Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.08.2009, Blaðsíða 14

“What’s the difference
between Iceland and
Ireland?”
“One letter and about six
months.”
So ran the joke at the beginning of
the year. It’s been over seven months
now and Ireland, though stricken, is
nowhere near a disaster of Icelandic
proportions.
Upon closer examination, several
differences between Ireland and Iceland
come to light. They were colonised
by wankers, we by Danes. They were
conservative farmers who opened up
their economy in the 1990s and became
the Celtic Tiger; we were conservative
fishermen who opened up ours and
became the canary in the coalmine.
Having thus established the vital
differences between Iceland and Ireland,
we move on to the question of what the
differences are between Iceland and that
other “I” country in Europe, Italy.
The “I” Countries
On the face of it, there aren’t many. Both
countries are world leaders in public
debt. People in both countries have a
habit of speaking at great length about
subjects of which they know very little.
And in both countries, connections are
the only way to get anything done, from
getting opera tickets (well, in Iceland the
opera house is a work in progress) to
building permits to elected office.
The Icelanders’ love of corruption is
what sets them apart from other Nordic
Countries. In Sweden and Norway,
corruption is illegal or at the very least
frowned upon, while in Iceland it is
generally seen as a virtue. A person
who is elected into office and does
not use his or her powers to help their
friends and family is no friend to anyone.
Conversely, a man who helps his friends
is someone you can trust. What happens
to those not counted as friends is less
important.
The Icelandic Godfathers
How come Icelandic political culture so
much resembles a rather bland episode
of the Sorpanos? Why is it that our
leaders tend to resemble the Berlusconis
rather than the Stoltenbergs? As with
everything else, we have to go back to
the Vikings to find the answer.
In the centuries surrounding the year
1000, the Vikings were everywhere. From
Manhattan (perhaps) to what was later
to become Moscow, Vikings ruled the
world. For some reason, Vikings and later
their Norman descendants preferred
to settle on rather small islands such
as Iceland, The Faeroes, the Orkneys
and, yes, Sicily. The Vikings formed clan
based societies where you helped your
friends and killed the relatives of your
enemies. One tends to think of Viking
raids as somewhat in-your-face, but the
Vikings were actually quite Machiavellian
in their politics. Hávamál is full of advice
on how to screw your opponents by
outwitting rather than attacking them.
When Iceland became Christian, it was
actually still okay to worship the old gods
as long as no one found out about it,
another example of a distinction made
between what you said and what you
did.
Sound familiar? In the 19th and 20th
Centuries, the Nordic core countries
of Denmark, Sweden and Norway
embraced enlightenment ideals of
fairness, openness and a just society.
Icelanders decided to stick with the
older system of the elite screwing the
general public with shady backroom
deals. Perhaps the old clan system still
survives on the periphery, in Iceland and
in Sicily. If the Italian mafia is descendent
from the Normans, then Iceland’s elite
are their northern cousins. They liked to
call themselves Vikings, but mobsters
seem to be just as apt.
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 12 — 2009
14
Opinion | Valgerður Þóroddsdóttir
I was last in Iceland on August
24, 2008. At the time the price
of the US dollar had just risen
to what seemed a whopping
80 ISK, and I remember deciding it
exceptionally prudent to postpone the
exchange of my Icelandic savings for as
long as my college expenditures would
allow.
In fact, I prognosticated quick
recovery for the króna. Having taken
a single microeconomics class in high
school, being a financial sage as it were,
I was confident that once the ISK had
recuperated from its mild sick spell I
would simply be able to retrieve my funds
at a more suitable price.
I felt like an asshole, obviously, when
six weeks later the New York Times
homepage informed me that Iceland’s
financial system had collapsed.
80 ISK doesn’t looks so bad to me
now that I’m considering buying ONE
FUCKING DOLLAR at 128 ISK, but as
they say, that train has sailed; hindsight
is 20/20; every path has its puddle; half a
loaf is better than none.
It wasn’t long after the financial
shit-storm began that I started receiving
offers of sympathy and concern from an
inordinate number of people around me
in the States. These were people who,
upon hearing some version of the news
story, were suddenly eager to discuss
with me the ‘situation’ in the motherland.
The truth, however, was that being in
the seemingly fortunate position of not
owning or owing anything on the icy
isle, the effects of the downturn on me
personally were minimal at best.
In an effort to devise competent
responses to the incessant questioning,
I in turn began quizzing my Icelandic
compatriots for facts and anecdotes. I
read the Icelandic news sources and
watched the television news online for
hours a day. I scoured the international
press for any mentions of “COLLAPSE”
and “MELTDOWN” and “TURMOIL”.
Yet despite my best efforts, the only
conclusive detail I seemed to be able
to lift from any of it, or anyone, was the
vague but unspoken impression that
things were more or less royally fucked.
