MUSIC MENTAL NOTE
Unnsteinn’s insights from half a lifetime in the music industry.
SPORT SPARSITY BLUES
Iceland’s only American football team has big dreams.
FOOD BORN AND BREAD
A food history of the humble flatkaka
NEWS IN BRIEF 6
ASK ICELAND REVIEW 8
IN FOCUS
HATE SPEECH IN ICELAND 10 PUBLIC TRANSPORT 14
FICTION
THE DIP BY ÖRVAR SMÁRASON 120
PHOTOGRAPHY
FROST 80
A SHOT IN THE DARK 108
LOOKING BACK
TALL TALES AND TREACHEROUS WATERS 60
The 17th-century voyage of Jón the India Traveller.
FROM THE ARCHIVES
THE HEIMAEY ERUPTION 38 Commemorating 50 years since the Westman Islands changed overnight.
SOCIETY
FLOATING THROUGH OBLIVION 26
The therapeutic power of water.
BUSINESS
MAKING IT WORK 70
The uphill battle for equality in the workplace and technology’s latest solutions.
SPORT
SPARSITY BLUES 94
Iceland’s only American football team has big dreams.
MUSIC
MENTAL NOTE 18
TUnnsteinn’s insights from half a lifetime in the music industry.
PEOPLE
MAN OF THE YEAR 42
The Airwaves Music Festival Kicks Off Again.
FOOD
BORN AND BREAD 50
A food history of the humble flatkaka
CONTRIBUTORS
Editor
Gréta Sigríður Einarsdóttir
Cover photo
Kristján Maack
Publisher
Kjartan Þorbjörnsson
Design & production
Daníel Stefánsson
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Writers
Erik Pomrenke
Frank Walter Sands
Kjartan Þorbjörnsson
Ragnar Tómas Hallgrímsson
Zachary Jordan Melton
Photographers
Golli
Kristján Maack
Erna Rós Kristinsdóttir
Illustrator
Ásdís Hanna Guðnadóttir
Translator Jelena Ćirić
Copy editing Jelena Ćirić
Proofreading
Erik Pomrenke Jelena Ćirić
Zachary Jordan Melton
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Working in media, you spend a lot of time gathering information on the way society works. I read the news, do research, and spend my days talking to people about their lives and their work. It’s a strange type of work sometimes but one that continues to be fascinating, uplifting, enraging, and engaging, usually all at once. Looking from the outside in makes you, if not a jack of all trades, at least someone who could correct the jack from a distance, but definitely master of none. And in forcing you to consider all sides of an issue, also hones your ability to see different perspectives.
Take the city bus. It’s a common cause for complaints. And as a bus user myself, I’ve wondered about how the service seems to have taken a turn for the worse in recent years. The research process for our piece was frustrating for a journalist who kept realising new ways the public transport system was deprived of necessary funds. Then there’s our dive into tech solutions to gender imbalances in the business world, an unpleasant reminder of all the hurdles that remain in the way of women in the workplace, and all the work women are taking on to correct the situation. On the other hand, we found excitement along the way in new plans for intercity transportation, and the ingenious ways startups are coming up with to balance the scales.
In this issue, we explore how rye flatbread, a beloved classic, was born out of Iceland’s history of food scarcity. We run with Icelanders practising the decidedly foreign sport of American football, and dance to the joyous music of Unnsteinn Manuel, the lyrics of which detail his anxiety and creative block. We find time in our busy schedules to experience the serenity of floating and talk with Person of the Year Halli, Iceland’s benevolent tax king, while lamenting the world’s steadfast faith in altruistic millionaires.
In the end, the ability to appreciate the beauty of contrasts-and marvel at the impossible but constant coexistence of extreme opposites-is what allows us to find joy in a world that’s constantly changing. It’s what gives us the power to look modern-day horrors straight in the eye and not let it break us but instead, strengthen our resolve to make this flawed world a little be tter through the power of our own existence.
Efling Union members are preparing to strike after chairperson Sólveig Anna Jónsdóttir broke off negotiations with the Confederation of Icelandic Enterprise (SA). Efling has demanded higher wages to keep pace with the rising cost of living and the effects of inflation. While most of the other large trade unions, such as VR and SGS, have agreed to short-term contracts with SA, Efling continues to hold out. The Central Bank of Iceland and the SA warned Icelandic labourers and unions in 2022 that a rise in wages would only exacerbate the country’s inflation problem, while critics like Sólveig argue that workers’ productivity has surpassed their wages since the 2008 economic collapse. Without an agreement, Efling, one of the largest trade unions, is threatening to strike as of the time of writing.
02
Tourists may expect Iceland to be cold, but its residents have been surprised by the unusually low temperatures this winter. According to the Icelandic Met Office, December 2022 was the coldest December in Iceland in 50 years. The average temperature around the country sat at -4°C [24.8°F]. The last time the capital of Reykjavík reached these low temperatures was 1916. The cold weather persisted into January, as Þingvellir reached -22°C [-7.6°F]. While in the capital, these conditions ae merely uncomfortable, in the countryside, they can pose a real threat to travellers as they create conditions for avalanches in the mountains.
In January, Icelanders cheered on the men’s national handball team at the 2023 IHF World Men’s Handball Championship. The national team started strong, beating Portugal in the opening match. As of the time of writing, they have lost against Hungary and Sweden but won South Korea, Cape Verde, and Brazil. Residents all over the country have been watching with keen interest. Even a power outage on the Reykjanes peninsula could not stop the fans. The Search and Rescue Team in Grindavík hosted 30 local residents for the match against South Korea, who were able to enjoy the game thanks to the backup generator.
Two weeks into 2023, pollution in the capital area exceeded the health-protection limit 19 times. According to the regulations of the Ministry of the Environment, the limit for the entire year is 18 times – meaning Reykjavík surpassed the number in less than one month. With very little wind and an increase in traffic, the nitrogen dioxide from the exhaust of vehicles hovers over the city. Studies have shown that diesel engines contribute significantly to this pollution, leading some critics to blame public bus service Strætó, which operates mostly diesel buses. Minister of the Environment Guðlaugur Þór Þórðarson singled out the bus company, complaining that very few of the fleet of about 160 buses were electric. Strætó pushed back, claiming their buses met industry and environmental standards. Strætó hopes to be fully electric by 2030.
Q1 Can you see Greenland from Iceland?
A common myth you hear sometimes is that on a clear day, from some places in West Iceland, you can see parts of Greenland. This is often attributed to the “lensing” effect of cold air in the polar regions, in which cold air masses can act as a lens and carry light further than usual, over the curvature of the earth.
As great a story as this is, it’s unfortunately not true.
The narrative may have very old origins, going back to the Saga of the Greenlanders. In that story, the settler and outcast Erik the Red is said to set out in search of the land seen by one Gunnbjörn when he went west and discovered “Gunnbjarnarsker.” This skerry, an islet or outcropping of rock in the ocean, was presumably much closer to Greenland than the west coast of Iceland, so it may well have been
Q2 Why is the sand black in Iceland?
Black sand beaches have become one of the images most closely associated with Iceland, and for good reason.
You may already know that the answer has to do with volcanic activity. Iceland, after all, is not the only place in the world with such beaches. Hawaii has several notable black sand beaches, for instance, including Punalu'u and Kehena beaches.
The distinctive black sand shared by these volcanic islands comes from the basalt fragments that accompany a volcanic eruption. Basalt is by far the most common volcanic rock, accounting for about 90% of all volcanic rock on earth. Basalt tends to be dark grey or black in colour because of its mineral composition, which includes high levels of augite and other pyroxene minerals, which tend to be darkly coloured.
possible to see Greenland’s mountains from there.
But not so on Iceland’s mainland. The matter has also been laid to rest authoritatively by Icelandic physicist Þorvaldur Búason. According to Þorvaldur, a 500m [1,640ft] tall hill at a distance of 500km [310mi] appears to us as about the size of a ballpoint pen held at arm’s length. Using some geometry, we can tell that Gunnbjarnarfjall, the tallest mountain in East Greenland, would be invisible to the naked eye from the closest point in Iceland’s Westfjords.
It’s also worth noting that given Iceland’s position relative to Greenland, Greenland stretches further North, South, East, and West than Iceland!
When a lava flow reaches the ocean and comes into contact with water, it cools very quickly and shatters, just like how dishes sometimes shatter in the kitchen if run under cold water directly after heating.
This shattering creates a large amount of fine-grained debris, which is eroded into sand over time.
In many parts of the world, black sand beaches can be formed as a single event and then fade away after the lava flow. But because Iceland is still very volcanically active, the black sand is replenished often, and nearly all of Iceland’s beaches have this distinctive colour.
There are, however, a couple exceptions. Rauðisandur, for example, is a well-known beach in the Westfjords famous for its rustyred colour.
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As noted by the United Nations, in common language, “hate speech” refers to “offensive discourse targeting a group or an individual based on inherent characteristics (such as race, religion, or gender) and that may threaten social peace.”
When an offensive effigy of Icelandic journalist, athlete, and influencer Edda Falak surfaced at a recent parade in the Westman Islands, it reignited a conversation about misogyny and racism in Iceland. Taking place against the background of a public discourse that seems to be deteriorating, the incident was only one of a series of high-profile cases that inspired the Icelandic government to establish a working group to fight against hate speech.
For a long time, Icelandic society was characterised by relative homogeneity, but as it has slowly morphed to become more diverse, there has been no shortage of incidents that shed light on the various prejudices nurtured by the citizenry.
In late June of last year, a working group appointed by the Prime Minister convened for the first time to review indications of “growing hate speech within Icelandic society” and to develop coordinated measures against it (i.e. with regard to race, colour, national origin, sexuality, and gender identity).
In the fall of 2021, the National Queer Organisation of Iceland (Samtökin ’78) saw a rise in reports of harassment of LGBTQ+ people in Iceland, including harassment of children who were perceived as LGBTQ+, who were followed and barked at by groups of harassers.
Other incidents also pointed to growing intolerance of the LGBTQ+ community, including repeated vandalism of a rainbow flag painted outside Grafarvogskirkja church in the city of Reykjavík.
In regards to racism, there are two incidents in particular that most immediately inspired the establishment of the group, and which have most saliently contributed to a feeling that hate speech is on the rise in Iceland.
Following the Icelandic parliamentary elections on September 25, 2021, results indicated that Leyna Rún Taha Karim – born in Iceland in 1999 to Kurdish immigrants– had become the youngest parliamentarian in history.
But the victory was short lived.
After a recount in the Northwest constituency on September 26, five seats were reshuffled, and Lenya Rún and four other candidates lost their seats. As a deputy MP, however, Lenya took a seat in Parliament later that year.
Following Lenya’s promotion, the Pirate Party felt compelled to publicly condemn some of the racist remarks that she had been made to suffer. According to a press release in early January, the young politician had faced “relentless propaganda and racism for the mere fact of participating in politics.”
Lenya went on to publish some of the hateful messages that she had received on social media, alongside a selection of comments made in public discussions online following her election. Her story isn’t unique.
Listasafn
National Gallery of Iceland
Fríkirkjuvegur 7 101 Reykjavík
Safnahúsið
The House of Collections
Hverfisgata 15 101 Reykjavík
Hús Ásgríms Jónssonar Home of an Artist
Bergstaðastræti 74 101 Reykjavík
Later that year, Vigdís Häsler, Director of the Icelandic Farmers’ Association, attended the annual Agricultural Convention (Búnaðarþing) held at Hotel Natura in Reykjavík.
During a photo-op involving a few staff members of the association, who were holding Vigdís in a plank position, the group attempted to convince minister Sigurður Ingi Jóhannsson to join them. The minister, having repeatedly refused, reportedly referred to Vigdís as “the black one” (although he has refused to repeat the comment to the media).
In the wake of the incident, Vigdís published a post observing that she “never believed” she would have to sit down and author such a statement: “I have never let skin colour, race, gender, or anything else define me. I have always believed that my work and actions spoke for themselves, but now I feel compelled to speak out about what happened.”
“I know what I heard,” Vigdís stated, “I know what was said. I refuse to be responsible for the words the minister used in my regard; hidden prejudice is a huge social evil and pervades all levels of society. It reduces the work of individuals to colour or gender.”
Following the outcry that these two incidents inspired, Prime Minister Katrín Jakobsdóttir sat down with Lenya and Vigdís in late April to discuss possible ways to deal with racism and xenophobia.
“It was an important conversation, given how difficult the last few weeks have been,” Lenya Rún stated after the meeting. “There have been incidents that have caused concern but that have also served to raise awareness. I’m not happy about these incidents, but I’m happy that they’ve inspired an honest discussion, both in the government and within society.”
The Prime Minister announced the establishment of the abovementioned work group three weeks later.
On January 3, the working group published its proposal on the government’s online consultation portal (Samráðsgátt), a forum that
invites commentary from interested parties and the citizenry alike.
The document outlines a total of 21 proposals, among them, the allocation of ISK 30 million [$211,000; €194,000] within the 20242026 budget in support of anti-hate speech projects; the allocation of ISK 15 million [$105,000; €97,000] to raise awareness of hate speech in Icelandic society; an online course on the subject of hate speech to be geared towards political representatives (at the state and municipal level), school authorities, teachers, police officers, judges, and others in positions of authority; and increased education on the subject geared towards children.
Whether these measures prove effective remains to be seen, with a handful of more recent incidents pointing to their timeliness.
As noted in an article on Kjarninn in early June, a majority of Polish immigrants in Iceland (or 56%) have experienced hate speech in Iceland – and a large part of that group has experienced it repeatedly.
Last summer, for example, Sylwia Zajkowska was selected to portray Iceland’s Lady of the Mountain (fjallkonan, the female personification of Iceland) during the 2022 Icelandic National Day. Sylwia delivered a speech on Austurvellir Square – and recited a poem by Brynja Hjálmarsdóttir – stating that it was “a great honour” to have been offered the role.
Eiríkur Rögnvaldsson – professor emeritus of Icelandic grammar at the University of Iceland – later revealed that he had received an anonymous email following his discussion of Sylwia’s selection to the media. The author of the email maintained that Icelanders simply had a “low tolerance towards people who speak Icelandic with a foreign accent,” adding that they disapproved of this “large influx of foreigners.”
“Which is why people hate that a Polish person was chosen –and it didn’t help that she didn’t know Icelandic.”
“It’s not admirable to send an anonymous email, as it indicates that the author in question knows that they probably don’t have a particularly strong argument, if they’re too afraid to put their name to what they write,” Eiríkur told Mbl.is.
With ambitious climate goals, rising oil prices, and an energy transition underway, many Icelandic politicians want to de-centre the private automobile. One might assume that public transportation in Iceland would simultaneously see increased support. Sadly, this has not been the case, and, in addition to large budget deficits in 2022, public bus service Strætó has seen significant cuts in service, alongside some of the largest price hikes in recent years.
In the spring of 2022, Strætó announced in a revised budget report that it would need an additional ISK 750 million [$5.3 million; €4.9 million] to be able to continue operations. Later, in September, it revised this figure to double the amount: ISK 1.5 billion. In a statement at the time, Strætó’s CEO Jóhannes Svavar Rúnarsson cited decreases in revenue due to COVID-19, increasing fuel prices, and increasing labour costs following a the implementation of a shortened work week as key causes of the operational deficit. Strætó ridership, and therefore revenue, peaked shortly before the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic and has still not completely recovered, with Jóhannes estimating a loss of around ISK 1.7-1.9 billion [$11.9-13.3 million; €11-12.3 million] due to COVID-19.
The budget deficit has also caused a reduction in service, including route reductions, longer wait times, and the elimination of the night bus. The night bus, a weekend service aimed at providing an alternative to taxis for partygoers, was first discontinued due to low utilisation during the pandemic. After a two-year hiatus, the service returned for a trial period this year, running from July to
September, during which time ridership numbers were assessed. Statistics revealed that numbers averaged 14 to 16 passengers per bus, for a total of some 300 to 340 passengers served every weekend. According to Strætó, these numbers fell below acceptable levels, and they decided to discontinue the service once more.
The return of the night bus became a political issue, as it formed one of the election promises of the Progressive Party in municipal elections last spring. In December 2022, Reykjavík Mayor Dagur B. Eggertsson proposed further municipal funding for Strætó to continue its night service at a city council meeting, to the tune of ISK 51 million [$358,000; €330,000]. As of the time of writing, the night bus service is slated to return in 2023, but only within the city of Reykjavík, not the surrounding area. As it stands, none of the additional service reductions are set to be reversed in the foreseeable future.
Alongside service reduction, a fare hike was also introduced to offset costs. Single tickets alongside both monthly and yearly passes rose in price by 12.5%, one of the largest fare hikes in the system’s history. Where a single ticket previously cost ISK 490 [$3.44; €3.17], it now costs ISK 550 [$3.86; €3.55]. Monthly passes, by far the most popular among residents, rose from ISK 8,000 to ISK 9,000.
