COMMUNITY KEFLAVÍK PT. 3: FOOD, FOOD, FOOD A culinary tour of the fast-food capital of Iceland.
Iceland
CULTURE, NATURE — SINCE 1963
MUSIC ONE NIGHT IN GUFUNES The rapper Birnir and his people. NATURE IN THE RANGERS’ REALM There’s more to protecting nature than what’s in the job description.
COMMUNITY,
Review
G et lo s t wit h i n th e c it y
INNOVATION ELECTRIC MOTION 76 Collective mindset may be holding back Iceland’s transportation sector.
The rapper Birnir and his people.
NATURE IN THE RANGERS’ REALM 46 There’s more to protecting nature than what’s in the job COMMUNITYdescription.
MUSIC ONE NIGHT IN GUFUNES 18
COVER PHOTO: Golli.
Kerlingarfjöll. Editor Gréta Sigríður Einarsdóttir Cover photo Golli Publisher Kjartan Þorbjörnsson Design & production Daníel Stefánsson Writers Erik RagnarKTKjartanJelenaGunnarFrankPomrenkeWalterSandsJónssonĆirićÞorbjörnssonBrowneTómasHallgrímsson Photographers Brynjar Ágústsson Dieter Roth SkaptiGolli Hallgrímsson Vigfús Sigurgeirsson Jón llustratorKaldal Ásdís Hanna Guðnadóttir Translators Jelena Ćirić Larissa Kyzer Copy editing & proofreading Jelena ZacharyĆirićJordan Melton Subscriptions subscriptions@icelandreview.com Advertising sales sm@mdr.is Print Kroonpress Ltd. 5041 Kroonpress0787 NORDIC SWA N ECOLAB E L Annual Subscription (worldwide) €72. For more information, go to www.icelandreview.com/subscriptions
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LOOKING BACK GLOBETROTTER 68 The story of Anna from Moldnúpur farm. ARCHAEOLOGY UNEARTHED 28
2 | ICELAND REVIEW FEATURES TABLE OF CONTENTS icelandreview.com NEWS IN BRIEF 6 ASK ICELAND REVIEW 8 IN FOCUS RELAXING LEGISLATION ON ALCOHOL SALES 10 PRIVATELY OWNED TOURIST SITES 14 FICTION THE COLLECTOR 118 PHOTOGRAPHY HOW TO UNVEIL A MOUNTAIN 106
The oldest manmade cave in Iceland holds stories about the country’s early inhabitants.
KEFLAVÍK PT. 3: FOOD, FOOD, FOOD 92 A culinary tour of the fast-food capital of Iceland. Iceland, Tel.: (+354) 537-3900. www.icelandreview@icelandreview.com (ISSN:
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ART IMBUING MATTER WITH SPIRIT 36 The jewellery of Dieter Roth.
SPORT PLAYING BALL 84 Tryggvi Hlinason takes it one game at a time.
whale bookcallwww.northsailing.ishúsavíkwatchingeco-friendlysince1995+3544647272oryouradventureat Pick your favourite whale watching tour!
Iceland’s rangers are the country’s frontline of environmental protection.
Spending weeks at a time in the island’s mountainous interior, they are the ones caring for Iceland’s remarkably fragile wilderness. While the remote locations and austere working conditions might prove a deterrent for some, the close proximity to nature is reward enough for many people carrying out this work.
While mountaineering is an activity that forces you to slow down and appreciate your surroundings, populated places reveal a different side of Iceland. In this issue, we visited the town of Keflavík, and dug into the local culture – and burgers.
Facing your own privileges is uncomfortable but necessary. Grumbling on a rainy summer day may feel cathartic, but in doing so, we unwittingly unveil our lack of scope – and our lack of appreciation for the privileges we enjoy in the current moment.
As unprecedented heatwaves ravaged the rest of Europe, watching the local news in Iceland felt surreal. A mid-summer cold spell proved allconsuming in the minds of a subarctic people desperate for some summer sun. A reporter interviewing a meteorologist even asked if a few hints of the heatwaves might reach Iceland, the hope in their voice belying their lack of understanding of the global catastrophe we’re facing.
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Finding a moment of calm during a hip-hop concert in an abandoned fertiliser factory. Breathing in the air in a newly-unearthed cave dating back to settler times. Stepping into an exhibition to admire the exquisite details of a celebrated artist’s jewellery. These are experiences that give your worldview the context necessary to appreciate the grandeur of the world around you. If all else fails, you can find inspiration in the story of Anna from Moldnúpur farm, a self-educated woman from a working-class background who moved heaven and earth to realise her dream of travelling the world in the wake of World War II. The tales of her travels, written in her own hand, contain both her matter-of-factly worldview but also her appreciation for the wonders of other countries: the people, the places, and the art. I hope this issue can afford you a similar perspective.
FROM THE EDITOR ICELAND REVIEW · ISSUE 04 – 2022 Editor Gréta Sigríður Einarsdóttir Photography by Golli
Opening our eyes to the situation on a grander scale comes with the benefit of an appreciation of the minor and major joys in our existence, as well as the opportunity to affect real change for the better.
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The total value of real estate in Iceland increased by almost 20% between 2021 and 2022. The latest property valuation figures were released by Registers Iceland on May 31, translating to higher property fees for owners. Some municipal leaders across the country have stated they will respond by lowering fees.
Iceland’s national football team did not advance beyond the group stage of the 2022 UEFA European Women’s Football Championship. The team landed in third place in their group after tying 1-1 in all three of their matches – against Belgium, Italy, and France. Team captain Sara Björk Gunnarsdóttir told RÚV that she is proud of the team’s efforts, though the result is disappointing.Tyingagainst three of the best national teams in the world is certainly nothing to shake a stick at. Particularly impressive was the result of the team’s match against the French team, which had won their previous 17 matches and only lost one of their last 33 games.
“We showed character and gave the French a proper match today,” Sara Björk stated in an interview after the game.
Locals and foreign tourists have remarked on rising accommodation costs, some claiming that rising prices raise questions of ethics and greed. Managing Director of Kea Hotels’ sales and marketing division attributed the rise in price to the global pandemic, supply chain shocks, inflation, and increased numbers in tourism.
“We were playing against one of the best national teams in the world and we had a damn good chance. It was a great game. Our best one in the championship. Unbelievably proud of the team and the group.”Though the team’s fans may be disappointed by the result, it can still be seen as an improvement from the last UEFA Women’s Championship, in 2017, when Iceland lost all of its matches. The team’s members expressed gratitude for the broad support they received from their fans.
This sharp rise in demand has contributed to a worker shortage in Iceland’s tourism industry. While there were over 33,000 employees in the industry before the pandemic, many of those workers have not returned to their jobs. Staffing shortages are expected to affect the restaurant and hotel sectors in particular. Jóhannes Þór Skúlason, Director of the Icelandic Travel Industry Association, estimated that between 7,000-9,000 workers would need to be hired this year and next year in order to meet demand. Despite many challenges, Iceland’s tourism industry is set for continued growth, and that has not gone unnoticed. In July, German airline Condor announced it would begin operating direct flights from Frankfurt to Egilsstaðir, East Iceland, and Akureyri, North Iceland, in the summer of 2023. Currently, Egilsstaðir is only serviced by domestic flights, while Akureyri has limited, seasonal international service to London, Copenhagen, and Tenerife. As both towns have developed airports and other tourist facilities, the hope is that this new service will further open these regions to travel.
01 Unbeaten in European championships 02 Shifts on housing market 03 Tourism back in full force
Sigurður Ingi Jóhannsson, Minister of Infrastructure, stated that a major goal of the new agreement is to protect residents from the large fluctuations that have characterised the last years. These fluctuations have especially impacted first-time homebuyers, who are having difficulty entering the market because of ballooning prices.
Tourist numbers are up in Iceland following two difficult years. In July, Statistics Iceland reported that overnight stays in Icelandic hotels had nearly tripled in comparison to the same time last year, with international tourists making up 79% of customers.
The value has never risen more in a single year, though changes across the country vary, with the highest rise in Fljótsdalshreppur district (38.9%) and the smallest in Dalvíkurbyggð municipality (6.2%). Property valuation in the Reykjavík capital area increased over 20%. In July, state and municipal governments reached a major agreement in which they committed to expanding the supply of housing by 35,000 units over the next 10 years. The decision came in partial response to a working group formed last year, which highlighted the need for both social housing and affordable housing in Iceland. The working group emphasised the nearlyunprecedented explosion in housing costs over the last two years and the need to increase housing supply in order to insulate low-income households from the effects of the real estate market.
6 | ICELAND REVIEW NEWS IN BRIEF Photography by Golli Words by Jelena Ćirić & Erik Pomrenke
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 7 MÝ VAT N N ATURE B ATH S pre-book online at m y v at nn a tureb at hs . i s R E LA X E N J OY EXP E RI E NC E
On November 10, 1944, a German U-boat sank Goðafoss, an Icelandic passenger ship, just outside Reykjavík harbour, leading to the deaths of 24 people. We haven’t written about the event itself, but we have, however, covered an interesting book about the event, called Útkall: Árás á Goðafoss, or SOS: Attack on the Goðafoss Published in 2003 by Óttar Sveinsson, it attracted international attention and has been translated into multiple languages. Notably, when it was translated into German, a special press conference was held at the Frankfurt book fair, in which an Icelandic survivor from the attack and a former U-Boat crew member met and reconciled. After the German translation attracted some attention, a documentary was even made in Germany about the event.
While the Goðafoss may certainly be the most notorious U-boat attack from an Icelandic perspective, it was certainly not the only one to affect Icelanders. Because of Iceland’s important position between Europe and North America, many wartime convoys passed through Iceland. Icelandic vessels were very careful to fly the Icelandic flag to signal their neutrality, but eight Icelandic vessels were nevertheless attacked and sunk by U-boats during the war.
Eiderdown is produced by common eiders, a large species of duck that lives in Northern Europe (including Iceland), North America, and Eastern Siberia. Female eider ducks will use their down, a special kind of soft feather, to line their nests. Historically, eiderdown harvesting could harm duck populations, but sustainable down harvesting can also be practised after the ducklings leave the nest.
Most of the down sold in jackets, sleeping bags, and pillows you may come across in stores is not from wild eider ducks but instead from farm-raised geese and other duck species. Because genuine eiderdown is harvested by hand, it is costly to produce. Nevertheless, there are several producers of pure Icelandic eiderdown sængur (duvets) in Iceland, but if you’d like to buy one, expect to pay a premium price for it.
Q2 Has Iceland Review written about the Icelandic passenger ship that was sunk in 1944 by a U-boat?
Q1 I want to find information on Icelandic eiderdown duvets.
The term eiderdown is a rather interesting one, as it’s a good example of a loanword from Old Norse. The original Old Norse dunna referred to a wild duck, with other terms like dúnn, dúnbeðr, and dúnkoddi referring to down blankets, beds, and pillows. Presumably, settlers and traders brought these over to medieval England, who realised how nice they were and adopted the name.
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ASK ICELAND REVIEW Photography by Golli Words by Erik Pomrenke
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ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 9 SeizThomasPhoto: HIGH QUALITY HOUSES IN THE NORTH OF ICELAND
Iceland’s government appears poised to relax legislation on alcohol sales even further, and, according to recent polls, a majority of the nation is in favour of the development. The following is a closer look at Iceland’s changing legislation on the sale of alcohol and its potential social and economic impact. History of liquor sale laws
In the early 20th century, the belief spread in Iceland that excessive alcohol consumption was the root of many social ills. The country held a referendum on whether to ban all production, consumption, and import of alcohol, and the nation voted in favour. The ban was implemented in 1912 and stayed in place until 1922 when it was partially lifted to allow Iceland to trade salt fish for Spanish wine. (Spanish sailors had complained when their Icelandic counterparts had stopped buying their product in exchange for bacalao.)
Vínbúðin From 1922 until very recently, alcoholic beverages in Iceland were only sold through the state-run liquor store Vínbúðin, operated by the State Alcohol and Tobacco Company of Iceland, ÁTVR. There are 50 Vínbúðin stores located across the country, with 13 of them in the capital area. They are always closed on Sundays, as well as on most holidays, and the store’s countryside locations often have limited opening hours. The Vínbúðin store in Kirkjubæjarklaustur in Southeast Iceland, for example, is open between 2:00 and 6:00 PM most weekdays and for only two hours on Saturdays.
Other legislation governing alcohol sales and consumption is stricter in Iceland than in much of Europe. The legal drinking age in Iceland, for example, is 20. Advertising of alcoholic products is prohibited, though producers do skirt these laws occasionally by advertising the low-alcohol versions of their products.
That same year, the state liquor store ÁVR was established. The acronym stands for Áfengisverslun ríkisins, or “The State Alcohol Store,” and to this day Icelanders often say they’re on their way to “The State” to pick up some booze. Between 1935 and 1992, ÁVR was not just the only retailer but also the only producer of alcohol in Iceland. Beginning in 1922, the alcohol ban was lifted in stages, but beer remained illegal in Iceland until March 1, 1989 – for 74 years in total. Until December 1, 1995, ÁTVR (the T stands for tobacco, which was consolidated with ÁVR in 1961) even had a monopoly on the import and wholesale of alcohol, but from that date importers, producers, and wholesalers holding a special licence issued by the National Commissioner of the Icelandic Police were permitted to resell alcohol.
In response to these developments, ÁTVR called on the Reykjavík District Court to halt online retailers’ sales, asserting that they broke the law that granted the state a monopoly on alcohol sales and had led to financial losses. The court did not comply, and sales have continued. Icelandic authorities have not so far stepped in to stop them. In some ways, retailers’ move to sell alcohol online was in direct response to developments in Iceland’s Parliament, where MPs have been drafting bills to legalise online sales of alcohol since 2019. The Icelandic government cannot ban foreign-based retailers from selling their alcoholic wares to Icelandic customers, and it quickly
Online sales begin In 2020, online craft beer retailer Bjórland, which had been selling wholesale to businesses, began selling craft beer directly to customers. The sales were technically illegal, but the company had found a loophole in the legislation that even MPs had previously pointed out: foreign-based retailers could legally sell alcohol directly to Icelandic customers while Icelandic companies could not. The following year, Santewines SAS started online sale of wine directly to consumers through a company based in France and other retailers have followed suit, including grocery delivery company Heimkaup, the first grocery chain of sorts to sell alcohol in Iceland.
IN FOCUS Relaxing Legislation on Alcohol Sales Photography by Golli Words by Jelena Ćirić
Visitors to Iceland are often surprised to find that beer and wine are not available for sale in Icelandic grocery stores. For the past century, alcohol has been available for purchase exclusively through the state liquor store, Vínbúðin. The state’s near-monopoly on retail alcohol sales came to an end earlier this year, however, as legislation passed on June 15, 2022 allows Icelandic breweries to sell their products directly to customers. Several retailers have begun selling alcohol online as well, and, despite the fact it remains illegal, authorities have not stepped in to stop them.
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Iceland’s government has been discussing abolishing the state monopoly on alcohol sales for years, as well as debating relaxing legislation governing alcohol advertisements. Some of these changes are clearly spurred by the globalised retail environment, which provides Icelanders with access to alcohol from abroad and exposes them to advertisements through foreign media. In such a world, privatised sales of alcohol and legal – though strongly regulated – advertisements could prove a financial boon for the state treasury, now emptier than usual after a two-year pandemic. The question is whether the increased revenue and the economic boost would be offset by higher healthcare and social costs. Legislation on Alcohol Sales by Golli Words
by Jelena Ćirić
Control and consumption But are there data that show a link between control and consumption? Studies conducted in Canada and the United States have found a correlation between partial or full privatisation of alcohol sales and increased rates of alcohol consumption. In high-income countries like Iceland, where alcohol is a leading risk factor for disease (second only to tobacco), increased consumption would inevitably mean worse public health and higher healthcare expenditure, not to mention social impacts. Besides disease rates, some studies have found relaxed control of alcohol sales and increased alcohol consumption to correlate with increased instances of assault, suicide, and traffic accidents. Other studies have shown that private retailers are less likely to have well-trained staff and less incentive to prevent sales to minors than state-run retailers.
realised that it made little sense to forbid local retailers from doing so as well. In fact, it was joining the EEA that compelled Iceland to privatise its import, export, wholesale, and production monopolies for alcoholic beverages in the 1990s. In an increasingly connected world, Iceland’s government has diminishing power to control alcohol sales. Iceland’s legislators have been introducing bills aiming to relax alcohol sales since around 2003, commonly suggesting implementing small steps, such as permitting the sale of alcoholic beverages under 22% in stores or permitting private retail of alcohol in specially-licenced stores. Breweries can sell to customers Despite remaining in a legal grey area, online sales of alcohol are booming in Iceland. Regulations in other areas have already been relaxed: from July 1, new legislation permits Icelandic breweries to sell directly to consumers. Ólafur Stephensen, CEO of the Icelandic Federation of Trade, celebrated the change, saying he hopes to see legislation concerning alcohol sales relaxed even further. That particular bill was intended to boost tourism-related business in the countryside but excluded not only some larger breweries due to their size but also distilleries, which Ólafur believes have just as much a right to sell their product directly to consumers as smaller breweries.
