Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.10.2007, Page 21

22 | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 16 2007 | Article Article | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 14 2007 | 23
Let’s clear up one thing straightaway: hitchhiking
in Iceland no longer is the bonanza it used to be.
Or, at least, this is what my current experience
seems to suggest.
I set out from Reykjavík – this is how the sto-
ry runs – on July 7th. Two days into my forty days of
walking I lost my camera’s lens to wind and sand,
and was forced to make painstaking deliberations.
“Hold on and keep it real” had been the tempo-
rary conclusion. “I’ll shortly reach Mývatn, and get
the problem solved.” So I left behind the desolated
landscape around Dettifoss, with its never-ceasing
roar of pouring water and mud, and entered the
lush pastures that stretch south-west of the road.
As I pushed forward, doubts kept crowding
within. I had already treaded this ground twice
before, and never with particular thrills or ex-
citement – at least, not until reaching the cruel
volcanic landscapes around Krafla. On the other
hand, the prospect of losing precious time on
getting my camera fixed once in Mývatn and ac-
cumulating further unwelcome delays seemed a
realistic and rather dissuading eventuality. As such
thoughts gained momentum, I changed my bear-
ing and headed back to the road, and the act felt
as heavy as if I was steering the wheel of a ship in
open sea.
Two cars passed by, leaving me at their back
in a cloud of dust and frustration. The third one
halted: a Polish family on holiday, very friendly
people. They even took a detour to drive me all
the way to the village of Reykjahlíð, the tourist hub
on the shore of the lake. I got my friend Sigurjón
to send me a substitute lens with the afternoon
plane to Akureyri. So far so good. But getting there
myself proved to be no joke, requiring a number
of lifts and long, wearisome waits. The days of yore
when I could cover the almost 500 kilometres
between Ísafjörður and Reykjavik in a mere five
hours, jumping from car to car, already felt like a
remote mirage. I reached the town (and my new
lens) late in the evening.
Reykjahlíð – Again
The worst was still to come. It was reserved for the
next morning – another clear, unusually hot day.
I found out with uttermost dismay, that a whole
row of hitchhikers was already positioned at regu-
lar intervals along the sea boulevard in a hopeful
wait – people of all sorts, often dwarfed by their
own suitcases. I think I counted a dozen. “It’ll be
easier for you: you are alone” someone reassured
me. There was also another guy, watery eyes and
the most annoying voice to date, comfortably sit-
ting on the pavement and just exhibiting a sign
that read “Egilsstaðir.” I moved on in haste.
If this inflation of hitchers struck me as
unsettling, it evidently solicited even harsher re-
sponses from most drivers on the road. For the
very first time, I found myself being grimly looked
at by people through their cars’ windows. I think
I walked almost ten kilometres out of the town
before some merciful soul finally stopped and
picked me up. It was already evening when I even-
tually reached Reykjahlíð again, roasted by the
sun like a stuffed turkey, in a terrible mood, and
surely more exhausted than if I had walked the
whole way from Dettifoss in a single day.
Whatever the mood, it must be given that –
among the tourist resorts in the country – the Mý-
vatn lowlands still stick out and deserve special
ranking in the visitor’s agenda of places to see. It is
the staggering variety of landscapes and habitats
which make this place a unique and indispensa-
ble addition to the compendium of sight-seeing
in Iceland. Wetlands, lava fields, woody stands and
colourful hot springs are juxtaposed alongside al-
most geometric boundaries, and yet in peaceful
and harmonic continuity.
Krafla
It is the day after my arrival to Reykjahlíð, and I
have decided to walk to the geothermal area at
Krafla. I am aware that I will accumulate some fur-
ther twenty-four hours delay in my schedule, but I
trust it is time well-spent. I remember I once drove
there with my mother – a typical city woman with
no love whatsoever for mountains or adventure
– in the dim air of a late August twilight. As we
approached, her spirits failed and she started dis-
playing all her paraphernalia of religious gestures
and invocations. “I’m sorry, but this place is too
much like the entrance to Hell” she commented
(as if she had actually seen the entrance to Hell
before).
For honesty’s sake, the poor woman’s sensi-
bilities had primarily been hurt by the threaten-
ing pipelines suspended over the road and the
sinister presence of the nearby power station, as
much as by the landscape. Anyhow, although back
then I found that reaction quite outside the lines,
it remains a fact that a disquieting and gloomy
atmosphere reigns over the whole place. And
today’s ominous weather only seems to amplify
that character: thick and low clouds feed a sense
of oppression, while layers of brume and drizzle
conceal the surroundings in a foreboding veil of
mystery.
