Iceland review - 2007, Blaðsíða 94

ICELAND REVIEW 19
Flying in the cockpit is almost identical to f lying in coach: legs cramp,
clouds roll by, gas is passed, but our landing is an eye-opener. Before
this trip I was under the impression that there was endless technology
behind navigating a commercial aircraft to its destination runway. Extra-
polation. Triangulation. Wind velocities and something to do with vect-
ors. I was wrong. The pilots scout around for the runway like an old
couple looking for a parking spot at the grocery store. They point out the
window and scowl at each other. “No, that’s the highway!” – “No,
that’s a parking lot!” – “There it is. Land there!”
Sweden is a peculiar country. The birthplace of both hardcore
pornography and Volvo. The people have a certain bearing that is
neither inviting nor repellent, and while they share with Iceland
a common ancestry and love of fishy food, their character is di-
stinctly Scandinavian: measured civility, beautiful prec is ion, and above all,
tem perance and order in all things.
My presence at the airport sets the Swedes on edge as there are not
customarily passengers on board cargo planes. With a frosty gaze, an older
woman with tight, blond braids instructs me to stay away from the horses
and sequesters me to a fenced-off area. From behind chicken wire
looking for Lykill, I feel slightly felonious as I watch Siggi unload the
horses. The first couple of animals prance out of the crates casting
smug glances at the horde of ground crew gathered around to see their
arrival. Other animals are trembling and drenched in sweat, the equine
equivalent to white-knuckle f liers.
When I spot Lykill he is composed, if a bit curious – as any Icelander
is when first setting foot on foreign ground. There are trees. Everywhere.
The light is different, not as diffused. Before he can fully take in the
new world, the phlegmatic woman with tight braids yanks his halter
sharply and pulls him into the shed for veterinary inspection.
Hours pass and the sun begins to dip behind the hills before a beater
Mercedes pulls up towing a horse trailer. Three older men step out,
each one with fewer teeth than one before. They have come to drive
Lykill to his farm north of Stockholm, and for the first time I feel
slightly apprehensive for the horse. Along the five-hour drive in the
dark, we stop to fill up on gas and Swedish hotdogs several times, at
which point the men smoke cigarettes and pee in the bushes, despite
readily available toilets – even in the middle of Stockholm. It is at one
of these stops where the youngest man (the one with all his teeth)
brings me to the front of the trailer and opens a small door. There I see
Lykill, looking weary but content. The man reaches up into the trough
and pulls out a tuft of hay, crushing the straw between his fingers.
“Ah, smell sweet?” he tells me in broken English, pantomiming the
hay’s aroma of clover and honeysuckle rising to his nostrils.
“This from my farm,” he says slapping his chest and striking a smile.
I feel better about Lykill’s escorts and go for a pee in the bushes.