Reykjavík Grapevine - 19.05.2017, Síða 20

I have never been a fan of firearms.
I mostly found them scary, and the
only things I liked about my grand-
father’s hunting trips to the Ital-
ian countryside were the stories
about wild foxes he came back with.
Yet here I am, looking through a scope at
a black piece of paper that has been placed
metres away from me, the butt plate of a
rifle pressed against my shoulder, while
my finger gently tickles its trigger. I can
almost feel the silence. I have already
tried my luck with a heavy air gun:
my hands were so shaky that the gun
kept rattling left to right as if my body
were shaking with laughter. It wasn’t.
Instead, the rifle is steady. So I hold my
breath and pull the trigger. Once. Twice.
Then again. Three more times, un-
til the acrid smell of the propellant
turns into barely noticeable whiffs
of smoke. My heart pounds vig-
orously against my ribs, push-
ing adrenaline to the tip of my
fingers like small electric jolts.
“That was a good shot!” Stefán
Ingi Ólafsson smiles at me from
the doorway. In 2012, Stefán was among
the group of Borgarnes firearms aficio-
nados who founded the Skotfélag Vestur-
lands. It took them two years to renovate
an old slaughterhouse they received from
the municipality into a brightly lit shoot-
ing range with alabaster walls and blood-
red accents. Now it counts 130 members
including women and young kids, who
can start shooting under the supervision
of a teacher at about fifteen years old.
Stefán and a colleague seem excited
to show me around. Their boisterous
laughter echoes under the high ceil-
ings, but that doesn’t mean they don’t
take this volunteer work seriously. In
a luminous room for airgun shooting,
they are patient enough to show me re-
peatedly how to place my feet and hold
the gun, reminding me never to turn it
to either side lest I hurt someone. Then,
when Stefán points the gun, some-
thing changes. There is something ma-
jestic about him as he straightens his
back, his gun suddenly an integral part
of his hand. His arm performs fluid,
steady movements and I can see he’s
in his element. He’s a trained hunter.
Hunting & Competing
Stefán began shooting on hunting trips
in the surrounding country-
side. The hunting sea-
son, however, is rela-
tively short. A shooting
range like this seemed
like the perfect oppor-
tunity to continue prac-
tising during the winter. “I
think that’s how most peo-
ple start. We
are all coun-
trymen here
and for countrymen
owning a gun is
an advantage,”
Stefán tells
me. “But
w h e n
you start having a taste for compe-
tition it becomes a sport. I’ve com-
peted a couple of times myself. I
mean, some people play chess; some
choose football; I just want to shoot.”

Walk Towards The Target
Though evidently very proud of their
shooting range, Stefán and the rest of
the society are excited about acquiring li-
censes for an outdoor area to better train
hunters in long-range shooting, field tar-
get and clay pigeon shooting—all with
their own registered guns and silencers,
which are essential for protecting ears.
With their guns safely stored in 6mm
steel safes, the Shooting Society takes
all possible precautions to make this a
safe environment for everyone, as Stefán
makes abundantly clear when he reels
off all the rules. I understand now the
ideas I had of this place (and of an arms-
free Iceland) were a little naive. “I think
this image people have of firearms as a
prerogative of criminals is what we have
to confront ourselves the most,” Stefán
confirms shaking his head. “People tend
to associate guns and silencers only with
crime or murder, as if we were in a James
Bond movie, but it has nothing to do with
feeling protected or being a criminal. For
us this is more of a social endeavour.”
It’s already 8pm when we finally walk
towards the target I was aiming at with
my rifle. When the guys get close enough
they burst out laughing. “Are you sure
this was your first time?” Stefán asks.
Five out of six shots went straight
through the two innermost
circles. I nod my head in
amusement. I think now
I’ve got a taste for it, too.
SHOW ME THE MONEY:
The Ringo
Starr
Until the mid-to-late 19th cen-
tury, most financial transactions
in Iceland were conducted in
vaðmál (homespun wool). How-
ever, since 1922, Iceland has is-
sued its own currency, the króna.
Iceland never being the best at
economic stability, the króna
has lost significant value every
decade since its initial issue, and
in 1981 we decided to cut a couple
of zeros from it, introducing the
current króna. So, let’s meet the…
100 Króna Coin
Before banking, tourism, or
whimsical music acts, Iceland
primarily supported itself via
fishing, an industry naturally
suited to a small island in the
middle of the ocean. It’s there-
fore no surprise that their coins
pay homage to this legacy. Bi-
zarrely though, the 100 ISK coin
is graced with lumpfish, which,
according to all Icelanders polled,
is a shitty fish that’s ugly, tastes
gross, and should just be thrown
away. Yes, it could be said that
lumpfish is the Ringo Starr of the
Icelandic ecosystem. Naturally,
you might now be wondering:
Why does the 1 ISK coin show-
case yummy cod while a coin
worth 100 times as much pres-
ent the worst fish ever? We don’t
know. Ask whoever made these
coins (if they’re not still in jail).
So, What’s It worth?
If you’re lucky enough to collect six
of these babies, you could buy a hot
dog and soda at Bæjarins Beztu, the
venerable boiled-sausage and con-
diments establishment which has
also served the Kardashians. Pick
up four more and you could add a
happy hour beer at Bar 7 to wash
it down. While these are not the
most lavish culinary locales, it is
food and alcohol, so theoretically a
stack of these could support a small
child calorically. But real talk: Is
there literally absolutely anything
of worth in the country you could
buy with just 100 ISK? No. HJC
20 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 08 — 2017
Shooting Rifles
In Borgarnes
At home on the 'range
“People tend
to associate
guns and
silencers only
with crime or
murder, as if
we were in a
James Bond
movie”
All clear
CULTURE
Words:
Alice Demurtas
Photos:
Art Bicnick
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Some members of staff at The Reykjavík Grapevine
are quite threatened by Alice's deadly aim
Becoming a stone cold killer