Reykjavík Grapevine - 13.07.2012, Side 46

Words
Byron Wilkes
Photography
Alísa Kalyanova
46
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 10 — 2012
Travel | West
On the descent into Ísafjörður, decades’
worth of glacial labour is plainly visible. The
small burg, named after the fjord it lies in,
is surrounded by tall mountains and looks
quaint and peaceful below. As the plane from
Reykjavík lands, I haven't the faintest idea of
what secrets this village keeps.
ÍSAFJöRðUR: THE FACTS
Our guide, Páll Ernisson (Palli) is an affable and
well-informed chap about all things Ísafjörður. As
we begin walking the backstreets of the city, Palli
brings us up to date. When Ísafjörður officially be-
came a town in 1786, it had around 26 settlers,
half of whom were shopkeepers of Danish, Ger-
man and Norwegian origin. Before then the area
was sparsely populated as far back as the late 17th
century.
"At first there were three towns here, very
close to one another," Palli says, pointing to where
each nationality was centered. “The houses are all
still here. These are the German," he says, point-
ing at the dark, wooden facades of two buildings.
The Danish section of town has a few houses with
taller, leaner roofs. The more modern houses are
equally diverse, some made of sheet metal or
wood, some pastel-colour or unpainted. The in-
ternational influence is undeniable (and certainly
engrossing), but the town is still wholly Icelandic.
We walk through quiet streets and alleys with
the occasional child running around, all the while
basking in the mountainous glory of the fjord.
While small in population (2,619 as of 2011, ac-
cording to statice.is,) Ísafjörður has a rich history
rife with unusual stories that which Palli calmly
keeps at his side until the moment beseeches him.
THE PROLETARIAT AND THAT TIME WHEN A
BAND (TRIED TO) FIGHT ALL OF ÍSAFJöRðUR
We near the old town hall, a somewhat plain, con-
crete building built in 1924 with small windows
and tall, narrow columns. Palli tells us that for a
long time Ísafjörður had been a bastion of Icelan-
dic communism. "There were ultra conservatives
and ultra communists; it was either bright blue or
deep red," he says.
Palli waves at a woman walking by with a
stroller. "Halló!" he says and she smiles and waves
back. "My mom," he tells us, and gets back to the
story.
Members of the conservative Independence
Party raised a building adjacent to it, one just a bit
larger. "The Independence Party pumped money
in here, like, 'we're going to get that town," Palli
says.
Describing the asphalt between the two build-
ings, Palli says: "This was actually paved with
blood." But he's not referring to some riot be-
tween communists and conservatives. Palli tells
us a more lurid chapter in Ísafjörður's past. In the
1990s, Icelandic band Jet Black Joe, upon finish-
ing a concert, decided to fight the entire town of
Ísafjörður.
"It kind of pissed off the people who [Jet Black
Joe] were keeping awake," Palli says. "So the band
decided to break up chairs and come out and beat
up everybody, probably 50 people still outside.
They had to be escorted in a police car."
Police used tear gas to disperse the crowd, Pal-
li adds, and locals affectionately call the cement
area in front of town hall: "The Gas-a Strip."
After a generous lunch at Tjöruhúsið, we amble
along Ísafjörður's piers to the second part of the
day's tour, a sea journey to the island of Vigur, an
island with a permanent population of no more
than four at any point in the year.
As we approach the small island (now with
several more tourists) via boat, I notice there are
lots of birds flying around it. "Birds... generally
cool animals. Nothing to fear here," I think to my-
self. Thoughts like these that can get a man hurt.
WE CAN'T STOP HERE. THIS IS
TERN COUNTRY
We get off the ship, and as we're walking toward
what looks like a miniature golf course windmill, a
squawking flash of white swings like a boomerang
within inches of our new tour guide's head. She's
unfazed, continues walking.
After she tells us about how proud Icelanders
are of their only windmill, she brings us an armful
of yardsticks with small blue flags.
"Here are your weapons," she says smiling.
Weapon-mandatory hiking: Hell yeah.
The sticks are more distractions than weapons
though. The assailants are Arctic terns, aggressive
little bastards of birds that dive-bomb would-be
predators, or in this case nervous tourists. Instead
of us, though, they swoop near the sticks we're
holding high. They are worthy adversaries to mun-
dane tourism, and we prevail. No casualties to re-
port.
While the island boasts Europe's smallest post
office and a notable population of Eider-birds
(see: ducks), its most impressive feature is the
puffin population. We walk to the far end of the
island over a fine green grass. Looking into the
ocean, there are thousands of puffins. Yes, thou-
sands. Some of them fly around, most of them
are in the water. Our guide tells us: "You are very
lucky," then pauses before saying, "And no, I don't
say that to every tour."
We board our ship and begin back to Ísafjörður.
Coming back into the massive fjord reminds me
that I've experienced but a portion of this place.
One can see a lot in Ísafjörður in a single day, but
it simply isn't enough.
ÍSAFJöRðUR, CITY OF MYSTERY
The Back Streets of Ísafjörður daytour was provided by Air Iceland.
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