Reykjavík Grapevine - 27.06.2003, Síða 5

I N T R O D U C T I O N F R O M T H E E D I T O R S
- the reykjavík grapevine -4 june 27th - july 10th, 2003 - the reykjavík grapevine - 5june 27th - july 10th, 2003
The Grapevine concert listings are essential to liven up a quiet day.
ONLY SWEDES
AND HORSES
In Iceland, the people are big and
the horses are small. Sometimes, it
feels as if someone is mocking us.
We were just getting the paper into
print when an acquaintance called and
told me he had a party to go to, so
hence could not see to the Swedes in
his care who were due to go horseback
riding that afternoon. He was calling
to ask if I could take over. I had little
experience in handling either horses
or Swedes, so I wondered if he had
the right number. He was working for
Nordjobb, the internordic employment
for young people program. I had been
on it twice. In the first instance, they
had gotten me a job in a vodka factory
in the tiny town of Rajamaki, Finland,
where everyone worked in the factory
on weekdays and played pool and beat
each other up on weekends. The second
time, they had me cleaning cabins on the
booze cruise ships between Stockholm
and Helsinki, where you had one break
of 15 minutes per day. But I had gotten
laid once thanks to the program, so I felt
like I owed them a favour.
I went home, got out my rubber boots
and woolly jumper, fixed myself a Bloody
Mary (for the nerves, you see), and
headed downtown to herd the Swedes
together. Everyone in place on the bus,
we drove off towards Laxnes. Swedes
being a literate as well as a literal minded
people, they asked me if this was where
the author Halldór Laxness (Nobel Prize
winner, as locals rarely tire of pointing
out) came from. This was indeed the
case. He had grown up there as Halldór
Guðjónsson, and later changed his name
to Laxness after the place (adding an s
for good measure). After he had come
to prominence, the owner of Laxnes, the
father of the current occupant, gave him
a piece of land to build a house on, which
he duly did.
Today, Laxnes, that part which was
not given to the poet, is a horse rental.
We got off the bus and were led to the
horses, which looked just like horses do
on TV, only smaller. Crash helmets were
handed out, and Swedes were asked
whether they had any experience with
horses. They hadn’t, and so were given
the more subdued creatures. This left
me, the local, with a vicious looking ani-
mal name Bófi, meaning crook. He had
gotten his name due to a propensity for
stealing cookies from the kitchen. The
saddle was put in place, and I mounted
the beast. This did not lift me any great
distance from the ground.
Our horse guide showed us how
matters worked. Apparently, you hold
the reins and pull in whichever direction
you want to go, backwards if you want
to stop. If you want to go faster, you
simply kick the thing. “Hott hott” said
the man, horsespeak for onwards. And
onwards the horses went. I held on for
dear life, even if the creature was still
only in second gear. Icelandic horses, I
was told, have 5 gears, unlike the more
common 3 gear horses that are known
in most other places. I also learnt that,
in order to keep it that way, horses that
leave Iceland can never return. Perhaps
this is so that they won’t learn foreign
habits and start bringing them back.
One wonders whether the same system
should be adopted for British drivers.
As the horse gathered pace, I started
shaking uncontrollably. The sensation of
sitting on a horse is somewhat akin to
traversing the countryside on the back
of a giant vibrator. It certainly didn’t
seem to be doing my testicles any fa-
vours. I reflected that this was how my
forefathers crisscrossed the island from
one end to another. Perhaps the effect
on your nuts is why Iceland was always
sparsely populated.
When we didn’t seem to be going any
faster, I slowly let go of Bófi´s neck, and
held the reins firmly. This wasn’t, in fact,
too bad. I began to feel like John Wayne
(even though his horses were consider-
ably bigger) and waxed philosophical
about life in the saddle. Riding a horse is
just like dealing with a woman, you have
to hold the reins tightly or else they...well,
they stop to eat grass when you don’t
want them too. Bófi had come to a full
stop, and seemed more interested in the
local vegetation than keeping up with
the Swedes. I didn’t want to start our
relationship on the wrong foot by kicking
him, so I sat still hoping that once he had
filled his belly, he would turn his attention
to wherever it is we were going. The
Swedes, who had for some reason as-
sumed I was an expert horseman, didn’t
seem too impressed. I hoped Bófi was
realising we were becoming something
of a social embarrassment to Swedes
and horses alike. He did not seem to
mind, so I had no choice but to give him
a good kick. This seemed to change his
attitude towards things instantly, and he
now decided to run to the front of the
group. “Slow down, cowboy,” said our
handler, and scolded me for making all
the other horses excited by my showing
off.
We came to our resting place, where
Bófi could finally eat grass to his hearts
content. We got a nice view of Reykjavík,
from a spot of some strategic impor-
tance, apparently, for the landscape was
dotted with the remains of World War II
defence posts built by the Americans to
protect us from a German onslaught that
never materialised.
We saddled up again and made our
way back. The horses were eager to
get back home. Bófi could probably
sense the smell of cookies, for he once
again took the lead. Our handler was on
the mobile, so this time I led the group
unchallenged. We crossed hills and riv-
ers, Devil perhaps or perhaps not on our
heels. As we came up to the farm I rode
towards the door, when a lady came run-
ning up to me and directed me towards
the stables instead. I dismounted and
had a look inside the farmhouse. Pic-
tures adorned the walls, and one of
them caught my attention. On it was a
picture of a pretty girl surrounded by a
group of men with dorky haircuts. I had
known the girl, but tragically, never slept
with her, as is sadly so often the case.
I asked the woman who these people
were, and she told me they were musi-
cians who had come there to go riding.
On closer inspection, I realised that the
musicians in question were actually the
band Travis. I asked her whether there
had been any other celebrities who had
taken the tour, and she said that a short
Englishman from some band had come.
This was, of course, Damon Albarn, who
apparently had done some riding here on
horseback as well. She had been most
impressed by a Danish actor though,
who seemed to know his way about
the saddle. Somehow it is reassuring
to know that Aragon can actually ride a
horse.
Swedes were herded back onto
busses, and I was feeling ok about
things. Now, if only my testicles would
come back down...
REYKJAVIK CITY SHOT
A horse.
A Swede.
Photo: Aldís