Everything You've Heard about Iceland is Wrong...Sort of...Part 2. Women

This subject isn't nearly as controversial as it first appears. I make no attempts to judge beauty, because it comes in infinite forms.
Here is the stereotype: "Iceland has the most beautiful women in the world. That's because the Vikings went over to Ireland and stole their most beautiful women and brought them here". The joke often continues to explain that that is why Ireland's women are so ugly, because the Vikings didn't bother with them. It's really funny if you like racist jokes about rape.
It got more air time a few years ago, when an Icelandic woman won Miss World in 2005. It was Iceland's third win for the pageant, with other wins in 1985 and again in 1988.

It's true that most of the people here are blonde and pale, which for some reason seems to automatically denote beauty. Perhaps it's just exotic to come to a country where the people are sometimes blonde to such an excess that their hair is actually white. Personally, I think it's great, but I'm a sucker for blondes.
But if you're not into the Barbie combination, you can choose from the other group of pale, but raven-haired Icelanders. There's another racist origin joke about this one, too. I heard it told by a tour guide at a local folk museum. Apparently, you can blame (or thank) shipwrecked sailors from Spain for any dark hair you see in Iceland.

But here's where this topic gets sticky. Of course there are beautiful people in every place on the planet. There are also different ideas of beauty in every country on the planet. When Iceland boats of it's "beautiful women", they are asking you to envision this:

 I mean, yeah. It's true. That woman in Icelandic. But like most places, you shouldn't expect to hit up the clubs and be surrounded by girls like that.

Iceland was pretty isolated from the rest of the world before the World Wars. People lived in simple long houses and ate simple foods like potatoes and boiled fish. During the 1940s, the American military set up a base in Keflavík (which is why that airport is so damn far away). Americans brought with them the usual American fare. Television (which is a major reason why Icelanders can speak English today), rock music, and junk food. If you live in America, you might not realize that American candy is pretty special. Despite being of sub-par quality, people love it and they eat a lot of it. (unless it has peanut butter in it. Only Americans seem to like that. It's impossible to find Reese's in Europe unless you go to a specialty shop, and I've never seen it in Iceland)

Many Icelanders still stick to traditional jobs, such as fishing and farming, both of which are physically demanding. Even now, for these people, breakfast is usually just a cup of coffee. Some toast with jam and cheese if you are feeling peckish. Lunch is also not too big of a deal. Some leftovers from breakfast, or something equally light. That leaves dinner as the main meal of the day. As an American, I will probably never be able to shake the idea that breakfast is the most important, lunch involves a sandwich, and dinner should come with a second helping and dessert. This notion is catching on in Iceland. Especially in Reykjavík, where everyone can speak decent English and is heavily influenced by the trendiest cities in the world. You can see some of the most amazing hipsters on Earth walking down Laugavegur, sporting outfits that would make kids from Williamsburg burst into jealous flames. Lamb hots dogs called pylsur are viciously famous (and addictive). Junk food and candies are available in bulk bins in every single grocery, quick stop, and petrol station. And Icelanders drink more Coca-Cola per person than any other country in the world. Yes, including America. I heard something like 25L per person per year on average.
Everyone knows that Americans are fat. Somehow I've managed to avoid that fate thus far, but many Icelanders are suffering as a result of the adopted lifestyle. Iceland now ranks number 17 on the list of most obese countries in the world (USA is number one), with an obesity rate of 12%.

Overweight does not equal unattractive. Not by a long shot. But it's a far cry from the lithe, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, wool-sporting wilderness beauty so often portrayed. But it's no surprise. If you only looked at American advertisements, you would think we all looked like Megan Fox.
My purpose with addressing this Icelandic stereotype was to draw attention the rise of health problems associated with an American lifestyle. It's still somewhat of a new introduction in Iceland, and even though the average lifespan is still very high (82.9 years for women), heart disease is now the top killer in the country and will continue to be a problem without drastic changes to public health awareness.

