Reykjavík Grapevine - 19.07.2013, Side 47

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47 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 10 — 2013
Nanna Dís
I’ve thus gone to Iceland a couple of
times, and always greatly enjoyed my vis-
its. This time, when I learned that I had an
opportunity to make a third trip to Iceland,
I crowdsourced suggestions as to where to
stop on my way to Nuuk, Greenland, where
I would be working on a research project
about Greenlandic artists. Based on friends’
suggestions, my plan was to skip Reykjavík
and head Northwest to Ísafjörður. As I would
learn, they advised me well.
I'd never been to the West Fjords. Over
the years, a myth of Ísafjörður has built up
for me, mostly based on the stories I've
heard about the music festival Aldrei fór ég
suður (“I never went south”), which takes
place during Easter. I’d heard that the festival
involves over 40 bands, and unlimited drink
on limited time, so they pack it in. Impromptu
collaborations and aural stumbling and bum-
bling. A festival that seems to be the antith-
esis of Iceland Airwaves, one that celebrates
passion and insanity — one where commerce
and market forces are checked at the door.
Sadly, the timing just didn't work for me to
experience it this time, but there’s always
next year.
An odd adventure
Getting to Ísafjörður was an odd adventure,
which was my fault entirely: I misread my
layover-filled itinerary while trying to get
the cheapest tickets possible. One day of
travel from Philadelphia to Newark to Boston
to Reykjavík to Ísafjörður. An expected few
hour stopover in downtown Reykjavík turned
into a mad dash from Keflavík to Reykjavík
airport to catch my Air Iceland jumper flight.
Fuck it. Who needs sleep?
Upon arrival in Ísafjörður, I settled into
my accommodations—my friend's sister's
bedroom that was kindly cleared out for an
incredibly comfortable stay. The first day
was mostly spent hanging out at the restau-
rant Tjöruhúsið (“The Tar House”), a culinary
legend that I had heard about and had to see.
The action was non-stop, the food amazing.
There are no menus—you only get what is
served to you, the catch of the day at the
chef’s discretion, for a fixed price. I ate cod
cheek for the first time. It was fatty and crispy
and melted in my mouth. Aside from serving
food, the restaurant seems to act as an ac-
tive community hub, with all kinds of people
dropping by throughout the day, sharing sto-
ries and having a taste of whatever’s being
cooked up at the time. At the end of the day,
I fell asleep, happy and satiated even though
my room was filled with bright sun. I think I
was too tired to be bothered by it.
Tunnel time
I spent my second day in Ísafjörður ventur-
ing to the nearby villages of Þingeyri and
Suðureyri, via the Vestfjarðagöng road tun-
nel. The tunnel was built in
1996, and remains the only
tunnel that I've ever seen
that has an intersection.
Parts of the tunnel are one
lane, with courtesy pull-
overs to accommodate the
traffic, at times the drivers
are so polite that it slows
down traffic. Getting back
to town, I was invited to an
impromptu dinner party for eight travellers
and locals, where Icelandic lamb was served.
After hours of revelry, we thought we'd try to
catch a set by Prins Póló, who were playing
in the nearby village of Flateyri. We missed
them, but hung out and drank beers near the
water in Önundarfjörður as the sun shone
brightly upon us. It was past 3 AM.
I decided to head home. While cabbing in
full stupor, I was asked, "What are you do-
ing before you leave?" I answered, "Going to
Vigur." And my friend replied, "that should
be good. You're going at a very 'puffetic'
time," referencing the legion of puffin, that
inhabit the tiny island.
Peace and tranquillity
The beginning of the end of my time in the
Westfjords started with a West Tour to the
island of Vigur, where I would see how down
is harvested and puffins managed, and get
a glimpse of the tranquillity of a simple
life. The tour is booked solid, but it’s not so
crowded you can’t breathe. The boat is filled
with locals as well as tourists from Japan,
Australia, France, Denmark, and the US. As
we depart, the sea air is crisp and refresh-
ing, amplifying the meditative loop that’s
played in my mind over the past two weeks.