In 2021, Strætó’s operating budget comprised a total of ISK 8.6 billion [$60 million; €56 million], of which ISK 1.85 billion came from fares, 4.06 billion from municipalities (Reykjavík by far leading in its financial contributions), 1.03 billion from the state, and 1.6 billion from
other sources, including Pant, a transportation service for disabled people.
To address the dual impact of rising costs and reduced service, some have called for increased state contributions to Strætó. The ISK 1 billion [$7 million; €6.5 million] received by Strætó in 2021 included an additional contribution of ca. ISK 100 million for COVID-19 relief. However, because Strætó went into the pandemic with ca. ISK 600 million in cash reserves, the state contribution for COVID-19 relief was far smaller than it would have been. These funds had been earmarked for the new fleet of electric buses, and now that the pandemic has wiped out Strætó’s cash reserve, a new bus fleet seems a far way off.
Additionally, the annual state contribution of ISK 900 million [$6.3 million; €5.8 million] was last assessed in 2012 and is not indexed to inflation. This means that in terms of the real value of the state contribution, Strætó receives less and less money every year. ASÍ, the Confederation of Icelandic Labour, recently issued a report comparing state subsidies for electric vehicles to state contributions to public transportation. The report showed that in 2021, Strætó received ca. ISK 1 billion in state funding, while state subsidies for EVs totalled ISK 9.2 billion. These subsidies overwhelmingly benefit higher-income earners, who may already be in a position to purchase an EV without a discount. On average, every EV sold in Iceland is subsidised with ISK 1.1 million in state funds, and every plug-in hybrid vehicle with ISK 932,000.
Statistics show a clear correlation between income level and utilisation of Strætó, with 31% of Icelanders in the lowest income
bracket using Strætó daily, compared to 12.3% of the highest income bracket. Similar trends can be seen in age, with both the very young and very old highly dependent on Strætó, in addition to students, renters, people with disabilities, and the unemployed.
Icelandic politicians are rightfully serious about the energy transition, but in order for it to be a just one, public transportation must be granted a more central role.
A recent report on pollution in the capital area stated that already by January 6 of this year, pollution exceeded acceptable levels more times than are permissible in an entire year. This surprising news also called the ageing Strætó fleet into question. In statements on the matter, Minister of Environment Guðlaugur Þór Þórðarson has called for municipalities to cut down on emissions by reducing the number of diesel vehicles.
Although some construed the minister’s comments as blaming public transit for the excessive pollution levels, nearly all agree that the bus fleet needs an update. Very few of Strætó’s current fleet of 160 vehicles are electric, but in the coming months, there are plans to add an additional 25 electric buses to the fleet. The state contribution to Strætó is also set to be reassessed soon, and Strætó board member Alexandra Briem is optimistic that they will be able to increase funding, precisely through the same EV subsidies that have, up until now, only benefited the owners of private vehicles.
Strætó also introduced a new ticketing app, named KLAPP, in late
2021. The app itself was originally designed by FARA, a Norwegian developer specialising in ticketing systems for mid-sized European transit systems. Citing security flaws in the previous app, Strætó also began phasing out its paper tickets, giving patrons until March 2022 to trade in any paper stubs for credit on the app. Now, KLAPP is the only way to use the bus system in the capital area, although the rural intercity buses use a separate payment system.
The initial adoption was bumpy, with many passengers unable to board buses because of system errors. The previous app which KLAPP replaced, named Strætó, worked simply enough, requiring the passenger to show the electronic ticket to the bus driver. With KLAPP, a new QR code system was introduced, meaning that passengers now had to scan the ticket on the ticket reader aboard the bus. However, upon scanning, many passengers were greeted by red frowny faces and the error message: “Invalid ticket.” The new app also did away with popular features from its predecessor, including the ability to track one’s bus in real time.
Late in 2022, Strætó also experienced difficulties with its scanners, which stopped functioning. The scanners are currently being replaced at the cost of the provider, and there are plans to soon introduce alternate payment methods onboard, including credit card and phone payments.
Strætó B.S.
Iceland’s public transportation system is run by an entity known as Strætó bs. The “bs.” designates Strætó as a municipal association (byggðasamlag), a public corporation owned by the municipalities of Reykjavík, Kópavogur, Hafnarfjörður, Garðabær, Mosfellsbær, Seltjarnarnes, and Álftanes. Ownership of Strætó is proportional to the population of the municipalities.
Some of the recent frustrations with Iceland’s public transportation system have also called attention to the organisation of Strætó. Strætó’s board of directors consists of six individuals representing the municipalities. Of these six, four belong to the centre-right Independence Party, not a particularly strong supporter of public transportation, and one belongs to the Reform Party, a centrist party that favours market solutions to social problems.
Due to budget cuts, many of Strætó’s responsibilities are contracted out, including maintenance work and also many of the drivers themselves. Some of these dissatisfactions with the management of Strætó have led to conversations about whether Strætó should become more of a transit authority, overseeing and regulating the operations of one or more private transportation solutions. This, however, is not a definite direction.
It’s the last night of the Iceland Airwaves festival. There have been some good shows and a few bad ones. I’ve stopped trying to adhere to my thoroughly-researched festival plan in favour of a more vibe-based approach. What sounds like fun? As a more-interesting-than-expected act wraps up at Húrra, I ask a friend where we should go next. He suggests we catch a few songs of Unnsteinn’s set at Iðnó. I’d seen Unnsteinn Manuel Stefánsson on stage several times before as part of the wildly popular Retro Stefson (active 2006-2016), but it’d been a while.
When we arrive, a Norwegian act comprised of a blond elf-like singer and costumed dancers is wrapping up. Unnsteinn walks on stage in a black hoodie, looking casually comfortable, accompanied by Sveinbjörn Thorarensen, better known as Hermigervill, in his signature red braids. Despite our resolution to leave after a couple of songs to squeeze in one last show, suddenly we’re not quite ready to leave. A few songs later, the crowd is dancing, jumping, moving together as one, and we’re definitely staying until the end. By now, Unnsteinn has torn off his hoodie and is in a black sleeveless tee and leather pants. He’s spontaneously acquired an orange cowboy hat and brought his cousin on stage as a dancer. Hermigervill has fully entered another realm inhabited entirely by his own beats; his imp-like posture and jerking movements make it seem like he’s not simply playing his synths but conjuring the sounds up through supernatural pathways. Nobody is ready for the show to end and Unnsteinn plays not one but two encores to a rapt audience.
As we head out into the night, I excitedly yell at my companion: “Man, Unnsteinn, who knew? Where has he been, why haven’t I seen him play more?”
It turns out Unnsteinn has been asking himself the same question. While working on his latest music, the tunes he was playing at the Airwaves gig, he released a podcast, one episode per song. Here’s how he introduces himself:
Dear listener, […] It’s been six years since Retro Stefson’s last gig. So much has happened in my life in these past six years. I had a kid and bought an apartment, built a studio, did a year at Iceland University of the Arts, and another year in a film school in Germany, started a company, a radio station, and yadda yadda yadda. I’m trying to make this list sound like the waves of status updates flowing across Facebook on New Year’s, where people list their accomplishments of the past year. And I’m also using it to flatter my ego and the fact that while I owned and ran a studio that acted as a factory for some of the country’s most popular music, I could barely finish a single song myself. I could help everyone else to write, play, and feel reassured, but getting anywhere with my own compositions, that stayed on the back burner. I’m really good at procrastinating and putting other stuff ahead of my own. And, what might be my greatest talent and biggest flaw, is how great I am at ruminating on things. Thinking. The problem, as those of you who are great at thinking know, is that we’re not as good at doing.
It’s not as if Unnsteinn has been in hiding. He’s been on TV and the radio, modelling in advertisements, repping and producing young musicians, running a radio station, and he even appeared as a judge on Iceland’s iteration of The Voice. To the casual onlooker, it seemed like he’d given up on the performing side of music and was settling in comfortably as a mogul in the making. At thirty years and change, he even sounds a bit like a wizened mentor to the young kids. “I’ve been making music professionally for about half my life now,” Unnsteinn tells me. “I communicate with young people a lot in our studios and I work with young people. I think it’s so important.” He doesn’t like to teach though, preferring to act as a sort of guide. “I remember
vividly when I was in school, and grownups would tell me how you were supposed to make music and how not to. I thought that was so unhealthy.”
Unnsteinn explains how he was writing music for a play in the Reykjavík City Theatre when he got to know a young audio tech. It turned out he was in a band called Inspector Spacetime and invited Unnsteinn to come check out their studio. That’s how Unnsteinn found himself with a couple of 20-year-olds, in a studio matching their age, doing music ‘wrong.’ “You don’t really record stuff like that, or so people have always told me. But I visited their studio and they just had a mic that was falling apart somewhere in the corner and we were singing directly into autotune, and it was such a great vibe. It changes your performance. We made a great song and it works perfectly.” He found it liberating.
Being open to new developments is what keeps music alive. “In the history of recorded music, there’s always some new technology that changes everything: autotune, the metronome, drum machines. It’s such an unhealthy perspective to look at a new technology that’s set to change music and simply dismiss it with an ‘ugh, Spotify,’ or whatever.” Unnsteinn’s interests include not only how technology changes music, but also the influence of space, the outside world, and culture. He’s fascinated by how organ music written for Catholics sounds different than what’s written for Protestants, as the size of the churches affects the reverberation. Speaking of cultural impact, there’s the global pandemic. For the older guard of Icelandic musicians, the hardships of COVID-19 led many to rethink their music, and even retire. The younger generation, however, is now entering the industry having only made music on their own, never having played a show in front of people. “They’re making music to dance to, music that’s about being together,” Unnsteinn notes. “It’s music that’s made to be heard in a space, by the people gathered in that space.”
During his career, Unnsteinn has tried out several different ways of existing within the music industry. “In 2011, when touring with Retro Stefson, we had a manager, sometimes two, sometimes three. And after I moved on to TV, I started a record label working with younger artists. I went into the big productions and finally, got completely fed up with that side of the music industry.” In his podcast, as well as
“It’s been six years since Retro Stefson’s last gig. So much has happened in my life in these past six years.”
his music, Unnsteinn honestly describes his experience of suffering burnout in the work he loves so much. “Now, instead of me releasing music for others, I prefer to teach them how the software works so they can do it themselves. In our studio, we completely switched gears. We were releasing Flóni, Birnir, Young Karin, GDRN - some of the country’s biggest artists. But we switched it up and now we have courses where we teach people how to make music with software.”
Unnsteinn’s studio had built up quite a roster of some of the country’s most popular artists, but when they started the courses, they focused on the least-represented demographic in their circle.
“The courses are just for girls,” Unnsteinn explains. “They had never been a big part of our releases. Some girls would come in and maybe not feel entirely comfortable in our space, it was a ‘boy’ studio. So now, we’ve taught around 60 girls to do it themselves and they’re releasing their own music.” Amongst the alumnae is a newcomer calling herself Lúpína, and up and coming pop artist Una Torfa (though she had recorded music previously).
Unnsteinn explains how they found themselves in a male-dominated environment before course correcting. “With all the guys on our roster, it wasn’t because we heard their music somewhere and thought: hey, let’s go sign this guy. Take Flóni for instance: he was
only at our studio to paint our floors. He played us some of his music and after that, he kept showing up. But it’s a much bigger step for a teenage girl to enter a space like that. So that’s why we started the course.”
Unnsteinn really is good at thinking about things. When I ask him about returning to live music, he launches into a breakdown of the status and history of the Icelandic music industry. The truth is that his ability to work as a creative musician is directly tied to popular trends – and the economy. “With pop music, each genre would usually get like five years at a time,” Unnsteinn muses. “When I was in school, it was indie rock. Then dance music dominated for a while. By the time I was graduating around 2010, 2011, rap was everywhere. And it’s still going.” Unnsteinn puts the longevity of rap music popularity down to streaming services. “I know they say you don’t get much money from Spotify, but if you reach a lot of plays, it’s enough. To build a market, people start making music in their own languages.”
The number of emerging artists focusing on the Icelandic market is best visible in the lack of fresh musical exports from Iceland. “Think about the bands being exported from Iceland right now: it’s
“I’ve been making music professionally for about half my life now.”
the same ones that we were exporting ten years ago. Kaleo and Of Monsters and Men. There haven’t been many new ones since. Laufey, maybe, she’s breaking through. But with rap, the thing that happens is that the market becomes hyper-localised. It’s like a washing machine, the rap songs coming round and round again, one after the other. If you want to make a new song, it can’t be too far away from the song that you did before that one and it creates a saturation. That keeps rap so popular.”
The trouble with making experimental music is that Iceland’s population, although growing, doesn’t support a touring musician. “If I had stayed in Berlin, I could have done an Unnsteinn tour of Germany, playing for a few hundred people in each venue. When I moved home, we played Arnarhóll on Reykjavík Culture Night, and a similar festival in Akureyri, a few school dances and office parties, you know, the gigs that are available here. And they’re good gigs, fun to play. But then I played during Airwaves and that was the first time this winter that I felt I had like a real concert.”
Doing it for the art is all well and good, but there are practical questions to consider. “I was talking finances with a girl who wants to get into music recently. “I told her there were two questions she needed to ask herself. Are you going to be making Top 40 music that
will get played on the biggest radio stations or are you going to be doing something a little more artsy or experimental? The next thing you need to consider is: will you make music in Icelandic or English? Because if you want to sing in Icelandic, you’re not going to be able to live off making experimental music. It’s possible to make a living in music in Iceland, but you need a solid listener base. You need to appeal to a lot of people.”
In order to have a career in Iceland, to be able to live off making music, one has to embrace the world of entertainment. Unnsteinn sets a high standard for himself and his music, and for a long time, he wrestled with the idea to become an entertainer. “I used to find the idea difficult,” Unnsteinn tells me, before adding, somewhat selfdeprecatingly: “That was an issue because it’s no fun to hire a selfinvolved artiste from 101 to sing a song at an office party and they’re about to have a nervous breakdown over the possibility of saying or doing something stupid.” Getting over himself was one step to clearing his mental block from making music. But for Unnsteinn, performing live is still stressful. “I get awful stage fright. There’s a difference between playing cover songs and my own music. I do Er þetta ást [by beloved Icelandic pop legend Páll Óskar] pretty often and that’s completely nerve-wracking.”
“It’s no fun to hire a self-involved artist from 101 to sing a song at an office party and they’re about to have a nervous breakdown over the possibility of saying or doing something stupid.”
While he can manipulate his own songs in the moment, “if that’s the way the song wants to be,” he feels the pressure to do someone else’s songs justice the way they were written. In the end, Unnsteinn doesn’t have a problem with the struggle. “Maybe making art should be stressful.” While popularity helps with paying the bills, ultimately, Unnsteinn has found chasing it unhelpful in the creative process. “I’ve tried to appeal to a lot of people, and at other times, I’ve tried not to do that. The music I’m making now is completely the kind of music I want to listen to myself. That’s the only thing you can rely on. If I’m going to be making music, this is the music I want to be doing. It’s a specific style and the soundscape is maybe a little aggressive. But I made the decision to spend my time doing exactly this because it gives me pleasure.”
There are all sorts of possibilities in the future but for now, Unnsteinn is living in the moment. “There’s the question if I should sing these songs in English, try for a bigger audience, but I’ve had the best time making and releasing these songs as they are.”
So how would he describe the type of music he’s now making, that he performed at that Airwaves gig? As is to be expected, Unnsteinn has thought a lot about his answer. “Consider Rammstein. If you were to ask what sort of music Rammstein made, your first thought might
be metal, but really, they’re a pop group. If you look at the way they structure their songs, the songs are three minutes, there’s the exact structure of a pop song, including hooks and everything but the soundscape is metal. That’s what Hermigervill and I are doing with this album. We’re making pop music, but the soundscape is techno.”
The talk turns to Hermigervill, Unnsteinn co-creator and veteran of the alternative music scene in Iceland. Unnsteinn has a clear admiration for the effort and ambition Hermigervill has for his craft. “The music we’re making, he’s getting all the sounds into the synths and playing everything live but if you’re not paying attention, you could just as well assume that he’s DJing. So you have to be a music lover and concertgoer to realise what he’s doing: that it’s a risk and that it’s a live performance.” In contrast, Unnsteinn mentions a recent gig where he and Hermigervill performed at the grand opening of a large company’s new cafeteria. “We were standing there in the corner, and people didn’t really realise what was going on. They just saw a redheaded guy and that guy from The Voice trying to keep the party going.” He chuckles. “We also went to London and did two gigs at an event promoting Icelandic tourism. We’ve done the weirdest gigs, where people aren’t expecting live music. Where music is like a commodity, not an art form.” For a young man with a family and
“If you want to sing in Icelandic, you’re not going to be able to live off making experimental music.
a mortgage, these gigs pay the bills. But that Airwaves concert felt a little different. “It felt incredibly rewarding, artistically. I realised I have to think about making and playing the music that I want to create, instead of focusing on the bottom line. I have to think about the whole experience, what it’s like to show up to a concert.”
