And today, Thor Heyerdahl, the raft’s skipper; Kristian Kielland, director of the Maritime Museum; and Professor Guttorm Gjessing of the University will officially receive architect Platou’s Kon-Tiki House from the fundraising committee, led by its chair, grocer Joh. Johannesen.

Heyerdahl and his 11-year-old son, also named Thor, stand quietly in the snowfall, a little awed, gazing at the two buildings—the Fram and the Kon-Tiki—the great and the humble, both propelled by the same bold spirit toward global renown and new milestones in the name of research.”
(Dagbladet, Thursday, December 29, 1949)

On the same day, Morgenbladet offered readers a glimpse of what the new museum would look like inside:

“The plan is to reconstruct the raft, using replacement materials sourced from South America where needed. The bamboo cabin with its palm-thatched roof will be rebuilt—though the mast will not be restored to its full height. Along one of the long walls, photographs from the expedition will be displayed, while one of the participants in the dramatic voyage, artist Erik Hesselberg, will decorate one of the end walls with maps and posters.

The task of rebuilding the raft has been entrusted to Knut Haugland and engineer Watzinger.

Their first priority will be to bring order to the scattered balsa logs, which are currently resting on iron beams to protect them from the cold and ice. The logs are not yet dry, but it’s hoped that a new, warm summer will render them ‘museum-worthy.’ After that, the sail will be mounted on the mast, and then it remains to be seen whether any of the many lengths of rope—now hanging out to dry like laundry—can still be used.”

(Morgenbladet, Friday, December 30, 1949)

Knut Haugland and two volunteers working to get the Kon-Tiki raft back in shape and ready for visitors, autumn and spring 1949-50 (Photo: The Kon-Tiki Museum).

Knut Haugland was the one tasked with leading the completion of the museum. Reflecting on the handover and the months that followed, he later wrote:

“It was a big day, but only Heyerdahl and I truly understood the dire state the raft was in. Its time in the Oslofjord had taken a heavy toll. The ropes were beginning to rot, and everything was coated in indescribable filth. There was no way around it—we had to undo every knot, remove the decaying ropes, clean both the cords and the balsa logs, and then reassemble the entire raft before it could be shown to the public. It was a miserable job, and it took a total of 32 Sundays and public holidays. I was the only member of the expedition living in Oslo, so the responsibility fell to me. But since I was employed full-time in the military, all the work had to be done on weekends. I depended on help from many friends, though I must admit most of their goodwill was used up early in the winter.”
(Haugland 1960:3)

Even if the goodwill had worn thin, work pressed on throughout the spring. Aside from one serious incident—when a large hoisting frame collapsed onto the dirt floor beneath the raft, nearly crushing Haugland’s brother—the restoration went remarkably well.

The building was now complete—freshly painted a sunny yellow—and the raft was ready to receive its first visitors. But everything was not yet in place. A proper office was needed, equipped with a counter and shelves for selling tickets. The interior required lighting, the walls needed decoration, and a modest exhibition of photographs was to be mounted along one of the long walls. As Knut Haugland later wrote:

“We found ourselves in a dilemma once again. Even after the building had been constructed, the Norwegian Maritime Museum couldn’t accept Thor Heyerdahl’s gift. The reason was clear: because it was evident the raft would incur significant ongoing costs, while any income was based on little more than hope and optimistic assumptions.

Despite still carrying a substantial personal debt, Thor Heyerdahl secured a loan of NOK 10,000 on January 3, 1950, to fund the raft’s restoration and cover the associated costs. But that wasn’t enough to make the exhibition presentable. On May 20, 1950, he had to reach even deeper—borrowing an additional NOK 5,000.”
(Haugland 1960:3)

No bank was willing to lend money to a museum that didn’t yet exist, so the people behind the project had to take matters into their own hands. Erik Hesselberg—Thor Heyerdahl’s childhood friend and an accomplished artist—volunteered to decorate the interior walls.

