Hoi, Who Drank MyVatn? And Other Second-Rate Puns

Last week found us a mere 90 km from the Arctic Circle and loving it. Claire and I, sharing a common love of good beer and random sounds, decided we'd make a good team on an expedition up to the the snowy north, and so on Thursday evening we began the six hour journey with nothing but the steady row of power lines and the ubiquitous whiteness as company.  We stopped first in Akureyri, the self-proclaimed capital of the north.  Since the real capital has only 200,000 people and two or three main roads, we thought it best to set our expectations beforehand.  What we didn't expect was a 15-foot snowman in the centre of it all...

Snowman done gone and got himself super-sized...

After our initial frosty reception, we strolled about the town taking in the sights.  In fairness, there aren't many of them; but Akureyri does have quaint picturesque buildings and boasts ice cream good enough for Reykavites (self-coined term, I think it'll catch on) to travel up for.  Yes, I did sit outside in sub-zero temperatures eating ice cream.  Whatever; when in Rome, get hypothermia. 

The next day we rented a car and made our way to Myvatn, a lake about an hour's drive to the east.  Named for the massive black columns of midges that swarm the place during the summer months, Myvatn is like a geologist's Valhalla, except without the dying part.  It has volcano craters, it has steam plumes, it has oodles of waterbirds, lava pillars, hot springs, caves, squidgey algae balls, nature parks...In short, it's a pretty damn cool place.  The only thing better than touring all these sites is touring all these sites while being hosted by a local.  We stayed with probably one of the most hospitable Couchsurfers in the world, who welcomed us into his home and showed us all around the area for two days.  He comes from a family of sheep farmers, and during our time there he showed us some of the work they do.  In recent years they've stopped selling the sheep to meat producers and have started handling all of the preparations themselves.  He said this way they can get a much fairer return for each sheep, and they can also ensure that there's as little waste as possible.  I could tell that for him using everything that could be used from the animal went well beyond costs; it was about respecting the sheep and not being cavalier about the process.  His family produces artisan sausages and meats at the moment, and are even experimenting with a smoked sheep meat similar to the jamón you find hanging in shops in Spain.  I still had fresh in my mind an article I'd read a week previous about the horrible conditions for both chickens and chicken farmers in the US because of the meat monopoly large companies have created, and it was great to see farmers taking matters into their own hands to demand fairer livelihoods for themselves and maintain better lives for their stock.

On Saturday we started at Hverir, the sulfur fields full of grey bubbling mud pots.  Now, mud pots stink a lot, but we thought we were old hat at eau d'sulfur, since every time you turn on the hot tap you get a whiff; however, nothing could have prepared us for this.  To pin it down, I'd say the smell was the usual rotten eggs, mixed with a tin of rancid tuna, wet dog, and the severe body odour of a champion sumo wrestler after a particularly arduous match.  Gag reflexes were well-exercised after a stroll around here.  But still, it looked pretty cool.  NASA has been known to bring astronauts up to train in its lunar landscape.

Just be thankful it isn't scratch 'n' sniff...

Next stop was Dimmuborgir, the site of lava pillars and rumoured home of the Yule lads (see episode 2 for more on them).  

Shortly after, our host took us to the locals' favourite hot pot cave to unwind after a long day of sheep shearing (his) and having a laugh (ours).  The water was a steamy 45 degrees, and this particular hot pot sits in the rift between the continental plates.  Because of its location, it also means that I swam from America to Europe. That's one more thing to tick off the list so, pat on the back.

The next day brought a lot of "My God, but we are jammy dodgers..." moments, as our host took us snowmobiling and ice fishing.  The snowmobiles themselves were aging, albeit loyal, beasts of burden: one didn't start unless it was on a hill, the other didn't steer, and neither had brakes any more.  Claire and I clamboured onto the one without steering, and dutifully threw ourselves to one side or the other based on where we wanted to go, hoping the thing would go more or less in the direction we needed.  It generally worked out fine, until Claire got a bit over-zealous and started doing spins on the ice.  Spectacular wipe-out; chuckles had by all; no reported deaths.

Photo by Claire Cornet

Photo by Claire Cornet

Ice fishing was done the traditional Icelandic way: bore a hole the size of a decent pancake into the ice, bait your dorga (fishing rod made from a bent sheep's horn) with some shrimp slightly cooked by the heat of the snowmobile engine, and then wait.  We had forgotten to bring some beer or hot chocolate, which was a grave oversight, but other than that I think we did a pretty good job.  Except for the catching fish part.  Out of the four of us, the only one who caught a fish was Claire, the vegetarian.  She had firmly stated that she was only there to feed the fish, and when she felt something tugging at the line she screamed, "Noooo, let go, be free, don't bite it!"  But the deed was already done, and so there was nothing left to do but smoke a cigarette.

Photo by Claire Cornet

The rest of the day was filled with a visit to the bird museum and a few more sites around the lake.  By the time we left on Sunday night, we were overwhelmed by true Icelandic hospitality and the natural beauty of the Myvatn region.

Monday was hitchhiking day, and we traipsed some 20 minutes outside the town to strategically position ourselves on the only road to Reykjavik, hopeful that no one would be able to resist our smiling faces and Claire's strawberry hat.  Over an hour later, it had begun to snow, what looked to be the same woman had passed us for the fourth time, and I was in desperate need of something to look at besides the changing lights and the construction company sign across the road.  After a short lift that carried us 8 km down the road and another half hour, an electric blue Ford Focus pulled over and we jumped in.  And so we came to meet Magnus, the old fisherman from the East.  He spoke very little English, but had a kind, slightly awkward nature and was going all the way to Reykjavik.  After a quick exchange of half-Icelandic half-English sentences and a few minutes of weighty silence, he pointed to the CD player and asked, "You music?"  I gave an eager, "Já, já!", and when he pressed the eject button out came Mamma Mia!.  He turned slightly red and mumbled, "This is my wife's car..."  

Two complete runs of Abba covers, two CDs of Icelandic country singers, and a stop at the Viking restaurant later, we were back in Reykjavik.  We said a warm goodbye to Magnus and headed down the small crowded shopping street into the city twilight.

More pictures when I figure out how to fix my computer.