Since Unnsteinn has been working as a professional musician for more than half his life, I ask him: is it no big deal to eke out an existence in such a competitive industry? He laughs in tortured artist: “No, it’s a huge deal, actually. I was talking to a guy about my pension rights recently, and he was telling me all these things I apparently should have known. I just went: ‘Huh?’ The system isn’t really set up to make it easy for you.” But Unnsteinn didn’t get into this because of the money. “Music has given me so much. My son is starting to experience it, he loves singing. So we do that together every day these days. I wouldn’t want to do anything else.” In reality, Unnsteinn does do plenty of other things, amongst them, making TV. “Right now, I’m fiercely immersed in music because I just finished making a TV programme for the past four months. And after I’ll have spent four months making my record, maybe I’ll just want to make TV.”
Unnsteinn recently received an artists’ stipend to make music for a theatre adaptation of Nobel laureate Halldór Laxness’s novel Iceland’s Bell, directed by Þorleifur Örn Arnarsson and featuring a cast consisting entirely of people of colour. During that time, Unnsteinn plans to work on his solo music as well, finishing his album. “I want to get it out as soon as I can, so it doesn’t turn into a record that I just talk about.”
“People didn’t really realise what was going on. They just saw a redheaded guy and that guy from The Voice trying to keep the party going.”
Photography by Golli
Words by Ragnar Tómas Hallgrímsson
The word oasis refers to a fertile area in the desert. The essential component of the concept is water, for the area is made fertile because of it. The popular image is a half-dozen palm trees, huddled religiously around a small pond, surrounded by an expanse of sand.
Although there are no smouldering deserts in Iceland, Icelanders, like all peoples, have their oases, albeit purely in the figurative sense. Our oases, like the original referent, are unthinkable without the presence of H2O: our oases are warm water, and we’ve long harnessed the power of geothermal energy to make our existence on this harsh island more bearable.
Consider Snorri Sturluson: the renowned historian, poet, and politician thought to have authored, or at least compiled, portions of the Prose Edda, a vital source for Norse mythology, as well as Heimskringla, a history of the Norwegian kings. Although there’s no way to be certain, Snorri may have found not only refuge but also inspiration in his ancient jacuzzi in Reykholt, one of the oldest and most famous man-made hot tubs in Iceland. The pool, fed by the hot spring Skrifla, was mentioned in the Book of Settlements, suggesting it may have been used as early as the 10th century.
Modern Iceland would no doubt be unrecognisable to Snorri Sturluson, although if one were to resurrect the hoary historian, the best way of easing him back into the chaos of modern life would likely be to set him down at the public pools. Have him strap on a floating hood and a few floatation devices. And allow him to be reborn through water.
Unnur Valdís Kristjánsdóttir has no recollection of the first time that she visited a public pool – but she has vivid memories from her time in water as a child.
Her mother, whom Unnur describes as “a busy woman,” would often buy herself some free time –much the way that a modern parent would employ an iPad – by allowing her daughter to take long soaks in the bathtub.
“I dreamed of designing a moveable tub,” Unnur remembers, “one that I could use to travel the world. This idea, perhaps, later came to inform my manifesto; it’s an outlandish notion, I know,” she admits.
Unnur began modelling at the age of 15 and although she was somewhat embarrassed about her career in its immediate aftermath, that regret was gradually supplanted by a sense of gratitude. She’d been afforded the opportunity of travelling the world, which gave her a certain distance from and perspective on her native country. Gore Vidal looking across the Mediterranean from Ravello.
Later in life, when grappling with an especially difficult decision – one which she had been musing upon over a period of many days – she decided to take a break and visit the pool. It was there that she
had an epiphany, like Archimedes in his bathtub (“Eureka!”), intuiting, in retrospect, that that epiphany was closely tied to the water.
And from there, a whole culture has sprung forth.
On the morning of Tuesday, December 20, I tumbled out of bed at 5:25 AM.
I popped open my laptop and did some work, roused the kids, fed and dressed them, and drove the younger one to school, trying impatiently to keep him focused on the task at hand, and inuring him to the idea that, in the modern world, there’s no time to stop to admire the magic of everyday existence. I dropped my mother-in-law off at the car dealership before visiting the doctor’s with my elder son, who yelled hysterically over the prospect of an infected finger (which may have explained the fever), and throughout the day I continued this marathon game of whack-a-mole with my hydra-headed to-do list. All the while, my consciousness seemed to drift, almost incessantly, to the small business that I operate with my wife.
When I finally came to, sometime later that evening, in a parking lot outside a nursing home complex deep within snow-ridden Reykjavík, I was exhausted.
And late.
I rushed out of the car and weaved confusedly through the parking lot, spotting a pedestrian in the moonlight. “Excuse me, is there a pool here somewhere?” I asked. “It’s down there,” the woman replied (something about her inflection suggesting this was not the first time she’d received such a query). Before hurrying onwards, she pointed quickly towards the corner of the complex, at the end of a sloping and slippery driveway.
“Thanks.”
I kicked off my boots in the foyer and was directed towards the locker room, where I met a man who’d recently returned to Iceland from Norway. He asked if this was “my first time,” and I admitted that it was.
“I advise you to just let go,” he offered. “It may seem a little strange at first, this whole thing, but don’t pay it any mind.” I determined at once to heed
I FELT AS IF I HAD BEEN REBORN; I FELT SO UTTERLY DISORIENTED AND CONFUSED THAT I FORGOT, ALMOST, WHO I WAS.
his words, although something about my physical and mental state felt especially antithetical to the kind of levelheadedness often required to ease into a new experience: my nerves were tingling, my mind was detached, and my gums were gauzy from all the nicotine pouches I had too frequently insinuated below my upper lip. I breathed deeply, tried to relax, undressed, showered, and clambered awkwardly into my bathing suit.
But then – an oasis.
The pool itself was maybe 25 metres [80 feet] long and situated beneath a low ceiling, although I’d later think of it as almost infinite in its extension. There were big windows that looked out towards the apartment complex to the east. The majority of the blinds were up, although I only caught sight of a single person, busying herself within a kitchen. Lanterns lined the edge of the pool and music was playing. These weren’t the kind of mildly off-putting, vaguely oriental tones that so often accompany meditation sessions but the less intrusive, more familiar Nordic ambient: a soft piano on a slightly varying loop.
Unnur stood in the middle of the pool and asked the dozen or so participants to gather round in a circle. She explained that the winter solstice session was a sort of national holiday for Flot, her water therapy practice. It was their “Independence Day.” Unnur talked briefly before handing the stage over to one of her assistants, who continued the introduction with a handful of rather disjointed and digressive ideas, softly intoning some of the more popular spiritual catchwords, which made it difficult to focus.
And then we fastened our floating hoods.
Unnur conceived of the idea for the Flothetta (a floating swim cap) in 2012.
At the time, she had tried her hand at various pursuits, before enrolling in the department of product design at the Iceland Academy of the Arts. Her
fascination with health and well-being, combined with her life-long love of water, inspired the product’s design, which originally consisted of a set of leg floats and a single head piece. (The concept has since evolved to include a blindfold, to keep the user’s field of vision in check, and additional leg floats to accommodate different physiques.)
I began to float in the darkness, my body undulating in rhythm with my breathing: each deep inhalation drawing me closer to the surface, which also served to raise the volume of the music: a phenomenon so rhythmic and routine that it felt almost artificial.
A friend of mine had described the affair as “a return to the womb,” but my experience was different; I felt as if I were floating through empty space, sinking into a dark and comforting oblivion. At first, it was relaxing and strange and beautiful but not yet remarkable. That latter feeling only became applicable when two hands reached out to “the soft animal of my body” and gently manoeuvred my limbs through the ether, before cradling me, as if I were a child, in an embrace that felt vaguely angelic.
I began to spin, and although I must have been moving slowly through the water, the conscious sensation was akin to hurtling, almost at the speed of light, through the darkness of space. It was indescribable. When those two arms released me, I began to feel like an astronaut in one of those disaster movies, drifting helplessly from whatever remote station to which I’d been attached. I longed for a lifeline. For the renewed sensation of human touch.
Time moved mysteriously, too.
I drifted in and out of consciousness, at times thinking that I’d fallen asleep, and, at other times, very much inhabiting the present moment; and thankfully, Unnur, or one of her assistants, returned at regular intervals to again cradle me in her arms.
I spent a total of 90 minutes in the water (although that couldn’t possibly be right?) and after Unnur had gently
THE CONTOURS OF TIME SEEM TO ALTER IN THE WATER.
removed my floats, she reorientated my body in the water, pressing me up against the pool wall to recover. I felt as if I had been reborn; I felt so utterly disoriented and confused that I forgot, almost, who I was.
“What was that?”
“It was like zooming through outer space,” I told Unnur, over the phone, a few weeks after our session. “Is that common?”
“I haven’t heard anyone mention moving at such high speeds, but that thing you said, about time, that I’ve heard; the contours of time seem to alter in the water.”
One of the things that Unnur and her instructors try to emphasise in their float therapy is not over-curating the experience – to keep it simple and manage expectations – so that each practitioner is at liberty to enter into their own realm.
“We don’t want to force an experience upon you. We want to keep it pure,” she observes.
Unnur explained that the weightlessness served to calm down the senses: to unburden the body and its musculoskeletal system, to achieve a deeper calm.
People often find themselves in this wide expanse, which can be a bit overwhelming. They feel lonely, as if they’re drifting through a void, which, perhaps, serves as insightful commentary on the relationship between the human being and the modern world: we’re always stimulated, always addicted to something.”
Encountering nothingness, Unnur seems to suggest – the modern mind reels.
“Have you experienced such powerful feelings yourself?” I inquire.
“I have. But also, I’ve begun to use float therapy as a kind of exercise in intuition. When I need an answer to something, for example; we often know the answer ourselves but fail to find it amidst the hassle of daily life. And I think there’s something truly of value there, allowing us the opportunity to solve our
problems in a gentle manner, as opposed to losing the run of ourselves. There are so many people in positions of authority who are making decisions that affect us all; it’s important that these decisions are made well, with quality and thought.”
“It felt so alien and yet so familiar; as Icelanders, our fate has long been interwoven with water.”
“Yes, our daily trips to the public pools make us semiexperts in water, unlike those who only visit pools once or twice a year. The Icelanders are very quick to relax and trust the water. Foreigners, on the other hand, find it more difficult to let go.”
I told Unnur how the sensation of human touch seemed to
IT FELT SO ALIEN AND YET SO FAMILIAR; AS ICELANDERS, OUR FATE HAS LONG BEEN INTERWOVEN WITH WATER.
elevate the ritual to something almost transcendent.
“There’s so much healing power to touch. We know this when it comes to our children, and we take good care of them, but perhaps we forget as we grow older. It loses its importance. We need it.”
I hung up the phone and returned to the chaos of modern life. But have since, during feelings of distress, returned to that place, where I seemed suspended in oblivion; it reminds me of that Czesław Miłosz quote: “Calm down. Both your sins and your good deeds will be lost in oblivion.”
And there’s comfort in that.
This year, Iceland Review celebrates its 60th anniversary. To commemorate the occasion, we’ve dug deep in our archives to bring you some highlights of Iceland’s history, through the eyes of contemporary journalists and photographers.
On the morning of January 23, 1973, the fishing village of Heimaey in the Westman Islands awoke to a volcano erupting in the backyard. A fissure a mile-and-ahalf long had opened up about half a mile from the edge of the township. The inhabitants were evacuated in a matter of hours, the sick and elderly going to the mainland by plane and everyone else piling on fishing vessels to escape the lava and ash. Amazingly, no one was injured.
Firefighters, scientists, and geologists stayed behind or travelled to Heimaey to keep the village and the harbour from being destroyed. Pumping equipment was brought in from the mainland and abroad, and ‘suicide squads’ began pumping ice-cold sea water at the leading edge of the lava flow. By the time the eruption had subsided, a 27-metre [90-foot] rock tsunami stood frozen, just yards from the harbour.
The volcano – subsequently named Eldfell, or Fire Mountain – remained active for nearly six months. In July 1973, it was announced that the eruption was finally over. While the harbour had been saved, the eastern side of the town was buried under 40 metres [120 feet] of lava, with a total of 112 houses destroyed, either burned or buried entirely.
For nearly six months, the islanders had lived with relatives, friends, or strangers on the mainland, cramped and uncomfortable. As soon as it was deemed safe to return, they began filtering back to their hometown, only to find half of it in complete ruin. They began the long process of rebuilding. More importantly, they used the eruption to their advantage, using the newly created chunks of land to extend their airport runway and harnessing the energy of the volcano to heat their homes.
When Ramp Up Iceland constructed its 300th ramp this November, a curious scene ensued. As Haraldur Þorleifsson, the project’s founder, took centre stage in the Mjódd bus station to make a celebratory speech, President Guðni Th. Jóhannesson interrupted him from the crowd, in what the media would later playfully describe as “heckling.” The President then proceeded to spray-paint over Halli’s initial goal of 1,000 with a new one of 1,500. Later, Halli would tweet, “Since he’s the president, I guess we have to do it.”
The playful exchange captured what many find so endearing about Halli, as he’s often known: a benevolent tech titan who’s still able to take a joke. Much of the exchange also took place on Twitter, of which Halli is both an avid user and a current employee.
THIS IS HARALDUR ÞORLEIFSSON
IN 2021 HE SOLD HIS COMPANY, UENO, TO TWITTER.
DURING THE SALE PROCESS, HE WAS ADVISED HOW TO LEGALLY AVOID PAYING TAXES ON THE PROFIT.
INSTEAD, HE DEMANDED THAT THE PURCHASE PRICE BE PAID AS SALARY TO MAXIMISE THE TAX HE WOULD HAVE TO PAY.
IN 2021, HE PAID THE SECOND HIGHEST TAX IN ICELAND.
As a designer, Halli thinks a lot about the decisions that shape the world we inhabit. We take so many aspects of life for granted, be it a building, a coffee cup, or a public transportation system. We see them as a given, as part of our environment, forgetting the choices and circumstances that made them. Halli, however, was not the kind of child to settle for “that’s just how it is” as an answer.
His tech career has allowed him to work wherever he wants, and he has travelled extensively, living and working in places like Tokyo, Buenos Aires, Vancouver, Barcelona, and Rio de Janeiro. Both his travels and design background have made him think very deeply about why cities are laid out in certain ways and why certain buildings lack accessibility, while others don’t. “You can go from city to city,” he says, “and often even just within the same
country, there’s a very stark difference. So it’s very clear that these are all manmade decisions.”
Halli’s journey to becoming one of Iceland’s so-called “tax kings” was not an obvious one. Born with muscular dystrophy which left him fully dependent on his wheelchair by his mid-20s, his family was working-class. Looking back, Halli is fully aware that things could have been different. “Education is definitely the big one,” Halli says, reflecting on the advantages of growing up in Iceland. “In places like the United States, there’s a big difference in education depending on the money you have. And social differentiation begins very early in education, starting in kindergarten. And of course, it’s not just the quality of education, but the network you develop and your social capital as well.”
Having studied philosophy and
‘TALENT’ IS MY LEAST FAVOURITE WORD. IT IMPLIES THAT SOME PEOPLE ARE BORN WITH A GIFT. AND THAT OTHERS ARE NOT. IT ' S A LIMITING WORD. GATEKEEPING THROUGH GENETICS. PASSION IS WHAT ACTUALLY MATTERS.
business at university, Halli went on to drop out of a master’s degree in economics. Like so many foundational figures of the tech industry, Halli found it hard to adapt to the daily routines of formal education and work life. But unlike many of his tech peers, Halli hasn’t mythologised his origin story. “It wasn’t really a principled stance at the time,” Halli admits. Thinking back to some of his first jobs, he’s quite candid about the reason he forged a different path: “I just felt I couldn’t show up in a tie every day.”
As Halli was finding his way in the world, he also received some aid in the form of disability payments. “I couldn’t have lived off of them for a long time,” Halli says, “but they did get me through some hard times.” Some of these hard times included being fired from one of his first serious jobs in New York and a difficult period with alcohol and drug use. He also recalls ruefully how he happened to start his first day of
work at CCP, a large Icelandic game development studio, on the same day as the banking collapse in Iceland. But in 2011, Halli sobered up and got married. In 2014, founded Ueno.
Ueno grew out of Halli’s work as a freelancer. Halli scored a lucky break in taking on a project for Google, and as his projects grew bigger and bigger, he realised that he needed to organise a team. Over the years, Ueno grew into a full-service design agency, developing apps, making websites, creating brands, and leading the way in online marketing for some of the biggest names in tech, including Uber, Facebook, Twitter, Apple, Visa, Verizon, and others. Some of their best-known projects include the Google Santa Tracker, the Reuters news app, and Dropbox’s online guide.