While Icelanders themselves often joke that the nation drinks a lot, the numbers disagree. Data from the European Health Interview Survey published in 2017 showed people in Iceland drank less frequently than their counterparts in other Nordic countries. In a survey of 29 European countries, Iceland had the seventh lowest proportion of people who drink at least once per week, just over 20%. The UK, for comparison, had the highest rate at 52.5%, while Denmark came in third place at just over 51%. Iceland also had the fourth lowest rate of heavy episodic drinking (defined as consuming 60 grams of ethanol on a single occasion). These figures do not mean that alcoholism and alcohol abuse are a non-issue in Iceland. In a recent interview, Anna Hildar Guðmundsdóttir, director of non-profit addiction resources centre SÁÁ, stated that around 20% of the nation struggle with alcohol use. She called the developments in relaxing laws on alcohol sales a “huge change of direction from the government,” implying that it would increase rates of problem drinking and questioning what the government would do to support those who struggle with their alcohol use. Iceland’s chronically underfunded and understaffed healthcare system, where waiting lists for admission to rehab centres are the norm, is ill-equipped to handle additional strain, especially amid the continuous waves of the Covid-19 virus.
The cost of drinking
Do Icelanders have a drinking problem?
Data are not yet available on whether alcohol consumption has increased in Iceland since online retailers started selling alcoholic beverages. Past data could give some clues: an Icelandic study from the early 2000s showed that adding late-night trading hours was associated with alcohol-related problems. The year the beer ban was lifted, alcohol consumption per capita spiked from 4.5 litres per person (aged 15 and older) to 5.5. However, over the following four years, it dropped steadily and took nine years to rise above 5.5 litres again. The impact these changes in consumption had on public health over time is not clear. Whatever the effect, however, legalising beer has yet to cause a complete societal breakdown, as some politicians believed it would.
While business owners and many others in Iceland celebrate the relaxation of legislation governing alcohol sales, dissenting voices have also been heard. Opponents to relaxing the state monopoly on alcohol sales say that making alcohol more easily available will increase rates of alcohol consumption, as well as problem drinking, which could negatively impact public health and society.
IN FOCUS Relaxing
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The question is whether partial privatisation of alcohol sales would in fact increase rates of alcoholism in Iceland. One study linked with the World Health Organisation suggested disincentive alcohol pricing had the widest impact and strongest empirical support among more than 30 policies intended to reduce alcohol consumption. It not only lowered drinking rates but also led to reductions in trauma, social problems, and chronic disease associated with alcohol use. Alcohol prices are certainly a strong disincentive for consumption in Iceland. According to Eurostat figures from 2020, alcoholic products in Iceland cost more than 2.5 times the EU average. Much of this difference can be attributed to high taxation: according to 2019 figures from Spirits Europe, Icelandic taxes on alcohol were anywhere between 33% and 200% higher than in the EU countries with the highest rates (Finland and Sweden). Partial privatisation of alcohol sales is likely to lower alcohol prices. In fact, Santewines’ website already boasts that their prices are as much as 20% lower than Vínbúðin’s.
Why now?
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 13 In the Center of Reykjavík Three Locations www.listasafn.is+354 515 9600 Listasafn Íslands National Gallery of Iceland Hús Ásgríms Jónssonar Home of an Artist Safnahúsið The House CollectionsofBergstaðastræti74101ReykjavíkHverfisgata15101ReykjavíkFríkirkjuvegur7101Reykjavík
Kerið
Icelandic authorities and private landowners share a duty to ensure accessibility, safety, and conservation at such sites, but the execution of these duties varies greatly from one tourist attraction to the next.
Another states: “I didn't mind paying for entrance, because I see what they do with maintenance of the trail.” Despite collecting fees since 2013, Kerið’s owners have yet to install a public washroom at the site. This could be due to zoning permits. However, RÚV reported in 2019 that Kerfélagið had received permission to build more services at the site, but the pandemic has likely delayed construction. Geysir In some sense, entrance fees were the catalyst for the Icelandic state’s purchase of the Geysir geothermal area. Originally owned by a farmer, the area was sold in the 1890s to James Craig, a whiskey distiller and future Prime Minister of N-Ireland. Craig was the first to charge visitors an entrance fee to the site until he relinquished ownership to a friend, who dropped the fees. The land changed hands a few times, until the film director Sigurður Jónasson gave it to the Icelandic state in 1935. That was only the geothermal site itself, however; the surrounding land still belonged to private individuals. Privately Owned Tourist Sites Photography by Golli Words by Jelena Ćirić
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Many visitors to Iceland may be surprised to know that some of the country’s most popular tourist sites are located on privatelyowned land.
IN FOCUS
The volcanic crater lake Kerið lies in South Iceland, not far from the popular Golden Circle route. For years, tourists have stopped at the site in between their visits to Þingvellir, Geysir, and Gullfoss. In 2008, controversy erupted when Kerið’s landowners announced they would begin charging entry to the crater. Many locals considered it absurd to put a price tag on a natural site, believing it should remain accessible to all without a fee. While the decision to charge entry was reversed due to the amount of backlash it received, a fee was eventually instituted at Kerið five years later, in 2013. At that time, CEO of Kerfélagið Gunnar O. Skaptason stated that the public perspective toward charging entry to natural sites had changed. “This is something that everyone has been waiting for, because this money will be used to improve the infrastructure around Kerið. So this is actually nature conservation.”
Icelandic law ensures that the public can access sites of natural or historical significance, despite their being in private ownership. But receiving all those visitors requires infrastructure, both to protect the site itself and to attend to the visitors’ needs, and the state and local governments have a role to play.
Recent Google reviews of Kerið seem to support Gunnar’s assertion: most mention the beauty of the site but not the entry fee. One reviewer that does mention the cost writes that it’s “cheaper than a coffee.”
It's clear that the more parties are involved in the decisionmaking process, the more cumbersome the process of installing necessary infrastructure, even when safety is at stake. The installation of a flashing warning light at Reynisfjara has since been approved by all parties, but not before another tourist death occurred at the site in June 2022.
“how was a gate supposed to do it?” Landowners say a government committee set up years ago has dragged its feet on the issue.
Fjaðrárgljúfur Long under most tourists’ radar, Fjaðrárgljúfur canyon in South Iceland exploded in popularity after it was featured in a Justin Bieber music video in 2015. Between 2016 and 2017, the number of visitors to the canyon doubled. The existing dirt trails were turned to mud by the increased foot traffic; visitors stepped further and further off the paths, causing damage to the surrounding flora. The site has been closed for weeks at the time in recent years to allow the flora to recover. The canyon and surrounding area are privately owned. One of the properties, encompassing some 315 hectares, was put up for sale six years ago. In June 2022, Icelandic media outlets reported that a buyer had been found. As Fjaðrárgljúfur is on the Nature Conservation Register, the state had pre-emptive purchase rights to the land. This means that authorities could step in and take over the purchase if they choose. In the case of Fjaðrárgljúfur, the government decided not to step in, but the Environment Minister signed an agreement with the to-be landowner that is expected to ensure the canyon’s protection. No admission or parking fees have been so far charged at the canyon, but a government notice implied that a parking fee may be implemented, adding that “the collection and disposition of fees that may be charged for the parking of motor vehicles shall be in its entirety used to develop services, operations, and infrastructure for those travelling in the area.”
In 2016, after landowners attempted (in vain) to institute an entry fee once again, the state decided to acquire the surrounding land. Owners stated that they were forced to sell the land under threat of expropriation. It wasn’t until 2020 that the site was officially protected.
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Reynisfjara landowners and local authorities have been discussing installing additional safety infrastructure at the beach, such as a flashing light and a gate that could be closed when conditions are particularly dangerous. Both parties have accused the other of delaying such developments. Jónas Guðmundsson, a project manager at Iceland’s search and rescue organisation ICESAR accused some landowners at the site of hindering efforts to set up a warning system. One representative of the landowners denied the accusations but expressed doubt about the effectiveness of the proposed equipment, asking if police officers stationed at the site had not been able to prevent tourists from approaching the waves
Reynisfjara If there is one issue that stands out above all others at Iceland’s tourist sites, it is undoubtedly safety. The country’s climate and natural features can create dangers that visitors may not expect or be prepared for. That has been the case at one of South Iceland’s most-visited sites, Reynisfjara black sand beach. While the site’s basalt rock formations and black pebbles draw visitors in droves, its dangerous sneaker waves have claimed several lives, despite several signs posted in the area warning of their danger. What makes managing the site even more challenging is that authorities must negotiate with not just one but several landowners at the site.
16 | ICELAND REVIEW Feel it! Escape directly into North Iceland. Hardly anybody there. Book your next trip now on niceair.is
If there is anything the above stories show, it is that Iceland’s government lacks a cohesive policy when it comes to entry fees, access, and funding for necessary infrastructure at popular tourist sites. Decisions appear to be made on a case-by-case basis, and are largely reactionary: infrastructure is not created in anticipation of increased traffic but only once that traffic is already straining the
The issues that affect the operation of tourist sites in private ownership touch on larger issues connected to land ownership in Iceland in general. In recent years, such discussions have touched on the consolidation of properties, for example, which would give wealthy individuals disproportionate control over natural resources in Iceland. Government policy may need to be clarified in regards to the responsibilities of landowners, particularly when it comes to natural resources or natural wonders located on their property.
While Icelanders, and Icelandic authorities, have a sense that most, if not all, natural sites should remain free and accessible to all, they are also not opposed to charging fees in exchange for services, particularly if the funds collected go toward nature conservation and necessary infrastructure. This type of administration has been successful at sites like Víðgelmir cave, where private owners have both increased access to the site and ensured it is well-conserved.
Fees don’t seem to deter foreign tourists or locals from visiting sites and likely seem minor compared to the cost of their accommodation, dinner, or rental car. In fact, travellers often seem happy to take part in protecting the areas they are visiting.
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HAPPYEVERYHOURDAY Ingólfsstræti 3, 101 Reykjavík | Tel: 552-0070 | danski.is IcelandReview_182x120_DenDanskeKro.indd 1 5/7/2019 5:40:40 PM
Words by Ragnar Tómas Hallgrímsson Photography by Golli
18 | ICELAND REVIEW GufunesNightOnein THE RAPPER BIRNIR AND HIS PEOPLE
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13,000 square feet in total, made from concrete with a roof of corrugated iron. Thanks to an agreement with the City of Reykjavík, the warehouse now serves as a creative space for artists and a makeshift concert venue. (The first concert, a legal rave, was held there last summer.)
There’s no image as antithetical to idyllic nature as that of the factory, but a fertiliser factory represents a kind of paradox: the sacrifice of nature for the sake of nature. This contradiction speaks to an essential quality of Birnir, whose addictive, self-destructive impulses fecundate his art. As he raps on the opening track of Bushido: I’m an infant, my darling Emerged a junkie from my mother’s womb
“What’s this?”
GUFUNES
A FEW HOURS LATER (NARFI)
Prikið – dubbed “the home of hip-hop in Iceland” – to the now owner of the establishment, prior to co-founding Sticky Records in 2016. Stepping out of the truck, Geoffrey tosses a handful of fire safety signs onto a large wooden spool, which has been turned on its side in the yard to function as a table for concert-goers. He’s only just set the signage down when a balding fire inspector parks a white jeep on the gravel lot and exits his vehicle. Walking over, the man jabs an inquisitive finger at a large, black shipping container, open on both ends, that leads inside the warehouse.
Geoffrey “Skywalker” pulls up in a Hertz moving truck in front of the FÚSK warehouse in East Reykjavík. He’s dressed in skinny jeans and white sneakers, wearing a black, longsleeved shirt featuring an ornery-seeming Rottweiler. (He’s a dogAperson.)fixtureof the hip-hop scene in Iceland since he was younger, Geoffrey hustled his way up from glorified busboy at the coffeehouse-cum-nightclub
The Prikið food truck is parked on the gravel lot in front of the FÚSK warehouse: Ice Cube’s It Was a Good Day old-schooling from its speakers. Birnir – who looks like a young Channing Tatum with a plumper Adam’s apple and a physique less obviously conducive to striptease – orders a hamburger.He’sonly just received the “go ahead” from the fire inspector a few hours earlier but remains “incredibly” relaxed: the general hubbub of the day impotent against his Zen-like equanimity. (He meditates often.) Sauntering over to a hefty bench, precariously balanced atop a few boulders near the shore, he takes big, meaningful bites from his burger while basking in the evening sun. He’s sporting green cargo pants, a white Bushido t-shirt displaying an MRI scan of his brain, a black neck gaiter, and white Prada sunglasses that may as well be a VR headset: Birnir entertains the notion that reality is “simulation.” As a testament to this intuition, he interprets the surprising foray of his acquaintance Rob Chronic – the founder of Iceland’s oldest hiphop radio show – into municipal politics as proof that everyone is “playing the game.” As Ice dayimpossiblyreminiscesCubeonanfortuitousinSouthCentral LA (“saw the police, and they rolled right past me”), it appears as if Birnir is enjoying similar good fortune. After the inspector had driven off, Birnir and Geoff rallied their team of volunteers, insinuating metal rods beneath the black container and rolling it away from the entrance before rearranging the maze of scaffolding inside the warehouse to meet the inspector’s demands. Birnir communicates in short, stuttering sentences, replete with the shibboleths of youth. Sko. Bara. Þúst. But his halting manner of speech belies some clarity of vision. He could have held his concert in a nightclub in downtown Birnir entertains the notion that reality is “simulation.”
As Geoffrey and his associate explain that the container is to serve as a tunnel into the concert venue, the inspector – half man, half iPad – shakes his head. And his head will continue to shake throughout his tour of the premises. By the time he returns to the car, smooshing a phone to his ear with a vexed expression, it appears as if the long-awaited release concert for rapper Birnir’s sophomore album Bushido will suffer further delays; it’s six hours till the opening acts are slated to take the stage. Birnir, whom Geoff met through rapper Aron Can in 2016, spent much of the pandemic labouring over the album. (“The hardest working man in show biz,” according to Geoff). The pair hosted various smaller events in connection to Bushido but always aspired toward something bigger for the release concert.Having followed the inspector to the parking lot, Geoffrey returns to the warehouse and apprises Birnir of the situation. “As it stands, we won’t be holding a concert,” he says. “But I’ll move Heaven and Earth before I give up.”
The Gufunes peninsula is situated in east Reykjavík but sits somewhere between Chernobyl and earthly paradise; it’s the site of a former government-owned fertiliser factory, funded by the Marshall Plan in the 1950s, and looks out across the water to Viðey island – boasting a fine view of Esja mountain to the north. The fate of the fertiliser factory was sealed in 2001 when a violent blast rattled the windows of neighbouring residents. One of the buildings was converted into a film studio in 2018. Below it, nestled within a horseshoe of green hills, is the FÚSK warehouse (the word fúsk is often employed to describe the handiwork of bungling repairmen):
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GEOFFREY SKYWALKER
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Reykjavík. Could have secured corporate sponsorship. Could have settled for a more conventional stage arrangement. But he’s got a tendency to go his own way – just ask his father, who used to look on in horror as his eldest son tempted death via various extreme sports. As Birnir takes another bite from his burger, the artist Narfi, affiliated with the burgeoning artistic community in Gufunes, walks over. Few people have made as lasting a first impression on Birnir as Narfi, who left an impromptu tattoo, a heart-shaped jumble of threads, on his right thigh at an afterparty. (I was there when he got “mama” tattooed on his arm.) Mid-conversation with Narfi, Birnir is whisked away by a friend, and concert-goers begin to trickle in through the makeshift gate on the north side of the property. On the pier jutting out from the peninsula, a few Poles are fishing.
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OPENING ACTS Birgir Hákon is a large man of questionable repute rumoured to have perpetrated unspeakable acts in fellowship with dubious men. His whole set is a versified threat imperiously sustained over trap beats. It’s immoral but interesting. Before him, Issi – barely deigning to make eye contact with the hoi polloi – paced the stage beneath a blonde mohawk and, in between casual ad libs, belted out the occasional “let’s go!” (“Where are we going?”) The FÚSK acoustics are slightly subpar, the bass keeps assaulting the shivering corrugated iron, but the venue is undeniably fresh. In the yard during Drengur’s performance (his music is best enjoyed on headphones, someone argues), an old acquaintance laments that his smartphone battery is in its death throes (2%): worried that the juice will drain before his booze dealer calls. He explains that he would charge his phone at Narfi’s cabin (christened “Narfastaðir”) – which the artist bought at an online auction and plumped down in Gufunes without much ceremony – only that electricity from the cottage is currently being diverted to the warehouse sound system.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he sighs. But Bríet does. She takes the stage by way of the supplementary scaffolding stage-left, opening with Sólblóm and interspersing her impressive catalogue of hits with a few covers. There’s a whiff of marijuana in the air, which, taken together with the building’s dust and all the machineproduced smoke – makes the warehouse’s various aerosols
To elevate tonight’s set above regular performances (high-school dances, say, the bread and butter of popular Icelandic rappers’ performances), Birnir and his DJ-cum-producer Young Nazareth had decided to export live versions of the beats without the main vocals. This made for a much more genuine experience (compared, say, to Issi’s “Playboi Carti approach,” in which the rapper ad-libs over the master recording).
