Reykjavík Grapevine - 22.05.2009, Side 8

8
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 6 — 2009
Elves vs.
Huldufólk
Transcendental Iceland | Part 1: Goosebumps
Radio to the other side.
In Search of the Real McCoy
From the day I first set foot on this island, near fifteen years ago, before the Viking raider-traders
hit Kensington High Street and every-
one in the world thought Iceland was
home to Santa (it was either here or the
North Pole), Icelanders were contacting
the departed, fingers poised on planch-
ettes, crackling across home-made
Ouija boards, seeking meaning in their
dreams. It appears much of this still
holds true. If you doubt this, go to the
nearest Mál og Menning and see how
many dream dictionaries you can find
on the shelves.
It all started on my first visit to
Þingvellir (it was an invitation to ‘do’ the
Golden Circle); carelessly looking in the
opposite direction, I bumped into a rock.
‘Ooof! Be careful! Better make sure
you didn’t nudge it out of place,’ says my
friend’s father, Siggi.
I wonder what the hell he is on about.
The Þingvellir wind rattles around my
ears.
‘Can you explain to me exactly what that
comment was back there?’ The rock
seems to sit a little askew. I lie and tell
him everything is just as it should be—
no need to rock the boat.
After all, it’s only a rock, isn’t it?
‘Sure it’s really back?’ he asks, twitching.
‘Car’s been on the fritz lately. Wouldn’t
want our friends to give us any extra…
you know?’ He moves on, looks up at
some impressive volcanic outcrop.
‘Sorry, can we stop here for a second?
Exactly who might give us more trou-
ble?’
‘Well the people that live in that rock
you bashed against, of course.’ He says
this totally seriously, almost as if his life
depends upon it.
I shake my head. What is he telling
me? Has he gone completely barmy?
This is a normal guy who has his own
business and is re-
spected among the
community. Every-
thing in its place
and order: serious
family life, kids, a
golden retriever,
the whole shebang.
‘Who lives in that
rock?’
‘Well I don’t
know precisely,’
he says, strolling
towards another
craggy formation—
this one has water trickling down it, bits
of scraggily moss, and just beyond a rift
where people have tossed coins, just like
a wishing well: the Peningagjá. ‘Let’s not
talk about it anymore. We don’t want to
irritate them. You did enough damage as
it is; come over here, have a look at the
view.’ He stands overlooking the bluff,
you can almost see the Mid-Atlantic
Ridge rising; he breathes in the wind
smiling, cheeks f lushed bright pink.
Hours later, after much silence in the
car, photos of Geysir, the Golden Water-
fal—all impressive no doubt—we still
haven’t settled the issue about the people
in the rock. We stop off at a gas station to
pick up a hotdog. ‘I think you were just
hungry,’ he says.
‘Sorry, Siggi. Now we are nowhere
near there. Can you please tell me about
those guys in the rock?’
‘Huldufólk. Hidden people,’ he says,
almost whispering.
‘Sure, they must be hidden to live in a
rock,’ I chuckle.
He looks at me totally seriously: ‘You
never heard of hidden people? Some-
thing like elves, you know?’
‘You mean Santa’s Helpers?’
‘Not quite. Hollywood has dressed
them up in stupid hats and given them
tights and tutus.
They don’t look
anything like
that.’
And thus began
my initiation into
something in-
credible and Ice-
landic, something ethereal, something
ancient, something which I have now
found to exude through the very pores
of this wild, rocky dreamland in the
middle of the roaring Atlantic, where
the settlers ran into elves, huldufólk,
dragons, gods, fairies, trolls, ghosts, and
conversed regularly with their ancestors.
Out there in the big wide world of the In-
ternet, cable TV, Hollywood, Gucci, and
Dolce and Gabbana, elves are things that
are found in children’s cartoons, ghosts
are for Uri Geller and spirits for Deepak
Chopra.
Maybe there really is something
more to this? In the beginning you’d
never believe you could acquire a taste
for hákarl (rotten shark) and Brennivín.
