Reykjavík Grapevine - 11.09.2009, Qupperneq 39

tunnel—a tunnel that stretches more
than ten kilometres and includes a
major intersection.
Considering Suðureyri has a popu-
lation in the hundreds, figuring out
the cost per citizen for this public
work is mind-boggling. And while the
tunnel, which was finished in 1996,
makes tourism easy and has improved
the quality of life, in the main it has
served as a portal for a quiet exodus.
Suðureyri got its tunnel as a political
gesture in exchange for its fishing
quota—the town lost its identity and
source of revenue, and it got an exit.
In Ísafjörður, they recommend
Suðureyri as a perfect tourist attrac-
tion: a quaint fishing village stuck even
further back in time than Ísafjörður.
The pool is indeed worth the drive.
And the town is pretty. And as we
drive to Ísafjörður, past dead and dying
arctic tern in the middle of the road,
we have already lost our sense of scope
and we feel we are heading to a genu-
ine metropolis.
QuOTa QuOTa QuOTa
My friend, an Icelandic fisherman
from a family of fishermen, vents on
the drive. Quota quota quota. One de-
cision two decades ago destroyed the
country. Every village could be feeding
itself, building its own microeconomy,
but instead Reykjavik swallowed the
country. What's worse, those with
the quota borrowed against it. This
kreppa, this economic crash, my fish-
erman friend says all the insane bor-
rowing done by Iceland's banks was
pulled from the way fishing compa-
nies leveraged their quotas at 12 times
their value.
Everyone in the car jumps in to
the discussion: in their childhood,
you got fish, good Icelandic fish, five
nights a week. It was spectacular. With
the quota, fish got too expensive: the
whole country had to change their
diet.
We are in a jeep full of bitterness
heading in to Ísafjörður, until the
fisherman who started the complaint
makes me pull over.
“You see that. Those little orange
boats. Those are somebody's smart
idea to fix the quota. And it only took
20 years.”
We observe eight day-cruiser fish-
ing boats in Ísafjörður's harbor. They
are part of the strandveiðar, or coast
fishing, program introduced by Jón
Bjarnason and the Left Green party.
As long as they use these tiny vessels,
local fisherman can now harvest their
own shores without the burden of the
quota system, with certain restric-
tions.
Two hours later, with my embit-
tered Icelandic compatriots, we head to
Tjöruhúsið to taste the results of this
program.
This is one of those things you need
context to understand. For the dozens
of tourists enjoying simply cooked
cod, haddock and flounder alongside
potatoes and greens, Tjöruhúsið is just
a fish place. Good food in a historic
building.
For Icelanders, Tjöruhúsið is a re-
ligious experience—not quite Galilee,
but close. I have just spent 48 hours
with locals discussing economic de-
cline, the loss of a way of life, and,
strangely enough, the horrors of hav-
ing to live without fresh fish.
In a large century-old log cabin,
skillets of fish fresh off the local boats
sends all of these friends into a bliss
not typically associated with food.
After an hour of constant eating and
laughing, I think some of them might
start speaking in tongues.
Every piece of white fish is exam-
ined, translated, discussed, and de-
voured. Then a new plate, a new fish
dish, someone trying to remember
the last f lounder they had. Someone's
mother cooked haddock this way, but
not this perfectly.
We stumble out, eventually, into
the soft purple of 10 PM on an Au-
gust night. All the weight has been
lifted. There isn't another word about
economics or politics. Equipped with
enormous cans of beer, we join the lo-
cals for a proper night of revelry until
well into the next morning.
Driving back to Reykjavík and what
feels like normalcy, down mountain
roads flooded and shifting, the whole
kreppa seems as constant and imper-
sonal as the mountains we're driving
on. The kreppa is here, and it will be
here, and we can see it clearly. And
while I loathe and will never forgive
the people who have caused so much
pain on a nation, and while weeks later
my intellect will tell me otherwise,
the mood that overcomes me driving
on this Icelandic road is one of ac-
ceptance, combined with a belief that
staying the course is the best possible
solution.
27
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 14 — 2009
Travel | Ísafjörður
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JulIa STaPleS
"Rock in Remote Places" was inspired by the annual Aldrei fór ég
suður music festival in Ísafjörður, in the West Fjörds of Iceland.
Sign would be the only band to grace a Grapevine cover in the year
2008. SBB
Vacant old houses, left to rot while developers waited for permission
to tear them down, were increasingly putting their mark on the city
centre. As luck would have it, the great collapse was only monhts
away, and then nobody could afford to tear anything down anymore.
Let alone build something new. SBB
With summer just around the corner, we were in a sunny mood. The
cover was a sarcastic commentary on the Icelandic summer, shot
on a cold, cloudy day, like Icelandic summer days often are. Little
did we know that 2008 would turn out to be the hottest Icelandic
summer on record. SBB
UEFA European Football Championship fever grabbed everyone.
The Grapevine included. We found this guy playing with his balls
somewhere. SBB
#73 - Issue 4 - 2008
#75 - Issue 6 - 2008
#74 - Issue 5 - 2008
#76 - Issue 7 - 2008
Grapevine 101