MAGNÚS LEIFSSON
There had been whispers throughout the evening that Birnir was planning on performing nearly 30 songs – a set list so sizable to be basically unheard of among local rappers. Director Magnús Leifsson, who often peppers his conversation with succinct English phrases, would later describe the rapper’s staminal feat as a kind of “rapStandingOlympics.”in the back of the warehouse with his friends – including Arnar Freyr Frostason of the Icelandic rap duo Úlfur Úlfur and Hlynur Ingólfsson of the now-defunct rap group Skytturnar – Magnús looks on as ClubDub, the last of the opening acts, recite a slew of randy, teenaged lyrics, performed to an aggressive backdrop of upbeat Eurotechno:
I am ThereAquaman.wereone, two, three Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine Girls in the jacuzzi – and I was alone. I was alone. Magnús, who has directed numerous music videos for artists ranging from Of Monsters and Men to Emmsjé Gauti, was approached by Birnir and Geoff during the pandemic. They sent him a handful of conventional Birnir songs before proposing that he shoot a video to Spurningar, a poppy earworm featuring gay icon Páll Óskar. With his characteristically anglicised compactness, Magnús observed that the collaboration was “the most shut-up-andtake-my-money” combo he’d ever heard. He proposed shooting Birnir on roller skates – an idea that Birnir loved, for the rapper played hockey when he was younger and was, in his own words, rather “good at skating.” When the script had been drawn up and all necessary preparations made, Magnús discovered that Birnir had somewhat overstated his adeptness.
“Seeing him tottering around on the skates during rehearsal, I thought, ‘this is never going to work.’” Birnir
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 23 impossible to differentiate. Later, while tuning her guitar on the scaffolding, stage right now, she puts her finger on that other quality of Birnir, equally endearing: “Birnir’s the most unique person I know. The biggest sweetheart. The best hugger.” Bríet shivers. “Damn, it’s fucking cold,” she adds, entreating someone to come tune her guitar.
The acoustics are slightly subpar, the bass keeps assaulting the shivering corrugated iron, but the venue is undeniably fresh.
I went swimming today.
After five opening acts and much idle chit-chat with acquaintances (not to mention a long morning with two young kids), my senses had been bludgeoned. As the sounds of the final intermediary DJ set faded, the crowd of people lingering in the yard outside began to move. Seeking to overcome my own listlessness, I pursued, by way of rather desperate contrivance, the instinct of following Birnir’s father backSigurðurinside. Ólafsson entered the building and broke away from his wife and friends, drifting, trance-like, amid a throng of people towards the middle of the dancefloor. As Birnir bounced on stage like a man possessed – embodying all the qualities that the opening acts (aside from Bríet) could only have incarnated one at a time – Sigurður Ólafsson stood utterly transfixed. He did not appear to take notice of anyone else in the crowd, did not check his phone, and it was only after three or four songs that his gaze seemed to finally break; he just stood there in his brown leather jacket, taking the occasional sip from his beer – rather resembling Brad Pitt in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood – with the most touching of looks in his eyes.
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assured Magnús that he’d be quick to recall some old tricks, and over the next few weeks, he would send Magnús regular video updates documenting his gradual improvement. The upshot is one of Iceland’s great crossover videos (admittedly, there haven’t been many), in which the glittering world of Páll Óskar collides with Birnir’s rap-punk aesthetic. Before exiting the stage, ClubDub perform one last song, an unreleased joint, utterly on theme, which inspires a sense of good-humoured disbelief from Magnús Leifsson’s beaming face.
THE GREY GLOW OF NORMALCY
There was the epiphany during the pandemic that certain things had been taken for granted, that standing in a crowded place listening to music was not a given – and that every underappreciated luxury could be snatched away at a moment’s notice.
Sigurður’s enraptured state, I later gleaned, had something to do with pride – pride in his son’s DIY attitude, which had moved him to hold this concert in this place (Sigurður had been there that morning, aiding in the preparations alongside three of his four other sons). It also had something to do with relief: Birnir, now sober (and assisting other young people in staying sober), had bought his own apartment and was engaged in a long-term, committed relationship. But, most of all, perhaps, his father’s rapture had something to do with the music itself. The confirmation that honesty, in all of its rawness, provides the vital spark for any worthy creative endeavour (“I walk the planet like a maniac, Telling the truth – of which everyone’s afraid,” Birnir raps on Maniak.)
Honesty, along with hard work and talent, had brought these people together, singing along to deep cuts on the album. It is honesty, full-throated and vulnerable, which elevates Birnir’s music above that of other contemporary rappers in AS BIRNIR BOUNCED ON STAGE
LIKE A MAN POSSESSED, HIS FATHER STOOD TRANSFIXED.UTTERLY
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Iceland. That and some excellent production. Bushido, according to Geoffrey Skywalker, is a culmination of certain developments in contemporary hip-hop in Iceland; one is inclined to agree. To put one’s finger on the appeal of the album requires, perhaps, some basic theorising on the phenomenon of music – and the power it exercises over a person’s emotions.
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That final line quoted above may have been spoken by Birnir’s father, who continued to look on with modest pride at a memorable concert – well after quotidian weariness, steamrolling my sense of joie de vivre, had dragged me away from the warehouse and into my car. Even before I was able to enjoy my favourite song on the album live.
Music, on the other hand, achieves the opposite effect: good music intensifies mild, desired emotions, salvaging the strength of life-affirming passions from the inescapable wreck of prolonged existence (which ultimately renders a person unfeeling and jaded). This ability of music (possessed most conspicuously by rap artists such as Sticky Fingaz, Eminem, and Tupac, to mention a few) is most poignant in Birnir’s Vogur (the name of Iceland’s addiction-treatment centre), the twelfth song on Bushido. Produced by BNGRBOY, Vogur is a celebration of the Rilkian mantra “Let everything happen to you.”
I want to thrive, want to grow Want to be rejected, want to be told “no”
Want to miss another person, want to cry Want to fall, want to rise Mama, look, I’m flying Mama, I promise I’ll stop lying Better than bad weather, Than a good war I trust my family, We’re a fine team, for sure "Take a break from the substances, It’ll be good for you.”
There is a cognitive component to emotion; to experience fear, it is not enough to unconsciously introduce a frightening stimulus to a subject – sufficient to inspire all of the physiological hallmarks of the emotion – because fear requires the conscious recognition of danger. This insight sits at the heart of modern CBT therapy (and stoicism, for that matter), which seeks to pacify strong, unwanted emotions by cognitive reframing.
Birnir's father, Sigurður Ólafsson.
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UN EARTH ED Photography by GollI Words by Jelena Ćirić
“IT WAS KNOWN THAT THERE WERE CAVES HERE AT ODDI. BUT I NEVER EXPECTED TO FIND ONE THAT WAS STILL INTACT. ESPECIALLY NOT SUCH A BIG ONE.”
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Oddi wasn’t the only site in Iceland where early settlers dug and utilised caves. “It’s known that there are caves all over South Iceland. There’s good stone for digging: sandstone and palagonite, and it’s quite soft,” Kristborg explains. “And it was known that there were caves here at Oddi. But I never expected to find one that was still intact. Especially not such a big one.” Earthen calendar Kristborg first came to Oddi in 2009 to map sites of archaeological interest. “We went around the whole property and registered all of the known spots, including the indications of these caves.” In 2018 she had the opportunity to do some test excavation at the site, and she knew just where to start. “There was a very prominent drop here in the hill that indicated some sort of opening that led into the cave system. We did two test excavations here, and that’s how we found the mouth of this cave. We only reached the very top part: it was chock full of earth.” Even so, the team was able to date the cave they
The dig lies a little further down the road, where a helmet-clad Kristborg welcomes us and walks us up onto a hillock to look over the site. As Icelandic landscapes go, it’s hardly impressive: gently rolling green hills and flat farmland as far as the eye can see. But archaeologists are endowed with x-ray vision. Kristborg points out a crevasse in the ground below, grown over with grass. “This is a cave that collapsed very early, where you see this trench. Underneath that heap, there is the entrance to a cave system. In a trench we dug through, we found the remains of a very large, manmade turf structure. There are more caves over there toward the church: most of the hillocks here have been dug into to some extent.” There was not only one cave at Oddi but a labyrinth of underground structures, some connected by tunnels, others with turf walls or foyers added onto them.
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The thirty-third story tells of a bull that escaped certain death at Oddi, a prominent chieftain’s seat in South Iceland. When a cave at the Oddi farmstead collapsed on 12 bulls, crushing 11 of them instantly, it spared the twelfth, although trapped under several metres of rock. After a long day of digging, the bull was freed, walking off completely unharmed. The account is the oldest mention of a manmade cave in Iceland.More than 800 years later, that bull drew archaeologist Kristborg Þórsdóttir to Oddi. She was curious about the story of the so-called “bull cave” and wanted to see if she could find it. What she uncovered was another miracle of sorts: the oldest manmade cave in Iceland that remains fully intact. Oddi Like most Icelandic place names, the word “Oddi” is a straightforward geographical description. It means a spit of land – a point or tip – in this case, the one formed where the Ytri- and Eystri-Rangá rivers meet. We arrive there on a warm, overcast afternoon in late spring: buttercups dot the grass around the red-roofed church, snipes dive in the air above.
Lucky number 12 After the death of Þorlákur Þórhallsson, Bishop of Skálholt, in 1193, stories of miracles that occurred in his diocese were collected as part of efforts to canonise him. The first of three volumes containing such accounts describes 46 occurrences, including a blind sheep gaining sight, a lost ship that was found, and a man saved from drowning, all thanks to Þorlákur’s holiness (and God’s omnipotence).
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While the oldest manmade cave in Iceland is a treasure in itself, its interior has provided Kristborg’s had discovered to the first half of the 10th century, only a few decades after Iceland’s permanent settlement began and nearly 300 years prior to the “bull cave” story. At the mouth of the cave, now fully dug out, Kristborg shows us how ash from volcanic eruptions has deposited streaks running through the soil, leaving a sort of millennial calendar. “This is the settlement layer,” she tells us, pointing to a thin stripe running through the earthen wall along the cave’s entrance. “And a little above, here, that’s the Katla eruption from 920 AD. Then above that, there’s a turf wall that contains ash from these eruptions. So, we can see that these layers of tephra had fallen here before this was built. We used that to date these structures.”
As they proceed with their research, the excavation team is trying to determine the order in which the caves and surrounding structures were built, which raises even more questions that Kristborg finds fascinating. “How did they make these caves? Why is there a turf wall in here? Was it all planned before they started, or did they just decide as they went along: ‘OK, let’s add a cave here’?” Wood, bones, and… cheese?
Cavemen-engineers
The walls of the cave entrance also reveal the markings of the tools used to dig it. “We can see the shovel marks everywhere. We don’t know exactly what tools they used, but they would have had some sort of sharp edge. Shovels or axes, probably, and it would have been easy to dig because the rock is very soft.”Digging the caves may not have taken much brawn, but it certainly took brains. “The people constructing them would have had to know something about the different layers of earth, how to maintain “YOU READ ABOUT PEOPLE HAVING FOUND CAVES BECAUSE THEY WERE RIDING OVER AN AREA AND HEARD THAT THE EARTH UNDERNEATH WAS HOLLOW.”
course as they’re digging, where to connect the caves, at the right height and all that. I find that to be an incredible amount of engineering knowledge for the early 10th century,” Kristborg effuses. Even more remarkably, the regions from which most of Iceland’s settlers came (or through which they passed) don’t appear to have been sources of this knowledge. “There was no cave digging in Scandinavia: they don’t have the right type of rock there. There are some manmade caves in the British Isles, but not at all this kind of construction. So you wonder: is this knowledge that people can just acquire? Were they just more multitalented than people are today? Or is it knowledge that they bring with them from somewhere else?”
“WHEN WE STARTED DIGGING, WE HAD TO CRAWL INTO THE CAVE; NOW, WE DON’T EVEN HAVE TO BEND DOWN.”
Caves at other farmsteads in South Iceland were indeed used at pantries, even into the 20th century. At the farm Ægissíða, near Hella, one such cave pantry was even directly connected to the farm, a true luxury at the time. “We don’t know if that was the case here at Oddi, but we haven’t ruled it out.”
team with even more material to research. “There are a lot of organic remnants: hay, animal bones, and wood. It’s very rare to find those sorts of things in archaeological digs in Iceland, and it’s quite uncommon to find wood from this period that is still intact.” The organic matter was preserved so well because the cave remained closed that entire time; no oxygen could penetrate, and the surrounding soil stayed relatively moist. The temperature also remained a steady 5°C [41°F]. When the remnants are analysed this winter, experts will know more: where the wood came from, the age and health of the animals, and what sort of plants they were fed.
Identifying insect species could give clues as to which kinds of animals were kept in this particular cave in the early 10th century.
Caving in The intact cave is an especially remarkable find because the caves at Oddi usually collapsed, one after another. “There’s something about the sandstone here between the Rangá rivers: it seems there wasn’t enough tephra mixed with the sand when these hills were formed, so this sedimentary rock is not very well cemented. There were many caves here, but not many of them seem to have been preserved.” Manmade
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ARCHAEOLOGIST STEFÁN ÓLAFSSON
What was – and wasn’t – found inside the cave indicates what it was likely used for: “Keeping animals. There is a lot of hay and some animal bones, but we’ve found no manmade objects. There are no indications that people inhabited this space.” But Kristborg says it’s possible other caves in the system had other uses. “What I want to know is if some of the caves closer to the farmstead were used as pantries. Oddi was the home of chieftains in later centuries, and all of the farmers within a large radius had to pay taxes to them, in the form of cheese, among other things. All of that food would have had to be stored somewhere. And caves are, of course, great fridges: they’re dark and cold, and the temperature is very consistent.”
Foundation of power The funding that enabled Kristborg to dig at Oddi came from the LCMI Fund (RÍM in Icelandic), a special initiative intended to strengthen research at sites where Iceland’s medieval literary culture flourished.
While the caves at Oddi were not used for as long as others in the region, Iceland’s cave-making tradition continued into the 20th century. “People had been digging and using caves here throughout that whole period, though probably with breaks. And there is still a lot that we don’t know about this tradition. For example, why some of these caves fell out of use.” At Oddi, the reason could be that they simply weren’t lasting long enough. But what about in other parts of the south? “Was it some sort of natural disaster, or the black death, which is cited as a catalyst for many changes in Iceland?” Kristborg asks. “The population shrinks, the caves close up and are forgotten? There’s a lot that has yet to be researched.”
“WHAT I WANT TO KNOW IS IF SOME OF THE CAVES CLOSER TO THE FARMSTEAD WERE USED AS PANTRIES. CAVES ARE GREAT FRIDGES: THEY’RE DARK AND COLD, AND THE TEMPERATURE IS VERY CONSISTENT.”
ARCHAEOLOGIST KRISTBORG ÞÓRSDÓTTIR
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Oddi’s most famous inhabitant is from this period: Sæmundur fróði Sigfússon, or Sæmundur “the wise.” He was one of the first Icelanders to study in mainland Europe, returning to Oddi around 1057, where he served as its priest and wrote the first history of the Norwegian kings. “We know a lot about Sæmundur fróði and the chieftains who lived here in the 11th century and later. That was the period the LCMI Fund wanted to focus on,” Kristborg says. “But then the remains we found were unexpectedly much older, which is a fascinating discovery – that there was a lot of activity here very early on: a great, big structure to house animals, which means there was extensive animal farming here. That, of course, laid the foundation for the chieftains’ power later on. We knew that people of different classes came to Iceland and appropriated areas of varying caves at other sites, such as Ægissíða, seem to have remained in usable condition over much longer periods. Such caves were often ‘renovated’ over time, making it difficult for archaeologists to determine their original form. “But here we have a structure that was made very early and was used for a short time, so it’s a sort of prototype: we can see how they were constructing these caves early on.”
New knowledge Next to the church, there is a small hill with a lookout. A test drill showed it probably contains a cave just as old as the one they’ve uncovered; from the early 10th century. It would take years to excavate all of the caves surrounding Oddi and a lot more funding. But for Kristborg, the discoveries at Oddi show that even a little funding can go a long way.
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 35 size, but we hadn’t found anything of this scale from this time Otherperiod.”research at the site has also confirmed that there was human activity at Oddi from the very beginning of settlement. “The sources say that the land was first bought and settled early in the 10th century. But now we’ve confirmed there was some sort of human activity at Oddi from the beginning of settlement.”
The dig at Oddi has become a source of unprecedented scientific knowledge, but it is also something more: a very visceral link to Iceland’s settlers, some of the first people who made their home here 1,000 years ago. To be able to enter the same structure that they walked in and out of a millennium later, stand where they stood as they dug into the rock, and still today, see the individual markings left by each strike of their shovels, feels quite miraculous. I’m sure that Bishop Þorlákur would agree.
“When we talk about investing in roads or buildings, we talk in tens or hundreds of millions, but when it comes to funding research, then people start to hesitate, even though we’re talking about only a fraction of that money. And they’re even ready to build on top of these sites without having researched what’s underneath them. This excavation has shown that even with a small injection of funds, really amazing things can happen.”
THE OF DIETER ROTH Imbuing Matter with Spirit
Words by Gunnar Jónsson Photography by Dieter Roth & Golli
JEWELLERY
DieterichDieterDieterditer Karl Dieterich
RothRothRothRotrot
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In 1957, a young, Swiss graphic-designer-turned-artist, Dieter Roth (1930-1998), reached Icelandic shores. Like many men before and since, he was following an Icelandic woman. He had met and fallen in love with her in Denmark a year earlier.