He transformed the museum’s space into a vibrant tribute to the sea. Large sections of the short walls, as well as one of the long walls, were painted in a sea-greenish blue, teeming with vivid depictions of the marine life the crew had encountered during their voyage. Towering over the entrance wall was a giant whale shark—the largest fish in the world—its scale and presence capturing the awe of the ocean. Along the long wall, Hesselberg painted schools of tuna, sweeping octopuses, and circling sharks, all rendered in bold, expressive detail.

A large map behind the raft showed South America on the right, and the Kon-Tiki’s route across the Pacific was clearly traced all the way to Raroia. Visitors could follow the line of the journey themselves, locating the remote coral islets of the Tuamotu Archipelago amid the vast blue expanse of the ocean.

The Kon-Tiki House opened its doors to the public on Monday, May 15. This was also the day when the Fram House opened for the summer season.

The Kon-Tiki house open for visitors. Summer of 1953 or 1954 (Photo: Wikimedia Commons).

Opening hours:

Weekdays 11 AM - 7 PM

Sundays 12 PM - 7 PM

From October:

Sundays 11 AM - 3 PM

On Sunday, November 5, at 3 PM, the doors of the Kon-Tiki House were closed after its first open season.

The very next day, the headline in Morgenbladet read: 'Kon-Tiki House Open to the Public – Huge Interest from Foreign Visitors.

"In complete silence, the season opening of the Kon-Tiki House at Bygdøynes took place yesterday morning. As is well known, the official inauguration had already occurred during the winter, but the Norwegian Maritime Museum—which is responsible for the raft and its contents—had until now only permitted access to foreigners and individuals with a special interest. However, the interior is now fully completed, and from now on, the public is welcome to visit on weekdays from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., and on Sundays from 12 noon to 7 p.m."
(Morgenbladet, May 16, 1950)

Knut Haugland and Thor Heyerdahl posing on the raft in a newly opened Kon-Tiki house (Photo: From the Kon-Tiki Museum’s collections).

One of the few visitors granted access to the Kon-Tiki House before its official opening was the renowned American singer Ellabelle Davis. Her visit drew special attention—not just because of her fame, but because she was African American. Nevertheless, the newspaper headline made no mention of that fact, simply proclaiming: “First Foreigner in the Kon-Tiki House!”

"Singer Ellabelle Davis has, as the first foreigner, visited the Kon-Tiki Museum at Bygdøy. She asked numerous questions—eagerly and intelligently—so many, in fact, that her guide, Captain Haugland, struggled to keep up with the answers.

… … …

Ellabelle was absolutely determined to take a piece of balsa wood as a souvenir. Haugland quickly obliged, handing her one—though he made it clear that this was not to set a precedent for future visitors."
(Østlandets Blad, March 10, 1950)

The public reception of the museum was overwhelmingly positive. Dagbladet wrote:

“We visited the Kon-Tiki House last Sunday, and there is no attraction quite like it. The raft is magnificent, the photographs are magnificent, the attendance is magnificent.

An American group became wildly enthusiastic—they jumped with excitement in front of all these wonders, yet didn’t understand a bit of it all.”
(Dagbladet, July 7, 1951)

Tourists want to see Kon-Tiki

The Fram House had all but faded into the background.

“One of the very first things tourists ask about when they arrive in Oslo is the Kon-Tiki House. Thor Heyerdahl’s book, now a success across countless countries, seems to have fired the public imagination and made the expedition’s name universally known.

Amidst all this attention, the Fram House has slipped into the shadow of its younger counterpart. In the minds of today’s public, the raft expedition has become an achievement that outshines even the once-legendary journeys of Nansen and Amundsen.

Most visitors still take the opportunity to see both, but it is clear they have primarily come for Kon-Tiki,” reports Morgenbladet.
(Lofotposten, July 18, 1951)

This was no exaggeration. By the end of its first season, the museum had already earned enough revenue to repay all outstanding loans—both for the building itself and the personal debt owed to Thor Heyerdahl.

In its second summer alone, the Kon-Tiki House welcomed 80,000 visitors—matching the annual attendance figures of Oslo’s most popular museums. By 1952, it had become one of the city’s leading attractions, surpassed only by Oslo City Hall. Demand was so high that, despite the building lacking heating and typically closing during the winter months, both the Fram and Kon-Tiki Houses remained open daily from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. during the Winter Olympics in Oslo, held February 10–24, 1952.