Am I saying that fat women are automatically ugly? No.
Am I saying that thin women are automatically beautiful? No.
Am I implying that white people are somehow more attractive than non-white people? No, of course not.
Am I saying that America is the cause of all of the world's problems? Yes. Yes I am.


Join me next time for another episode of Me Telling You Things About A Country That I'm Not Even From.

Everything You've Heard about Iceland is Wrong...Sort of...Part 1. Hákarl

Every country is plagued by it's own stereotypes, some of which the citizens might not even be aware of. I heard recently that America has no trains. America would hardly exist if it weren't for trains, but I suppose that in the eyes of some Europeans, Americans rode around on horses or surf boards, and unless a train is a high speed bullet, it's not really a train. But I digress.

When you stay in a country for a short time, as a tourist, it's difficult to sort through the mess of stereotypes and I think that's how many of them get perpetuated. The Reykjavik Grapevine wrote an article recently talking about a similar phenomenon attributed to "lay-over journalists" (writers who stop in Iceland on their way somewhere else and end up using that experience to sum up the entire country), and NPR followed up with an article written by an admitted lay-over journalist. But even that article, despite being self-conscious of it's position, managed to slip in another mistake on Icelandic culture and cuisine. So here's my top five list of the most common misconceptions about Iceland in no particular order, starting with a particularly stinky one....

1. Hakárl

More commonly referred to as "disgusting rotten shark". I think by now, everyone has heard of this purely Icelandic delicacy. Some famous chefs have vomited upon trying this, and claimed it as the most putrid, horrible food available on planet Earth. It's been described as  tasting like a combination of mouldy cheese and ammonia. The summation of the hákarl process is that a shark is buried underground for a few months, then dug up and hung to rot for a few more months, cut into chunks, and then happily scarfed down by natives. Visitors love to tell stories of their encounters with hákarl, and they most likely sampled a small cube from the Reykjavík flea market which opens every weekend. Vendors there sell tiny cups with a few bits in for tourists to taste, although few actually end up trying it once they open the container and get a whiff. Part of the story involved telling the story of how it´s made, which is where the inaccuracies begin. Of course, the worse it sounds, the better the story seems, and the braver the taster is, so I´m not surprised that things get a little mixed up.
This might be a bit nit-picky of me, because while everything about making hákarl is relatively true, it's exaggerated a bit, and I want to clear up a few things.
I visited (with a friend of mine) a hákarl production facility in the northwest recently and we got to see the entire process from start to finish.

Hákarl is made from the flesh of the Greenland shark. This shark swims in the frigid North Atlantic Ocean and is one of the largest sharks in the world. It never stops growing in it´s entire life, and can grow over 6 meters in length. Not too surprising when you take into account it´s lifespan: 200 years!
When we visited the farm, there was a freshly caught shark in a trailer that we could have a look at.

This shark was too heavy for the scales, but it was estimated to be 700kg. And based on it's length, our host told us that it was probably between 70 and 90 years old. But don´t be sad. Fishermen don't go out hunting for these creatures. They occasionally get caught up in other fishing nets, and rather than throwing their bodies back out to sea, they are sold either to this place, or the other farm that makes hákarl.

That´s Christian peeling back the tarp. Our super-awesome host for the hákarl tour.

There's not much to do to prepare the shark for the first step. It is placed inside a plastic box for about four weeks, in which is has ample time to ferment in it's own urine. Christian, our very charming host, explained that hákarl has likely never been made by burying it underground. It´s possible, he says, that this was done a very long time ago when people were still experimenting with the process, but now it´s much more efficient and sanitary to just throw it in a plastic box.
At this point, you may be wondering why anyone would go through all of this trouble just to make a smelly bite of shark meat. The flesh of the Greenland shark is very poisonous, and cannot be consumed unless it's been given plenty of time to leech itself of toxins. Apparently, some Greenlandic people still repeatedly boil the meat (throwing out the water each time) to make it edible, but the fermentation method is tried and true.
After the shark has been left in the box for a month, it is cut into hefty chunks, each about 5kg, and hung in a drying house. The pieces hang for about four months, depending on the weather. When the outside of the meat turns a crispy brown color, it's ready to take down. The brown crust is cut off to expose the white meat inside, and this is then cut into small cubes which are then ready to eat.