Roth would become a household name in Iceland and a celebrated figure in 20th-century modernist art and beyond, rubbing shoulders with members of the Fluxus movement and showcasing his works in notable galleries around the world. In 1957, however, he was relatively unknown: a young artist trying to make sense of a changing world in the wake of the Second WorldOftenWar.described as an artist’s artist, Dieter Roth proved to be an influential and galvanising figure in Iceland in the postwar years. Along with other like-minded artists, he helped found one of the country’s first art galleries. He was quick to start collaborating with many of the scene’s die-hard modernists, sometimes even managing to outdo them in their modernist ways. A passionate man, he reportedly once caused a minor controversy when asked to do the layout for the magazine Birtingur by refusing to use capital letters and insisting on only using the Helvetica typeface. It proved to be his only layout for the Rothmagazine.wasa polymath, working in many different mediums. His obituary mentions works including poetry, music, sculptures, film, photography, diaries, paintings, and books. Today Roth is perhaps most known for his paintings and biodegradable sculptures, where he used organic materials to create living works of art that evolved as they decomposed. However, a new exhibition at the National Gallery of Iceland, running from early June through January 2023, highlights a lesser-known part of his oeuvre – his jewellery.
THE JEWELLERY When Roth first settled in Iceland, he had already transitioned from graphic design to painting. But fatefully, his wife at the time, painter and art therapist Sigríður Björnsdóttir, had brought home a jewellery-making kit from Denmark. For a while, both worked on their respective creations in their small apartment rented by Sigríður’s parents. Eventually, Sigríður became pregnant with their first child and, as she describes in a video shown at the National Gallery’s exhibition, lost interest in jewellery-making. Dieter, however, never entirely abandoned the craft.
The exhibition collects objects made by Roth over a long period, starting in 1957. Rings take centre stage, but there are also necklaces and other types of artefacts in glass display cases strewn over a large wooden table in the centre of the showroom. The sounds of Roth’s forays into music-making emanate from a speaker in the corner.
The jewellery pieces on the table are notably diverse. Like many artists of his time, Roth would eventually tire of the rigid confines of minimalist modernism and break free into more elaborate modes of expression. The early rings of 1957 are inventive but stark. Bare wire is bent into circular shapes; one set looks like it was made from metal pipes meant for plumbing. In contrast, some of the jewellery from 1971 is striking in its elegance and inventiveness. His collection of hat rings is a postmodern showstopper. Six rings, made from iron, copper, brass, silver, and gold, protrude from a simple green box, their crowns the shape of various hats. It’s pop art so perfectly executed that it feels at once modern, timeless, and inevitable.
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Notable features of Roth’s jewellery are their modular aspect and their recycling and recontextualising of materials.
The encircling walls are lined with sketches made by the artist, explaining the function and build of the many pieces on display. Like everything at the show, the sketches are approached with an artistic flair. Roth uses different-coloured magic markers, the instructions scribbled haphazardly on paper, which, judging by the markings, was borrowed from Hótel Holt in downtown Reykjavík. Despite the haphazardness of these sketches, written instructions meld with crude illustrations of forms to create impressive works of art, sometimes calling to mind the graffiti of Basquiat or perhaps a lost Radiohead album cover.
ANDONMUCHTHERE“HISTORICALLY,HASBEENTOOEMPHASISPLACEDWHICHMATERIALSTHEARTISTUSEDINTHEIRARTNOTNEARLYENOUGHATTENTIONPAIDTOTHE
IDEAS AND FEELING BEHIND
IT.”
Historically, mid-20th century modernism was often preoccupied with repurposing and drawing attention to Self-portrait
“Whether Roth was making music, paintings, or jewellery, his approach was always the same,” Goddur says. “He was always recycling, using materials that weren’t common in the jewellerymaking world, using found objects.”
The exhibition at the National Gallery of Iceland paints a picture of a fiercely creative man. But what was Dieter Roth like in his personal life? By all accounts, Roth could indeed turn anything into art and was endlessly curious. He would devour Icelandic literature and inspire people with his openness, hospitality and charm. But, like so many artists, he was complicated. A perennial nomad, he would cause strain on his family with his wanderlust. He was sensitive and sometimes easily offended. And despite being a teetotaller and a “very correct man” in his early years (as one person describes him), he eventually became a heavy drinker, letting loose as a member of Basel’s infamous art and party scene. Drinking notwithstanding, Roth would hold positions at respected art schools around the world and make an indelible mark on Icelandic artists, an influence still felt today.
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One of the displays houses an elongated box; inside it a ring and multiple acrylic shapes that can be screwed on top of the ring as the user sees fit. In typical Roth fashion, the box is a modified rain gutter. Another ring is fashioned out of old clock parts that can be unlocked and unfolded into a hanging mobile.
Goddur had a helping hand in putting the jewellery exhibition together and knows Dieter Roth’s story and art better than anyone. He’s also a consummate storyteller with a professorial disposition. With minimal prodding, he launches into an almost uninterrupted, forty-minute soliloquy about the magic of Dieter’s art, early modernism in Iceland, and everything in between. He answers all of my questions, often without me having to go through the formality of asking them.
In the early days, Roth would forgo sketches and instead work intuitively, bending wires and shaping metal into his creations. But as the exhibition clearly shows, Roth would change styles regularly and refine his approach, eventually collaborating with his friend and countryman, goldsmith Hans Langenbacher. Roth would mail Langenbacher his diagrams (also on display) showing increasingly elegant designs that Langenbacher would then produce.
TO MODERNISM AND BEYOND Guðmundur Oddur Magnússon, better known as Goddur, is an artist and research professor of Visual Communication at the Iceland University of the Arts. He studied under Roth in the late seventies at The Icelandic College of Art and Crafts (which later merged with IUA) and eventually became a family friend. In fact, when I call Goddur for an interview, he’s staying at the Roth family’s summer house in Snæfellsnes, preparing for an exhibition of his own.
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Guðmundur Oddur Magnússon, better known as Goddur, with Pippa
42 | ICELAND REVIEW materials and processes used. Using forms that already existed but putting them in a new context. Was Roth a typical modernist for his time, “Everyonethen?ispartly a product of their time and the cultural landscape they reside within. No one is as original as they think they are. The great artists have their radar switched on and pick up on the zeitgeist. That was Roth’s great gift. He was so switched on that he effortlessly channelled the ideas of his time,” Goddur enthuses. “Dieter Roth was an almost pedantic modernist up until 1960 when he turned against its minimalist leanings because he felt modernism had become an empty form of fashion. One of Roth’s defining features was that he felt very strongly he had to be true to himself no matter what. He never wanted his art to devolve into superficial manufacturing of objects without any thought or feeling behind them. This was one of the reasons he started gravitating to materials most people would consider junk. In fact, he always referred to his materials as ‘the junk and stuff’ (draslið og dótið ).”
“It doesn’t matter what your particular mode of expression is as long as you’re expressing yourself honestly,” Goddur adds. “If you do so, it really doesn’t matter if you’re making paintings, sculptures, or jewellery. What I find personally interesting about Dieter Roth’s art is that many artists have used similar methods in their work, but it feels lifeless, like some perfunctory set dressing and not art. Some people are just plugged in and create magic, while others do the exact same thing, but it just doesn’t work. Some people, like Roth, have such great taste and make art in a way that just feels so right somehow that they inspire anyone who witnesses it.”
“He had a contrarian streak,” Goddur explains. “He wanted to turn everything on its head. At the Icelandic College of Art, he prefaced his teachings by saying that he wasn’t going to teach
“What is important in art, beyond anything else, is that you can feel the spirit in the matter,” Goddur says gravely, “not just the matter itself. Historically, there has been too much emphasis placed on which materials the artist used in their art and not nearly enough attention paid to the ideas and feeling behind it. One of the reasons many people had such a hard time accepting contemporary art was that they couldn’t accept when artists moved into using materials that weren’t precious. Dieter Roth was vital for his preservation of spirit above all else.”
THE TEACHER As previously mentioned, Goddur was an early student of Roth. So, what was he like?
CULTIVATING SPIRIT Roth would go to extreme lengths in his quest to use unconventional materials. His Portrait of the Artist as Vogelfutterbüste (e. birdseed bust) was a self-portrait sculpted out of chocolate and birdseed. Over time, the chocolate would oxidise and decay, deforming the artist’s visage. His Staple Cheese (A Race) involved multiple suitcases filled with cheese that were opened, displayed, and closed over the course of an exhibition. These works perplexed many as they rendered the possibility of buying them and proudly showcasing them in one’s home impossible. But according to Goddur, this was all part of Roth’s ability to create art that had a sense of vitality.
THE NOMAD Dieter Roth would never stay put in any one location for long. He had multiple workspaces all over Iceland, at Hellnar, Seyðisfjörður, Loðmundarfjörður, and Mosfellssveit. “He equipped them all in the same way,” Goddur explains.
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 43 us anything. He once asked us to make a music recording, with the condition that we would not try to play harmoniously but rather in stark contrast with each other. He also insisted that we practise telling the truth. He felt there was too much lying in the world. He once started us off with a score of ten, and when anyone was caught being untruthful, he’d subtract one point. By the end of the week, we all had a score of zero.”
“He asked to turn the classroom into a bar,” Goddur continues. “The first week of our semester, we just got drunk with him until we were eventually thrown out, and then he relocated the party to his workspace in Mosfellssveit, outside the city. I think he did all these things because he was so adamant about bringing out people’s truth about themselves. Not some grand, overarching truth, but the personal one. He didn’t like people wearing masks, trying to be something they weren’t. If you’d quote someone to him, he’d always shoot back with: ‘But what do you think?’ He was much more interested in that than any culturally prescribed notion we could regurgitate. He continually tried to nourish truthfulness in his students.”
“THE GREAT ARTISTS HAVE THEIR RADAR SWITCHED ON AND PICK UP ON THE ZEITGEIST. THAT WAS ROTH’S GREAT GIFT. HE WAS SO SWITCHED ON THAT HE CHANNELLEDEFFORTLESSLYTHEIDEASOFHISTIME.”
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“The same pots and pans, the same arrangement of the working area. He did this so he could constantly be on the move yet always at home. And never did he buy expensive property; it was always something like a derelict army Nissen hut left over from the war or an old cabin that he would then transform.”
Dieter Roth and Sigríður Björnsdóttir would eventually divorce in 1963. Soon after, Roth would go on to accept teaching positions in America at places like Philadelphia Museum College of Art, Yale School of Architecture and Rhode Island School of Design, never settling in one place for too long. Despite his divorce and growing reputation within the art scenes of Europe and New York, Roth regularly returned to Iceland until his death in 1998, often collaborating with his son, artist Björn Roth.
THE PIONEER
PREFACEDCOLLEGEICELANDICOFART,HEHISTEACHINGSBYSAYINGTHATHEWASN’TGOINGTOTEACHUSANYTHING.”
“He’s such a trailblazer when it comes to recycling in art; nobody can touch him in that regard. He was a true original and instigator. In that way, his work speaks directly to our modern times.”
“He was a true alchemist in the way he could turn what was worthless into gold. Again, matter has no intrinsic worth until you load it with an idea, imbue it with the joy of creation, and then everyone goes ‘Wow!’ because suddenly the spirit within the matter is unmistakable.”“ATTHE
The more stylish, the worse he felt about it. He wanted to dispense with style as much as possible and go for minimalist functionality instead. That is until he felt that was over and, like many others, turned against the conventions of the time.”
In early June of 2022, a week-long sustainable design festival was held in Gufunes called RUSL (e. TRASH), focusing on circular thinking and its application within art, design, and culture. The festival’s exploration of recycling, biodegradability, and repurposing is a pressing modern concern. But as Goddur points out, it also feels like a continuation of work pioneered by people like Dieter Roth.
“Dieter always took the shortcut in his work,” Goddur says. “In the early days, for example, he used to screw coat hangers on the back of his chairs for easy storage of his jackets. He also used to create makeshift shelves above his workspace for instant access to his pens and things. In fact, he approached all his interior decorating and furniture-making in this spirit.
Words by Gréta Sigríður Einarsdóttir
IN THE RANGERS’ REALM
Photography by Golli What does a ranger do, exactly? According to the tan and charmingly scruffy specimen sitting opposite me at a cafe in the city centre, just back from the mountains, the title is self-explanatory. “It’s a job in environment protection. That’s what the Icelandic word for ranger, landvörður, means. We’re protecting the land; we’re its guardians.” Rangers safeguard Iceland’s fragile nature and the people who visit its remote fishing villages, tourist attractions, and mountainous wilderness. While their quotidian duties involve picking up trash, maintaining trails, and having a sharp word or two with travellers who stray off them, a ranger’s work is so much more. They have to be prepared for every eventuality and able to respond to all situations that arise far from the city limits. These are the people who take it upon themselves to ensure Iceland’s virtually untouched nature stays that way.
“I applied to work at Látrabjarg, and here I am, four years later.”
On the way there, Dagur points out notable trails and rivers. An avid angler and hunter, he appreciates the area’s natural beauty – but also its bounty. “The worst insult the locals can imagine is for me to be an environmentalist from Reykjavík who wants to keep this place frozen in time. But I grew up in The Westman Islands, hunting and fishing.”
Dagur Jónsson drives a white pickup emblazoned with the Environment Agency’s logo. It’s probably the least practical colour for a ranger’s vehicle, but at the end of the day, any colour would end up covered in a thick brown layer of dust and mud from the winding roads of the Westfjords. We climb into the pickup to find out what a ranger does in a day.
“I have to stop at Dynjandi first, but afterwards, we can pretty much go where we want,” he says. Born this way Even in summer, the roads in the Westfjords require careful driving. Still, you don’t need a 4x4 to get to the region’s most popular attractions, like the layered steps of the Dynjandi waterfall.
THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED –THE WESTFJORDS
A printer by trade, Dagur noticed that there were fewer and fewer jobs in his profession. He started looking for something else to do and settled on studying systems analysis. “I hated it. Still finished the course, though,” he says as the pickup weaves its way up the hill. He’d always been an outdoorsy type: he spent decades with his local search-and-rescue squad besides hiking, biking, fishing, and hunting every summer. Faced with the prospect of looking for a job in a field he actively disliked, it was a major relief when he ran into an old friend who suggested he become a ranger instead.
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Cliffhanger Not far from Dynjandi, Dagur mentions, there is a ravine filled with fossils and a couple of other waterfalls that all get understandably less attention because of their proximity to the steps of gushing water that make for the perfect photo. (Dynjandi isn’t even really a waterfall, Dagur chimes in. It’s just a stream flowing down a hill.)
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Rangers’ official duties include taking care of facilities, picking up trash at the most visited destinations, and guiding travellers on scheduled hikes. That’s only a fraction of what they do, however: a lot of their time is spent dealing with whatever situations may arise on location, such as making sure people aren’t endangering themselves or the environment. The picturesque Dynjandi waterfall is a favourite for travel photoshoots, and many visitors cross the ropes intended to protect the delicate flora. When a running team in full costume charges off the path, trampling rocks and moss alike on a quest to capture that perfect press photo, Dagur puts a stop to it. “They all say the same thing,” he laments as he returns, the runners looking suitably chastened. “They say: ‘It’s just so beautiful,’ as if that’s a reason to damage it.”
When asked if he has a favourite location in his territory, Dagur thinks for a while. “It’s got to be Látrabjarg.” Growing up in the Westman Islands, he learned to descend bird cliffs to collect eggs at a young age. He does so regularly with his searchand-rescue squad on the Reykjanes peninsula but descending the Látrabjarg cliff is a whole other animal. I ask if we could go there, but Dagur rejects the idea. “Maybe if you had mentioned it yesterday. It’s too far to go there today.” My hopes of a trip to the cliff are dashed. Dagur returns to his duties, plucking cigarette butts from the path along the waterfall. “The nicotine pouches are everywhere.”
Keep off the grass
I wander off for a bit while the photographer documents the waterfall, the din drowning out the “THEY ALL SAY THE SAME THING,” HE LAMENTS AS HE RETURNS, THE RUNNERS LOOKING CHASTENED.SUITABLY“THEY SAY: ‘IT’S JUST SO BEAUTIFUL,’ AS IF THAT’S A REASON TO DAMAGE IT.”
“Everyone wants to see the puffins,” Dagur exclaims as we pass a few of the comical, black-and-white birds, calmly perched on the cliff’s edge, not in the least perturbed by us strolling right by them. “These ones are pretty old,” Dagur notes. I ask him how he knows, and he sighs, “Oh, you can tell by the beak.” He rattles off the names of the various seabirds that make their home on the 400-metre-high cliff facing an extraordinary amount of horizon. Then he halts suddenly, looking up towards land. “Did you hear the fox?” I did not and probably wouldn’t have known if I had. We listen for a while until it starts calling again. “That’s a female fox. You can tell by the way they shriek,” Dagur explains patiently.AtLátrabjarg, one of Dagur’s recurring tasks is talking courage into tourists who’ve managed to drive out to see the cliff but have to be coaxed into driving back up the steep, winding dirt road. A part of a ranger’s duties is keeping the people visiting their territory safe. The Látrabjarg cliff is steep, and the path along the edge has no barriers between visitors and a drop of up to 400 metres. In light of recent news coverage about tourists’ safety in Iceland, I ask about accidents. “There hasn’t been a fatality here since, oh, I don’t know, 2014.”
People, places, things A couple of hours and about 125 kilometres later, the white pickup has become a deep shade of brown. The road is not particularly rocky, but it zigzags up and down the sides of the Westfjords’ steep and flat-topped mountains in the most unusual ways. There is limited lowland between the mountains and the sea, and most of it is taken up by pale, yellow beaches, the impossibly clear water lapping at the rocks that hold up the road. Dagur isn’t a local here, but as he spouts anecdotes about the people inhabiting the farms along the way, he could have fooled me. The anecdotes, and the farms, are fewer and fewer as we approach the cliff. We’re almost there when fog starts to settle in. I exchange worried glances with the photographer, both of us silently hoping we haven’t driven all this way only to have the view obscured. Just before we arrive, the air clears, and the immense magnitude of Látrabjarg spreads before our eyes.
