Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2009, Síða 40

28
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 13— 2009
Deep Down Dirty: Mýrarbolti Matures
The spectacle of it—just outside the
picturesque town of Ísafjörður in the
West Fjords, there are hundreds of
locals dressed up in Halloween style
outfits covered in mud, shivering,
drinking from large cans of beer in
the rain. To pull up to this, passing
a dozen teenagers limping and
splattered with mud walking down
the highway away from the event,
I think at first there has been an
accident, that something has gone
horribly wrong.
This is Mýrarbolti, or Swamp
Soccer, the phenomenon that has
taken over the West Fjords during
the holiday that the rest of Iceland
dedicates to music, sing-alongs,
and dating rituals that won't be
explained here.
I have returned this year to see
how far Mýrarbolti has come. Three
years ago, the event was the domain
of a few maniacal souls, among
them a leather pants-wearing, trash-
talking guitar player and singer for
the band Nine-Elevens. Three years
ago, this gentleman, who looked
and smelled as though he'd just
left a ritual sacrifice, escorted me
to a hilarious six-hour tournament
of running in deep deep mud and
drinking heavily.
Three years later, my old host
lives with a modern dancer in
Holland. I think he smokes a
tobacco pipe and wears a hat without
irony. I'm told he even bathes in
water instead of the blood of rams.
And three years later, I am
told Mýrarbolti has changed. As
I arranged to f ly in for the event
from Seattle, I am told this is now a
three-day tournament. A worldwide
phenomenon. When I say I'd love to
get into a few games, I'm told this is
nothing to take casually.
When I arrive, I am ushered to
an hour-long organised presentation
of the rules of Mýrarbolti, complete
with Microsoft PowerPoint slides.
Standing among neatly-dressed,
athletic Icelanders in a large
ballroom at the Edinborg House
before PowerPoint slides, I die a
little on the inside.
I have travelled 3500 miles to
support mayhem and madness. I've
landed in what looks like a Microsoft
morale event.
Then magic happens. Okay,
liquor happens. From 9 PM to 4 AM,
my Icelandic compatriots shed their
facade.
I have the following conversation
with my old goalie just before I leave
to go to bed to get three hours sleep:
“You are here again. You are here
for a fucking dirty party.”
“Yeah, I guess I am. Are you
playing?”
“Hell yes. You are too. You are
playing. You're playing.”
“They said I should sit this out.”
“No. You're playing. You are
going to get dirty. It is a dirty
weekend. Everybody is going to be
dirty and horny. So fucking dirty!”
And so it goes.
All the buttoned-down planning
is a show with limited correlation
to the actual tournament. In fact,
most of the people I meet at the
pre-tournament party don't get to
Mýrarbolti itself. Even my editor
reacts with “You're seriously going
out there?” when I leave a house
party a few hours after sunrise.
Closing my eyes for sleep,
hearing the screaming through the
streets of Ísafjörður, I am positive
of one thing: Mýrarbolti will always
be exactly as it was on day one.
Gloriously dirty and stupid. Ecstatic
and subverbal. Bukowski said sex
is like trying to climb a muddy
hill. The Mýrarbolti tournament in
Ísafjörður is custom made by people
who deeply sympathise with that
analogy.
I drive in early with a car full of
Reykjavík natives who shake their
heads at the sight. It is 8 degrees and
raining and muddy.
There is, as I said, the spectacle.
There are costumes, cheers, and
mud. But walking from team to
team, nobody has anything to say
about Mýrarbolti as a sport other
than “it is very very cold.” One man
says he'll feel better when he gets
another beer and warms up, but as
he is getting his beer, I am slammed
into and covered with mud by a
large, angry woman in a pink cape
who is looking for Hilmar.
As I leave the Mýrarbolti
tournament, a team of mini-skirted
women is shouting “Are we men,
or are we WOMEN!” and beginning
their penalty phase—they have
committed a foul and are now
wearing black bags over their heads,
charging at women in black tights,
in the mud, before a cheering crowd
of grandparents in rain gear.
Travel | The sporting life
BART CAMERON
BART CAMERON
Car provided by the good people of Sixt.
Check them out at www. sixt.is
“You are here again. You
are here for a fucking
dirty party.”