The museum also attracted a steady stream of high-profile visitors. Among them were Princess Margaret and Prince Philip of the United Kingdom, as well as notable World War II generals, including Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery, who had served as second-in-command of the Allied forces in the European Theater toward the end of the war.

Even the Italian film star and global icon Sophia Loren paid a visit. But it wasn’t only international celebrities who drew inspiration from the Kon-Tiki House—a notable Norwegian film also found its inspiration within the museum’s walls.

Sophia Loren and Roberto Rossi visits the Kon-Tiki house (Photo: Bjørn Fjørtoft, Norwegian National Archive).

Young Woman Disappears

In the film Young Woman Disappears, the story begins at the Kon-Tiki House at Bygdøy, where archaeologist Arne Berger meets Eva Holm—a seemingly ordinary young woman with little knowledge of Polynesian mythology or the god Tiki. Their chance meeting leads to marriage, but the relationship soon unravels. Eva struggles to keep pace with her husband's intellectual circle, eventually turning to drugs as her life begins to spiral out of control. In the end, Arne is left recounting the story of their relationship to the police, starting from their first joyful encounter. Meanwhile, newspapers and radio broadcasts report the mysterious disappearance of the young woman.

Eva is played by Astri Jacobsen, remembered for her role in the controversial film The Eternal Eva, while Adolf Bjerke stars as the archaeologist husband, Arne.(https://no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ung_frue_forsvunnet).

Research fellowship

On December 29, 1949, Thor Heyerdahl wrote a formal deed of donation in which he gifted the now-famous balsa raft and and the associated items used during the expedition, to the newly established Kon-Tiki House. This act of generosity came despite the fact that he was still in debt and had only recently stretched his personal finances to cover the costs of lighting, decorations, and a modest photographic exhibition for the museum. In the letter, Heyerdahl made one condition clear: if the museum ever generated a surplus beyond what was needed for maintenance, the remaining funds should be used to establish a scholarship or support fund for students.

Kon-Tiki House Ticket Revenue to Fund Student Scholarships
Scholarships for the Study of Pacific Cultures and Histories

As early as 1949—while still carrying personal debt—Thor Heyerdahl decided that the net income from the Kon-Tiki House at Bygdøy would be dedicated to a scholarship fund for students of geography and ethnography. Priority would be given to those focusing on Pacific-related topics, followed by students pursuing studies in ethnography or maritime history of the region. The goal was for the scholarship to be substantial enough to allow students to travel to the Pacific as part of their thesis research.

No grants have yet been awarded, in part because of ongoing concerns about the long-term suitability of the current Kon-Tiki House structure. The building still has a dirt floor, which raises the risk of mold forming between the balsa logs or the ropes beginning to rot. A thorough inspection is planned for this fall, which will also evaluate whether a fireproof building may be necessary.

Oversight of the Kon-Tiki House and the scholarship fund lies with a council composed of Professor Guttorm Gjessing of the Ethnographic Museum, Director Kristian Kielland of the Maritime Museum, and Captain Knut Haugland, representing Thor Heyerdahl.

(Aftenposten, Wednesday, August 13, 1952)

The first recipient of a student scholarship from the Kon-Tiki House, awarded in accordance with Thor Heyerdahl’s 1949 deed of gift, was a young ethnography student named Henning Siverts. He received a grant of US $ 1,250, or $15,000 today, to support a field expedition among the Oxchuc Indians in Mexico—a fitting use of the fund, true to Heyerdahl’s Pacific-centered vision.

By 1954, the scholarship initiative had been formalized into a more structured fund. On Monday, June 14, its status and developments were officially announced in the Norsk Lysningsblad. 

Kon-Tiki Scholarship

"This summer, the Kon-Tiki Fund will award a grant of US $ 1,250 to a student of ethnography—or to others engaged in ethnographic or maritime historical research.