When Halli sold Ueno to Twitter in 2021, the proceeds from the sale were enough to send him to number 2 on the list of Iceland’s top taxpayers, the
exclusive list of “tax kings.” Normally, selling off a highly profitable tech company involves stock options and other financial instruments designed at keeping the profit in lower tax brackets than wages. Instead of experimenting with creative bookkeeping, Halli went in the opposite direction, opting to receive the majority of his profit in the form of wages. The highest wage bracket in Iceland is taxed at a marginal rate of 46%, with lower brackets at 38% and 31%. Had Halli chosen stocks or other financial instruments instead, he would have been taxed at a much lower rate of 22%. Not all details from the sale are public, but according to his tax return, Halli reported a monthly salary of ISK 102 million [$718,000; €672,000] throughout 2021, some 46% of which would have been paid in tax.
In talking with Halli, there is no sense of martyrdom or regret. Nor does he seem to have been simply “following the
PEOPLE CAN BE SUCCESSFUL WITHOUT WORKING HARD OR BEING SMART. BUT NOBODY CAN BE SUCCESSFUL WITHOUT LUCK. AND A LOT OF IT.
rules,” impartially acting like everyone ought to. He seems genuinely happy to have the ability to give back.
The largest part of his working life has been with American tech companies. Reflecting on the differences between his home and the United States reveals a deep appreciation for Iceland’s social systems: “In terms of living, Iceland is simply a better place. In terms of work, if you just isolate that part, the US probably has a leg up, but not for the right reasons. It’s a fear-based society. People are afraid to make mistakes, and when they do, there are no safety nets. In a lot of ways, I relate to that American work ethic, but I don’t think we should build a society around it. Everyone is very motivated, but I don’t think they’re happier. In Iceland, because of the social system, there’s more room for life.”
Despite his passion for the principles of social democracy, Halli certainly does not believe he has all the answers for the world’s social woes. Exhibiting his trademark humility, Halli says simply, “I’m not smart enough to have solutions, but I think in general it would be good to level things. We should start with the assumption that it would be good to be more equal, that people who have more should pay more.”
This, it seems, is Halli’s goal: to make Iceland an even better place for living.
RAMPUP
Once Halli was back in Iceland with his family after years of travel, its lack of accessibility seemed both obvious and insupportable. Only now, he could do something about it. Ramp Up Reykjavík started humbly, with the goal to build 100 ramps, mostly in downtown Reykjavík. “It seemed like every year, there was some story about how a person in a wheelchair couldn’t go somewhere on Laugavegur,” he recalls. “The reporter was always shocked, but nothing ever changed, and I remember stories like these going back for decades.”
Now, Ramp Up has expanded its scope from Reykjavík to all of Iceland, with the goal of 1,600 total ramps across the country by 2026. The difference is especially noticeable on Laugavegur, Reykjavík’s main shopping street. Just a year ago, the entrances to many stores, restaurants, hair salons, clinics, and more were blocked by staircases. Now, gently sloping stone ramps, unassuming in their design, can be found throughout the land, allowing people in wheelchairs to access services previously out of reach. Every ramp is a little different, needing to be fitted to the building and surrounding in question. Ramp Up’s success, according to Halli, is largely thanks to the very focused nature of its goal. “In the beginning,” Halli remembers, “we weren’t really sure how it all worked. But now we can do it at scale. It’s complicated and expensive to do as a one-off, but we’ve learned from doing this over and over again.”
“We have a very deep knowledge of this subject now, but we have no idea how to do anything else,” he jokes. The goal of Ramp Up, in short, is to remove any excuse for lack of basic accessibility, making it as easy as possible for the store owner. With a total budget of ISK 400 million [$2.8 million; €2.6 million], half of which is supplied by government funding, Ramp Up handles everything from applying for permits, submitting plans to the city, sending out work crews, working with local municipalities, and everything else. And the reaction has been overwhelmingly positive, with many confessing that they’d wanted to build ramps to their stores for years, but had no idea how to go about it.
However, Halli tells me, as Ramp Up has made progress, they’ve quickly realised that ramps are far from the whole story: “In the beginning, we talked with a lot of people in the disability community. They rightfully pointed out that it’s not just ramps. How wide are the
hallways in a building? Are the restrooms accessible? Are there accommodations for blind and hearing-impaired people? There are so many things that need to be fixed,” Halli says. “If anyone wants to tell me how we could be doing better, I’m always listening.”
One of the defining experiences of Haraldur’s life was the loss of his mother to a car crash at age 11. He was on vacation at Disney World when his father received the news, but it was only once they arrived back in Iceland that he was told. Her early loss was, of course, a tragedy. But before he lost her, she left a lasting mark on her son that would shape how he viewed the world for the rest of his life. In Halli’s telling, his mother Anna Jóna was like many mothers: “The best in the world.”
His mother imprinted a deep love of the arts in Halli. According to him, she was loving and creative, having worked in set design for films. He remembers how they watched many movies together and what an amazing storyteller she was. It speaks volumes that many of his passion projects now aim at promoting the arts. Upcoming projects include an artists’ residence on the Kjalarnes peninsula and his own musical pursuits, including a guest appearance at this past year’s Airwaves festival and an upcoming album called The Radio Won’t Let Me Sleep, to be released in the spring. For an awkward and depressed kid, the recent time in the spotlight isn’t entirely natural. “I’ve had to learn to be open to failure in a whole new area,” he explains. “It’s a small country, so everyone’s kind of famous, but I’ve gotten a fair bit of attention. It’s been kind of scary. What if the music is terrible? It would be a very public failure.”
This February, Halli will be opening a new café in downtown Reykjavík. Dedicated to his mother, it bears her name: Anna Jóna. With a small theatre
A TOURIST ASKED ME RECENTLY WHY THERE WERE SO MANY PEOPLE IN WHEELCHAIRS IN REYKJAVIK. I TOLD HIM HIS COUNTRY HAD THEM TOO, BUT IT WASN'T AS ACCESSIBLE SO THEY STAY AT HOME. SAME APPLIES TO ALL MINORITIES. IF YOU DON'T SEE THEM IT'S BECAUSE THEY ARE HIDING.
equipped with 40 seats, it also aims to become a venue of sorts for small performances and screenings. “It’s an homage to my mother,” Halli tells me. “But something I thought about a lot before opening this café was how I only grew up with her until I was 11. When I think about it now as an adult, it’s such a small slice of her life. I thought about going around to everyone who knew her and asking about her, about their memories of her. But, ultimately, I decided not to, because there’s no way for me to capture her in her entirety. This is an homage to her, but it’s also an homage of my memory of her, of a son for his mother.”
An especially strong memory of his mother stays with Halli to this day, some 40 years later. “Something I keep coming back to is a conversation with my mom I remember very well,” Halli tells me. “We were walking around the city, I think, and she was telling me how everything I saw, everything around me, was man-made. I got such a clear impression from my mother that I could have an impact on the world, that it wasn’t just for me to look at. It was something that I should, that we all should, feel some responsibility for changing.”
A popular post featuring Halli made the rounds on social media recently, titled simply “If you’re rich, be more like this guy.” In the comments, a general consensus emerged that cast Halli as the “good guy millionaire.”
Inevitably, the idealisation of Halli is also tied up in romantic ideas of what people want Iceland to mean to them. These ideas portray it as a perfect society, the first nation in the world with an openly LGBT head of state, and the nation that jailed their criminal bankers, if only for a little while.
But to be faithful to Halli’s own social democratic convictions, it is only fair to see him too as someone human, all too human. There is, for instance, the uncomfortable truth that Ueno
made much of its fortune working for American tech companies, many of which are working against precisely the systems which allowed Halli to flourish. Companies like Uber, Tesla, and Amazon have all worked to drive down wages, while fiercely resisting the recent wave of unionisation in the United States. Ueno was, of course, not directly involved in these practices. But nevertheless, wherever Silicon Valley seems to promise novelty and freedom, one cannot help but notice that potentially democracy-destabilising concentrations of wealth seem to follow. Halli was lucky enough to benefit from strong social systems during the hard times of his life, but for many, such opportunities are increasingly being taken away by these tech firms.
Though Halli’s fortune is admittedly more humble, it is difficult not to draw comparisons with other members of the tech elite. In some sense, Halli serves as the inverse image of his current employer, Elon Musk. The child of South African diamond miners, Mr. Musk has likewise benefited from the advantages of his upbringing, though where Musk was born into great generational wealth, Halli was simply born into a strong social democracy. But what truly differentiates Halli from his fellow members of the tech elite is the application of the designer’s eye to his own life as well. Halli doesn’t take the world for granted, nor his position in it. Where others justify their anointed positions through appeals to genius, work ethic, and rugged individualism, Halli openly talks about the social support he’s received, often letting online followers in behind the scenes of his life.
And it’s this kind of online engagement that keeps Halli optimistic about the future of our increasingly digital lives. “I still remember the first chat on a computer I ever had with my cousin on an old 286,” Halli muses, referencing a popular Intel PC model. “Back then, I thought it was going to revolutionise the world in almost
exclusively good ways. I am in general more optimistic than pessimistic, but the pessimistic part has definitely grown.” Something the tech world, and especially Twitter, has still not totally come to terms with was the election of Donald Trump and the accompanying culture wars centred around freedom of speech, “cancel culture,” and online hate speech. Today, Halli is working closely with his team at Twitter to address some of these problems, but given the sensitive nature of the work, much of it is under wraps. As hard a project as it may seem, Halli hopes to make Twitter resemble more the digital hopes of his youth. “Twitter has allowed me access to different groups of people,” he explains. “I think it’s broadened my view of the world. I often learn things on Twitter that are uncomfortable but necessary. I come from a very specific background, a community where everyone is kind of the same. It’s important to have access to these different experiences.”
At the end of 2022, Halli swept various Icelandic media outlets’ awards for Person of the Year, being voted by the audiences of Iceland’s widest-read publications as the man of the moment.
And for good reason: between Ramp Up, his contributions to legal funds for victims of sexual abuse, and generous donations to families in need over the holidays, it is hard to think of one Icelander trying to do more good.
And yet, despite all of the good he’s done, it’s worth pausing for a moment to consider a peculiar irony. The Man of the Year, after all, was chosen for something every one of us does every year: paying our taxes.
On visits to my grandfather’s farm, I would often follow him around, helping him with the farmyard tasks. In the early afternoon, perhaps after mending a fence, we would come inside to have some coffee and flatbread topped with butter and lamb that my grandmother had laid out. Taking off his rubber boots that smelled of rust and horses, he would smile with satisfaction at the simple fare, mumbling happily: “Ekta matur.” Real food.
Wordsby Erik Pomrenke Photographyby GolliLike language and music, flatbread is a nearuniversal feature of cultures throughout the world. And for a cuisine such as Iceland’s, which is often so different even from the other Nordic nations, flatbread is also a humble connection to the wider world.
To this day, Icelandic flatbreads, or flatkökur, can be found in any Icelandic supermarket, making them arguably the most versatile and popular of Icelandic gamaldags matur, or traditional food. Often pre-cut into halves, they are traditionally eaten topped with a smear of butter and smoked lamb ( hangikjöt ) or liver pâté ( kindakæfa). Mottled with specks of char and perforated by fork tines, a flatbread has a subtle flavour, so often paired with butter and lamb that the light burn marks and smokiness of the meat merge into one. Standard flatbreads found on a grocery store shelf will contain a mixture of wheat flour and rye, but traditionally, they were made exclusively with rye. Often, other additives such as dried moss and seaweed were also used to stretch out the precious imported flour. This modern lunchtime and family gathering staple is, like so much of what’s considered traditional Icelandic food, a relic from a time of scarcity.
When I first tried hákarl, the notorious fermented shark native to Icelandic cuisine, my uncle proffered me a small yellow cube on a toothpick, grinning devilishly. “You’ll love it,” he said. “It’s terrible.”
Brought up on dried fish and cod liver oil, it was not the smell that deterred me, though it is admittedly rather unpleasant. It was the gelatinous texture I found most repellent, making the experience last much longer than one wants. Still, washed down with a stiff drink, it’s not quite as bad as it’s made out to be.
That little phrase, “You’ll love it; it’s terrible,” captures something important about Icelandic attitudes towards traditional food. Icelanders are a people who get through things, it says. But in the grim determination for survival, there is a perverse
pleasure as well. Collective suffering often brings people together, and something of this masochistic ritual lingers today in Icelanders’ attitudes towards their traditional foods, best characterised by þorramatur
In a land of scarcity like pre-industrial Iceland, these foods were what was available in the depths of winter. Additionally, the lack of available firewood in Iceland made extracting salt from seawater through boiling impractical. In terms of food preservation, pickling was the only game in town. So when Icelanders gathered round for þorrablót, no doubt dishes that we recognise today as þorramatur must have made it to the table.
And yet, the particular spread of þorramatur in its modern form is very much a recent invention, originating only in 1958 at the Reykjavík restaurant Naustið. Even then, such foods were perceived as something from the olden days, and as Iceland quickly urbanised in the post-war years, the sense developed that the rural heartland of Iceland was quickly being displaced by the urban culture of Reykjavík. When Naustið began to offer their “traditional” spread of good old country cooking, it was as much an expression of this urban-vsrural dynamic, as an attempt to preserve an already-fading tradition. Eating þorramatur is a sort of historic reenactment, performed at specific occasions to strengthen the bond to a past long gone.
It is no surprise that þorrablót also forms a key event in the social calendars of many Icelandic emigrant communities, such as the West Icelanders in Canada and the American Midwest. Eating such foods becomes a rite of passage, and for second- and third-generation Icelanders abroad, what better way to connect with the past than the communal consumption of fermented offal?
While the flatbread is present at the þorrablót buffet, it isn’t limited to such an occasion. Traditional foods, after all, can still be delightful.
Up until the importation of colonial goods through Denmark, Icelandic foodways remained more or less frozen in time. It was well into the 19th century
Brynja and her mother Tóta have been making flatkökur together for the past 30 years. And for the last 11 years, they’ve had their own business down by the harbour in Vogar. They use an old family recipe that has been tweaked and improved through the years, and they even use specially-modified grills that reach higher temperatures than standard commercial flattops.
when Danish merchants began to supply Icelanders with sugar, coffee, tea, butter, raisins, and a host of other everyday luxuries now taken for granted. The introduction of flour also caused a minor revolution in food customs, in what Nanna Rögnvaldardóttir, one of the foremost food historians in Iceland, has called “The Great Cake Deluge.” Where visitors might previously have been offered plates heaped with smoked lamb, dried fish, and other preserved foods, middleand upper-class households could now offer baked goods
able to be grown in Iceland’s grassy lowlands. However, Iceland’s ecosystem began to decline with the deforestation of the island. Following the beginning of the “Little Ice Age” in the 14th century, grain production in Iceland completely collapsed, with barley cultivation only resuming in the 20th century.
While barley is the only grain to have seen any successful production in Iceland, it was imported rye flour that became the grain staple of Icelandic diets, wheat flour being reserved
Sometimes I eat a lot of flatbread, like in the summer when we travel to the countryside and have picnics. But I can get a little tired of them,” Brynja says. Understandably, since Brynja and her mother, along with their four employees, can make up to 2,000 flatbreads a day in their little bakery on Hafnargata. For her, flatbread with plain butter is the way to go, but she also recommends them served with ham and paprika spread.
to their guests. Cakes of various kinds exploded into the Icelandic diet, and to this day, they remain a staple offering at most coffee tables.
But prior to the large-scale import of flour that began in the 19th century, bread played a relatively minor role in Icelandic diets. For the first period of Icelandic settlement, about the first two hundred years, some grains such as barley, rye, wheat, and oats could be grown in small amounts. These were never highly productive crops in Iceland’s climate, but of these, barley, seems to have by far been the most popular,
for the refined breads of the wealthy. But for much of Icelandic history, imported flour wasn’t used to make bread. Instead, porridge was the staple of choice, presumably because people considered it more economical to thin out the small amount of grain into larger batches of porridge. What bread there was, was known in several forms in pre-industrial Iceland. Besides flatbread, refined wheat cakes, fried in pans, were common among the well-to-do, in addition to “pot bread,” in which the bread would be baked in a dutch oven, either in the kitchen hearth or in a hot spring.
She and her mother start the workday early, often by 5:00 AM. Getting off in the early afternoon, they always take a soak in their “private pool,” by which they mean the local pool that they mostly have to themselves at that time of day. “I think it’s important for us to keep making these,” Brynja says. “As far as I know, Icelanders are the only ones to make flatbread like this. It’s nice to have something that’s just for us.”
There is also reason to believe that different regions of Iceland knew flatbreads by different names. We have, for example, a story from Vopnafjörður, a fishing village in Northeast Iceland, which refers to flatbread as dindill : “An old vagrant with a bad reputation came to town one day. He was given a flatbread (dindill ) and some butter to spread on it. He was then heard muttering ‘I should be careful, I should be careful.’ Someone present asked: ‘What are you being careful of?’ The wretch said: ‘To make sure there’s enough butter for the flatbread.’”