The hákarl shown here was very fresh. Well...ok...if you can call five months old "fresh". I've had hákarl a few times before and it always did have a fairly sharp sting to it. Not the worst thing I've ever tasted, but it certainly didn't leave me asking for more. This, however, was amazing. My friend and I both asked for seconds and thirds. There was no ammonia taste, but I still though it was a little cheesy. When I asked Christian about it, he explained that it does "go bad" if it's left out too long (which would explain the putridness of the flea market samples).
So there you go. Hope that clears up some things about how this traditional snack is made, and I hope it proves that it's nothing to be afraid of, no matter what Gordon Ramsey says. If you want to try real Icelandic hákarl that you don't need to hold your nose for, visit Christian and his family at their farm in Bíldudalur and don't be afraid to ask for seconds!

Stay tuned for four more exciting updates on how everyone is wrong about everything, except for me. Including whatfor's on;

2. Iceland and it's beautiful women

3. Whaling

4. Vikings

5. Fairies and elves

Laki

   Have you seen the Icelandic movie "Cold Fever"? It makes fun of cultural stereotypes, and the scene with the Icelandic taxi driver is my favorite part. He is driving the Japanese passenger from the Keflavik airport and starts chatting about how everything Icelandic is "the best in the world". It's funny because the conversation is nearly identical to real conversations you might have with an Icelander who is excited to show someone new around. "We have the most beautiful women in the world. We have the best lamb in the world, etc etc". 

   So it's no big surprise that Iceland also likes to take credit for the French Revolution. It's not nearly as much of a stretch as you might think. Yesterday my mom and I took a tour of the Laki crater area, which is about 75km east of Vík. In 1793, the ground split open and a 27km long chain of craters (135 of them) spewed fire lava into the air for the next 8 months. The lava flowed in giant rivers, covering a large portion of the southeast, and the poisonous fluorine-sulfuric ash drifted into Europe, turning the sky blood red and killing about six million people. Surely a terrifying time to be alive. The ash so sufficiently blotted out the sun that it changed the climate and led to massive crop failure and famine. Famine that (you guessed it) spurred the French peasants to revolt. 

   But even though the Laki area is very much active, it seems to be sleeping, and doesn't mind tourists crawling all over it's belly as it naps. A 4x4 is necessary to drive on the roads, and a few rivers must be crossed.

Hopefully this .gif works. You might have to click on it to see it in action. This is the first animation I've ever made.

Unfortunately, we didn't get outside too much on account of the rain and wind, but once you've seen one giant lava field, you've seen them all.
  Sorry for the skimpy updates. I will try to rectify that in the future. :-)

Trial and Error Horse School

Three days of riding Icelandic horses..
Day One: Æsa signed us up for horse riding lessons a few weeks ago and I had almost forgotten about it until she told us on Monday that our classes started at 20:00. I use the word "lessons" and "classes" very loosely. In typical Icelandic fashion, we were given no instruction, and no warning of what to expect. Sandra, Anne, and I walked down to the horse barn near the ocean around 19:55. (We can often see the horses playing in the corral from our high vantage point in the staff apartment. It takes a little over five minutes to get there, and I think it's the most extremely opposite building from ours in the entire village.) We figured we were a little late when we walked in the see everyone awkwardly trying on helmets and wondering if the chin strap was necessary on all of them. I was lucky and found a perfect fit on the first try.
We are a "class" of ten girls, and I think I'm the oldest one in the group by a few years. Half of the girls either work at the stable, or are experienced enough to get to choose their own horses. The rest of us were clueless. We were assigned horses and told to lead them outside and brush them. My horse was a gorgeous cream colored gelding (Stallion? Colt? I didn't look that close) with dark mane named Víkingur. I instantly loved him, even though he was throwing a fit of excitement about being let out and seemed a bit dangerous.
"Don't worry. He'll be fine once he gets outside", I was assured, as I watched him kick around in his stall.
To say that I got a crash course would be generous. I brushed one side of Víkingur for a long time and the other side for half as much because all of a sudden everyone was getting saddles. All of a sudden, all of the horses gained weight and a flatulence problem. Strange. They are very naughty.