In selecting the recipient, preference will be given to qualified applicants whose work aligns with the themes that inspired the Kon-Tiki expedition. This includes research on transoceanic migration and cultural diffusion, particularly as it relates to the ancient high civilizations of the Americas.

Applications should be clearly marked 'Kon-Tiki Scholarship' and sent to the manager of the Kon-Tiki House, Bygdøynes, no later than July 1 of this year (15:30)."

That year, the Kon-Tiki Scholarship was divided between two recipients: Professor Guttorm Gjessing, who received a US $ 500, or $5,800 today, travel grant, and student Henning Siverts, who was awarded US $ 750, or $9,000 today, to continue his fieldwork among the Oxchuc Indians.

In total, the Kon-Tiki Museum has, over the years, awarded the equivalent of more than US $ 2.3 million (adjusted for inflation) to support research—primarily focused on the Pacific region.

Will the Kon-Tiki house become a permanent museum?

In a 1960 article, Knut Haugland reflected on his early years as the person responsible for managing the Kon-Tiki House—essentially serving as the museum's first director.

“I’ve acted as the the person responsible for managing the Kon-Tiki House from the beginning. But since I held a full-time job elsewhere, this role had to be pursued purely as a hobby, in whatever spare time I had. The challenge wasn’t running the museum itself, but managing the many public appearances that this rather unusual museum brought with it.

I must admit, I felt embarrassed at times—I thought the Kon-Tiki House had little to offer. But a dignified lady, known to us all, quickly corrected me. The Kon-Tiki raft, it turned out, had already been featured in international tourism circles as a new Norwegian attraction.”
(Haugland 1960:3)

Remarkably, the museum’s debt was paid off after just one year of operation. By the end of the second season, the Kon-Tiki House had already begun awarding scholarships to young researchers with a focus on the Pacific and South America.

By 1952, Thor Heyerdahl was seeing significant financial success from his book Kon-Tiki: On a Raft Across the South Seas (1948; English 1950). On May 9th, Morgenbladet reported that Heyerdahl had become a “major exporter”—remarking that the Kon-Tiki book was earning the country as much foreign currency as the entire cod roe export had the previous year.

The Kon-Tiki House followed a similarly impressive trajectory. By 1953, it had become one of the most visited tourist attractions in Oslo. And by the autumn of 1954, Oslo was reporting a new tourism milestone:

Record number of tourists in Oslo this summer

“In Oslo, the Kon-Tiki House, with 2,300 visitors per day, and the City Hall and Akershus Fortress, with around 4,000 each, top the list.”
(Telen, Friday, August 15, 1952)

The Kon-Tiki house with the color of the sunset, captured for a couple of seconds in the movie Welcome to Norway, from 1955, but filmed in 1954. (Photo: Screenshot from the movie, Archives of Oslo City).

In less than four years, the Kon-Tiki House had become the most visited museum in Norway. Early predictions that public interest would fade after just two or three years were proven entirely wrong.

Tourists Want to See Kon-Tiki

The Fram House had now been completely eclipsed.

“One of the first things tourists ask about when they arrive in Oslo is the Kon-Tiki House. It seems that Thor Heyerdahl’s book, which has been a triumph in every country, has captured the imagination and made the expedition’s name almost universally known.

In all this excitement, the Fram House has been completely overshadowed by its younger counterpart, and it is clear that in the public's current consciousness, the raft expedition is viewed as an achievement that surpasses even the legendary journeys of Nansen and Amundsen. Most visitors take the opportunity to see both, but it is primarily Kon-Tiki they have come for,” reports Morgenbladet.
— (Lofotposten, Wednesday, July 18, 1951)

None of the tourists seemed to mind that it "was not a Norwegian vessel." The fact that the raft is a modern reconstruction of a prehistoric craft from pre-Incan Peru—and that the voyage itself took place in 1947—did nothing to lessen visitors’ fascination. People still came in droves to explore its story. Norwegians, too, visited in large numbers and gave the museum glowing reviews. As Dagbladet wrote:

“We visited the Kon-Tiki House last Sunday, and there is no attraction like it. The raft is magnificent, the photographs are magnificent, the influx of visitors is magnificent. An American group became wildly interested—they jumped with excitement in front of all these wonders, but they didn’t understand a thing about it all.”
— (Dagbladet, Saturday, July 7, 1951)

With interest remaining high, it was time to look toward the future. Once again, it was the tireless duo of Knut Haugland and Thor Heyerdahl who, together with the board, began drawing up plans for a permanent museum. Naturally, they wanted to construct a new building on the same site. But there was a problem: the land belonged to the Norwegian Maritime Museum, which had yet to complete its own facility. Their long-term plans were ambitious, including not only their museum but also a restaurant and even an aquarium. There simply wasn’t room for what some considered the ‘un-Norwegian’ balsa raft.

The Kon-Tiki Raft Is to Be Moved — But No One Knows Where

Plans are underway to relocate the Kon-Tiki raft, but its future home remains uncertain. The management is actively searching for a suitable new location, though so far without success.

“If the Maritime Museum had been willing to sell, that would have been the most advantageous solution,” Major Haugland told VG. “However, since the Maritime Museum is unwilling to sell, we must consider other options. To house the raft in a fireproof and otherwise appropriate structure—where the risk of destruction is lower than it is now—we are forced to explore new locations.” (VG, Wednesday, July 21, 1954).

Plans Are Underway for a New Kon-Tiki Building

There are already plans for a new, larger building to house the Kon-Tiki raft. For the moment, the project is on hold as the museum is currently awaiting a decision on the land allocation. There is a possibility that the Kon-Tiki House may be forced to leave the current site at Bygdøynes, as the new Maritime Museum requires that space for its own development. Fortunately, an alternative plot of land has been offered elsewhere on Bygdøy, so there is hope that the move won’t need to extend beyond the local area.

“We have already been in contact with an architect who will begin designing the new museum as soon as the land situation is resolved,” a spokesperson told Dagbladet. “We hope construction can begin this winter, and that the museum will be completed within a couple of years” (Dagbladet, Friday, August 20, 1954).

Plans for the new building include ample space for the raft, enough to raise the entire mast—which stands nearly ten meters tall—and potentially accommodate additional exhibits. The building will also feature central heating, allowing it to remain open year-round.

The architect model of the “new” Kon-Tiki Museum which was opened in 1956 (Photo: The Kon-Tiki Museum).

A Compromise with the Norwegian Maritime Museum

Eventually, a solution was reached with the Norwegian Maritime Museum—an institution that had been the most supportive throughout the entire process. The Kon-Tiki House purchased the plot from the Norwegian Maritime Museum for US $12,500.

“When the plan for the new museum building was brought before the board,” writes Haugland, “the representative from the Norwegian Maritime Museum felt compelled to oppose the proposal. He expressed concern about taking on a US $175,000, or $ 2 mill today, for a project that, in his view, was very much a product of its time and therefore at risk of losing both relevance and revenue. However, the Maritime Museum’s board was open to allocating space for the Kon-Tiki raft within their own new museum—when the time came, and if the raft still held public interest. Even so, the board of the Kon-Tiki Museum decided instead to borrow the funds and construct their own year-round museum, established as a foundation” (Haugland 1989:69).

It seems clear that Knut Haugland and Thor Heyerdahl were not entirely convinced the Maritime Museum would complete its new building anytime soon—a skepticism that proved well-founded, as the main structure wasn’t completed until 1964. It’s also worth considering that, based on their experiences, the two explorers may have had some concerns that, in a future competition for exhibition space among Norway’s many historic vessels, the Kon-Tiki raft might be overshadowed by the country’s more traditional maritime icons.

Financing, Uncertainty, and an Unexpected Solution

Securing a loan proved to be a significant challenge. The foundation ultimately had to change banks in order to find one willing to take the financial risk. It wasn’t only museum professionals who were cautious—banks, too, hesitated to back the project.

Still, in the end, everything came together, and preparations for the new museum could finally begin. The original Kon-Tiki house, which had served as the raft’s temporary shelter, was rented out during the winter of 1954–55 to store newly imported cars. Later, it was sold to Øvrevoll Racecourse, where it became part of the Stallkroa restaurant and remained in use for over 50 years.