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shrieks of the seabirds that populate every cliff and fjord of the region. A light breeze stirs up the fresh scent of ling. The pink buds have yet to mature into bilberries, so I reach down to pluck a few leaves of mountain sorrel instead. As I savour their tart freshness, Dagur returns, the path now cleared of all foreign objects. We share the view over Arnarfjörður fjord in comfortable silence. “It doesn’t get much better than this,” Dagur finally says. A short moment later, he glances over at me. “So, you really want to see the cliff?”
“IF YOU PUT YOURSELF IN DANGER, IT MEANS THAT OTHERS WILL LIKELY HAVE TO ENDANGER THEMSELVES TO RESCUE YOU.”
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“It’s the only bird they want to see,” Guðrún Úlfarsdóttir tells me. The tourists arriving in Dyrhólaey in droves are a different breed to the adventurers and hikers in the Westfjords. “I think the people coming here are the ones who prefer a little more comfort in their travels,” she says delicately. While Dagur racks up the mileage on his pickup, Guðrún’s territory is limited to the hills of Dyrhólaey and the nearby Skógafoss waterfall. It’s a much-visited area, and the rangers on duty must ensure it’s safe and enjoyable. To the east of Dyrhólaey, a stretch of black beach is cordoned off. “It has the same waves as Reynisfjara, so we make sure no one goes there,” Guðrún tells us. The black beach of Reynisfjara, another popular Instagram spot, has made grim headlines in recent years. While the waves lapping the shore look small, there’s a steep dropoff a few metres out that creates a suction effect that can, and has, claimed lives. There are a plethora of signs at the beach but no rangers. “Reynisfjara isn’t protected. It’s out of our jurisdiction,” Guðrún explains. Rangers can only operate within regions that have been declared nature reserves, and such designations are subject to much bureaucracy and a heavy dose of politics. A jack of all trades While most of her work revolves around talking to visitors and getting them interested in some of the other birds that frequent the rocks, Guðrún has her share of unexpected tasks too. “I spent yesterday lugging building materials into the highlands by helicopter,” she tells me. Today’s travels have her going into town to get oil for the car. A chain fencing off the “EVERYONE WANTS TO SEE THE PUFFINS.”
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THE HOT SPOT – THE SOUTH COAST
It’s a few days later, and we’re leaving the city again, this time for the south coast. There’s a little more traffic here: most travellers who venture out of Reykjavík hit the waterfall-dotted south. We’re meeting our next ranger by the lighthouse on Dyrhólaey. Ey means island, but Dyrhólaey is no longer surrounded by water. A lighthouse towers over the surrounding flatness, a bright contrast to the sandy black beaches. The promontory’s cliffs are a lot lower than Látrabjarg, but they are nevertheless home to a plethora of puffins.
Boundaries
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“THE ISSUE IS THAT PEOPLE DON’T WANT FENCES IN THEIR PICTURES, SO THEY OFTEN TRY TO CLIMB OVER THEM.”
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Guðrún says. “Only problem with the rust is that it’s not very durable.” She keeps her pockets full of zip ties at all times to mend it. How far would you go for the perfect picture? Much of Guðrún’s work revolves around aiding visitors to the area and ensuring they don’t endanger themselves or the region’s birdlife. “During the nesting season in spring, we close off the area at night. It takes a while to make sure no one is up there and divert traffic from here.” Much like Dynjandi or the Látrabjarg cliff, Dyrhólaey is perfect for photography. “We get a lot of bridal shoots here,” Guðrún says. “The issue with that is that they don’t want fences in their pictures, so they often try to climb over them.” On a particularly picturesque spot overlooking the black beach below, however, the fence has been taken down. “We did that on purpose, actually,” Guðrún says. “It’s much safer for people to stand on the edge here than if they try it a little further. The drop here is only two metres or so, not twenty.”
delicate grass on the promontory is an aesthetically pleasing rust colour, blending in with the surroundings as naturally as possible.
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Conditions change over time, making it even more challenging to keep visitors safe. On Dyrhólaey, there is an older path closer to the cliff’s edge. “We’re trying to get the old path grown over,” Guðrún explains. The cliff’s edges are deceptively fragile. It’s only been a few years since a couple died a little further down the beach, the cliff crumbling underneath them as they ventured off the path and one step too close to the edge. Dyrhólaey is a popular destination all year round, and there’s a ranger here even in winter. This is Guðrún’s summer job: she’s studying geography at the University of Iceland. Before she started the course, she was studying computer science. “I liked the coding part,” she tells me. “The people, the culture, and the prospective jobs were less interesting to me.”
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60 | ICELAND REVIEW TWO DAYS LATER, HE TOLD HIS BOSS HE HAD SIGNED UP FOR A COURSE IN ADVENTURE GUIDING, AND HE WAS QUITTING.
GUDMUNDUR BJÖRNSSON
MOUNTAIN MAN – THE HIGHLAND Guðmundur Björnsson just got back from the Central Highland. He works there for two weeks at a time. The internet is patchy, and the phone signal is weak. Guðmundur spends his days mostly with hikers, hut caretakers, search-and-rescue volunteers, and other rangers. He prefers it that way.“I used to work as a chef,” Guðmundur tells me. He remembers the exact moment when he had had enough of fine restaurants and exclusive countryside lodges. “I was working as a chef in a fishing lodge when these guides came in. They were ornery and irritated, complaining about the food, the weather, and everything else they could think of. I thought to myself: You get to spend the day out in nature fishing – something people pay astronomical sums to do – and you have the nerve to complain about the weather?’” Two days later, he told his boss he had signed up for a course in adventure guiding and he was quitting. After finishing his studies, Guðmundur realised he wasn’t cut out for working as a guide either. (“Telling the same stories over and over again, repeating the same jokes.”) Finding work as a ranger was a fortuitous coincidence. That was four years ago, and so far, Guðmundur hasn’t looked back. Protect and serve Fjallabak is a 42,000-hectare territory with mountain roads, hiking trails, biking paths, and geothermal areas. Most notably, it’s where you set off for Iceland’s most popular hiking trail, Laugavegur. Protecting nature might be in his job title, but much of his time is spent protecting people from the weather and themselves. “Ninety to ninety-five per cent of the work revolves around information. Gathering information and disseminating it to visitors. We follow the weather forecast, monitor the state of the roads and trails in our territory, and evaluate the danger involved in fording rivers each particular day.”
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Information is what many prospective hikers lack. “I’ve often had to turn people back. People who didn’t have the right equipment. In these conditions, cotton kills. If I see a person about to set off for the Laugavegur hiking trail in sweatpants and sneakers, I start hearing warning bells immediately. In Iceland’s mountains, the only dangerous predator is the weather.” Unprepared travellers are not just a danger to themselves, as Guðmundur explains. “If you put yourself in danger, it means that others will likely have to endanger themselves to rescue you.” Doing the work In the nature reserve, there are no farmers or local inhabitants. It’s just Guðmundur, another ranger or two on shift, the mountain hut caretakers, the people who run the last-stop grocery store, and the search-and-rescue volunteers stationed there for a week at a time. These are the handful of people tasked with keeping visitors safe. “We’re a tight-knit group. We have to be; we have no one else to rely on.”
“IN ICELAND’S MOUNTAINS, THE ONLY DANGEROUS PREDATOR IS THE WEATHER.”
There is a lot to do and not a lot of people to do it. “We have to hike the trails, mark them, maintain the paths. We hike five kilometres one way just to put up a ‘closed’ sign so other people don’t go there. We need to get that information, that little sign, out into the snow or the patch of ground where it serves its purpose. It’s physical work, but I love it. Each day might start with a list of tasks, but things always come up. Sometimes you work full speed all day without getting to anything on your list,” Guðmundur says. Much of the work is shaped by the remoteness and the dearth of people. “You often need to improvise with the resources you have on hand. You might find yourself several kilometres from your supplies in desperate need of a hammer. In those situations, you just have to find a rock that does the job.” Mostly, it’s important to be available, know the area, and ensure everyone is safe. “Sometimes it’s just a matter of stepping out into the water and reaching out your hand to someone too scared to ford a river, just to show them that it isn’t dangerous.”
It feels counter-intuitive, but despite the remoteness and isolation, the largest part of the work is communication. It can be frustrating to deal with people who cross the line. “Rangers tend to care deeply for the territory they’re tasked with guarding. We’re working full time all day to protect the environment. When people misbehave in ways that can damage nature, it can be mentally draining. Especially when you’re repeating the same warnings over and over, just with a different weather forecast.”
Guðmundur appreciates the places he’s gotten to experience during his time as a ranger. “It’s a perk of my job, the closeness to the natural beauty, and experiencing it for yourself. I’m not working as a ranger for the money. I enjoy being there. We live in a magnificent country filled with incomparable natural wonders, completely different to anywhere else on the planet. Fjallabak has wondrous geothermal activity and the largest rhyolite formations in the country, which give it amazing colours. And that’s just one spot; there are so many others, I don’t even know where to begin – Fjaðrárgljúfur, Ásbyrgi, Mývatn – they’re all unique.”
“SOMETIMES IT’S YOUR JOB TO STEP OUT INTO THE WATER AND REACH OUT YOUR HAND TO SOMEONE TOO SCARED TO FORD A RIVER, JUST TO SHOW THEM THAT IT ISN’T DANGEROUS.”
66 | ICELAND REVIEW For the love of the land
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www.icelandiclamb.is THE NATURAL CHOICE ICELANDIC LAMB
“There was no way of avoiding the fact that there wouldn’t even be a tiny place onboard for me anywhere. But I was not born a sailor for nothing. Now the sea blood started to boil in my veins, and I vowed to get on whatever boat I could, and forcibly too, if necessary.” Despite the country’s millennium of history, Iceland had only gained independence from Denmark two years earlier, on June 17, 1944. The established colonial bureaucracy that formed the fledgling Icelandic state was mired in red tape; permission to travel had to be applied for and approved, and any form of currency exchange was an onerous process. In the absence of international jet planes, the mode of travel for those leaving Iceland at that time was restricted to multi-day bare-boned passage on cargo or fishing vessels that rode the notoriously rough high seas of the North Atlantic. To make matters worse for Anna, after inquiring at all the shipping offices in Reykjavík, she could find no passage abroad: all available passenger ships were filled to capacity.
Already suffering from nausea in anticipation of a long voyage at sea, a middle-aged, red-headed Icelandic country woman with a modest suitcase nervously climbed a narrow gangplank in Reykjavik harbour to board the Brúarfoss, an Icelandic passenger and cargo ship. It was a bright, calm evening in mid-July 1946 and Anna – a weaver by trade and farmer and fisher by birth –was embarking on her first ship journey, which would take her around the island of Iceland in 10 days, stopping in all the major ports along the way. It would be a rare opportunity to visit remote parts of the country, meet the locals, and see for herself what the wondrous island of fire and ice had to offer.
Fortunately, Anna resorted to seeking inside help and support from a female acquaintance known to hold influence within the powerful Reykjavík Fishing Company, which owned and controlled most of the international seafood business and the ships that carried their exports. Sure enough, for a modest fee, she was granted passage on the fishing boat Ingólfur, which would set sail later the same day. Once on board and with the ship leaving the harbour, Anna stowed her suitcase in the simple cabin shared with five other passengers and took a stroll on the smelly, unkept deck.
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It was at once a moment of liberation and realisation that she could indeed travel great distances safely by herself, despite the admonition of authorities and acquaintances alike, who justifiably thought unaccompanied women simply did not travel. In the mid20th century, for that matter, even men did not often travel for pleasure, but the trip that Anna took was an adventure of which women of her standing did not even dream.
WORDS BY FRANK WALTER SANDS PHOTOGRAPHY BY VIGFÚS SIGURGEIRSSON, JÓN KALDAL & GOLLI
GLOBETROTTER
The year following Anna’s intrepid voyage around her motherland, she set her sights on leaving Iceland for the first time. In order to earn the funds for such a voyage, she wove cloth for demanding customers and worked long hours in fish processing factories. A trip to Denmark was Anna’s goal, but shortly after the Second World War, tourism was practically non-existent in warravaged Europe. “The moment arrived at last when the Brúarfoss was set free and glided with great splendour out of the harbour. I felt as if my soul had been released from its shackles, and the nausea that had so recently troubled me gently left my chest like a veil of mist disappearing in a light summer breeze.”
The story of Anna from Moldnúpur farm
A precocious and endlessly curious child, Anna spent much of her free time reading books and asking copious questions of everyone she encountered.
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Born in 1901, Sigríður Anna Jónsdóttir spent most of her early life occupied with traditional farm chores, such as herding cows and gathering hay on Moldnúpur farm, under the pristine Eyja mountains in South Iceland.
“It didn’t please me that the deck should be entirely covered with fish guts, so I asked the boys to wash it. But they put on the faces of wise men and said that if they did such a thing, we would not be granted favourable weather on the voyage. I took it as a scheme hatched by tired mariners in order to spare themselves needless exertion, since it was naturally the sea’s job to come and wash the deck, in its own time.”
“From there, I have all the best memories. It was said that the finest people in Iceland live under the Eyjafjöll mountains because the sun shines nowhere brighter, and the poor never lacked for food there.”
At the time, it was common for Icelandic children of Anna’s standing to learn to read and write from their parents before they received any schooling. Though she read every book she could get her hands on, Anna’s formal education lasted only four years, consisting of eight weeks of tutoring annually in the winters of 1911-1915, administered by a travelling teacher at a local school. Eager for knowledge and passionate about the greater world, Anna was autodidactic and quick to learn foreign languages, gaining a good command of English and Danish, which she knew would be vital to her future travel plans.
There, she rented a small, unheated room at Sjafnargata 10 and took various classes at the Learned School, the famous wooden building known today as Menntaskólinn í Reykjavík (Reykavík
Today, the handful of farms under Eyjafjöll remain one of the country’s most productive agricultural areas and are blessed with mild winters, accessible hot springs, and numerous waterfalls already harnessed by 1928 to provide hydro-electric power to the locality. Among her ancestors, Anna was especially proud of Reverend Jón Steingrímsson, the charismatic clergyman who, during a devastating volcanic eruption of 1784, seemingly stemmed the flow of encroaching lava that threatened to destroy his church in the village of Kirkjubæjarklaustur in southeast Iceland. It may thus be no coincidence that as an adult, Anna was especially devout and rarely missed mass, regardless of where she found herself in the world.
The eldest of three siblings, Anna lost her mother in childhood and mostly grew up with her father, who she says gave her a cultural upbringing and, somewhat atypically for a traditional farmer and fisherman, never tried to curb her desire for adventure. As a teenager, she regularly went line fishing off the south coast of Iceland, rowing in an open boat with the rest of the crew and hauling large codfish onboard. The pay was surprisingly good, and Anna was delighted with the 24 Danish kroner (a modest sum by today’s standards) that she earned on her first tour. She also established herself as a skilled craftswoman and weaver; she crocheted a lot of bespoke projects, and many churches in Iceland feature altar cloths by her hand. “During my teenage years, I did a lot of weaving for people in the countryside. I took a five-week course in weaving with Mrs. Sigrún Blöndal, and her teaching has greatly benefited me.”
Despite the world travel that awaited her, it wasn't until 1929 that Anna would finally leave her home region for the first time to attend a year at the private school of Laugarvatn. To finance her studies, she took a 400-króna loan, a considerable sum in those days, which she got her father and brother to guarantee. She admired many of her teachers, and her studies went so well that Anna yearned to continue her learning, dreaming of eventually becoming a teacher or even a priest because she was ardently religious. The following summer, Anna moved to Reykjavík.
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In the following years, Anna had numerous literary disputes with other prominent Icelanders about politics and culture, always appearing as a representative of the people, something not often seen elsewhere in Icelandic media of the period. She was convinced that her voice and opinions were right, at least as much as those of the “high lords.” But she also wrote extensively on issues touching her hometown, such as the plight of farmers following the Hekla eruption in 1947, and losses suffered by her community when their library caught fire. By the time she was approaching 50, the longing for adventure had captured Anna’s mind entirely. Her first trip abroad, in 1947, was followed by others in 1948, 1950, 1958, and 1959. She travelled widely around Denmark, England, France, and Italy. As late as 1964, Anna travelled across the United States. She was very interested in the culture of the countries to which she travelled and visited churches, museums, and monuments with great diligence. Wherever she went, Anna made an effort to get to know and occasionally befriend the locals. She maintained decades-long written correspondence with many of these foreign friends.While saving diligently for her trips, Anna had to live frugally to make them happen. She would save on food by skipping meals entirely, much to the chagrin of her niece, who once travelled with her to Rome.
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 73 College), as well as working independently, particularly with weaving. The worldwide Depression had hit Iceland hard; inflation and shortages made life a struggle for almost everyone. Her room was so cold that she spent most of her free time reading in the National Library. When Anna could not earn enough from her weaving, she washed and ironed other people’s clothes, which stole time from her studies. Following her ambition, she applied for formal acceptance to the highly competitive Learned School but was refused and never went on to further her formal education. Nevertheless, Anna avidly pursued self-study throughout her life through reading, language learning, and travelling.Anna’s first published writings were newspaper articles. She burst onto the scene in late 1942 with a series of scathing articles about how once-prized church buildings around the country were left to fall apart. Her strong opinions eventually led to a literary dispute with historian Sverrir Kristjánsson. He suspected that Anna from Moldnúpur was just a nom de plume and that her writings were too sophisticated to originate from a simple country woman, the irony of which Anna enjoyed immensely. She responded by inviting the famous historian to visit her modest residence in Reykjavík if he truly wanted to confirm her identity.