Like in many folktales, it’s hard to find a moral, so far removed we are now from the story world. But besides the curious name for flatbread it preserves, it also serves as a time capsule for historical Icelandic attitudes towards food. On the one hand, food was scarce in pre-industrial Iceland, and extra mouths to feed must never have been welcome. On the other hand, these conditions of scarcity were precisely the reason why generosity was one of the highest values an Icelandic farmer could embody.
These days, there are several ways to make Icelandic flatbread in a modern home kitchen, most of which involve the use of an electric stovetop.
One of the distinctive features of the flatbread is its char marks. This can be achieved by simply placing the flatbread in a dry pan and cooking on both sides, but many Icelanders will either cook the flatbread directly on their stove burner, or else use a torch to lightly char the bread. Most home cooks will then quickly dip the flatbread in water, so that it doesn’t dry out too quickly.
However, even these char marks, which most would recognise as a sine qua non of the Icelandic flatbread, may be up for debate. A classic recipe found in Hallgerður Gísladóttir’s landmark book Íslensk Matarhefð ( Icelandic Food Customs), specifically calls for an oiled pan to avoid burning. Perhaps the housewives of the interwar years did not recall as fondly as we do cooking on hot stones, and welcomed their new electric stovetops without nostalgia. Is the real flatbread from the postwar period, or does authenticity simply mean older? In a sense, one could argue that uncharred flatbread is obviously preferable, and it’s understandable that a generation of Icelandic cooks would prefer the cleaner, more controllable electric stove. But at the same time, there is something curious about the length that we will go to in order to re-introduce the char marks when we have perfectly modern kitchens.
Today, foodies visiting Iceland will find open-faced
Þorramatur is the collective name given to the foods eaten at Þorrablót, a midwinter festival based on the Old Icelandic calendar. If you’ve seen a YouTube video of an adventurous tourist in Iceland tasting something challenging, chances are it’s a form of þorramatur. The menu is broken down into two categories: fermented and unfermented. To the latter category belong many uncontroversial favourites, such as hangikjöt (smoked lamb). But to the former group belong various farmhouse curiosities including ram’s testicles pickled in whey (súrsaðir hrútspungar) and pickled meat boiled and wrapped in offal (lundabaggi ). Today, you can buy a selection of these traditional foods in Icelandic grocery stores, stored in industrial-strength buckets to prevent unnecessary olfactory trauma to innocent shoppers.
flatbread sandwiches sitting under plastic wrap at a variety of cafés and brunch buffets throughout the nation. They are a staple of school cafeterias, weddings, and funerals, visits to relatives, breakroom snacks, and afternoon coffee spreads.
Some chefs, however, aren’t content to let this national icon waste away on shrink-wrapped lunch trays.
Represented abroad by such star chefs as René Redzepi, Claus Meyer, Magnus Nilsson, and more recently by native Icelander Gísli Matthías Auðunsson, New Nordic Cuisine has brought about a transformation of our attitudes towards food, emphasising the local, seasonal, and natural. In pursuit of these goals, New Nordic Cuisine has also reignited an interest in traditional Scandinavian foods, limited as they were by what was available at any given time of year.
Dill restaurant, owned and operated by chef Gunnar Karl Gíslason, opened in 2009 and has since been at the forefront of Icelandic food culture, earning Iceland’s first-ever Michelin star in 2017. For chef Gunnar, Icelandic flatbread represents a unique intersection of the past and present. “One of the things we try to do in the restaurant is to remember how we
ate them in our childhood, how our parents and grandparents ate them. I think one of the best things we can do for a patron is to give them this glimpse of childhood simplicity again.” Joking, he adds: “You know, like in Ratatouille”
The development of their recipe for flatbread consisted of everything from historical research, kitchen experimentation, and, of course, asking little old ladies for their recipes, preferably passed down through several generations. “When I was younger, I used to work at a farm up in Vatnsdalur, by Blönduós,” Gunnar recalls. “The farmer’s wife there made everything herself: flatbread, rye bread, pancakes, dumplings, you name it. Later on, when we opened the restaurant, I went back to visit and get as many of her recipes as I could.”
Dill’s flatbread is reinventing a tradition, but they’re certainly not just reiterating it. For starters, they most often use barley flour instead of rye. “We get this wonderful barley grown in Fljótsdalshérað in East Iceland,” he says. “But we also love the idea of the whole barley in the flatbread, so we also cook the grains and let it cool before adding it into the dough.” This addition also creates a heterogeneous texture in the flatbread, making more than just a sideline to the main act. Some traditional recipes also call for the addition of rutabaga
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for their earthy sweetness, which Dill has also experimented with.
The subtle texture and taste of flatbread also mean it pairs well with many things. Gunnar is of course not content to serve up the most obvious renditions of the classic, and patrons at Dill can expect to see it topped with dehydrated and powdered trout, micro greens, flecks of kelp, and pickled preserves. “Sometimes our toppings have nothing to do with tradition,” Gunnar admits. “But at the end of the day, it goes well with so many things.”
In addition to the taste and texture of flatbread, chef Gunnar is a firm believer that the char itself is an integral part
of the flatbread experience. “We char them to the point of burning,” Gunnar says. “It’s definitely how it would have been back in the day.” There is actually some controversy in the culinary world about this. Foodies often talk about sweet, salty, sour, bitter, and umami as the building blocks of flavour. But the process of carbonisation, of burning, brings out other elements in foods that can’t simply be described by these categories. When done properly, charring food adds a whole other dimension to it.
At the end of the day, the survival of flatbread in both everyday diets and fine dining represents a small miracle for Gunnar: “It’s definitely one of those things that could have died out a long time ago. It’s very simple. When I think about all of the new foods available to us, the selection we have now, it’s amazing how everyone is still eating it. My wife and kids alone go through tonnes of it every week!”
This, then, is the lasting meaning of flatbread. Rather like this island itself, it’s a relic of the past that’s found its own place in the modern world. Humble and unassuming, whether found on grocery store shelves or Michelin Star plates. Just something to ruminate on at your next meal.
Before the introduction of store-bought yeast and chemical leaveners, bread was either unleavened or leavened with sourdough. Some recipes, for instance, call for a remainder of the last batch of bread to be mixed into the dough and left to rise. Then, a portion of the dough would be set aside for the next batch, and the cycle would continue. Some other households would knead out the dough in a wooden trough. Through years of breadmaking, microbes living within the wood itself would develop, and it would be enough to knead out the dough and let it rise in the trough overnight, the wood itself forming the sourdough starter.
Once urbanisation was underway in Iceland, the byproducts of brewing would also be used in baking. Conveniently, many bakeries were also breweries, and they would use the excess malted grains in their baking. Although baking and brewing often went hand-in-hand, it is a relatively new tradition in Iceland, the first commercial bakery only being established in 1834.
Several historical accounts of Iceland make specific mention of the rarity of bread in Iceland. The 15th-century German cartographer, Martin Behaim, took note of this in his 1492 globe Erdapfel, the oldest surviving globe in the world. It briefly notes Iceland as an island inhabited for some time by Christians living in such poverty that they sell their dogs and children to merchants for bread. Needless to say, this was not the case. But the kernel of truth behind this tale is that bread was not an everyday food for the poor.
While we can assume historical flatbreads were not standardised in size, modern flatbreads average 15 cm (6 in) in diameter. There was, however, considerable regional variation, and among these regions, considerable variation among households. There are some accounts, for instance, of a turn-of-the-century flatbread from the Westfjords which was considerably larger, around 25-30 cm (10-12 inches) in diameter, and around a centimetre thick. These were used instead of plates for meals, which would simply be served directly on top of the flatbread. Flatbreads also came in considerably smaller sizes, with palm-sized flatbread for children traditionally known as góma
On a bright May morning in 1679, an 85-year-old widower passed away in his sleep after a long illness. He had lived a full life and was loved and highly respected, well satisfied with his long life and fortuitous relationship with his God. As the burden of age weighed on him ever more, Jón Ólafsson of Eyrardalur farm, situated in Álftafjörður in the Westfjords, had given up his daily chores as a farmer and dedicated his remaining time to educating young people in reading and writing full time. Throughout his long life, Jón Ólafsson was known as more than a faithful Christian, farmer, and beloved teacher. In a time before television, radio or even printing presses – when even dancing was illegal – 17th-century Icelanders craved a well-told story. He was a storyteller without equal; he was Jón Ólafsson, the “India Traveller.”
Although impoverished Icelandic society had benefitted from growing international trade, better ships, and improved fishing techniques, the early
1600s were aptly dubbed the “torture years.” It was an abnormally cold period fraught with tragedy. Various diseases such as tuberculosis, smallpox, and the plague exacerbated by poor nutrition killed thousands annually, limiting Iceland’s population under some 50,000 souls. An average adult could expect to live between 40-45 years and the infant mortality rate was atrociously high. Jón’s parents lost 11 of their 14 children. When he was just seven years old, Jón’s father died of dysentery.
Much of the economic woe that Iceland suffered at this time was exacerbated by a strict monopoly on all trade that kept prices high and supplies of often poor quality. The Danish-Norwegian Crown enacted the Danish-Icelandic Trade Monopoly in 1602 to support Danish merchants, increasing the wealth and power of the King of Denmark to the detriment of their Icelandic colony. Nevertheless, illicit trading flourished.
In the early summer of 1615, a 50-tonne English freight ship that had been blown off course ended up in the vicinity of Jón’s homestead near Ísafjörður, where he lived with his mother and two siblings. At the age of 22, Jón Ólafsson decided he wanted to see the world beyond Iceland’s rocky shores. He had two distinct sides to his character; strong in his Christian faith but also unusually fearless and adventurous. In a small boat, Jón and a few of his companions rowed over to the English vessel. Despite the language differences, Jón managed to negotiate passage for himself to England, trading a substantial quantity of homespun wool for the journey, Iceland’s main currency at the time. After a tearful goodbye to his mother, they set sail on June 23. Jón had brought more than 200 kilos of dried cod and a few barrels of fish oil, with which he hoped to finance his adventure, most of which was
Christian IV was King of Denmark and Norway from the age of 11 until his death aged 71 in 1648. Contemporaries described him as above average height, most often dressed in French fashion, and a true warrior by nature. Christian was known as a plucky, hard-drinking man of grim wit and vision. His domestic reforms brought a level of stability and wealth to the Danish Kingdom virtually unmatched
elsewhere in Europe. Nevertheless, towards the end of his reign, the Danish King was a broken man. Christian’s obsession with evil spirits and witchcraft led to numerous brutal public executions throughout his kingdom, including 21 Icelanders. He also brought true disaster upon his kingdom by leading Denmark into the Thirty Years’ War, one of the longest and most destructive conflicts
in European history that drained the Crown’s coffers, undermined the economy, and cost the kingdom large swaths of territory. As a result, absolute monarchy was abolished and the king was forced to share power with parliament.
lost overboard in one of the frequent storms the ship encountered. During the seven-week voyage, Jón befriended the crew, enabling him to acquire English very quickly and quite fluently. Disembarking on August 11 in Harwich, near the coastal city of Ipswich, Jón was surprised to see how many coal ships were constantly coming and going. At this time, England was rapidly expanding coal production, which would become the dynamo that powered the industrial revolution and would make Britain a global superpower. James I was king and England was thriving economically and blossoming culturally.
Once in England, Jón was quick to form friendly relations with the locals and was twice offered bountiful employment which he kindly refused, explaining that Iceland’s colonial capital of Copenhagen was his ultimate goal. Before he could find a way to Denmark, Jón visited Shakespearean London and was astounded by its beauty and sheer size; the dozens of bridges and hundreds of churches including
the imposing bulk of Old St. Paul’s Cathedral, whose spires towered over the great city at nearly 150 metres high. Best of all was the music; pounding drums, pipe organs, and soaring trumpets utterly captivated Jón, who came from a country almost completely devoid of musical instruments. Jón soon ran into Danish sailors who were serving on a royal warship bringing horses as a gift from Danish King Christian IV to James I, his brother-in-law . He was offered passage aboard the Danish warship, finally arriving in Copenhagen a few days later, months after his departure from Iceland.
Jón was fascinated by 17th-century Copenhagen’s castles, towers, fortresses, churches, and trading halls. Elegant stone buildings with genuine glass windows were everywhere, a novelty to Jón who had spent his life in dark, earthen-floored dwellings of turf and raw stone. Sailors and soldiers, merchants and craftsmen, musicians
and beggars crowded the streets and marketplaces, and Danish horses were enormous in comparison to Iceland’s squatter breed. The flavours and aromas of the food surprised him the most, including pork sausages, baked bread, and sweet pastries - all of which were virtually unknown in his native land. Jón had lost much of his dried cod and fish oil cargo and badly needed money so he got a job combing horses at the king’s stable. A few weeks later, Jón joined King Christian IV’s army as an artilleryman. The job required discipline and technical knowledge and was relatively well-paid. Best of all, Jón’s true passion – travel – was a fundamental part of serving in the king’s army.
According to Jón’s tales, he was incredibly successful in forging friendships with all manner of people, including many of his superior officers and even the King of Denmark. One day while serving as a gunner aboard a Danish Royal navy vessel, Jón was ordered to present himself to the king.
While wandering the outskirts of Tranquebar, India on a day of leave from their duties, Jón and his mates encountered a massive cobra that terrified a local village and allowed Jón to demonstrate his courage. “The beast was three-coloured; black, white, and grey. The sting or bite of this kind of serpent is so poisonous that few survive it.” A King Cobra such as this one can grow up to nearly 6 metres in length and is the world’s largest venomous snake. Seven crew members engaged and fought the giant snake. “His movements were both swift and fierce, and dire injury would be all but certain if he managed to strike us, either by his poison breath or by the point near the end of his tongue, with which he stings
many a man to death.” After most of his friends gave up or ran away from the fight Jón found himself alone in pursuit of the mighty beast. “My blood was up. I was entirely set on overcoming the serpent if God would grant me victory.” The giant of a cobra first attempted to evade Jón: “He fled into a large bush, forcing his way into it so violently that the whole thicket trembled and shook, as did the earth under our feet. Suddenly he rose and came straight for me, fiercely at great speed; raising his head high above the ground while his tail rattled ominously. The huge snake was raging against me with much hissing and puffing so that it seemed as if there was blue smoke all around him. I was not terrified either of the massive
snake nor of his cruel look, but my comrades cried aloud and were sorely frightened. I brandished my broadsword with the strength of my two arms so mightily that the others were surprised, just then the serpent prepared to strike me so I hewed at him with all the force God had given me. I was about two paces from his head, which I cut clean off with one fell swoop.” Although vanquished, Jón thought the beheaded King Cobra might still represent a threat. “I stepped at once between the two pieces of the serpent, so that it should not join together again, about which the Indians had warned me.”
Christian IV was curious about his faraway colonial subject and surprised to learn that Icelanders were serving on his ship. When he met the king, rather than bowing and scraping, Jón looked the Danish monarch straight in the eyes, addressing him with due respect but speaking as an equal, which charmed the king. The fact Jón could read and write was praised, as literacy was not common at the time. The king asked how he had gotten to Denmark. Jón decided to tell the king the flat truth: that he had illegally bartered with an English captain for passage to Europe. The king asked why Icelanders would have anything to do with the English, to which Jón replied that trading with foreigners was a matter of survival. Jón’s brave sincerity impressed the king, who rewarded his honesty with large quantities of ale.
However good Jón’s relations were with most of his superior officers, he was treated no better than an ordinary gunner whenever he misbehaved. For the infraction of arriving late to his
watch, Jón was arrested and locked in the infamous ‘blue tower’ jail, and summarily sentenced to death by hanging. Despite the direness of his situation, he did not panic or lose hope. When the king caught word of Jón’s death sentence, he pardoned him and personally saw to his release, saying with a smile, “Look after yourself better, dear Jón!”
As a well-trained naval gunner, Jón served on board a Royal DanishNorwegian Navy vessel during a military conflict between the Kingdoms of Denmark and Sweden. King Christian IV of Denmark always longed for action and often followed his warships into war despite the risk to his safety. The skirmish with the Swedes was raging and both sides suffered enormous casualties. After a harrowing attack, the Danes were on the verge of defeat and attempted to surrender. The enraged Swedes refused to acknowledge the white flag and advanced hard; they wanted nothing less than to capture or kill the meddlesome Danish King.
Many of the Danish soldiers were dead or wounded including the king’s guard; leaving the monarch alone and vulnerable. Few of the oil lamps aboard remained intact and the interior of the ship was dim and disorienting. With his gunpowder spent, Jón’s cannons were at last silent. Jón could hear a small number of Swedish marines attempting to board the Danish warship. Recognising the direness of the situation, he desperately rushed to find the king, pledging to protect him with his life. He found the ruler alone but in a defiant mood. Suddenly, a Swedish soldier surprised them and slashed at the king with his sword, hitting him on the side of the head and injuring his ear. His head was bleeding profusely and the shocked king fainted, falling on his side. The Swedish soldier cursed the darkness as he stabbed and swung his sword about the cabin in search of his royal quarry. Jón saw an opportunity to turn the tables on the Swede. He jumped to his feet from the shadows and with his remaining strength, thrust his sword through the soldier’s chest. When all was at last quiet, Jón hauled the unconscious Christian IV to a safer place, staying with the king until passing out himself, exhausted and wounded from the fray. Meanwhile, the damaged Danish ship managed to silently withdraw to safety. After this dramatic episode, it was said that the king held his Icelandic gunner in high esteem, for which Jón would later be very thankful.