Sandra leading out Gletta

 Somehow we all figured out how to saddle up and mount our horses, and we took a few laps around the corral to warm up and get a feel for them. I felt like Víkingur was a little wild, but he was easy to control, even with my crude maneuvering (which I compared to driving a car).
The trail we take is a big loop that follows the sea for a while, through the arctic tern nesting area, across the main road and through the golf course by the cliff, back across the road and by the Petrol Station, over the little river, through the lupine, and back through the sand to the stable. It takes about an hour.

Víkingur and me, looking nervous because my camera was dying.

Day Two: Rain! And I was so sore on my upper inner thighs. A very strange place to realize you don't have muscles. We were all hoping to get our same horses from the day before, but we were assigned a different one. I got Gletta, a light brown mare with a nice disposition. None of the horses seemed at all thrilled about having to go outside and haul around inexperienced girls in the cold rain. But the humans were still keyed up, having high expectations from the excitement of the first days' ride. I suppose it was about the same as before, except I wore my Carharts instead of jeans and was considerably more wet and cold. Anne got a smaller white horse, which looked incredible with it's white mane blowing back in the wind against the black sand on the beach.
After we came home, Anne and I talked about how nice it would be to have some instruction. I looked up a YouTube video and learned a lot, so I felt more prepared for day three.


Day Three: My horse hated me immediately. As I was trying to put the bridle on, he threw his head and hit me in the face. I didn't even remember his name, but I pet him a lot and talked to him in attempt to make peace. I could just feel that it didn't work. He was grumpy. I brushed him extra well and made sure the saddle was on really tight so he wouldn't try and funny stuff, and took him into the corral to do a few laps. He really had a mind of his own and completely ignored my commands. He was radiating this vibe of "I know you are stupid and have no idea how to ride me". Even more sore than Day Two, I couldn't even make it to the arctic tern area before forcing him into a walk. My back was killing me from bumping in the saddle. I knew I was doing something wrong, but Æsa assured me earlier that some horses are just bumpy, and of course we get the crummy horses. And the video I watched said just to get the rhythm of your horse, but it's impossible when your horse has the rhythm of a boxcar. I was really starting to think that horseriding is just no fun when you can't even keep your bum in the saddle. The lead girl came up to me and told me catch up, and I told her I just couldn't take it. I was about to suggest I turn back, but she showed me how to tölt!
If you're not familiar with Icelandic horses, they are a little different from other breeds. Other than their obvious size difference and personality quirks, they are most noted for having five different gaits. Other horses have three; walk, trot, canter/gallop. Icelandics also have tölt and flying pace, or skeið. They seem to be most famous for the tölt. This is the gait that they develop from birth, and although it has the same footfall pattern as a walk, it can be performed at any speed. It's also incredibly smooth.
So I hold tight on the reins, far ahead of the saddle horn, and squeeze my legs against the belly, and...a miracle! A tölt! What a feeling. It's the difference between eating sand and eating skyr.
It's safe to say that I fell back in love with horse riding. However, not all of the horses can tölt, or know how to take the command for it, so hopefully I'll get another tölter tomorrow. Only four more days left!

Ahh...relief for the bum! (for both of us!!)