When it comes to quantifying what
has changed in Reykjavík, or in Iceland
generally, since I was last home, the
conclusion thus remains somewhat
obscure.
If it wasn’t for the slightly elevated
prices on foreign goods, the newly
imposed limits on money transfers
abroad, and the mild malaise that may
or may not be settling over the general
public for the time being, I wouldn’t know
Iceland today from Iceland eleven months
ago.
That this country is endowed with
tenacity for self-perpetuation has never
seemed as abundantly clear to me as
at the very moment that I write this.
The women at the table next to me are
standing up to leave and as they do they
smack their gum against their teeth
in a self-congratulatory manner. Their
smugness warms me as they move to
put on their jackets with a sudden whirl
of the stuffy and languid café air. I am in
love with how they push out now against
the door, submerging, fresh again, into
the cool, late night air, as though they
have just discovered the meaning behind
the whole fucking universe and that the
answer is in fact very amusing and ironic
and haven’t we humans been acting so
very daft and absurd these past couple of
millennia?
Of course these women have not
discovered the answer to life, the
universe and everything. They are simply
brimming with the distinct but delicate
self-satisfaction that till now I privately
considered a plague on the Icelandic
character but that for the first time strikes
me as not entirely hostile, central perhaps
to the survival of it all.
I finish my own cup of coffee, and
though it now costs as much as a cup in
America in that bad way that forebodes
trouble upon departure, it seems that
Iceland, that Reykjavík is exactly the same
as it’s always been. It feels as it ever has,
delightfully, terrifyingly, like home.
Now & Then
It’s the ass end of a totally gayriffic
weekend and I have learned a few
facts and lessons.
1) Never fuck with a man's sequins.
2) Guys give the best BJs.
3) I look really fierce in pink.
4) Drag queen make-up and
ridiculous amounts of rain make for a
bad mix.
The line outside Barbara has been
going strong since last Wednesday,
but at six AM Sunday morning the
queers start trickling out the door.
I ferry home a guy so limp wristed
he can't shake hands properly and a
couple of short haired gals with that
grip like an iron vise.
A chick trio from Akureyri beg
me to join the party I drive them to.
“Later,” I lie. Sure I'd love to go, but
‘em bitches are louder’n a sonic
boom and I fear for my well being.
A pair of drunkoholics stumble
out of ever-so-upscale speakeasy
Mónakó. One of ‘em, the one with the
less leathery face, tries to get in the
front seat with a full glass of Cuba
Libre (or perhaps just Coke, though
I doubt that very much). “Hold
your horses there mister,” I advise.
“What?” the man inquires. “You're
not getting in here with that.” “Oh,
sorry. I'll go inside and pour it into a
plastic mug.” How very astute of him
I think to myself, of course it’s not the
notion of a plastered lowlife spilling
alcohol in my cab that worries me,
but I shudder at the thought that this
respectable establishment should be
robbed of a glass.
Once inside the wino reparté
begins. “You're an alcoholic,”
stumbling Cuba Libre guy opines to
his mate the raging drunkard. “No I'm
not. I'm merely wine inclined,” is his
straight faced response. “Alcoholics
drink 'cuz they have to. I drink
because I want to.” I’m glad we got
that cleared up. I thought he drank
for the sagging facial effect or to fuel
his witty banter.
Then the party chicks call again.
My ears start ringing.
A jolly racist KR fan fresh off the
plane from an awesome defeat in
Basel keeps urging me to mow down
stray black people in the street. Even
when there ain't any in sight (which
is pretty much always) he goes off
on some hate-rant. Odd that, seeing
as how KR fly a black and white flag.
For penance I charge him double. He
don't even notice.
Out of the torrential downpour
flooding the Laugavegur high street
emerges the forlorn figure of a long
lost love. Her head stooped trudging
a drenched march of desolation,
the vision of gloom ravaging her
tender face tugs heavily at my
heartstrings. Behind her a few paces
stalks a stubble cheeked Latino that
I convince myself is up to no good,
due to the blinking neon sign on his
forehead advertising “Rapist” to all
and sundry.
I'm tempted to get out and give
him a wholesome thrashing just on
pure principle, were it not that my
ex would take nothing from me even
if it saved her a trip down a dark
alley and a rape kit administration
at the E.R. Still, the rain is far too
heavy for even the most enthusiastic
practitioner of non-consensual sex to
arouse his raping spirit. And probably
it’s just the lingering remains of the
urge to shield painting the devil’s
silhouette on a blank wall. Wish I'd
been so thoughtful and considerate
back when it counted for something.
And the party chicks call again
so I drive them downtown while they
polish of a box of wine chugging it
straight from the tap. Classy is the
word. -“TRAVIS BICKLE”
Grapevine’s taxi driver
Taxi Man Goes
GayPride
Opinion | Valur Gunnarsson
The Sicilian
Connection
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