As we cross the calm waters, I'm reminded
of a quote from a wall decoration I saw at the
dinner party the night before:
“In the embrace of blue mountains, where
the cold wave sparkles. In the high cliff
mountain halls, the kind elfin queen rules.
Which makes the torches glitter around the
dark mountain passes, as the evening beams
swell and kiss Ísafjörður."
As we floated towards our destination I
was fully embraced by the blue mountains.
I’ll return to this memory, I believe.
Upon our island arrival you're smacked
with tranquillity—if tranquillity can smack.
The first stop is a rock formation housing
nesting eider ducks, the leading producers
on the 2 kilometre long, 400 metre wide is-
land. The eider ducks just hang there. Calm,
yet protecting. Resting on their eggs. Trust-
ing that the humans will let them be.
As we begin our march around the island,
I walk on rocks, sea urchin shells, grass, ran-
dom down and moss. Next to me, a 7-year
old child from Ísafjörður collects a fistful of
sea bones. I can't help to think how normal
this might all seem to her. As we walk the
90-minute stroll around the island, the yelps
and coos of the eider males and black guille-
mots continue to amplify the calmness. Arc-
tic terns also fly overhead. It's odd to think
that a place so filled with peace is named af-
ter a spear (“vigur” means spear, I learned).
Digging apart the island
There are other indicators of otherworldli-
ness on the island. Our guide stops periodi-
cally to take questions and give us a bit of
history. The same family has lived in Vigur
for the past 135 years, managing over 3,600
eider nests. The family ensures that the ei-
der down is collected and processed without
disturbing the nesting ritual. To keep the ei-
der ducks undisturbed, the farmer replaces
down with fresh cut grass.
The family manages the land in other
ways, too. For example, a portion of the puf-
fins is culled as a conservation strategy. Puf-
fins dig up the island dirt lush island grass,
creating holes for breeding and defecation,
thus speeding up the process of land ero-
sion.
There are around 8,000 puffins on the
island. These impressive birds live by the
proverb: “one should not shit where they
eat"—creating separate holes for each activ-
ity. That their fascinating way of life can also
potentially dismantle the land and have it
forever disappear into the sea is astounding
to ponder. I couldn't help but think, “this is-
land is a tranquil toilet that generates life and
softness,” the softness being the pounds
and pounds of down harvested each year.
The tour is coming to an end, and I walk by
the escapiest escape cabin overlooking the
Hestur (“Mt. Horse”). It's a deep red A-Frame
wood and corrugated metal shack covered in
windows hugging the island
cliff for safety. I want to live
there. We're ushered to the
inhabited part of the island
for cakes and coffee in the old
rustic farmer home, painted a
beautiful and crisp yellow. We
drink and eat with the smell
of a nearby smokehouse in
the air. I feel paused. I feel
good. Thankful for the thank-
ful things.
In the Icelandic way, we're urged, but not
rushed, back to the boat to return to shore. I
sleep the entire way back, waking up again
in the blue mountains’ embrace. As I step on
the dock, a traveller’s anxiety sets in. I need
to be in Greenland tomorrow. World is weird.
World is wide. I’m still trying to figure things
out. Maybe Nuuk will help.
Westfjords, see you next time.
Through my travels, I've been lucky enough to meet a ton of
Icelanders who have become some of my closest friends—I
might call them family. At this point, I'm proud to say I'm fully
enmeshed in the "Icelandic Connection" now, which means
being open to Icelandic travellers (individuals, artists, musi-
cians, grandparents—you name it) to my home in Philadel-
phia. The “Iceland Connected” have a code to my home’s
lockbox for easy access. If you don't mind cats, the place is
yours. Be in touch.
At the end of the day, I fell
asleep, happy and satiated
even though my room was
filled with bright sun.
Book flight to Ísafjörður with Air Iceland on
www.airiceland.is or call +354-570-3000