Following the success of the Portuguese and Dutch colonies in India, barbers, priests, carpenters, sail-
makers, and soldiers like Jón aboard. The 16-week journey took the fleet of four Danish warships down the Atlantic coast of Africa and around the Cape of Good Hope to the Indian Ocean, making resupply stops in the Comoro Islands, Madagascar, and Sri Lanka before finally finishing their journey in the southern Indian town of Tranquebar, where the Danish fortress of Dansborg had recently been erected. While the trip had been relatively uneventful and Jón remained in good health, many had died on the voyage, including a fellow Icelander and close friend of Jón’s. Scurvy due to poor nutrition, diseases such as dysentery, and accidents killed up to 15% of the crew and passengers, but this loss was considered acceptable at the
During a stop in the Comoro Islands, Jón came across unfamiliar but delicious fruit. “No fruit was ripe at that time of year except pomerans [red oranges] and bonanzers [bananas] of which the natives took a few bunches. These grew in their fruit gardens, 30-40 together, they are about the size of a guillemot [a sea-bird eaten or used as fuel in Iceland in Jón’s time] hung up to dry and are especially good fruit, refreshing and of a good taste as if there was fat in it; they are also excellent to eat on bread,” he
After 14 months of military service in India, Jón’s tour of duty was completed and he boarded The Pearl, a Danish naval frigate, in the autumn of 1624 for what would be a terrible journey back to Denmark. When the cannon he was loading unexpectedly exploded, blasting him off the deck of the ship, he
was badly injured. Artillerymen in this time were often killed in such accidents, but Jón miraculously survived despite being nearly drowned, losing several fingers on both hands, and getting scorched by gunpowder over much of his abdomen. In the sickbay, the barber who served as a surgeon wanted to bleed Jón, the standard treatment for most ailments, but he was already haemorrhaging so much blood that it was deemed unnecessary. Jón wisely refused to let six men sit on him, also a standard procedure, during the amputation of two more fingers. After nine weeks, despite poor hygiene and absurd theories about healing, Jón was able to stand. Five weeks later, he was more or less recovered, although his injuries would prevent him from ever serving as an artilleryman again.
Unfortunately, this tragic episode was merely the beginning of the crew’s troubles. Once The Pearl passed the Cape and reached the Atlantic, she encountered fierce storms and unusually rough seas that lasted for 12 weeks. Treacherous storms flooded the ship and ruined much of their food supplies. Fresh water quickly became scarce. Any shipmate caught stealing water would suffer the death penalty. As their hunger worsened, the cook suggested they eat the ship’s cat, but
too many baulked at the idea. Violent gales and powerful storms broke off two of the ship’s three masts and her rudder. As The Pearl mostly drifted northward, the slowly starving crew began to fall ill and die. After months of agony, the crew of the stricken warship, at last, spotted the south coast of Ireland and were towed into harbour. The captain and half the crew had perished, but Jón somehow pulled through. The Danish warship was repaired and resupplied over the coming weeks while the surviving crew of The Pearl recovered.
Back in Copenhagen, Jón was offered a teaching position at the Danish naval college but politely declined. At Jón’s request, he was duly given a farm in the Westfjords free of charge for his long and loyal service to the king. For the globetrotting Icelander, now 34, it was time to return to his homeland and start a family. During his 11 years of adventure abroad, word of Jón’s fantastic experiences had travelled from farm to farm in Iceland and he was welcomed everywhere. Some called Jón the ‘Icelandic Marco Polo.’ Eloquent and funny, dignitaries were eager to invite the renowned storyteller to their farms for lavish meals. Jón was always happy to regale his eager audiences, large and small, with his exotic tales, and he was never afraid to stretch the
truth if it pleased his listeners.
Jón is best-known today for the autobiography and travelogue he wrote with the help of his son in 1661 at the age of 67. His descriptions of city life in England and Denmark as well as the sights and people of Africa and India are remarkably vivid. He was an excellent observer and able to accurately describe the daily life of ordinary people in a reasonable tone and with little prejudice. Fond of terrifying his audiences, Jón paid close attention to what people wanted to hear and would adjust his stories to maximise their appeal. His book became so popular and widely read that it passed from person to person for centuries in numerous handwritten copies until it was finally published in print in 1908. Since then, it has been translated into Danish, German, and English and is considered a remarkable record of human life and events in Northern Europe and South India in the 17th century.
But I will tell anyone who will heed it that every single man who undertakes such journeys and has neither kinsmen on board, nor money, nor powerful friends must have three good qualities, namely; gentleness and an even temper toward officers and others who are worthy of it. Secondly, willingness; so that he does not wait to act till he is bidden. Thirdly, he must suffer hard times without complaint, yet must know his limits and must defend himself with honour, manliness and understanding. The sum of it all is to act and behave honourably in word and deed so that he need never fear answering boldly for himself.
It’s been 43 years since Lilly Tomlin, Jane Fonda, and Dolly Parton solved the equality issue in the seminal film 9 to 5 , but somehow, we constantly find ourselves running into the same old stumbling blocks, and even some new and unexpected ones. Venture capital investments are only a tiny fraction of the business world but they are indicative of a larger issue. No matter how you slice it, women still aren’t on equal footing with men in the workplace. Despite the situation, plenty of things have changed since 1980, including attitudes towards inequality as an issue. Women are a much larger part of the workforce and they’re putting in the effort to change the game.
Words by Gréta Sigríður Einarsdóttir Photography by Golli & Erna Rós KristinsdóttirSomeone recently tweeted about a relatively young Icelandic tech company that’d just gotten a large investment. When someone jokingly replied asking where a woman could go to find such a large sum of money, the jesting tone was lost on the original tweeter who replied that investments like this are the result of years of hard work, something that many men and women can and do earn. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it?
Except that it’s mostly men. In 2022, a report found that women-led teams accounted for 1.1 % of companies that received funding from venture capital funds. And reader – if you, like me, hoped that that number is so low because most of the teams are mixed, I regret to inform you that mixed teams received just over 10% of the funds. 88.7% of VC funding goes to all-male teams of founders.
PAYANALYTICS – WORKING WITH INTERNATIONAL COMPANIES TO EVALUATE SALARIES AND POSITIONS FOR PEOPLE OF ALL GENDERS AND ORIGINS.
PayAnalytics founder Margrét Bjarnadóttir has a background in operation research. Her Ph.D. focused on how we can use data and mathematical models to support decision-making. When a COO at an Icelandic bank complained about the lack of resources to close the pay gap where they worked, Margrét was the right person to hear them, at the right time. Two years earlier, the bank had realised the extent of their pay gap and vowed to make changes. Their goal was to incorporate gender equality into all hiring processes and promotions. When they assessed progress at the end of those two years, nothing had changed. For Margrét, this was the perfect research opportunity, and she created her prototype of a mathematical model that would not only analyse the extent of the pay gap, taking into account different positions and responsibilities but also provide the solution to closing the gap. When her calculations worked, providing the bank with the tools they needed to implement change, the foundation was
laid for Pay Analytics. Today, the company has clients in more than 50 countries, the largest of which comprises hundreds of thousands of employees worldwide.
Since its beginnings in 2016 when the idea for PayAnalytics won the entrepreneurial competition Gulleggið, Margrét has found the conversation regarding the pay gap is changing rapidly. “When we were starting out, we needed to explain to investors that there were companies that needed this kind of service, but we donʼt anymore. There’s been an avalanche of rules and regulations all over the world requiring companies to measure pay gaps and release the results. They differ from country to country but in the EU, for instance, when you advertise a position you will soon be required to also advertise the pay range.”
When the percentage of VC funding allocated to women-led teams comes up, Margrét nods sympathetically. While acknowledging that every company’s trajectory is different, she recognises the stories of investors asking defensive questions and focusing on risks rather than potential successes when talking to women. “By now, I can send the guys out to investor meetings,” she states jokingly,
referring to the CEO and the CFO. On a more serious note, she continues: “The pay gap and lack of investment in femaleled companies come from the same root: implicit bias. We all have it and it taints our decision-making,” Margrét adds. Her approach is to fight bias with data. “Documentation also helps, such as writing down why people get raises. Research shows that having to provide neutral descriptions of why people get raises lessens the pay gap.”
Every successful idea raises the question: Why hasn’t someone done this before? When I pose the question to Margrét, she refers to the cultural environment. “It’s not a coincidence that we’re an Icelandic company. Iceland has always led the way in this regard. Gender equality is a topic that people of all genders in the country care about. The issue was on people’s radar much sooner than in other countries.”
For Margrét, we’re in a unique position to tackle inequality. “We’ve never talked this much about diversity, inclusion, and equity. And the regulations and legislation are being put into place to back it up.”
EMPOWER
While Pay Analytics focus on financial equality, Empower Now offers a holistic DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) solution to develop people-friendly workplace cultures. This extends beyond finances to areas including employee experience, public perception, recruitment processes, parental leave, diversity, and team surveying. But the first step is to assess the current status. Sigyn Jónsdóttir is the CTO of Empower Now and in her opinion, there is still much work to be done. “The fact is that most workplaces can and should do better," she tells me. Once Empower Now has analysed the situation and isolated the issues, they provide a solution to the challenges that come up, based on measuring, goal setting, and education. “We offer micro-learning modules on DEI topics that leave an impact. An easy example would be our short videos in mobile format that the employees can
choose to watch anytime, so people gain perspective and education, which they can then apply in real life.”
Founders Dögg and Þórey have been working as DEI consultants for years but in-person consultation is impossible to scale up to an international level. The scalability comes in taking the process digital.
Sigyn explains further: “If a scandal occurs, many issues can arise, from losing valuable employees due to completely preventable bias, to affecting bottom lines, like the company's stock tanking. Since #metoo, they’ve found that old-fashioned crisis management practices, like simply firing a CEO, don’t necessarily repair their brand image or employee trust. Nor correct behaviour and prevent it from happening again. Issues of discrimination or bias are never down to one person. Even if the issue stemmed from a single person, it is still down to culture. It becomes a scandal when it’s not immediately handled and corrected properly. If something like this
has been happening at your company, people know that it’s an issue with the workplace culture. But companies are a little lost on how to correct issues when they arise and prevent them from happening in the first place. That’s where we come in.”
There aren’t many men working in the gender equality business and finding out that it was mostly women cleaning up misogyny’s messes was a glum start to my research. Sigyn, however, has a more uplifting take. “Often, we get our foot in the door because a person who has experienced inequality gets us involved, but it’s important to us that it doesn’t fall on victims of discrimination to get Empower Now integrated into their workplace. Senior leaders who want to create equitable companies need to take action. The pressure is usually on groups who are the most vulnerable to bias to fix matters, which creates an unnecessary additional burden. But they also are often the greatest drivers of change.” According to Sigyn, it
addition to her degrees in law and political science, Freyja received a Master's in Economic Policy Management from Columbia University. Her work in asset management showed her that besides wanting a return on their investment, clients wanted to know where their money went and if it was making a difference. While there was a distinct generational shift in clients’ sense of responsibility, it’s clear that pension funds, for example, are set on investing in a more responsible way, as are large national funds such as the Norwegian oil fund and Japanese pension funds.
GemmaQ is a technical solution that gathers public information on companies’ management diversity and monitors changes that would jeopardise it. Officially started in 2019, the project has earlier roots as Freyja’s research project at Columbia University. With 15 years of diversity data at her disposal, Freyja explains that while things are looking up, attitude-wise, the
"Gender Lens, the GemmaQ Fortune 500 index, tracks the gender leadership balance among Fortune 500 companies. It shows that women represent only 10.2% of Fortune 500 companies CEOs, and just 6.6% of board chairs today. With five new women taking on CEO roles in January 2023, this is becoming a record year with women in leadership roles".
In the US, legislation differs significantly by state. Some states have required gender quotas on company boards, while some companies are required to list their gender ratios publicly. In some states, however, there are no regulations at all. "Even though there are differences between companies in the same sector depending on their location, we are seeing the same trend across states,” Freyja tells me. “Women are being promoted at far lower rates to leadership roles than men. The rate of change is unacceptably slow."
HEIMA – AN APP THAT ORGANISES HOUSEWORK AND FAMILY LIFE, SPLITTING TASKS EQUALLY BETWEEN FAMILY MEMBERS, ENSURING AN EQUAL DIVISION OF LABOUR WHILE REMOVING THE MENTAL LOAD OF MANAGING THE HOME.
The business world doesn’t exist in a bubble. And in spite of the recent explosion of the fintech sector, it is still run by humans, not robots. It’s not enough to make sure the business world is paying people of all genders equally, providing a healthy environment, and diversifying their management teams if the pressure of housework and managing the home doubles their workload when compared with men. That’s how women get burnt out. According to Alma Dóra Ríkarðsdóttir and Sigurlaug Guðrún Jóhannsdóttir, their app will not only lessen the workload in the home but also make your relationship better. “We believe the key to happy family life is to work well together and communicate well. We went with a software solution, a management tool that enables people to cooperate harmoniously, much like work management tools operate in
the workplace.” Data suggest that women do 75% of housework worldwide which negatively impacts their personal and professional development. Alma continues: “The idea was inspired by my work as a specialist in gender equality in the Prime Ministry. We were mapping the major equality issues in Iceland and the world, and the unequal division of housework is a foundational issue. If we’re going to have equal pay and equal opportunities, we need to start at home and make this right.” When introducing their idea, Alma and Sigurlaug had to start at the very
beginning, by explaining the concept of the mental load of managing housework, sometimes referred to as the third shift: “The invisible managerial work in the home that’s less tangible than simply washing the dishes or cleaning floors. We’re bringing that unseen work to the surface.” In Iceland, VR, Iceland’s largest trade union, launched a national campaign to introduce the idea to people. “We do sometimes have to explain the concept of the mental load, especially when talking to people from outside of Iceland. It’s becoming better known worldwide, but in Iceland, everyone
An amazing Snowmobile ride close to the Golden Circle
Come with us on an adventure on Langjökull, Iceland' s second largest Glacier.
Riding a snowmobile on the massive snow cap is a unique experience that you will remember for the rest of your life.
knows what it is, following VR’s campaign. Before, we would have to introduce the concept to people doing user reviews. Now, people bring it up in the first place,” Alma says.
While younger people are generally more excited about technological solutions, in the case of Heima, it makes perfect sense. “We’re focusing on younger people, who might have young children. People who’ve been living together for decades have their own routine that they’ve settled with their partner and it might not need disrupting. We’re doing this for the people in the process of creating their housework division and settling their routine. People who want more equality, less hassle, and more joy in the home.” According to Alma, tension over housework is the third most common cause of divorce worldwide, so there’s a lot to be gained.
On the issue of finding funding, the developers behind Heima have received initial funding. Now they are marketing their concept to investors and developing their business plan for their second round. Alma is hesitant to make generalisations about the startup environment. “What I can say is that I was working for the Ministry of Industry and Innovation, looking into funding for women, and what I found
was that very often, when assessing the success of innovation projects, what’s looked at are the results, the successes, the companies that have made it through and been successful. And men are much more heavily represented. So if your idea of a perfect entrepreneur is Mark Zuckerberg, women will always be further from the goal than men.”
Startups are looking towards the future, trying to be the first to decipher what it may hold, being the first to introduce new solutions and technology into our lives. But somehow, when it comes to business, they keep betting on the exact same type over and over again. “They’re trying to make you fit into a male entrepreneur cookie cutter instead of acknowledging that women bring different things to the table. I think that plays a part. Also, many funds talk a lot about a funnel problem, that the percentage of women who receive funding represents the percentage of women that approach them, but it has been demonstrated that funds who make an effort to highlight women and make sure women know about them and that they have access to them have a higher proportion of women in their portfolio. So it’s not a funnel problem, it’s a question of accessibility.” While funds are in the end
only responsible for maximising the return on their investment, Alma maintains that the singular approach to finding projects likely to succeed is limiting their scope. “We know that women tend to be more conservative in their estimations of success than men are. So instead of pushing them to create more unrealistic business plans, you could factor that into your calculations, while keeping in mind that men’s goals are likely to be unattainable.”
Finally, the women behind Heima arenʼt afraid to state that they’re not doing this just to serve their ideals. “We’re not afraid to say that this is a for-profit company. We intend to give our investors a return on their investment. We want to find a way to get our solution to as many people as possible.” That’s how they make their mark. “With money, you can scale up, you can enter more markets, introduce your solution to more people and have a bigger effect. We can give our app to the thousand people on our mailing list and that would have an effect but we could also try to get it to a million people in two years and that will have a bigger impact.”