Then I start thinking about some of the
strange stuff that the Brits, the Ameri-
cans, the Chinese and the Koreans be-
lieve in. Chinese and Koreans worship
their ancestors (they burn fake money
printed up in the billions specifically for
their spirits. Imagine that: an entire mi-
cro-economy based on printing money
to burn—ring any bells?).
Brits and Americans keep up with
their horoscopes on a weekly basis, a tes-
tament to the success of The Daily Sun
and The National Enquirer. For Pete’s
sake, the Americans believe in Oprah
Winfrey. The Brits have Monty Python,
Little Britain—I mean what could be
stranger than that? Glastonbury near
Stonehenge sees more crop circles per
acre than anywhere else in the world.
Somewhere in Nevada, they are still
waiting for their first encounter of the
third kind, and all along Highway 61
they sell truckloads of crystal pyramids
and dreamcatchers made in sweatshops
in southern China.
In the big scheme of things, com-
municating with ghosts and respecting
elves doesn’t really seem so ludicrous.
In the end, it has everything to do with
where your traditions begin. So, leav-
ing Siggi and his wife talking to their
long-departed great grandfather on a
Ouija board, I head out to see what other
strange and unexpected things I might
find. Sometimes you just have to know
what you’re looking for. Cont. on pg. 28
Words
Marc Vincenz
Ever wondered what upside down
coffee cups are doing cooking on
the radiator? If you’re Icelandic,
you probably already know. If not,
remember stories of gypsies read-
ing tealeaves? Since most of us
don’t use tealeaves anymore, we
reach for the next best thing—the
dregs of filter coffee. Icelandic
housewives will tell you it’s just a
bit of malarkey. But believe me,
there’s real methodology to it—ap-
parently each dribble is just like
a reading line on a palm. Once,
not so long ago, there was no TV
and no Internet; it comforted you
through the long winter, and fore-
told the early arrival of a brighter,
warmer spring.
1. Woman with a ghost of dead
husband
2. Couple with female ghost
3. Woman, two boys and female
ghost
According to what I have been told, elves are not the only folk going about
their magical ways in the highlands and along the fjörds; there are also
the enigmatic yet spiritual huldufólk (hidden people), another unseen
race altogether. Magnús Skarphéðinsson of the Icelandic Elf School says,
‘Huldufólk are just the same size and look exactly like human beings; elves,
on the other hand, aren’t entirely human, they’re humanoid, starting at around
eight centimetres. There are thirteen types of elf, but only one huldufólk.’
Are elves and huldufólk really different? Or are they just different ways
about talking about the same beings? You see, the opinions are not entirely
unanimous. Even here at the Grapevine, we are not all in agreement. Ask
a handful of Icelanders and you will always get one who says that elves
and huldufólk are the same—yes, you know who you are. But, of course,
absolutely every opinion counts.

So, in this light, we put it to you, the Icelandic readers of the Grapevine:
Are elves and huldufólk the same thing, or not?
I say tomahto and you say tomayto.
During the entire month of May, please feel free to email your answer to
elf@grapevine.is. We promise, we will not let anyone
know your answer should you wish to remain in
obscurity. If, however, you are destined for elf stardom,
feel free to rant and rave about anything related to the
subject that might catch our attention. If it’s interesting
enough, we might even come over and interview you.
The results will be posted during June. Let’s get
to the very bottom of this.
Oh, and another thing: if you are interested
in further curious perspectives on elves, huldufólk and
a few other unseen beings (fairies for one), there is
another article which may secretly tickle your fancy on
our website: www.grapevine.is.
“In one session, Indriði
levitated all the way
up to the ceiling like a
helium filled balloon,
despite the doctor trying
his damndest to hold
him down. In another
session, he literally
vanished into thin air...”
Transcendental?
What the hell is that?
Marc Vincenz is doing a returning column on Transcendental Iceland.
Next month: He interviews a deep-trance medium and come in contact with a
collective unconscious life-form. Seriously!
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