But during construction, what was to be done with the raft? The answer came from an unexpected source: impresario Fredrik Dietrichson proposed renting the Kon-Tiki and taking it on a European tour.

The Kon-Tiki raft on exhibit in Paris, autumn/winter 1954-55 (Photo: The Kon-Tiki Museum’s collections).

Kon-Tiki Sets Off on a European Exhibition Tour During the Winter

The Kon-Tiki raft is preparing for yet another long journey—this time not across the Pacific, but through several cities in Europe. Entertainment agent Fredrik Dietrichson has rented the raft and will be taking it on tour across the continent. The initiative has received support from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs' department for cultural relations, which views the tour as excellent publicity for Norway.

In the coming days, the raft will be hoisted onto a cargo ship, bound for France. It is scheduled to go on display in Paris on October 5th. From there, it will travel on a barge along the Rhine, making stops in the Netherlands and Belgium, before concluding the tour in Copenhagen. The raft is expected to return to Bygdøy in the spring.

“Thor Heyerdahl and I have set our conditions—they were accepted,” said Major Haugland. “And since visitor numbers at the Kon-Tiki house are very low during the winter months, we decided to agree to the arrangement.”

To safeguard the vessel during its travels, a protective steel framework has been built. The base of the frame will be placed beneath the raft, which will be pulled out through a large opening in the wall. The raft will remain within the steel structure for the entire tour. A specially sewn tent, measuring thirty meters in length and fifteen meters in both height and width, has also been prepared—large enough to accommodate the full raft with its sail fully raised.

“The profits from the tour,” Haugland added, “will go toward expanding the Kon-Tiki fund and supporting the construction of a new building to house the raft.”
(Arbeiderbladet, Wednesday, September 22, 1954)

The Kon-Tiki raft on it’s way through Lagenbrück, Switzerland, autumn/winter 1954-55 (Photo: provided by Johannes Dettwiler-Riesen).

Departure and a New Beginning

In early October, the floating crane Goliath sailed across the Oslofjord to Bygdøynes. It was the very same crane that had unloaded the waterlogged, twenty-ton raft when it first arrived in Oslo seven years earlier. This time, the raft was much lighter. With practiced ease, Goliath lifted it over the fence on the southwest side of Bygdøynes and transported it across the harbor basin.

Waiting on the other side was the French ship Bamse, ready to carry the exotic raft to Paris—the first stop on its European tour.

By the end of 1956, the new building—now officially referred to not as a "house" but as a "museum"—was completed. The skeptics had predicted it would never succeed. They were wrong.

The permanent Kon-Tiki Museum, photographed sometime after 1956 (Photo: Mittet, Common Lisence).

Growing Pains and a Turning Point

“Unfortunately, there was an unexpected budget overrun during the final accounting,” Haugland later recalled. “The construction budget had been significantly exceeded, putting us in a difficult position. Thanks to the goodwill of the Shipowners’ Association, from whom we had taken out a large loan, we were granted a deferral on both interest and repayments. But even that wasn’t enough. In our desperation, Thor Heyerdahl submitted a request to the Minister of Finance, asking for an exemption or at least a deferral on the sales tax. The request was firmly denied.

Fortunately, the new museum received far more visitors than even our most optimistic forecasts had anticipated, and this unexpected success allowed us to cover the additional costs.”
(Haugland 1989:69)

So once again, things worked out—but the museum's financial challenges were not entirely behind it. In 1958–59, the institution took out new loans to support further development. A tableau was created to illustrate daily life aboard the Kon-Tiki raft, and new, striking additions were made to the main hall: a 9.2-meter cast of a Moai statue from Easter Island and another statue from the Marquesas Islands.

Additionally, a replica of one of Easter Island’s “secret” caves—discovered during Heyerdahl’s Aku-Aku expedition—was constructed to showcase artifacts he had brought back to Norway.

The Kon-Tiki Museum was beginning to take real shape, marking its transition into a fully established institution—gaining full institutional maturity.