With an open mind, an excellent memory, and the sharp eyes of a visitor, Anna from Moldnúpur surveyed the nations across the sea and recorded what she saw with humour and empathy. Although she is perhaps not one of the most well-known writers in Iceland, she wrote full-length books about all her trips. Her travel stories are long and extensive, with detailed descriptions of what she saw and how she managed to get by in difficult situations. Despite being self-published, her books were read widely in Iceland and managed to get the nation’s attention, which in itself was a significant accomplishment. Perhaps Anna’s humble background was the very thing that helped her connect to a broader base of readers, who could see the world through her eyes and maybe even start believing they could one day see it through their own.
Anna prioritised museum entrance fees over coffee. She would have a light breakfast and eat bread and cheese for dinner.
While we travelled together, I was just 14, and I was constantly starving!”
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“If God wants a person to live, then he knows that that person must be provided for.”
In spite of her shoestring travelling budget, Anna managed to be welcomed as a guest of the King’s residence in Copenhagen and travelled extensively in England and France, making friends and forging bonds with people most everywhere she went. In Paris, taking in the “lightness that lies in the air,” she would spend her time wandering the groves of the Boulogne forests or the banks of the Seine, “where the joys and the sorrows of the city of Paris live together in fateful cohabitation.” She saw the Pope at the Vatican and wrote extensively about Rome, marvelling at the Eternal City’s art treasures and splendid cathedrals. In Denmark, she visited most of the better-known churches and relished classical paintings in fine art museums. Coming across the sublime “Christ in the Kingdom of the Dead” by Joakim Skovgaard, Anna wrote: “This painting had such a profound effect on me that I stood there completely like a fool and could do nothing but stare at this magnificent masterpiece, which was at the same time a moving sermon, in which the terrifying power of death and the devil must give way and submit to the overwhelming force of the divine love and dignity of Jesus Christ.”
Given the many obstacles she faced, the genuine possibility of failure loomed over all her trips, but optimism and diligence always got her through. She travelled according to her grandmother’s motto.
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Photography by Skapti Hallgrímsson & Golli BUT COLLECTIVE MINDSET MAY BE HOLDING IT BACK.
ICELAND’S TRANSPORTATION SECTOR IS GOING ELECTRIC,
Words by KT Browne
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ELECTRIC MOTION
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Electric vehicles (EVs) are on the rise in Iceland. In 2021 alone, 58% of all cars sold were EVs; today, more than 13% of the country’s total number of passenger vehicles are at least partly electric. Around the globe, the benefits of electric vehicles are being embraced as both environmentally and financially preferable for consumers and companies alike. In many places, the electrification of all things car-related has even taken on a cult-like lure.
This private car culture, while practical, is proving to be a significant hindrance to Icelanders fully adopting electric vehicles. Perceptions of convenience have likely turned what might otherwise seem like a straightforward path toward EV use into a journey of twists and turns that not everyone is willing to make. Driving without a trace Orka náttúrunnar (ON) is a company that produces and sells electricity and hot water to Iceland’s capital region. The company’s highly recognisable, bright orange electric charging points at petrol stations around the country are impossible to miss. ON’s mission is to protect Iceland’s natural resources and uphold the principles of sustainability, green innovation, and responsible energy use with the goal of lowering the country’s collective carbon footprint.
Iceland is notoriously private car-focused; this mindset is part of its culture. It dictates the ebb and flow of communities, and it’s critical to upholding functioning daily lives against the backdrop of harsh, often violent weather conditions. Bolstering this culture is a limited public transportation system and the reality that 80% of the country’s residents live within the Capital Region, where everything a person may need is within an hour’s drive.
Iceland’s switch to clean energy has gone far beyond the electric vehicle movement, with two-thirds of its energy production already clean thanks to vast geothermal resources that power most of the nation’s homes. As Iceland continues to strive toward its 2040 climate goal of carbon neutrality, the country is now turning its focus toward the transportation sector and transitioning its private and public markets to electric vehicles. However, change of this magnitude is more complicated than simply selling more electric vehicles.
ON is one of the leading organisations helping Iceland move toward its goal of becoming a world leader in clean energy use. Currently, the company is working to provide better service to electric car owners – a challenge that’s only been solved in part. “We put a great deal of effort into broadening our network of electric vehicle charging stations around the country,” says Guðrún Einarsdóttir, Director of Consumer Markets at ON. “We want to enable our clients to become more environmentally responsible by encouraging “The question is no longer if you’ll get an electric car, but when.”
Guðrún DirectorEinarsdóttir,ofConsumer Markets at ON.
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 79 Meet some of Iceland’s finest designers Ep al Skeifan 6 / Ep al De si gn Kringlan / Ep al I cel andic De sig n Laugavegi 70 www. epal.is
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ON’s story began in 2014 when it developed its first EV infrastructure. There were fewer than 100 electric cars in Iceland at the time. The EV boom has since given ON more than enough demand to work with, and today, the company has more than 200 charging points around the country. It even launched an app to streamline service information for consumers, which has been especially helpful for those unable to charge their EVs at home. “ON is constantly working to make it easier to participate in the clean energy exchange,” Guðrún says. “In general, the public in Iceland feels positive toward electric vehicles and will try to use domestically produced clean energy as much as possible.” Electric vehicle infrastructure is quickly advancing: batteries are improving daily, and cars with ranges surpassing 500 kilometres [310 miles] are now on the market. Guðrún is hopeful these trends will also help Icelanders feel more comfortable taking the leap to buy an electric car. Still, she acknowledges that many have a lingering fear of driving an electric car, especially among those who have used conventional vehicles most of their lives. Ironically, this fear has earned its own Icelandic word, which roughly translates to “range“Electricanxiety.”cars require different consumer behaviours, of course,” Guðrún explains. “You need to plan trips differently, consider charging station locations, and so on. It’s not going to be like pumping gas into a petrol car. Travel may take you longer, but it’s also not going to be significantly more complicated. ON does our best to help people adapt to the new lifestyle that goes hand-in-hand with electric car ownership because the question is no longer if you’ll get an electric car, but when.”
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 81 them to use cleaner energy, and also by consistently increasing our infrastructure.”
We’ve got to get the message out to the public that driving electric cars in Iceland is our brand of travel.”
Sigurður Orkusetur’sFriðleifsson,managing director.
Trading immediacy for sustainability Orkusetur is an organisation established by the National Energy Authority in collaboration with Iceland’s Ministry of Industry and Trade. Partly funded by the European Union, its mission is to increase energy efficiency and clean energy use across Iceland’s transportation sector. Sigurður Friðleifsson, Orkusetur’s managing director, is at the forefront of this effort; he’s championed increased efficiency of electricity use across the nation – without any change in service – while providing a better outcome for all.
“Everyone knows that you ride a gondola in Venice or a camel in Egypt.
In a similar spirit, Iceland’s major city bus operator and transport company, Strætó, is on its own mission to shift outworn mindsets. “Consumer marketing is critical to changing minds,” says Sigríður Harðardóttir, the company’s Director of Human Resources and Quality. “That’s where we have a big responsibility – not only to provide customers with environmentally friendly transportation options but also “That’s where we have a big responsibility – not only to provide customers with environmentally friendly transportation options but also to inform and educate them on the benefits of using public transportation.”
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“We want to market the electric car as having similar, if not identical, service to the conventional petrol or diesel car,” he admits. “We have a concrete plan for doing this, but we also know that we’re up against a very traditional culture that’s hard-pressed on driving conventional cars. That’s not a good thing, it’s not sustainable, but it’s what we have to work with.”This culture is probably better described as a mindset or even an on-brand response to the expectation of immediacy that permeates our modern lives. “People want to be able to go anywhere around Iceland, anytime, and on short notice. Petrol cars can serve that need, and people know it,” Sigurður explains.Mindset aside, Iceland can easily be considered an ideal place to own an electric car due to the Capital Region’s population density and the country’s clean energy grid. Every electric vehicle station offers 100% renewable energy, for example, and the average consumer will not require a huge range to meet their day-to-day needs. “The problem isn’t necessarily practical; it’s that people want to buy electric cars without any limitations,” Sigurður says.
“Everyone knows that you ride a gondola in Venice or a camel in Egypt. We’ve got to get the message out to the public that driving electric cars in Iceland is our brand of travel.”
Luckily, that’s why marketing exists. The responsibility to change the collective mindset around electric vehicles lies partly in the hands of adjacent organisations, like ON and Orkusetur. “We need to convince those among us who are set in their ways that change can actually increase quality of life, that their lifestyle can adapt with ease, and that change is doable. That’s always the hardest part, though,” Sigurður says. “It’s tough to teach people how to adapt to a reality they’ve never experienced before. It becomes about changing an entire What’sculture.”nextfor Orkusetur? Beyond changing mindsets, that is. “The Icelandic tourism industry,” Sigurður says. “People visiting Iceland essentially expect to rent a conventional car. The problem is, rental car companies are buying anywhere from 40 to 50 per cent of all imported cars, and most run on fossil fuels.” Fortunately, Sigurður has an idea for tackling this problem – and he’s not the only one.
Sigríður Harðardóttir, the company’s Director of Human Resources and Quality.
Changing minds move forward Time is hardly a luxury the world can afford in the context of climate change. As Iceland’s electric vehicles begin to outnumber conventional ones, it will become increasingly difficult to justify the cost of purchasing cars that run on fossil fuels, or riding buses that aren’t electric. Still, what may seem like an easy decision will always be somewhat complicated by the grip of long-term lifestyle choices.
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 83 to inform and educate them on the benefits of using public transportation.”Strætóisplaying a significant role in leading Iceland’s public transportation sector toward carbon neutrality. The company has been operating electric buses since 2018, currently runs 15 around Reykjavík, and recently purchased nine new ones as part of a strategic expansion of its fleet. These efforts give Strætó notable influence over Iceland’s clean transportation movement. “Because of Iceland’s small population, consumer mimicry is more likely to work in our favour,” Sigríður explains. “Once larger groups of people become more aware of electric buses and the environmental issues around transportation, we’ll probably see a chain reaction across the country that quickens our progress,” SigríðurThoughexplains.larger organisations certainly hold sway over consumer behaviour, whether change actually occurs is ultimately dependent on individual actions. “I do think that everyone will eventually need to choose whether or not to use electric transportation,” Sigríður admits. “People will need to decide if they want to become aware of how climate change affects countries beyond Iceland, and not just in our own backyards.”
“I often try comparing the switch from a conventional car to an electric one like moving from an old flip phone to a smartphone,” Sigurður explains. “Sure, you could go days without needing to charge a flip phone, but you also couldn’t do much with it. What this is really about is redefining what convenience means. Changing minds. I think we can do that.”
Surely every decision in life comes at the cost of an alternative outcome. In a perfect world, the decision-making process would prioritise evaluating what each outcome may look like over the work that precedes it. But our world isn’t perfect, and someone in the market for a new car may truly struggle to justify the lasting benefits of going electric when a heftier price tag hangs before them. For now, clean energy is about playing the long game along the path toward carbon neutrality. And as for the public’s willingness to keep up with it all – it’s safe to say they’re moving.
Words by Gréta Sigríður Einarsdóttir Photography by Golli “Let’s try to keep the interview as short as possible.” A stressed-out looking man has set a tight timeframe for this interview and hurriedly gestures to Tryggvi Snær Hlinason to have a seat. He’s not a particularly short man, but in this crowd, we all look tiny. Iceland’s national basketball team has just finished warming up for a match that might bring them one step closer to playing in the FIBA Basketball World Cup next year. The room is filled with remarkably long arms and legs shuffling about. Perched on top of perhaps the longest legs and torso on the team is Tryggvi’s calm, good-natured smile. He’s currently on a short break in Iceland from his current position in Zaragoza. He’s relieved to skip the heat.
BALLPLAYING
HOW TO BECOME A PRO BASKETBALL PLAYER Tryggvi’s demeanour is patient and friendly, but when asked to tell the story of his origins as a basketball player, you can tell he’s been asked many times before. He’s nice enough to repeat it anyway – and it’s a good story. “I didn’t start playing until I started secondary school. I was sixteen and came to Akureyri straight off the farm. I had been there for half a semester and had gotten pretty bored with not doing much physical activity. I was used to being active on the farm, where there’s always a job to do.” Tryggvi thought he’d find a sport to play and wasn’t sure whether football, handball, or basketball would be the best fit for him. He’d never trained in any of them before. “I ended up trying basketball first, it was the one I was most excited about.”
Born: 1997 Height: 216 cm (7’1’’) Weight: 118 kg (260 lb) Playing position: Centre Team: Casademont Zaragoza & Icelands national men’s basketball team
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On his way to his first practice, he got lost and had to call the coach, who came and picked him up at a gas station. A few weeks in, he met the coach for the under-18 national team. “Shortly after that, I joined the team. Then I played for the under-20 team before moving on to play on the national men’s basketball team. So it happened pretty quickly.”Tryggvi started playing with the local club Þór in 2014 only a few weeks after picking up a basketball for the first time. “It quickly went from being something to do to keep in shape – to the most important thing in my life. I was travelling every weekend for matches and school started taking a backseat. But especially after I was chosen for the U18 and U20 teams, there was only one way forward. Going pro, or playing college ball. I ended up signing with Valencia, which was pretty insane.”
TAKING THE HEAT “I’d take -5°C over the 35°C we’ve had recently any day of the week,” Tryggvi says, shuddering at the thought of the Spanish heat. “It went up to 42°C a few days after I left.”
Despite having lived in Spain for a few years now, Tryggvi still seems like he’d be much more at home in a mountainringed valley in North Iceland than in the Mediterranean heat. There’s a stoic kind of solidness to him, the same you might get from a farmer that can’t be too bothered about politics and such like, when he’s got much more important things to worry about, such as if it’s going to rain during haymaking season. That’s where his roots lie. His family farm is at such an altitude that even though haymaking season starts in early June in South Iceland, it doesn’t arrive in Bárðardalur until late July. It’s an hour’s drive to the nearest grocery store and the local “metropolis,” Akureyri, where the kids go when it’s time to get their education, has a population of about 20,000 people.
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His Cinderella story of a farm boy turned pro baller has gotten him some attention as well. “I’ve told my story a few times. It’s especially interesting to see it written about by someone I haven’t actually talked to, they tend to embellish a little. I saw an Italian article on me once that made my dad into a villain who forbade me from playing basketball. I’ve been asked some strange questions about Iceland as well. Like if we have electricity. But if you don’t know, you don’t know. And I don’t know everything about every far away country, so maybe that’s understandable.”
He tells the story matter-of-factly, and it seems like in most things, he keeps his head level. “I never had a plan, I was just playing basketball and trying to get better at it. The larger steps forward I took, the more fun it was.” One of his favourite things about playing at this level is the people he’s met along the way. “That is one of the most enjoyable things about this life, you meet interesting people from all over the world. It’s so interesting to learn more about everyone and everything. I must be pretty annoying; I ask so many questions. But I love meeting people, and I’ve made some great friends.”
Tryggvi accredits Iceland’s strong league to a large roster of nurturing coaches bringing up the young players. Playing professional ball for some years now, Tryggvi is getting more familiar with the players in Europe, facing some of the best players out there. “I’m pretty bad at keeping heroes. Bojan Dubljević who plays for Valencia is pretty cool. Such a talent and a nice guy who I respect greatly. I’m always a fan of Hlynur Bæringsson as well. I love how he played, and it’s still fun to watch him fighting
STAYING FOCUSED
LATE TO THE GAME
Despite his late start, Tryggvi’s game now rivals his peers and then some. To begin with, however, there were some things he struggled to catch up on. “To this day, I worry that I can’t catch up to players who got into the sport at five years old. But I’ve spent many hours and years working on it, and I think I’m getting there. Both in terms of technique and also knowing what’s going on in the scene. When I was starting out, I didn’t have any idea about any of that.”
Tryggvi’s success doesn’t go to his head, but with each step of his journey, he found an appreciation for how far he’d come. “I remember showing up for my first national team practice and being shocked at how much better ball these guys were playing. Then after that, playing for Valencia for the first time, I had an even bigger shock. It took me a while to catch up to these pros, some of the best players in Europe, but I think I’m playing at their level now.”
On days when the team is not travelling, Tryggvi has about 4-6 hours of training. A recently-qualified electrician when he left for Spain, he now spends his free time studying business at the University of Akureyri long-distance. His girlfriend of five years, Sunneva Dögg Friðriksdóttir, spends time with him when she can. Sunneva is an athlete herself, a swimmer who’s competed internationally and is now studying nursing at the University of Akureyri. “She has to be in Iceland for her practical courses. I try not to get too bored when she’s away.” IN FEBRUARY OF THIS YEAR, TRYGGVI WAS THE KEY PLAYER IN ICELAND’S NATIONAL TEAM’S MATCH AGAINST ITALY, WITH 34 POINTS, 21 REBOUNDS, AND FIVE BLOCKS, AN UNPRECEDENTED EFFICIENCY RATING OF 50 THAT BROKE THE EUROPEAN QUALIFIERS’ PREVIOUS RECORD OF 37 AND BROUGHT ICELAND ONE STEP CLOSER TO THE FIBA BASKETBALL WORLD CUP.
88 | ICELAND REVIEW on the court. Fun to watch. But I don’t see players as stars. I’m just doing my thing, trying to be better than those guys.” Tryggvi isn’t the excitable type, but his appreciation seems sincere as he talks about coming home for a while. “It’s always an honour to play with the national team. I love these guys, and it’s always fun to see them.” It also gives him a little bit of a break. “It’s important to take breaks. Charge the batteries as my mother would say.”