Stealing Fýlar Eggs

Denní really likes birds. He probably wouldn´t go so far as to say that, but considering that he used to let a pet goose sleep in his bed (another favorite local story) and that he knows pretty much everything about all of the local birds, I would go so far as to consider him a bird enthusiast. You may remember Denní from other adventures, including Dyrhólaey and the basalt columns, and the epic puffin hike. He is Æsa´s father and part of the local tough-man legends around these parts. So last night while he was taking me out for pizza and Víking, the subject of birds came up, as it usually does when you talk to me. I learned that fýlar lay a single egg (sometimes one more) each breeding season, and they are the first seabirds to lay their eggs each year. But since they are so fat, they are the last to fledge. Denní had gathered some eggs just a few days before to give to his friend, and I expressed a desire to accompany him on his next trip. We made plans for the following day and I could hardly wait.

We went to the nearby cliff (the one that looms over the gold course) to find fýlar eggs in the evening. Although it is not a high cliff, it does have some tricky spots, so my job was mainly holding the bucket and following Denní around as he scooped up eggs. A little more about this person: Denní was born at a farm perched atop a mountain close to here, and spent his entire life exploring the area in the way that only little boys with Viking blood can explore. The way he fearlessly traipses over precarious rocks, or slides down a steep, gravely incline would make a mountain goat jealous. Having in health insurance, I tend to err on the side of caution, and tenderly navigate my pathways...even refusing to jump over small creeks (my legs are very short and I don´t trust them). So I can only watch this guy do acrobatics around me and put my youth to shame.

He had fashioned an egg staff with what looked like a small harpoon, and PVC joint on the end that is just the right size for a fýll egg. Although fýlar do not build nests, and they hang out right in the open, they can perch on the most sheer cliff face and they are often difficult to get close to. Hence, the eggs staff comes in handy. You may also remember that fýlar are the birds that use vomit as a defense mechanism. I had been very interested to witness this, and I got many opportunities. Denní actually got puked on one time, on his pants, and the egg staff was pretty much soaked in it by the time we were done. The smell is hard to describe. It´s fishy and sweet and completely acrid. A sticky smell. It´s a thick, oily goo that they use to feed their young. I cannot imagine being forced to eat this, but apparently it´s very tasty because young fýlar eat so much that they are too fat when they leave the nest and have to starve for several days before they are light enough to finally fly out to sea.

So that´s what it looks like. Luckily they usually give you a bit of warning before they spew. It´s probably not too fun for them, either. 

 

We gathered 36 eggs, which makes for a lot of sad fýlar. I hope that some of them are able to lay another egg. Once when Denní was around the other side of a rock for a long time, I watched a fýll come back to it´s nest to find the egg missing. It looked completely stunned, and kept staring at the empty spot, at me, back out to sea, and back to the empty spot again. It didn´t move it´s body at all and it was impossible for me to imagine that it couldn´t be sad. But if some fýlar are sad about losing an egg, then surely some of them must be relieved. No more responsibility! Well, that´s what I will tell myself anyway.

The final step to gathering these giant eggs is to test them for life. We washed them all and then sunk them in water. The eggs that rise up have already started to form birds inside. It´s still very early in the nesting season, so maybe only the eyes have formed, but we separate them for boiling. Some people say that the eggs taste better when the bird is growing inside. They are sweeter. I marked a few of them and will boil one and blow the other two out to make hollow eggshells. I took six eggs to cook for myself and the rest will be distributed to hungry Icelanders. 

I´ll let you know how they taste!

Grimsvötn

Volcano? I don't know what you're talking about.

Dirty South

I have two Slovakian friends now. One of them is working here at the hostel for a couple of weeks, and the other one is working on a dairy farm in nearby Pétursey. She also has a car, which is somewhat of a miracle. They're both really great people and a lot of fun, and I had the opportunity to spend half of the day yesterday taking a mini-tour around our area here in the Deep South.

