The Icelandic Canadian - 01.10.2002, Qupperneq 22

64
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 57 #2
And rocks. Desolation. Gloom.
I thought of Churchill, the shores of the
Hudson Bay, windswept tundra, nothing
ever looks hopeful to me after such a short
night flying. We climbed on the bus that
early morning and drove. More lava. This
island of geysers and hot springs and boil-
ing mud lakes, craters and earthquakes, of
constant structural change.
Somewhere along the road we passed
near the foot of a volcano. More than twen-
ty-five volcanoes have erupted in Iceland in
historic times. Perhaps the most notewor-
thy; when Laki exploded in 1783 the liquid
lava, volcanic ash and gas, and torrential
flooding brought the death of more than
nine thousand people, destroyed large areas
of agricultural land, killed about eighty
percent of the island’s cattle and horses and
sheep. Then Hekla blew up in 1947 and
1980. Surtsey in 1963, the volcano on
Heimaey in 1973. What an unhappy ter-
rain.
We drove and Bill spoke from the front
of the bus about old manuscripts, the
Icelandic sagas. He told stories of people
battling disease and poverty, famine.
People confronting the teachings of a nar-
row and foreign church a difficult business
to survive, Bill said, the church. David in
turn talked about Icelandic mythology.
Here in Iceland, he said, the end of the
world is always at hand. Baldur, the god of
Icelandic innocence, has always just died.
We travelers sank deep into our seats imag-
ining the country’s exhaustion, despair.
But then the rain stopped. And the
clouds slid past. We breakfasted with
workers and fishermen along the harbour;
cheese, and bread, sliced cucumbers and
eggs and tomatoes, smoked lamb. We
drank coffee, strong coffee, ate kleina a
long twisted doughnut flavoured with car-
damom and traditionally fried in sheep fat,
a tasty dessert but not much benefit to my
cholesterol levels.
We drove again, my finger following on
the map. We passed through the
Hvalfjardargong, a tunnel under the
Hvalfjordur that cut an hour off the jour-
ney north. An hour, as any Icelander will
tell you, of the most breathtaking Icelandic
scenery. We passed through the town of
Borgarnes and on toward Holtavorduheidi,
the divide we’d cross before we reached the
northern fjords.
Bill uttered the words literacy, spirit,
tolerance, referred them to the people of
Iceland. David put forward some gentle
Icelandic joke. We saw mountains, and
long flat tablelands. Saw blue sky and
shimmering glaciers, clusters of dwarf
birch and willow, saw green grass. We
began to feel cheerful again, our human
bodies seem always ready for some excuse
to feel cheerful even after the worst anguish
we seem always ready to love again. Then
suddenly the round-up of grazing and gal-
loping horses appeared on the road ahead
of us.
Eighteen pilgrims on that pink and black
and yellow bus with GuSmundur our dri-
ver completing the journey from destina-
tions in the centre of North America to a
tiny settlement far in the north of Iceland.
Return journey for at least half the group,
their ancestors had left these fjords more
than one hundred years ago to migrate to
Pharmacists:
ERNEST STEFANSON
GARRY FEDORCHUK
642-5504
P^PHARMASAVE
We care
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Centre and Fourth / Gimli, MB / ROC 1 BO