Reykjavík Grapevine - 25.09.2009, Qupperneq 35

réttIr #2: Where the fuck am I?
Our second spurt of réttir was in the
next county over, right next to the wa-
terfall Faxi. The weather was much
nicer on day two, hence a lower quo-
tient of hideously coloured raingear. I
saw many familiar faces from the day
before, mostly people I shared booze
with. Only a few sheep still ran about
in the public, but the kids quickly get
them to their pens and the public be-
comes a zone for socializing exclusive-
ly. We spent the better part of the first
hour hunting down Ingimar’s friend.
Somehow I found myself sitting on an
old bus that someone has converted
into an awesome camper, watching
a dude drink out of two bottles at the
same time.
We found a designated driver and
started making the rounds to farms.
At our first stop in Einholt, Ingimar
and his friend Fannar broke out gui-
tars and troubadoured the shit out of
the place. Then we moved on to our
friend Steinka’s uncle’s farm where
I make a pitcher of vodka-cranberry,
eat three bowls of meat soup, play the
pump organ terribly, and forbid the
playing of “Hotel California.” Our
next designated driver takes us over to
another farm called Kjóastaðir with its
gigantic stable full of various wildlife.
I attempt to chase chickens for longer
than is funny. Eat four more bowls of
soup. Three old drunk men singing
folk songs pull me across their laps as
I scream for help.
Suddenly I am in Reykholt, kara-
okeing to ABBA with a pair of 6-year
old girls. I get dragged into the dining
room and sit around a table attempt-
ing to speak English and Icelandic
with very little success at either. Ingi-
mar tells me we are going to the town
ball. A real honest to god ball! With a
bad cover band and couples dancing
and kids hanging outside smoking
and getting into romantic disputes!
We dance to Icelandic standards until
the place runs out of beer and we get
kicked out. We then stumble through
Reykholt to Steinka’s house at Lord-
knows what time and pass out on the
couch.
The hangover and sickness that en-
sued (which I have christened ‘sheep
flu’) were epic, and by all means worth
the journey. The experience was by
far the most Icelandic thing I have
ever been immersed in. From going
through new parts of the country on a
horse, to watching the process of gath-
ering up sheep and fraternizing with
older generations, the whole weekend
was a wonderful blur of drunken mad-
ness. I even grew fond of the giant
green rain suit.
23
the reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 15 — 2009
travel | Ásbyrgi
Fly and discover
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Giant Horses, Hidden Folk And UFOs
A trip to Ásbyrgi is good for the imagination
Sleipnir was one hell of a horse. Born
of the eternally mischievous god Loki
(while in the form of a seductive white
mare, naturally) and Svaðilfari, the
magical stallion of a stonemason-im-
personating giant; and not limited to
only four legs like others of his breed,
this eight-legged beast was as smooth
as silk and could transport his rider,
Óðin, across land, water, air and even
between the lands of the living and the
dead. That’s enough to put Mr. Ed to
shame.
Then one day, perhaps a little too
confident of his fancy-walking abili-
ties, Sleipnir totally dropped the ball
and allowed one of his massive hooves
to stomp down onto the earth, leaving
an imprint a kilometre wide and more
than three times as long. Today, the
physical proof of this godly tale is the
horseshoe shaped canyon Ásbyrgi.
Located in the north of Iceland,
in the Jökulsárgljúfur National Park,
Ásbyrgi is a sight to behold and to ex-
perience. While being in a building
with a whimsical shape— the penis
mall, perhaps—doesn’t necessarily
impact on the experience within said
construction, hiking within Ásbyrgi
truly feels like being miniaturized and
wandering around the impression left
by a horse in the mud. It’s no typical
walk in the park. Meandering along
the base of Eyjan, the platform-like is-
land in the centre of Ásbyrgi, the bowl
of the impressive canyon stretches on
and on and, once the end of the island
is reached, continues on and on in the
opposite direction, completing the
rough semi-circle. It’s as impressive as
the horse that created it.
Adding to the mystique, the tall
vertical stone faces of the canyon
and the island are rumoured to con-
stitute the capital city of the hidden
folk. Imagine millions of little hidden
eyes peering out at you as you navi-
gate your way among the stretches of
berry bushes and lush green trees and
prepare to feel slightly creeped out. It
doesn’t help matters that the canyon
makes for some echoes of epic pro-
portions, transforming the hum of
yet-to-be-seen cars into eerie warbling
sounds of spacecrafts coming from all
directions.
If the fear of a monstrous horse re-
turning, peeping-tom hidden folk and
imaginary UFOs get to be too much
and impede on your enjoyment of this
gem in Iceland’s landscape, maybe
forget all that and just look at Ásbyrgi
from the scientific perspective: a big
canyon carved out by the flooding of
the Jökulsá á Fjöllum some 10,000
years ago. A less sensational tale, sure,
but Ásbyrgi is sensation enough on its
own.
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