But as I wander about, every now and then
the treasures of Krafla emerge from the envelop-
ing fog: the vividly red tonality of the hills; the
vents and fumes that rise from the ground and go
to merge with the mist; the kaleidoscope of hues
and colours mixed in the mud; the celebrated Víti
crater with its green waters; and the twisted and
deformed sculptures of lava – crystallized repre-
sentations of the spasms of the earth. A sour smell
of sulphur makes for the only constant around
here.
There is just one single element that stands
to mitigate the dreadful and forbidding impact
of the landscape – comfortably reachable by car
– Krafla has become established as a renowned
and well-attended tourist attraction. In short, if you
are longing for solitude and an ideal of pristine
nature, this is exactly where not to be. By this, I
do not mean that the experience is irremediably
spoilt by the presence of other people – not at
all. As lines of visitors walk about the place in a
nearly rhythmic sequence, however, the impres-
sion becomes one of staring at some plein air art
exhibition, rather than traversing a stretch of God-
forsaken wasteland.
Reykjahlíð – Yet Again
There are places that always seem to stay the
same. I believe that everybody has a few of these
nests to come back to, even years later, and be
caressed by the reassuring sensation that things
have remained exactly the way they were left the
last time. Gamli Bærinn – the only authentic bar
in Reykjahlíð – holds a similar appeal to me. Step-
ping inside at night immediately takes me back
to some four years earlier: same furniture, same
smell, the same vibrant atmosphere woven by
many voices chatting in different tongues. I in-
stinctively look around, as if expecting to even
spot the same people.
At a closer look, however, I realize that time
runs its course here too. Both the food and the
service, for example, have lost something in qual-
ity. Fortunately, not all changes are necessarily for
the worse, and on the bright side I am delighted
to find out that Coldplay are no longer part of the
house troubadour’s repertoire.
Despite the cool air, a small crowd of young-
sters has gathered in the backyard, intent at up-
holding the art of smoking. I join them. A tall dude
with a short blonde beard appears to be the party-
leader. He speaks loudly, laughs mechanically, and
clearly likes wearing shorts. He has been working
as a guide in Mývatn for many years, and knows
how to act friendly. “Who are you?” I am asked.
“Just a traveller.” Such qualification seems to sat-
isfy everyone and I am given a warm welcome.
I strike up conversations, not all of them en-
tirely successful.
“What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“I’ll start walking to Askja”
“It’s cold in Askja! Why do you want to work
there?”
“I like it… But I’ll stay in Askja only one day.
And then walk to Reykjavík”
“And doing what?”
“Just walking all the way!”
“Yes, but what sort of job?”
“Oh, forget about it.”
Nothing But the Real Thing
I am awoken at 5:30 in the morning: a group of
French tourists are breaking camp and not both-
ering to do it quietly. Although they speak as excit-
edly as if the end of the world was upon us, the
only word I can clearly distinguish is merely froid.
I open my sleeping bag and sit up, and have at
once to come to terms with the cold reality: I am
hung-over. It takes me three cups of strong coffee
before being eventually ready to set out.
At the southern border of the village, the
thickets begin – and with them, what I call in
my mind “the real thing.” Matter of a mere twenty
kilometres, and the inlands will gradually be-
come Highlands – civilization, a fading memory.
Reykjahlíð is the only and last village for the next
thirty days.
A broken camera lens, a detour to Akureyri,
one day of delay: it has been a troubled start of
my journey, far from what I had ideally pictured.
I pray that better luck will assist me from now on.
The “Weather of Great Occasions” is upon the land,
and for a while I wish that someone was going to
accompany me to the limit of town and tell me
goodbye and good luck. But I am alone. A sud-
den pang of melancholy pierces me like a sting
– sometimes leaving places is one of the hardest
facets of solitude.
“This is how real adventures start: under an over-
cast sky and introspective mood. Until now it’s still
been preliminaries, this is the actual beginning.” I
make myself courageous and dive into the dark
greenness of the thickets. I am glad of having the
trees around me: they give a sense of safety and
protection, of being hidden from any watchful
eyes. I hold my breath and push forward along the
path. The Highlands are waiting.
Text by Fabrizio Frascaroli
Across the Country in 40 Days
Adventures of The Lonesome Traveller, Leg 2
The days of yore when I
could cover the almost
500 kilometres between
Ísafjörður and Reykja-
vik in a mere five hours,
jumping from car to car,
already felt like a remote
mirage.
Photos by Fabrizio Frascaroli
www.bluelagoon.com
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