Reykjavík Grapevine - 12.09.2014, Page 37

37The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 14 — 2014 TRAVEL
my small budget I decide on the cheapest
method of transportation: hitchhiking.
Into the unknown
Destined for Skaftafell National Park, I
stroll down Route 1 with a cardboard
sign in hand. Before long a beat up Vol-
vo pulls over. Inside a man with shaggy
brown hair and an inviting grin ges-
tures to hop in.
Too extreme for seatbelts or speed
limits, he carves country roads, rant-
ing about daily annoyances. Trying to
ignore the missing rear-view mirror and
gasoline-stained seats, I focus on vol-
canic craters and the turquoise water
reflecting clouds above. Unloading his
opinions on current affairs and French
hookers, he invites me to dinner. When
I insist on travelling onward, he says it’s
impossible.
His property resembles a junkyard.
Decaying greenhouses, broken down
cars and roaming dogs swamp the
property. Inside, living room walls list
names painted in childish script, dried
meat hangs from
kitchen shelves, ce-
real boxes act as lamp
shades and dead crit-
ters lay on the stor-
age room floor.
As he demands
I make dinner, I sort
through the fridge to find most items
have long since expired. The rotten
food coincides with his bizarre idea
to collect ten years worth of trash for
consumer awareness. Relaxed, he sips
beer from a teacup and chain-smokes
cigarettes, all the while threatening to
behead his dogs. In a mix of rage and
endearment, he orders me to hang from
a workout bar where he can bind me
with neck ties. I refuse, he chuckles.
Moments later I’m locked in the bath-
room, banging to be let out. “Animals
don’t even have doors to go to the
washroom, why should we close ours,”
he lectures.
The rest of the evening I spend bit-
ing my tongue as I listen to his sexist
views and master-mind inventions.
Asking me to share
strange Canadian
ways, I’m lost for
words after hearing
tales of thieving San-
ta Clauses and priest
driven volcanoes. All
I know is this man
has an absurd sense of humour and
although seems insane, he’s harmless
and remarkably, hospitable.
After spending the night, I leave
a note on the kitchen table and walk
down the dirt driveway, looking back
only once to take in the scenery of my
unorthodox experience.
Purgatory to paradise
As I stand on the side of a lonely high-
way, a white Suzuki rental car pulls over.
The solo travelling Australian fire-fighter
is also heading eastbound. Stopping at
each passing waterfall, we snap pho-
tographs, attempting to capture the
sweeping presence. Rocky hillsides
complete with elf-sized doors and mossy
green fields evoke fairytale imagery.
The scenery quickly switches to
Greek mythology with ash smeared
glaciers and dried lava fields—a place
for lost souls. A violent wind storm
shakes the car as we cross metallic
bridges towards distant mountains
mimicking Tolkien’s Middle Earth. On-
ward through treeless landscapes and
uprising cyclones, we’re as solemn as
survivors of an unearthly apocalypse.
Eventually the storm takes us hostage
to a nearby motel.
Quick to rise, we’re anxious to
reach the park. Before us mountains
peak into the sky, glaciers dip below
the sun and the land stretches for
miles. Forsaking the tracked path we
blaze our own trails around the glacier
playground, careful to avoid stepping
on shifting stones or sinking sand. The
park is the perfect mania of waterfalls
and flowing streams.
Reaching Svartifoss, the mother of
waterfalls, she appears hand crafted in
the shell rock resembling bamboo. Af-
ter moments of blissful wonder, I retreat
to the parking lot in hopes of hitching a
ride. Then the rain comes.
All good things must
come to an end
Returning to the city where I began
my journey, the peculiar atmosphere
continues with costumed protesters
and stilt walking street performers.
By nightfall people flood the streets
like ants, flowing from bar to bar and
singing for all to hear. Night becomes
morning and my patio conversations
must end. Reluctant to leave the bizarre
city my heart has embraced, I head to
the airport.
On the runaway the plane speeds
towards the sea. As I hold my breath,
we quickly switch direction, veering
into the sky. I exhale deep and smile,
“I’ll be back.”
Distance from Reykjavík
326 km
“A violent wind storm
shakes the car as we
cross metallic bridges
towards distant moun-
tains mimicking Tolk-
ien’s Middle Earth”
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