Women represent only 10.2% of Fortune 500 companies CEOs, and just 6.6% of board chairs.
Words by Gréta Sigríður Einarsdóttir & Ragnar Tómas Hallgrímsson
Photography by Golli
A snowflake is an exercise in contradiction. Its natural symmetry feels synthetic to a mind used to perceiving perfection as a craft. Its beauty inspires childlike wonder, while in a cultural context, it evokes acerbic insults hurled across an imaginary divide.
Individually, snowflakes are fragile, easily broken, dissolving into droplets of water at the mere touch of a finger or a breath of air, while en masse, they’re capable of wreaking havoc on the city streets and causing catastrophe when avalanching down a mountainside.
Contrary to expectation, the correlation between outside temperature and the feeling of cold is less straightforward than people would think. It’s the wind that gets you.
At -19°C [-2.2°F], everything feels crisp. The air, certainly, but also the few rays of light that make it all the way up north at this time of year. The horizon turns an impossibly pastel shade of blue or pink and the grey streaks on the sides of the mountains solidify into a texture that, from a distance, looks soft to the touch.
They say there’s no such thing as bad weather: only a bad attitude to whatever conditions nature offers. Besides, bad weather is good weather under the right conditions. Snuggling beneath a warm blanket wouldn’t be half as nice if the sun were out and temperatures were warm.
The weather is an opportunity: a not-so-blank canvas on which one can impose one’s limited imagination.
Experience the amazing
glacier tunnels
Experience the amazing glacier tunnels
Temperatures in Iceland usually vacillate. The weather here is infamously fickle. As if the product of temperamental gods, bestowing, depending on their mood –commendation or condemnation on the mortals dwelling below them.
These past two months have suggested, however, that the gods have come to show a more determined frigidity towards their human subjects: a lasting and glowering disapproval for our nonchalance towards nature.
It’s hard to describe the feeling when you breathe deep in -19°C weather and – for a split second – your nose freezes shut.
We care about the cold weather only as it affects our human lives. We lament that the accompanying snow has blocked the road to the airport. That the municipalities have been lacklustre in their clearing of sidewalks.
And we, worst of all, remain continually apprehensive that the utility companies will announce the indefinite closure of the public pools. Otherwise, the constant cold has made for beautiful weather. Less wind, clearer skies; there’s beauty in steadfastness.
The ground is frozen solid. Icicles form along the gutters of roofs. And birds struggle to eke out their existence. Cars are warmed before passengers clamber inside. Old people slip on the sidewalks. And the unhoused entreat the municipalities to keep the shelters open around the clock. But even so, nature’s long exhalation of cold air provides pleasant relief for a mind dreading the coming warmth.
“A brutal ballet of flesh and bone”
It’s Saturday night – and it’s feckin’ freezing. Seven below.
Even inside the Egilshöll stadium, my fingers feel like popsicles. Taking notes means pitting the will against whatever half-responsive nerve cells are relaying messages from my benumbed digits.
Inside the locker room, Sigurður Jefferson is screaming his testicles off.
But not because of the cold.
“We’re the only fucking football team in Iceland!” he yells. “We’re fucking Vikings!”
It’s not the most original of sentiments – but it gets his teammates going.
And they really need to get going.
It’s halftime, and the Einherjar – literally army of one, referring to the warriors in Norse mythology who met their death on the battlefield and then caught a Valkyrie-driven Uber to Valhalla – are 20 points down.
34-14.
They’re losing to a ragtag bunch of Romanians called the Bucharest Rebels.
Everything’s going goddamn terrible.
Let’s rewind…
The Rebels scored a touchdown during the first play of the game. Their quarterback – who had all kinds of time – spied a wide receiver sneaking up the right side of the field with limited coverage.
Like a cell phone in the boonies.
After he ran into the end zone, the game announcer and his assistant – seated at a rickety table above the bleachers –scrambled to get the game clock going.
“There’s something wrong with this damn thing!” The announcer complained. He was wearing a Lamar Jackson jersey and comporting himself like an office worker caught in a scuffle with a dysfunctional printer.
“Anybody know how to work it!?” he said, jabbering into the void.
Einherjar hadn’t played a game since last March – so of course they were rusty. That’s one of the things about being the only American football team in Iceland. Not a lot of on-the-job training.
When they gained possession (eight points down), the centre hiked two bad snaps to quarterback Bergþór Philip Pálsson; and each time, Bergþór – who goes by Beggi – pounced frantically on the skidding pigskin as if he were jumping on a pinless grenade.
And then he imploded.
Despite the rust, the Einherjar don’t break easily. They’ve got spirit and moxie and subscribe to a kind of football mindfulness that involves fully inhabiting every passing parcel of time –
without getting needlessly distracted by the calamities that seem to beset each moment.
“There’s only the next play!” someone yells philosophically from the sidelines.
They’re forced to kick it. Rebels’ ball.
The Romanians, who are the strongest team in their national league, progress swiftly upfield – but then one of the Einherjar safeties makes an interception.
When it comes to the Viking Gods of American Football, however, Óðinn is blind in both eyes.
Flag on the play.
“Offside. Defence. Five-yard penalty,” the head referee, a man named Jan Eric Jessen, announces to the crowd. He says something else, too, but it’s barely audible.
The announcer calls “first down,” and a man in his thirties, who’s been watching the game from the concrete walkway above the bleachers – a stone’s throw away from the dysfunctional clock – strolls over.
“That can’t be right,” he observes.
“Jan said first down!” the announcer fires back.
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t think that’s right,” the man replies, in a voice full of meekness and understanding.
Below them, near the halfway line, a Rebel wide receiver catches a short pass and breaks through a series of abortive tackles.
The announcers begin complaining about the clock again. Ref Jan Eric – noticing the slow progression of time – walks over to the announcers and suggests they find someone to help out with the clock.
As he walks away, the main announcer calls, “Jan, it’s not automatic first down when there’s an offside!”
“Yeah, I know,” he replies. “I said third.”
The Einherjar football team was founded in the year of our unlordly economic meltdown.
2008.
They played their first match in 2016 – but all of their games are friendlies. Not yet recognised by the National Olympic and Sports Association of Iceland (ÍSÍ), the Einherjar must fend for themselves as far as their finances are concerned.
Ten days before the game, left tackle Úlfar Jónsson – who also coaches the youth team – stood on the sidelines of the Kórinn sports stadium in Kópavogur, waiting for the clock to strike 10:00 PM.
If that seems like a pretty late hour for practice – it’s because it is.
“It’s cheaper to rent the last slot of the day,” Úlfar explains, “but we still need to shell out ISK 160,000 ($1,130) a month, which we manage to eke out through practice fees collected
“I DREAM OF DEVELOPING THE SPORT HERE IN ICELAND; THAT WE GET THE SAME RESPECT AS ALL THE OTHER SPORTS CLUBS. IT’S PERHAPS AN UNUSUAL DREAM FOR AN ICELANDER.”
from the players. We’ve also got a handful of sponsors, Shake and Pizza at Egilshöll, for example.”
The application process for ÍSÍ has proved a real hassle.
“It’s been one step forward and two steps back,” Úlfar notes. “Without making them sound like massive dicks: when we first contacted them, they said that the sport would need to be practised in all the six regions of Iceland – but that couldn’t be right. We pointed out that facilities for figure skating were only located in Akureyri and Reykjavík. They then suggested we begin by applying to UMSK [the Youth Association of Kjalarnesþing, for youth and athletic associations in the capital area], and that’s in the works. I get regular updates from our head referee.”
As he says this, a young, scrawny wide receiver walks up and unceremoniously slaps him on the rear end. There’s a spark of static electricity.
“I’m getting electric shocks left and right!” The man, a bundle of peculiar energy, says – before bursting into laughter.
“I’ll have to speak to the head of human resources,” Úlfar replies with a wry smile. He’s a tall and solid man who has the demeanour of a Viking chieftain, despite his young age. He’s 21, studying sociology and working part-time.
“This is the dream. Let’s see what happens,” he says solemnly.
“You dream of playing football abroad?” I inquire, not quite understanding.
“No, I dream of developing the sport here in Iceland; that we get the same respect as all the other sports clubs: [the handball team] HK, Stjarnan, etc; that we’re able to conduct regular seasons, similar to the high school seasons in America; that we can offer athletes the opportunity to play abroad – and bring players over here.”
He has an earnest look on his face.
“It’s perhaps an unusual dream for an Icelander,” he admits.
Úlfar lived in Belgium from the age of one up to the tenth grade. He played American football for two years during high school, mainly against American soldiers.
“There’s a real sense of NFL culture there. They’ve got two professional leagues. They travel to the Netherlands and Germany; don’t have to go far to find games. The NFL’s everywhere today,” he adds. “People are playing fantasy football and watching games on TV. Sometimes when I’m picking up equipment here, I hear the kids say, ‘Hey, is that NFL!?’”
I ask him how long before we have two teams in Iceland.
“Depends on how much time we invest,” he replies. “We’re closer now with the under-18s – because they’re motivated. They have two teams that play nine-a-side games.”
When the buzzer goes off, Úlfar takes the field with his teammates as dozens of winded football players – English football, that is – stroll off the field. The Icelanders call it bumbubolti (pot-belly ball), referring to the kind of ball sports
played in stadiums across the country by men well past their prime.
The Einherjar are a motley assortment of players, which is one of the charms of American football: there’s a position for all physiques; a heavyset man with long grey hair and a Viking beard, takes his position in front of Beggi. Úlfar, who has long arms and massive shoulders, is, as the Icelanders like to say – “no lamb to play with.”
“Alright, let’s complete every single ball now,” Beggi yells.
Watching the Einherjar practice is like observing some kind of armoured analogy for modern life: people trying to do way too many things in way too short a time; football practices, Úlfar later notes, usually last for two hours, given the complexity of the game.
The Einherjar only have one.
They scramble through the three phases of the game: offence, defence, and special teams – only that they’ve allotted the latter phase all of about five minutes. After the centre hikes two rotten snaps at quarterback Beggi, they call off special teams on account of the clock winding down.
I worry what this means for their upcoming game.
Ask anyone and they’ll tell you that Sigurður Jefferson is one of the most talented players in Iceland.
His foray into the sport began five years ago, when he was a sophomore at junior college – and when he barely knew what American football was. (Despite being half-American himself.) It wasn’t until a friend dragged him along to practise that he understood.
He hasn’t stopped playing since.
Handball – which Sigurður’s played since he was nine (he plays professionally) – was his first love, but there’s just something about the NFL that engrosses him. It differs from all the other European sports because it requires a different mindset: a man must be willing to transform his faculty of vision so as to perpetually “see red” – nurturing a kind of homicidal attitude towards his opponents, the kind that has led to a series of gruesome injuries that have long plagued the sport.
And then there’s all the hype and exaggeration, so often on display in American football stadiums, the kind that doesn’t appear to come naturally to the Icelanders, who very often bristle at American melodrama.
But that doesn’t necessarily hold for Sigurður Jefferson. He has some knack for showmanship.
A natural athlete who’s tried almost every sport he can think of, Sigurður Jefferson proves to be a real menace on the field; 14 points down, Sigurður returns a punt from deep inside the end zone and tears upfield like a soldier who’s just consumed a bowl brimming with stimulants. He weaves and jumps over Rebel defenders and makes it well beyond midfield.
The crowd, composed of maybe 150 people, goes wild.
Sigurður’s talents had been restricted to defence for the past two possessions but now transitions into the role of running back. He completes a 15-yard run on the first attempt – and looks very much like a man possessed.
After some good progress, Beggi throws an interception –but the Rebel defender drops it. Sigurður Jefferson tears through
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BERGÞÓR PHILIP PÁLSSON IS 27 YEARS OLD AND BEGAN PLAYING FOOTBALL AT 13. A JACK-OF-ALL-TRADES TO BEGIN WITH, HE TOOK ON THE ROLE OF QUARTERBACK – THE MOST PRESTIGIOUS OF OFFICES, ONE COULD ARGUE – A FEW YEARS BACK BECAUSE “THERE WAS NO ONE ELSE.” HE’S BEEN A DRIVING FORCE FOR THE SPORT OF AMERICAN FOOTBALL IN ICELAND.
the defence again, securing “second and short” – prior to completing an easy touchdown. They kick for an additional point. 14-7. Game on.
Or so it would seem.
Despite their moxie, the Einherjar gradually lose sight of the Rebels.
They go 20 points down early in the second half and begin to grow frustrated. One of their defenders – a choleric man roughly the size of a horse-drawn carriage – appears to grab an offensive lineman by the back of his shirt so as to rather violently dispatch him to the pitch.
One of the referees calls a penalty – and the man loses it. He walks off the field in a fit and begins to vent his frustration to his quarterback, who’s standing there on the sidelines.
“This is precisely why you need to find better refs, Beggi!” he yells. “I hate that ref!” Prior to storming off the field, he adds that the officials show “zero ambition.”
(In his defence, losing is hard. Also, his knee is killing him.)
Three weeks after the fact, I mentioned the incident to
referee Jan Eric, who seemed to have little recollection of the event.
“I certainly had an opinion when the incident occurred” he explained, “but as soon as he’s off the field, I’m focusing on the next play. Generally speaking, our interactions with the players have been good; sure, we sometimes get into spats during the game, but after it’s all done and dusted, we usually engage in a productive conversation.”
Jan Eric, who sounds like a stoic father figure, capable of contextualising his kids’ occasional tantrums, observes that because the Einherjar play so few games, many of the players likely don’t have a good enough handle on the rules themselves.
He landed the role of head referee by a rather circuitous route; having taken an interest in the NFL about ten years ago, Jan Eric – who has some experience as a referee in Iceland, in that other kind of football – posted on the NFL Iceland Facebook page to inquire about the rules of the game.
Although he received no response, he did discover a private message in his inbox from Bergþór Philip Pálsson, asking whether he was interested in officiating a few
games. Jan Eric said “sure,” and most of the work that he and his colleagues have done thus far has been pro bono. But the Einherjar have, as of late, insisted that they pay them something for their trouble.
They’re an honourable bunch.
“Given the size of the remuneration,” I speculated, “I imagine that the players must be a little more understanding towards your efforts?”
“Yes – and they are. They remind each other all the time that we’re doing our best. I think the overall mood has been good; tempers flare from time to time, but that’s just part of the game. I’m not easily offended. But I do think that it’s important that the players exercise good sportsmanship because they’re role models for all the younger players.”
All talk of American football in the modern age must at some point broach the injuries that have marred the sport’s reputation. Jan Eric acknowledges the problem – while adding an important point.
“The rules differ between the NFL and college ball. The rules for college football are much more strict, designed to keep the players safe. And we, like most of the other leagues around the world, follow the college rules. Take targeting, for example: if you target a player’s head or neck area during a tackle, when he’s defenceless – you’re sent straight to the showers. Head injuries are rarer in college ball; of course, the technology and the helmets will improve, but because the risk of injury is higher
in American football compared to most other sports, we need to protect the players.”
The Einherjar wind up losing by a significant margin. But everyone seems to be in good cheer after the game. The Romanians line up on the sideline, in front of the audience, and take a bow. They receive a hearty ovation.
Afterwards, the two teams line up on the halfway line for some pictures. The main announcer hands out a few awards. Sigurður Jefferson, despite being on the losing side, is chosen Man of the Match.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“I mean, it’s pretty upsetting, in the immediate aftermath,” he admits. “It’s not what we had aimed for defensively. But, I mean, we’ve got a lot of younger players, and the Rebels have been playing league games every week.”
Playing an average of one game each season is tough; it takes time to get into the zone.
“It was hard after they scored like five touchdowns; it was all about surviving at that point. But I’m happy with our sense of fight. We kept going. Given our roster and our effort, I can’t complain. We’ve got another game early in 2023. Hopefully, now that the rust is gone, we can get things going again.”
And no doubt they will.
The Lava Centre is situated at Hvolsvöllur on the South Coast of Iceland, surrounded by active volcanoes. It truly acts as the gateway to Iceland’s most active volcanic area.
The Lava Centre just received two Red Dot Awards, which cement its position as a world class exhibition.
LAVA Centre is the best place to learn about the new Fagradalsfjall eruption, with new exhibits explaining the eruption and new film footage in the volcano cinema.
“While a glacier sleeps, it keeps moving, and it makes quite a ruckus,” Kristján Maack says with a smile. “I’ve spent 30 years on glaciers, but it’s only now, in the dark and the stillness that I notice how noisy they are. When you’re alone in the dark with a small headlamp that you have to turn off when you take pictures, then you hear the creaking and breaking so clearly. The glacier’s practically screaming ‘Get out of here!’”