HONEST WORK Life in the countryside tends to revolve around the work you’re doing, and the measure of a man comes down to his productivity. While Tryggvi may be far from the farm, playing ball in the heat in Spain, he still has a deep appreciation for a good, honest day’s work. “Back in secondary school, when I was trying to get everything done before I left for Valencia, I was doing my courses at double speed and sports on top of that, morning practices and everything. My week was so densely packed that I had half an hour on Fridays where I got to do something else. Sit down and play a video game or watch some videos or something.” While Tryggvi sounds calm while describing it, he admits: “It was a little crazy. Then I got to Valencia and all of a sudden, I had all this extra time. I just sat down and thought: what do I do now? And by now I’ve become pretty good at doing nothing. As silly as that sounds. It was a little bit of a shock to leave an Icelandic farm to do this.”
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When asked about his popularity in Spain and his career, he puts it down to his physique. “I stand out in a crowd in Spain. People notice me, especially people who love basketball. And especially when we’re winning. I’ve been in Zaragoza for three years, so people recognise me around there. It’s usually fun, they want to get a picture or just have a quick chat.” When asked how he keeps his calm, he has a characteristically stoic answer. “I guess it’s the way of life on the farm: you don’t take things too seriously. I tend to think that if I can’t change it, there’s no reason to get stressed out aboutLaterit.” that day, Iceland’s national team wins their match. In the stands, 22 members of Tryggvi’s family who have made the journey from North Iceland to watch him play scream themselves hoarse. “My grandmother has often said that if someone had told her 10 years ago that she’d be an avid basketball fan, she would have laughed,” Tryggvi smiles. “I’ve introduced a great deal of my folks to basketball. They’re invested now, they love it.” It only makes sense to ask him if he wants to get back to the farm at some point. “I’m not sure my girlfriend will let me. My farm is an hour away from Akureyri. That’s too far to drive for work. We’ve made a deal to live somewhere in the countryside close to Akureyri. We’ll see. But that’s far enough in the future that I don’t have to worry about it just yet.” Our time is up.
As Tryggvi starts talking about his goals and dreams, successes and losses, he starts to paint a clearer picture of his imperturbable outlook on life. “I have some dreams, for sure. But I take it one match at a time, one season at a time. My current goal is to join the EuroLeague. That may be two years away or more, I don’t know. But that’s my goal. And I think I’m at a good place right now. We’ll see how it goes this year.” Not even the mention of playing in the NBA gets him going. “They’re they tend to have shorter players now, less of the tall guys. They’re playing less of my style of basketball over there. I’m not too fussed about it, but if I ever got the call, I’d go for it.” Tryggvi is taking things one step at a time, always trying to get a little bit better, and working on the things within his reach. “The Euroleague is my goal right now. After that, you never know. I’ll just see what happens.” When talking about life on the farm, his family, his girlfriend, and his journey toward becoming a better basketball player, he gets a little glint in his eye and a certain warmth in his voice. When the talk turns to the politics of the business, his eyes glaze over. “They always have some drama, some struggle going on. Especially when there’s money involved, there will always be politics and fights. It’s all part and parcel.”
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FEET ON THE GROUND
the eyes of the locals. VÍKLAKEF
seen
WORDS BY RAGNAR TÓMAS HALLGRÍMSSON PHOTOGRAPHY BY GOLLI Pt. Keflavík, as through
3 Food, Food, Food In this three-part series, Iceland Review explores the history and culture of
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Langbest serves pizza, hamburgers, and chicken wings – and it’s owned and operated by Ingólfur Karlsson, a jovial, bearded fellow, who sits us down in a corner booth and lets us in on his secret.
The building, which also houses a hair salon, was constructed in 1957 and consecrated by famed army cheerleader Bob Hope. It was initially christened “The Viking Mall,” a shopping and community centre that later came to house a rotation of fast-food restaurants: Wendy’s, Subway, All American Food. Since Langbest opened in 2008, the kitchen’s remained almost unchanged. Every now and then, a former soldier drops in.
Ingólfur recalls opening his doors one morning, and an elderly gentleman and his wife walking in. The two of them sat awhile at a table in the back. Ingólfur walked over and clarified that if they’d like to order, they could come on over to the cash register.“Iknow all about that,” the man replied.
“We’reConsistency.ataboutthe third generation of people eating here,” he says. “It’s become a kind of tradition. People grew up here, and they come back here for something familiar. You could say that it’s seeped into their subconscious.”
Langbest
As I dig into a bowl of chicken wings, jab my fork at the salad – Langbest’s most popular dish, it turns out – and nibble at some pizza, I understand the appeal. Not to mention all the history. Near the entrance, there’s a wall of photos from the time of the naval station.
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The noon traffic is picking up inside Langbest, a fast-food restaurant in the Ásbrú neighbourhood of Keflavík, which has been a fixture of the local food scene since 1986.
The man’s name was Thomas F. Hall, and he was the former Commander of Fleet Air Keflavik and the Iceland Defence Force, he explained: the one who had spent the first five-dollar bill at the original Wendy’s – the same five-dollar bill that had been pinned to the kitchen wall in remembrance of the act. When the naval station closed in 2006, Thomas Hall had returned as part of a special closing committee. After all of the military’s equipment had been packed up and readied, he had sat on the aeroplane and awaited its take-off –“We’re at about the third generation of people eating here.”
“I like Issi’s Fish and Chips. His fish is good. Fresh. Consistent.” Issi Fish and Chips Jóhann Issi Hallgrímsson has an impeccable beard with a moustache that curls up on each side toward his rather striking eyes. He’s serving fish and chips from his food truck in Fitjar (which is, technically, outside this article’s purview, given that it’s not in Keflavík).Issigrew up in nearby Grindavík and operates Issi Fish and Chips with his wife Hjördís. The two dated briefly during grade school before splitting
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 95 when he remembered that five-dollar bill. He sent a soldier back to the base to retrieve it. It was the last thing they Ingólfurtook.began working at the naval base mess hall at the age of 15 and stayed there for 12 years (he worked five years for the navy and seven for the air force). When the army left, he got laid off, but by that time, he had been operating Langbest in downtown Keflavík for almost a decade. Not long after losing his job at the base, he was called into a meeting with Kadeco and invited to open a second Langbest in this building. Ingólfur agreed. He spent almost ISK 60 million [$436,000] on renovations, and when Langbest opened its doors in Ásbrú in 2008, the banking collapse was in the offing. He operated two Langbest restaurants between 2008 and 2014 but closed the one in town during that latter year. Langbest in Icelandic is a compound word made up of lang, meaning, roughly, “way” (as in “way better”) and best, meaning, well… Asked about the origins of the name, Ingólfur recalls that it derives from an argument between the original owner of the place, Axel Jónsson, and his brother, a waiter. His brother wanted to give the restaurant an Italian name, but Axel, the chef, disagreed. During their argument, they continually said, “No, it’s way better to…” And so the third brother, overhearing the argument, interrupted: “Why don’t you just name it Langbest?”
“If you have to eat at other places in town,” I ask, “where do you go?”
“If you paste the name into Google Translate you get Second to None – which is a great name for the restaurant,” Ingólfur observes.
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Like for most people in the business, COVID was a setback – but the volcanic eruption in 2021 provided an opportunity. As soon as he heard the lava was flowing, Issi revved up his food truck and headed off toward the volcano. He parked his truck at the trailhead, knowing that the people would come. Despite spending a month there, and, in his own words, making a good buck – he never bothered to visit the eruption itself. He was too busy frying Althoughfish.he has no direct connection to the naval base, he agrees that it had a big impact on the fast-food culture in Keflavík. When he lived in Grindavík, he used to compete against the Americans in basketball. It wasn’t so much the sport that was thrilling, but the oversized pizzas that they used to serve at Wendy’s. “Not to mention the Dr. Issi’sPepper.”grandfather, Jón Kristjánsson, was the first Icelander to open a fish and chips joint in Iceland (as far as he knows). It was in Akureyri, North Iceland, and was called Matarkjallarinn (the Food Cellar). It burned down in 1942. The family has since joked that the old man had gone out to drink with British soldiers and forgotten to turn off the frying pan. Issi attributes the popularity of his food truck to the freshness of his ingredients. He gets all of his fish fresh from the ship Þorbjörn in Grindavík. He says he’s meticulous about cleanliness: regularly replacing the oil and keeping the sieves clear. He laments the rising prices of ingredients and says that some fish and chips vendors in the UK have closed their doors, as opposed to raising prices.Asked where he eats in Keflavík, he says that he’s a regular at Pulsuvagninn.
up. They found each other again 20 years later, got married, had kids, and founded the company Tralli (named for his grandparents’ dog) in 2016.
“None of this would be possible without her,” Issi says, with a glint in his eye. He’d actually founded the business while working another job. As the two roles grew more difficult to juggle, Issi was called into a meeting with his former superiors. They began to reprimand him until Issi interrupted: “I’m gonna have to stop you; I have to give notice.” The meeting ended on amicable terms, and Issi’s been his own boss ever since.
As soon as he heard the lava was flowing, Issi revved up his food truck and headed off towardvolcano.the
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 97 HotelMarina ICELANDIC RESTAURANT & BAR Table Reservations: +354 517 1800 - forrettabarinn.is Tasty local cuisine by the old harbour Nýlendugata 14, 101 Reykjavik
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 99 Pulsuvagninn Pulsuvagninn is, undoubtedly, the most famous fast-food joint in Keflavík. It’s operated by Vilberg Skúlason – called Villi – who was born in 1957 in Blönduós, North Iceland and raised in the south, in Selfoss. A trained meat processor, Villi came to Keflavík after being persuaded to come work at the now-defunct Víkurbær, the first supermarket in town, by its Pulsuvagninnowner.first opened its doors in 1977. It was originally owned by “a few local boys,” Villi explains, one of whom had spent time in Denmark – from where he borrowed the famous hamburger recipe (it’s marinated in a special oil and served with red cabbage). In its heyday, Pulsuvagninn was a little shack on wheels that solely offered a hot dog with everything and soft drinks from a soda fountain.Villiand his wife took over the hot dog truck in 1980, and the hot dogs and original Danish hamburger have remained unchanged. Along with his wife, Villi operates Pulsuvagninn with Inga Hilda Gústafsdóttir, whom he met in 1978. When Villi bought Pulsuvagninn, Inga was working at a school cafeteria, but Villi persuaded her to come work for him. She now owns a share of the truck.
“She’s absolutely indispensable,” Villi says, with Inga standing next to him, in the staff quarters in the back of Pulsuvagninn. Inga explains that, these days, staffing is the toughest part of the business.
“We’ve been forced to recruit younger and younger employees. All the way down to the 10th grade,” Inga says. “We used to employ housewives, but now they’re all working at the schools. People seem to be a lot better off – they can afford to work less. I understand it, of course, but the trend’s been problematic for us, nonetheless,” Villi observes, adding that some of the younger generation haven’t “learned to Pulsuvagninnwork.”(The Hot Dog Cart) is spelled with a u instead of the more widely-accepted y (Pylsuvagninn), which sometimes inspires criticism from language-sensitive customers. Villi thisbeenthemerevenue!unbelievablefor“Pulsuvagninn,example,MakeswonderwhathellI’vedoingalltime.”
The first time I saw the Grammy-nominated band Kaleo was at the Night of Lights festival at Thai Keflavík. JJ Júlíusson, the band’s frontman, belted out Vor í Vaglaskógi at least twice that evening, on account of popular demand, before the song had actually been released.
Thai Keflavík
JJ and Magnús Heimisson, the owner and manager of Thai Keflavík, are “cousins” (JJ’s stepfather and Magnús’ father are brothers).
According to Magnús, Keflavík residents spend something like 30% more than capital area residents on fast food. Hoping to open a food hall in Ásbrú, Magnús has recently been delving into the books of restaurants in the area – and some of the numbers, he says, have been quite astonishing.
“Shit, man. We were in our death throes. But it was good, ultimately, because people wanted to support local restaurants. Last summer was the biggest summer since we opened 16 years ago. Even without the tourists.” Magnús also mentions that the eruption helped, as well as quarantining tourists ordering delivery.
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“Mostly Icelanders. Thai people cook at home –they know how to make Thai food.”
recalls someone once stopping by and finding fault with the spelling, before replying in English – when asked what size of fries he wanted – that he wanted “medium.”
As far as the food hall in Ásbrú is concerned, Magnús is excited. He’d like to preserve some association with the naval station.
“Not that I’m going to open an army-themed food hall, but to keep some elements that pay homage to the history. Some of the locals would like to forget all about the naval station era. But the younger generation should take pride in their history. Besides, the tourists love hearing about it.”
Digging into some Pad Thai, which is fantastic (the wife and I sometimes make special trips to Keflavík on account of it), I ask Magnús about the nature of his “Icelanders?clientele.Foreigners? Thai people?”
“What was COVID like for you?”
Mohamad has worked here every day since they opened their doors three years ago, from 9:00 AM to 1:00 AM, without a single day off.
“Pulsuvagninn, for example, unbelievable revenue! Makes me wonder what the hell I’ve been doing all this time.”
“It’s okay. It’s a little bit boring. For any kind of diversion, you need to go to Reykjavík.” “Do you go often?” “Not really. Not to mention how expensive gas hasAsbecome.”Itaste the lamb Souvlaki, which is rather good (I’m so full at this point that food has lost all meaning), the family appears a little worried that our interview will cut into time with customers.
“Sit in the sun. Either that or close the restaurant for a week and rent a summer cabin.
I ask Memo what his father’s going to do when he finally takes a day off.
Oriento Oriento is a family business situated in downtown Keflavík that opened its doors in August of 2019. The family, comprised of parents Mohamad Chikh and Natalia Bujorean, and their two children, Mahmoud Chikh (called Memo) and Nahla Chikh, moved here in 2017. They lived in Innri Njarðvík before relocating to Ásbrú and then settling in Keflavík.Mohamad is Syrian and Natalia is Moldovan. They met in Greece, where they lived for seven years leading up to the economic crisis in 2008. They moved back to Syria until war broke out and they fled to Iceland. Memo, their son, sits with his parents at a table in the back of the restaurant and translates. His sister’s off today.
“It’s the second of the month, so we’re quite busy,” Memo says. “Yesterday was crazy. They just kept coming. No breaks.”
I learn that Memo’s father has worked here every day since they opened their doors three years ago, from 9:00 AM to 1:00 AM, without a single day off.
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“What do you think of Keflavík?”
“I think the only day he took off was Christmas Day last year – because no one else was open,” Memo“Andobserves.howlong is he going to keep this up?” I ask. Memo turns to his father. “He doesn’t know. We’re trying to find staff, but it’s been difficult. Most people want to work off the books (svart, or black, in Icelandic), but we can’t do that.” He says that some people collect unemployment benefits and then work off the books to supplement their income.
Keflavík residents spend something like 30% more than capital area residents on fast food.
The conversation turns to more troubling aspects of their business. Oriento’s been robbed twice since the family opened its doors. They have photos of burglars’ faces, but the police haven’t done“Theyanything.can’t catch them – or they don’t want to,” Memo says. “I don’t understand it. The last burglar took money from the cash register, and we knew the person who robbed us before that.”
But he worries that if he closes people will become upset.”“Ithink most people will understand if he takes a few days off,” I reply.
Memo explains that they found the culprit on Facebook – a familiar face to the police. He was a friend of a former employee, who had probably known that his father was saving up money, which he kept at Oriento, to open a restaurant in Reykjavík.Memoregularly visits Langbest. It’s the only fast-food place that he really likes. “The food is just good. It’s got a lot of variety. It’s not expensive.”
Anton’s Mamma Mia Anton Narváez was born in Chile. He studied boat building in Denmark before moving to Iceland in 1967. He opened his first restaurant, El Sombrero, in downtown Reykjavík in 1984. Four years later, he constructed Argentina Steakhouse – one of Iceland’s most famous steakhouses – from scratch. Over the next 35 years, Anton would open eight more restaurants. In 2019, he had planned on opening his eleventh and final restaurant, Mamma Mia, at Garðarshólmi (constructed in 1909) in Keflavík. But while renovating the house, he died suddenly from a heartPriorattack.tostarting the project, he had approached Eyrún Anna Gestsdóttir, called Eyja –whom he had met in Kaffi Duus some years earlier – if she’d manage the restaurant. Upon his death, Anton’s son pulled out of the project, and the building stood empty for three months. Sitting across from me at Anton’s Mamma Mia, at a table next to the window – it’s probably the
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smallest restaurant in Keflavík, a total of eight tables, or 28 seats – Eyja recalls how her mother’s death in 2016 altered her perspective on life.
Moved by this epiphany, Eyja approached Anton’s family and received the green light to open the restaurant on her own.
“Nope. I’ll be here. Focusing on this place.” Nauseous from the day’s gluttony, I dig into a 9-inch Combs pizza (with garlic, bell peppers, onions, lobster, shrimp, Camembert, and arugula) and enjoy it. As far as that’s possible.
“Anton had wanted to call the restaurant Mamma Mia, but I got permission from his children to call it Anton’s Mamma Mia, to honour his memory,” Eyja remarks.
“Has owning a restaurant been what you expected?”“Darling, no, sometimes I want to go in the back and shoot myself!” Eyja goes on to explain, with a kind of salt-of-the-earth bluntness that’s thoroughly charming, that opening a restaurant in the middle of a global pandemic was a challenge, although she wouldn’t have changed a thing.