Kristján has always been big on glaciers. He took a mountaineering course as a kid, and as a teenager he started visiting glacier tongues, going ice climbing, and rappelling into clefts and crevasses. “I did that for 20 years, then I matured and calmed down a bit,” he says, smiling. He usually had his camera with him and took landscape photos for many years, but over time he developed the ability to see in the dark. As a teenager, Kristján joined a search and rescue team and served for decades as a volunteer. Alongside his fellow team members, he often had to climb glaciers to search for lost travellers and save injured people from crevasses. Most of his hobbies are winter-related: ice climbing, skiing, hiking, sleeping in snow huts and tents in the dead of winter. So does he like the cold? “Less and less,” he chuckles.
Recently, Iceland’s glacier tongues have lured this fiftysomething photographer into their embrace, and he meets them armed with his camera, tripod, and flash. He now visits them when it’s cold, still, and completely dark. What he’s searching for are not lost travellers. “It’s very difficult terrain to cross, especially at night in the dark. I try to go when there’s no wind or moonlight, then I light up the ice formations to bring out their many faces and fantasy worlds. All of the light in the photographs is light that I bring to the location, although in a few cases you can see the stars in the background,” Kristján says. He admits that while the subject matter is awe-inspiring, the working conditions are not easy. There are no flat surfaces to place lights on and everything has to be firmly strapped down. “You stand there in crampons and hang on an ice axe with the lights tied to pitons so that they don’t all fall over. Moving a light ten metres over can be a huge bother, with crevasses and walls of ice all around you.” It can be disappointing when he really wants to place a light in a spot he can’t get to. “I’ve been thinking a lot about putting lights on drones and lighting the location from the air, but at the same time I don’t want it to be too technical,” he muses.
Threading across an unfamiliar glacier tongue in the dark is not recommended, and Kristján says he always arrives at the glaciers during the day, scouts promising shooting locations, and waits for dark before he hikes up again to shoot. “You can’t orient yourself in the dark, you don’t see anything.” When he returns at night, he usually finds new and totally different shapes from the ones he planned to
Portrait by Golli Translated by Jelena Ćirićshoot when he scouted the place during the day. “Everything becomes photogenic when darkness falls.”
Kristján’s favourite spots on Iceland’s glacier tongues are not easy to get to, but he likes a challenge. “It’s difficult to reach these spots, maybe a three-hour hike and ice climb just to get to a promising spot. I’ve had to bring assistants, since the glacier and photography equipment that I have to lug around is pretty heavy.”
He often makes trips right up to the glacier’s terminus, where it’s usually calving into a lagoon, though the lagoons are frozen at this time of year. “You have to walk on the frozen lagoon and be careful not to step through the ice. At Sólheimajökull glacier, for example, there’s a lagoon experienced glacier hikers can cross during the day, but at night, you can’t see anything beyond the light of your headlamp and it’s easy to lose your bearings. I mark a path during the day so that I can follow my footsteps back at night.”
Kristján works in absolute darkness. He got bored of shooting classic landscape photos at dusk and dawn and decided to use his experience in studio photography on the glacier – since it’s hard to bring the glacier into the studio. “I’ve worked with lights for the past 20-30 years and I found it fun to combine those two things, glaciers and studio lights.” Though he says it’s only possible for a short window of time every year. “In summer, it’s never dark and I can’t create depth and tease out shapes with the lights. The glacier is also more beautiful when it's frozen. It melts during the summer: the rain makes it wetter. There’s a short window in the late fall, before it starts snowing, because after that the snow blankets everything and fills the crevasses.”
The short period makes for long days: to photograph an evening on Öræfajökull glacier, Kristján embarks on a minimum 14-hour trip. “Then I photograph for about 2-3 hours on the glacier, before my batteries and my energy run out. The good weather often doesn’t last much longer either. Afterwards you have to come down off the glacier and drive home, which takes hours.”
Kristján’s work with glaciers has involuntarily become a climate awareness project. The country’s glaciers have changed dramatically since he started climbing them in 1984. “Entire glaciers have even disappeared. I can barely recognise some places today that I used to know like the back of my hand,” he says, citing Öræfajökull as one example. The landscape there has completely changed. “The glacier tongues on Eyjafjallajökull and Gígjujökull where I started glacier hiking are gone. What’s left are gullies, streams, and a new landscape.” He says these rapid changes are his main motivation for continuing the project. “I want to discover the countless faces of the glaciers, get to know them better before they disappear completely.”
Illustration by Ásdís Hanna Guðnadóttir
by Örvar Smárason
When my fingers started falling off, it became harder and harder to put my shoes on and take them off. After I lost the first two, I switched from laces to Velcro. I used to wear them all the time as a kid, and I’ve always been fascinated by the technical innovation behind them. I read somewhere that the idea was based on the way flower seeds latch on to animal fur. And that ripping sound when you peel them off is oddly pleasing. Although it’s almost impossible for a grown person to wear Velcro shoes without being labelled a simpleton, I’m trying to do my best not to let that affect me.
As I put my shoes on the metal rack of the communal swimming pool, right between a pair of biker boots and someone’s orthopaedic shoes, I notice that the coin is gone. It was bound to happen. I never knew where it came from, and I still don’t know why I was convinced that it was a lucky charm to have a coin in my shoe. But for the whole week that it had been dancing around in there, I hadn’t lost a single part of me — not even a toe. I still have a lucky seven of them left. Deep down, I know it’s not because of the coin, but at least it’s a good omen.
It’s good to think while you pee. Flowing water gets the thoughts going. It’s like daydreaming by a bustling stream. But why do people put chewing gum in the urinal? What’s left of my body shivers as the yellow stream hits the greyish glob of once-tasteless poison. Yes, I really do dislike gum.
I look up at a poster that has been hung over the hand dryer and reads like this: People who are struggling with the loss of limbs should be able to enjoy a trip to the swimming pool just like everyone else. This is about people like me. Limb loss is not a transmittable disease and carries no risk of infection. Let’s help this rapidly growing part of society enjoy a swim with dignity. There’s a picture of an athletic-looking woman wearing a swimsuit, but her left arm is missing. She smiles directly at me, and I find it comforting. It’s good to know that people still care about us.
A friend of mine only has his torso and head left, which of course is still plenty. We need to remember to be thankful for what we have. He isn’t exactly a friend of mine, but I used to go to school with him. I haven’t seen him for at least 20 or 30 years, and I heard he doesn’t leave the house anymore. He sits around watching reality TV shows about people who clean large office spaces with toothbrushes and women who kill their pets while his mother feeds
him with a spoon. That’s what I’ve heard at least. Or that’s what I imagine. And I can understand why he doesn’t leave the house.
Water falls from the showerhead. Being naked gives me a sense of freedom — I had forgotten what that felt like. As thousands of tiny drops each kiss a separate part of my pale skin, for a few seconds, I bloom, like a flower in a nature documentary that has been sped up for effect. I’ve been hunched and clamped up like a fist.
I need to remember to shower carefully though; I can’t rub anything too hard. Water will do most of the work. I’m a bit worried about drying off with a towel, but that’s a problem for a later time.
“Long time no see, buddy!” My friend, the lifeguard, shouts at me from across the pool as I come out of the locker rooms. He’s lifting weights. He’s lifting the heaviest weights. I think his name might be Anton. He’s worked here for ages, but I can’t remember if it’s Anton or Alexander. He’s wearing flip-flops, and his feet are perfectly pedicured. I smile back, but as I raise my hand to wave at him, I remember that it looks misshapen and repulsive so I hastily hide it behind my back. The smile will have to do for now. I hope it looks real. It feels real.
Most people have a steady pool routine. Swim, hot tub, sauna, hot tub, that sort of thing. Mine isn’t that rigid. Some days, I’ll do tub, swim, sauna, tub, but when I’m feeling especially good — when I’m feeling healthy and energetic — I’ll do swim, tub, sauna, tub. Today is one of those days. I lower myself into the pool like a teabag. I’m submerged. The strokes are slow and heavy but pick up the pace. They find rhythm. My hair is a forest of seaweed at the bottom of the ocean. Photosynthetic antennae. Breathing does not concern me.
As I walk over to the hot tubs, I’m a new man — whole. I have no idea
if anybody’s staring at me, as my eyes are only half open. I saw a video recently of a newborn, hairless kitten. It looked otherworldly, but also pure and innocent. With its eyes only half open. For a few seconds, I am that kitten in the video. Pink, blind, and slimy.
Sometimes, the hot tub can be a good place to break the isolation and chat with people. Today, I plant myself in the farthest corner and avoid eye contact. The other old men usually don’t need a lot of encouragement to start chewing your ear off. One look and you’re in their web. Sometimes, they’ll talk about sports or the weather, which is fine. I like talking about sports. I’m not very knowledgeable, but I’m good at nodding along. Most of the time, they want to talk about what they dislike — the government, women, young people, limb losers (sometimes we’re called droppers or 3/4 folk), or immigrants. I don’t dislike many things, except maybe chewing gum, and I can’t see any reason to talk about gum.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see one of them is about to say something to me, so I close my eyes. “The hot tub always reminds me of my house in Thailand,” he says. “Do you want to know why?” I don’t, but I’m too sleepy to decline. “It’s because of fish soup.” He laughs. “I keep a pot of soup on the stove, and every evening, I boil a piece of fish in it. Everyday. Same soup, different fish.” He probably could have said something much worse.
As I drift off, I think about the smell of boiled hot dogs. I could smell them when I was at the grocery store. Of course, they don’t sell groceries anymore; the only food they sell there now is boiled hot dogs. Also soda, cigarettes, candy, and lottery tickets. But since they used to sell groceries, that’s what I will keep calling it even though I was just there for the lottery tickets.
“You want all the bonus numbers?”
the lady behind the counter had asked with a smile. It was the kind of smile that uses all the teeth without being overbearing or scary. I remember thinking that her hair probably smelled of boiled hot dogs, which is fine; they smell nice, and I’m sure her hair smells of boiled hot dogs in a nice way. I know her. Her name is Jóhanna or Jósefína or something similar. I had carefully counted out the coins for the ticket with all the bonus numbers before I left the apartment so I didn’t have to think about it. I just nodded and smiled back using way fewer teeth.
The printer in the lottery machine buzzed as I piled the coins on the glass, and she counted them. Most people would have been annoyed, but we know each other, so she just smiled again as she picked up one coin after the other and put them in the cash register. She peeled the lottery ticket out of the machine with a nice ripping sound and put it on the counter.
And that’s when it happened. I picked up the ticket, or I thought I did. As I was about to put it in my inside pocket, I noticed my hand was empty. I looked at the counter and there it was— the lottery ticket and on top of it was a finger. My left index finger. No blood, no gore. It had just fallen off. And as I looked back up at Jóhanna or Jósefína, I couldn’t see her teeth anymore.
When I open my eyes again, all the
old men are gone. Maybe they all went somewhere together. There is a small barber shop next door where they could get their hair cut for pretty cheap. If they had any. Instead, they sit around there all day and carry on with their loud and empty conversations. At least I still have hair.
On the other side of the hot tub, a child who looks way too large for his age — probably four or five years old — hits his mother on the head with a plastic toy boat, and they both laugh. Some people might call this child fat, but I wouldn’t. To some people, he might seem like an unpleasant child, but I hope he is going to be ok. That he’ll grow and blossom. He hits his mother with the plastic boat again. And they laugh.
I look up at the sky above. The clouds decide to spare us a bit of sun, letting a handful of rays through. The water is very close to a boil, but the air is cold and crisp. It feels like alchemy.
I can’t stay in the steam bath for long, but as a rule of thumb, I force myself to stay until at least one person who was there before me leaves. Luckily, there is only one woman in there when I enter, and she leaves about half a minute after I sit down. For a moment, I think she may have left after seeing my hands or feet, but it’s so dark and steamy in here that I’m pretty sure she didn’t notice.
The benches in the sauna are tiered — the highest one being the warmest
and the lowest one the least warm. I usually sit on the middle bench. There’s no point in being in the steam bath if I’m not sweating, but still, I don’t want to overdo it. The middle ground is my home.
I place my elbows on my knees and my head between my hands and watch drops of sweat fall from my forehead onto my feet. I start counting the drops: one, two, three, four, five. But then, I realize something terrible and start counting my toes. One, two, three, four, five, six. One, two, three, four, five, six! There are only three toes on each foot. I’ve lost another one.
In a flurry, I’m on all fours like an animal on the floor of the murky steam room. I hope nobody comes in and sees me like this, but I need to find the toe before someone else does. Before Anton or Alexander finds it by the side of the pool. Before someone pees on it in the urinal. Before the fat kid eats it or the old man finds it swimming in his eternity soup. Before the lady who just left the sauna finds it in her bathing suit as she takes it off and gets sick all over the women’s locker room, crying and cursing people who can’t control where their limbs fall.
As I walk back over to the hot tub, I can feel that my balance is a bit off. For each toe I lose, I become a bit wobblier. I stretch out my hands for balance like a penguin with its awkward, stunted
wings.
There is a group of teenagers in the hot tub now. They’re laughing but luckily not at me. They are laughing with each other. And they don’t notice me as I stumble around in the water and stare down at the bottom. The blue tiles are like an unsolved crossword puzzle. I don’t understand physics. How come my face doesn’t reflect on the surface of the hot tub, but characters in myths and fairy tales are always using puddles as mirrors? Maybe that has nothing to do with physics. There are just so many things I don’t understand. And I can’t find my toe.
“What’s the difference between a bagel and a donut?” At first, I think one of the teenagers is talking to me. I look up and he’s not. I guess he’s just telling his friends a joke, but there’s no punchline. They’ve stopped laughing. It’s a genuine question, and his friends just shrug. I notice both his legs are missing, and through his long, blond hair, I can see a little pink stub where his left ear used to be. He’s a handsome young man and healthy looking. His teeth are so white that it’s hard to look directly at him. They’re luminous. He doesn’t care about anything in the world. Except maybe knowing the difference between a bagel and a donut. Which seems obvious to me, and I envy him.
“Excuse me? Have you seen a toe floating around here?” Of course, I don’t
SMÁRASONsay it out loud, but I want to. I want to talk to them and laugh with them. I want their youth to be contagious.
Instead, I waddle out of the hot tub, my eyes dancing about in their sockets as they try to locate my lost toe. I make my way to the main pool area where Anton or Alexander is reading a book on old tractors and doesn’t notice me. The book looks heavy, with lots of pictures of cumbersome Fords and Fergusons and other extinct metal elephants. But Anton or Alexander is a muscular man, who holds the huge book easily with one hand while he licks the index finger on the other and turns the page. More elephants.
At the very bottom of the pool, I can see something shiny. I imagine that it’s the sun reflecting off my toenail through the prism of water. This time, I don’t lower myself in slowly, I let myself fall. There is a splash, and for a moment, I think of Anton or Alexander’s book. I hope it didn’t get wet. But elephants do not concern me; my eyes are fixed on the glistening object at the bottom. Is it emitting light or reflecting it? I dive deeper and reach out with my mangled hand. As my fingertips catch what I thought was my toenail, I realize it’s the coin from my shoe. A sign. It is definitely possible that I might be crying, but it’s hard to tell underwater.
Örvar Smárason is a writer and poet. His latest book, a short story collection titled Svefngríman, was published by Angústúra in 2022. Previous works have been translated into Italian and Japanese.
He is also a musician and composer, a founding member of múm, long term member of FM Belfast and Icelandic übergroup Team Dreams. Along with his solo work, Örvar has released countless albums through these collaborations, as well as film scores, theatre music, and other projects.
He also writes lyrics for different artists including Hjaltalín, Benni Hemm Hemm, Ásgeir Trausti and Retro Stefson. Örvar also tinkers with visual art, having shown his artwork at countless exhibitions and published two books of drawings. His education includes studying scriptwriting at FAMU in Prague and an MA degree in Creative Writing from the University of Iceland.
The first issue of Iceland Review came out in August 1963. Its ambitious editorial team aimed to grant travellers, businesspeople, and the general public abroad insight into life in Iceland: the country, the history, the people, and the value they created.
Since then, Iceland Review has continued telling stories of Iceland’s community, culture, and nature in both words and
pictures. Eruptions, earthquakes, economic ups and downs, the first steps of musicians like Björk and Sigur Rós, and five of the republic’s presidents have all graced the pages of the magazine through the years. The magazine’s photographers have captured the force of Iceland’s waterfalls, the heat of its lava, the vast expanse of the highland, and the faces of the nation.
Each issue in 2023, our 60th anniversary year, will feature excerpts from our archives showcasing notable events and topics from years gone by. Although it has been six decades, we continue to see new dimensions of the country and its people.
There’s something enticing about a road that goes ever on and on. You know where your starting point is but you never know where you might end up. Will you take the road less travelled by and will it make a difference? Where you’re going, will you even need roads? While on the road, what sort of people will you meet? Will it be the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing? After all, they say it’s not the destination but the journey.
Blue Lagoon geothermal seawater is unlike any other water on the planet. Born deep underground, this natural marvel is rich in silica, algae, and minerals—the elements that give the water its extraordinary powers. Discover the water. Experience the wonder.