“Life is so short, in the end, and you should do what you want to do. If you fail, you fail – but at least no one can accuse you of not having tried.”
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MICHAŁ
Anton’s Mamma Mia specialises in pizza. I ask her if the recipes originated with Anton. “No, the menu is mine. My baker Sigter helped me with the recipes. When it came to naming the pizzas, I cracked open a beer and improvised.”
Eyja was born in 1976 and raised in Reykjanesbær. Her mother’s father was an American soldier from Oklahoma. “Did he and your grandmother have a long relationship?”“Therewas no relationship. I never met my grandfather. Nor did my mother – but she bears his name:“AnyCombs.”plansof going to Oklahoma, tracking down your family?”
“When you remove one layer, you reveal something new, but it’s still the same onion. Take the mountain Hekla: there are many Heklas. Am I going to experience it the way I saw it last year or ten years ago? Is nature an endless Groundhog Day?” Repeated visits to the same places have forced him to try to see things differently and find new perspectives.
It bothers Brynjar Ágústsson when he drives between Iceland’s natural wonders with a group of photographers and sees them all take the same picture. “It’s so easy to come here and shoot; so many beautiful places all around you. Iceland actually makes it difficult for me to teach my approach to photography because people want to jump on this obvious beauty. But when there’s bad weather, that’s when I have fun, because then you can force people’s minds to see different things.”Brynjar dives into various pursuits, but he eventually gets bored of them and switches things up. He has studied nutrition, worked as a salesman, taught skydiving, and been a search and rescue volunteer – and he’s always taken photos alongside whatever he’s doing. While his foundation is traditional (he ran a photography studio in Reykjavík alongside other photographers), he got tired of it. “You were just doing portrait photography and shooting city life. I quickly found that I just wanted to be out in nature.” Eight years ago, he started guiding: travelling around the country with a group of photographers. “I’m not teaching people classic postcard photography, I’m totally over that whole thing. I’m teaching them to see differently. How to see, how to observe.”Hislife and photography took a U-turn when he went to South America and became familiar with Ayahuasca shamanism, which he has been practising over the last few years. “It changed my life completely. It’s definitely not for everyone, but it was the path for me,” he says, describing the mind-altering methods he discovered in Peru, which opened up a new perspective on life and his environment. Now he sees nature as a many-layered thing: his surroundings are like an onion that he can peel apart.
“It happens to all artists. The conditions change, and you shift from how to do something to why you do it. At some point, most artists stop making things for others and instead find the creative force inside themselves and create from there. That’s when I started to see completely new things in the places I’d visited many times before.”Brynjar says that he used to be very true to the colour palette found in Icelandic nature in his editing, but that’s not the case any longer. “I take a picture, and I see that it’s raw material for something more. It transforms until it’s barely a photograph anymore. Even though it’s always fundamentally nature, it becomes abstract art.” His goal is to trick the mind. “The mind always tries to understand what it sees, but when I create pictures with no size reference points, they become abstract works, patterns and negative space that the eyes and mind experience but can’t necessarily define. Is it a macro photograph or is it taken from an aeroplane?”He’sphotographed a lot from the air, mostly flying with “Volcano Pilot:” Haraldur Diego, who died in a plane accident while on a photography excursion last winter. After his death, Brynjar bought a drone. “Iceland from the air is just texture and pattern,” he says. He also discovered a much bigger world when he started doing macro photography.Brynjarsays he’s not particular about the time of day, time of year, or even the position of the sun when he shoots because he can always find a subject, no matter the conditions. “I don’t care at all, I can always see something. In the harsh noon light, which many photographers hate, I start looking for subjects in the shadows.” He gives an example from a group that he was guiding during the winter in Southeast Iceland, right by Jökulsárlón glacier lagoon. “We had gone to all of the best locations when crazy weather hit and we got stuck at the hotel. That’s when I took the group out into the storm, and we photographed snowdrifts, old houses, snow-covered windows, and all kinds of things around us. At the end of the trip, it wasn’t Jökulsárlón or ice caves that stuck out for them, rather that adventure in the storm.”
In the future, Brynjar plans to stop guiding and exclusively sell his photographs in galleries – there are already a few in the US that sell his work, mostly black and white pictures. “For the first three years after my psychedelic awakening, I was only photographing in black and white.” Brynjar says Ayahuasca has helped him see things in a totally different way. “When I see a picture, I just see energy. My photographs are really all self-portraits. What we see out there is really a reflection of ourselves. I want you to surrender and be drawn into the picture when you look at it. In the end, you see yourself.”
Photography by Brynjar Ágústsson Portrait by Golli
HOWWords by Kjartan Þorbjörnsson
TO UNVEIL A MOUNTAIN
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At ten, Stella closed out the register, clocked out, and waved goodbye to the guy in the café who was closing. Stella couldn’t remember his name – the kids who revolved through the bookstore café were just different faces in the same apron. She lit a cigarette outside and smoked as she walked to the bar. Wrinkled her nose as she looked at it. She was always on the verge of quitting. Thought about it every night as she was going to sleep: Now, I’ll quit. But she always forgot in the morning. Or rather, she remembered how great it was to start the day with a smoke. A hankering isn’t hunger, her mom would have said, just a symptom of withdrawal. Your body isn’t hungering for tobacco itself, it just wants to rid itself of symptoms of withdrawal. Stella swept the words “symptoms of withdrawal” under a rug in the furthest corner of her mind. When she walked into the bar, she saw Hanna sitting with a beer in front of her. She took a sip, swallowed a scant few drops. It was maddening, how slow she drank. Hanna caught sight of her and nodded. Stella bought herself a beer at the bar, went over, and sat down.
“Fine, not much to do.”
“Oh, you know how it is,” said Stella. And Hanna really did know. She’d worked at the bookstore with Stella when she was still in drama school, back before she’d started acting“Actually,full-time.there was this limp-dicked dumpling who came in. He collects Tintin DVDs.”
by b rynja Hjálmsdóttir
THE COLLECTOR
“D’you, uh… know if you’re going to get any more in? Later?”“Other titles, you mean?”
“Alright, well, I’m afraid those are the only Tintins we have.”The nerd nodded and they went back to the register.
i llustrated by Ásdís Hanna Guðnadóttir
“Okay, I’ll get in touch with the distributor and find out if I can get more. Then you can just give us a call or stop by next week to see if we’ve gotten a top-up.” He paid for the movie and left. Stella looked at the clock. Half an hour til closing. She opened her phone and sent Hanna a message, asked if they were still on for a beer. The response came immediately: heading out in 15
“Just tourists shopping for stamps, or…?”
t ranslated by l arissa Kyzer
“Yeah, I know. I’ve got those,” said the man, scratching his nose and snuffling loudly. It seemed to be a nervous tic; he didn’t have any snot to sniff.
“How was work?” asked Hanna.
“We’ve got Destination Moon and Prisoners of the Sun –that’s the sequel to the one you picked up.”
“Yeah… yeah, that’d be great. I’ve started collecting them.”Stella thought she could read just the faintest hint of pride in his expression, as if he were a man on an important mission. Pride – that was the first emotion he’d shown. Otherwise, he’d been entirely impassive during their short conversation. His voice monotone. Hadn’t looked up since he came in. It actually looked like he had a little hump on his back, no doubt the result of a lifetime of self-imposed ignominy. The ignoble nerd. For a man like this, there’s no greater feat than talking to a woman, Stella thought. She gave him a good-natured smile, as if she were smiling at a child, telling him what a good job he’d done.
“I’d“Yeah.”have to order them. I could call the distributor tomorrow and see what he has.”
“D’you have any more Tintin movies?” asked the man, setting a copy of The Seven Crystal Balls on the bookstore counter.“Let me check,” answered Stella, walking over to the children’s section. The man trailed behind her. He was heavy-set, some might say overweight. Laden with fat, that’s how Stella would put it. She guessed he was around 35, but there was really no telling. A nerd’s age is a shrouded mystery, she thought to herself. Somehow, they always look 30, whether they’re 22 or 52. She skimmed the shelves.
“She’s such a prude,” said Stella.
“Naturally, the old dear shouldn’t have to endure the sight of them,” said Hanna with feigned pity. “Naturally,” said Stella, looking down into her glass, which was well on its way to being empty. “But don’t you still find them a bit nasty? Those magazines.”
“Yeah, so, otherwise, it was a pretty quiet shift. Had to shelve a magazine delivery. Hopefully, I did it right so Sólborg won’t kill me.”
Hanna furrowed her brow and ran a hand through her hair. Put on her most actorly expression, which it seemed to
120 | ICELAND REVIEW disabilities is anything new.” “No, for sure.” They both took a sip. Stella was already half-done with hers, but Hanna still had a full glass. Maybe she just held the beer in her mouth and then spit in back into the glass.
“I’d bet money that she’ll say you fucked something up,” said Hanna with an edge of spite in her voice. Hanna and Sólborg didn’t get along when Hanna worked at the bookstore. Unsurprising, given that Sólborg was a squareish, hundred-year-old dinosaur, while Hanna didn’t fit in any box. Everything had to be by the book for Sólborg. If she couldn’t do a task herself, she always found something wrong, something off, something amiss, something that was not as it should be and had always been“Ack,. God damn it! I forgot,” said Stella, putting her face in her“I“What?”hands.forgotto put the porn mags in the pockets.”
To be fair, Stella didn’t think this was such an odd request. You didn’t have to be some hardcore puritan to be put off by those covers. Covers that were often adorned with images of bare-assed women whose expressions were meant to convey how desperately stupid and desperately horny they were. Nipples and pussies hidden by stars and hearts, a token effort. Honestly, Stella liked not having to look at them. It wasn’t the nudity that bothered her. Naked bodies graced the covers of fashion magazines and photography books, and it was no big deal. It was the expression. That expression on the cover models’ faces that said there is nothing I want more than for someone to do something disgusting to me.
“Ooph, damn,” said Hanna. “Have fun in the shitter.” Hanna was referring to the time Sólborg “accidentally” threw her lunch in the trash after she’d misaddressed some Spice – those Sólborg demanded be placed in frosted plastic pockets that obscured the front covers so that only the marshmallow-pink titles peeked over the top.
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“Yeah, it sort of surprised me that she had it in her. To yell at a supervisor. She’s all right angles, but fucking hell,” said Stella, drawing a box in the air with her finger.
“People’re“True.” just into what they’re into.”
“No,” said Stella and laughed, took a swig of her beer, and coughed. “Or yeah, sure – whatever. I’m up for anything. Totally.”
Stella she was doing more and more often, this infuriating expression that was meant to convey that she was a serious person and an old soul.
“Okay, so the industry is for sure a bit gross. Or it can be,” said Hanna, settling even deeper into her expression. “But as a phenomenon, there’s nothing wrong with porn. It’s just fantasy – theatre, you know?”
“I don’t know. He probably lets it go in one ear and out the other before he even hangs up and then goes back to jerking off over his sales figures.” Hanna burbled with laughter. “Yeah, but then that’s the big question, isn’t it? Do the magazines sell at all?”
“I don’t remember ever selling a single one of them when I was working there. You can get the exact same shit on the internet for free and you get to forego making direct eye contact with some buttoned-up salesperson.”
“I’m just thankful, you know, that we’ve normalised conversations about this kind of stuff. So, like, I like it when guys cum on my face and I’m into wearing a rubber buttplug when I’m getting fucked, you know? And that’s just, like, normal now – it’s something you can talk about, I think it’s great that you can say it and do it without anyone looking at you like you’re some kind of freak.”
“Not even a little.”
“And what does he say? Sigurjón.”
“Yeah, it’s time to start tallying points. What’s the score,“Two-one,one-one?”Ihad one at home.”
*
“I’m“Maybe.”notsaying it’s all peaches and cream. There’re always going to be people who cross the line. And porn isn’t 100% fantastic 100% of the time. But maybe it can be sometimes… I just mean it’s not always black and white, you know? What is disgusting and what is a new form of sexual liberation.”Itwasobvious from Stella’s expression that she wasn’t sure where Hanna was going with this. Hanna continued.
“Yeah, obviously,” said Stella. “But…don’t you think people are taking things further now? Doing other stuff. Because of porn, you know?”
“Oh, for sure.” “Do you like getting cummed on in the face?”
Hanna thought for a moment. “I don’t know, it’s kind of a chicken-or-the-egg scenario. Maybe it’s that people are just finally daring to do the stuff they’ve always wanted to do, but didn’t, because it was taboo or something.”
“I’m not taking anything too seriously.” “No, I know.” “I’m not like Sólborg. Obviously, she takes it so seriously. She like, calls up Sigurjón in the purchasing department every month and complains about us still buying those magazines. Whisper-screams into the phone: I didn’t start working in a bookstore so I could become some sort of glorified smut peddler! ”
“Ha! Good for her.” Hanna lifted her glass to toast their nemesis, who she clearly respected in spite of it all.
“Alright, then. Get me two then, I’ll catch up.”
“True. You need another?” Hanna pointed at the empty glass in front of Stella.
She ran herself a bath and lit a scented candle. She tried to do breathing exercises in the bath – her lungs ached from all those cigarettes, her voice weak after all that yapping. In the end, she gave up on the exercises, stood up, and soaked the floor as she searched for the lavender aromatherapy oil that she finally found and sprinkled in the water before sitting back down. Lavender heals all, didn’t she read that somewhere?Thebath water cooled and the aromatherapy oil didn’t cure shit. The phone rang. It said Mom on the screen. She let it go to voicemail. Scrolled through meaningless garbage on her phone and felt a knot tightening in her stomach. Who did she talk to yesterday? Hanna. Some friend of Hanna’s? The brother of some friend of Hanna’s? Motherfucker. What would happen if she dropped her phone in the tub? Would she be electrocuted? She’d probably need a toaster for that.*
Stella had to pee when she woke up. She looked at the clock. 1:30. She thanked the universe that she didn’t have to be at work until later. She stumbled to the bathroom, peed a lot and puked a little. It had been a long night. It was that game, the beer tally. She had to quit that. They always played that game, she and Hanna, downed one beer after another and kept score. But the whole thing was basically pointless because Hanna drank so slowly, especially as the night went on, which meant that Stella always won, no matter what. How many points did she get yesterday? She couldn’t remember, but she was sure she’d won. She always won.
“Almost no one buys them. Hobos try to steal them more often than anyone actually buys one. We had a theory that the only real demand was among fishermen. There’s next to no internet out at sea.”
“Like I said, it’s just theatre. I don’t think you should take it too seriously.”
Stella was only ten minutes late and smelled of lavender, but it was still like there was still a whiff of beer emanating from her. Maybe that’s just what my blood smells like, she thought, wondering how many thousandths of a gallon were still flowing slowly but stubbornly through her veins. When she punched her number into the time clock, she
124 | ICELAND REVIEW
Brynja Hjálmsdóttir (b. 1992) is a writer and poet. She has received several awards and nominations for her work, most notably the 2022 Jón úr Vör Poetry Prize for her poem Þegar dagar aldrei dagar aldrei (When it never dawns it never dawns). Brynja has published three books and contributed to literary collections and magazines in Iceland and abroad. Her first book, Okfruman (The Zygote) (2019), was nominated for the Fjöruverðlaunin prize for female, trans, and non-binary writers and the Rauða hrafnsfjöðrin award, in addition to being selected as poetry book of the year in the Icelandic Book Sale Awards, voted on by book store staff. Her second poetry book, Kona lítur við ( A Woman Drops By ) (2021), was nominated for the Maístjarnan Poetry Prize. Her latest work is the play Ókyrrð (Turbulence) (2022). sawBio Sólborg in the coatroom. her shift was over, she was putting on that awful coat of hers. Stella had been hoping she’d miss her.
“Did you receive the shipment of American periodicals yesterday? The Danish and German ones came today, and I put them out per usual, but I saw that the American ones came in Stella,theverydid,them?”shelveDidyesterday?you“Yeah,II…”“Youknowwellaboutpockets,I’vesaid this numerous times.”
“Hello, Solla! Sorry I’m late, I was taking a bath and lost track of time. Are you on your way out?” “Good afternoon,” answered Sólborg curtly. Stella gave her friendliest smile.
“I just forgot, OK!” Her voice broke a little and Stella immediately regretted shouting. Sólborg was a lovely old woman, even if she did have an enormous stick up her ass. Sólborg seemed to come to her senses, too. “It’s alright, dear,” she said, almost maternally. “It’s just of the utmost importance to me that we stay on top of this. As long as Sigurjón… as long as we’re still receiving them, we’ll do as we’re told and sell them. But we must ensure that they don’t interfere with our regular business.” Stella put on her work slippers and waited for Sólborg to disappear up the stairs before heading up herself. She said hello to Magnea, who was sitting at the
“How long is it going to take me to impress this upon you, Stella? No one wants to see that up there! Not me, not the rest of the staff. Families come in here with small children and we must… it is our obligation to ensure people feel comfortable in the store!”
“Yeah, man, I know, I just let things slide a little yesterday.”
Her phone peeped and Stella opened the message. It was Hanna. rematch? Someone cleared their throat and Stella looked up. She put on an apologetic smile. “Can I help you?” The man handed her a magazine. He’d turned the cover face down, as if to hide it, as if it didn’t say 1-800-CALL-ATEEN-WHORE on the back. Are you collecting these, too?” asked Stella.
126 | ICELAND REVIEW Photography by Golli
Never, no never did nature say one thing and wisdom another. - Edmund Burke
ISSUE 04 – 2022 | 127
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