Katka works at a pretty big farm (although it is small by Icelandic standards) with about 40 milking cows and 20 more bulls and calves. They also have sheep, and they are the largest carrot producer in Iceland. The orange-carrot jam that we serve at breakfast was made from the carrots from this farm. They also supply our grocery store in town, although recently their stock of 40 tons ran out, so no more carrots for a little while. We did get a chance to see how a dairy farm works. I've only seen samples of the process at state fairs back in the United States, where all of the real down and dirty work isn't put on display.

The cows at Pétursey farm have to wait a few more days until they can be released into the open, so for now they are still in pens inside, which sounds pretty miserable. However, this might be the cleanest farm in Iceland. Maybe in the world. 60 cows cooped up inside and it didn't even smell bad. Don't get me wrong. There was definitely a smell. My clothes still smell like the cow house, but it's not unpleasant.

We arrived as the farm owners were cleaning out the system. There was still a little soap in the lines, but usually they are cleaned after milkings. We walked around and Katka showered affection on each of her favorite animals. She can tell them all apart and has names for them, and told us about their various personalities. Calves drooled on her fingers and newborn lambs bleated in her face, to her incredible delight. I think Katka has found her calling in life. I've never seen someone get so much joy out of being around farm animals. She is like a loving mother to them all. And she's only been there for three months!

It's funny that as a fairly compassionate person, and someone who was a strict activist vegetarian for five years (and considering starting up again), I really just don't have much love for animals. I appreciate them and care about them, but I simply just don't melt around them the way that a lot of people do. I feel pretty strong about birds, and my heart really feels for them. There's some kind of connection there, for sure. But with mammals, I don't feel that. I don't even like petting dogs. Being in a room full of steaming, stamping, braying cows was fascinating, but I wasn't exactly in my comfort zone. Seeing someone going around kissing their slobbering faces was also a little baffling. It's always a good feeling to see someone else so delighted and happy, so that's what I enjoyed about it.

I suppose the other unusual thing about a person like me visiting a dairy farm is that I absolutely despise milk. Up until very recently, even the thought of someone else drinking it would make me gag. Icelandic milk does taste a bit different from milk in the USA, so I've been able to put crowberry milk over cereal some mornings and I don't feel sick. But drinking a glass of milk? Forget it. People are always telling me that I just haven't lived until I've tried milk "straight from the cow". And there is definitely something about that that sounds lovely. So my big motivation for coming to the farm was to finally try some of this famous "SFTC" milk.
Fortunately for us, one of the milking machines was malfunctioning a little and the milk from there was directed to go to the calves. And us. Katka divvied up the cans for the babies and we shared a glass of warm milk. Surprisingly, none of us had ever sampled it, even Katka who milks twice every single day. I think Michal liked it the best. He drank most of it. We all agreed that it has almost no taste and was surprisingly thin. I wasn't impressed and still felt a little grossed out. Especially when we watched one of the cows being milked drink from a bucket of fresh milk. Milk that may have been her own but was definitely her neighbors. There was something a little kinky about that. I almost felt like I shouldn't have watched it.

I'm still not sold on milk, but baby cows sure do love it! And everyone likes watching baby cows drink milk.

After our little farm adventure and gaining a whole new respect for the amount of work that goes into farm life, we headed out to the base of Eyjafjallajökull where there is an old swimming pool. I had been there before, briefly, but was interested to see it again. Michal and Katka have never really been anywhere, so it was a good adventure for everyone. The pool was built in 1923 and is heated with water pulled from underground. You may remember that Eyjafjallajökull is the volcano that erupted last year and bothered all of those people in European airports. It's still a very active area and further up on the glacier, the ground is still red and will continue to be hot for a few more years.
The pool was never one of the fancy town pools with showers and other frills. It was simply built into the side of the mountain with some modest changing rooms. I'm pretty sure there was never even a toilet. When Eyjafjallajökull erupted, a massive amount of ashy water rushed down into several places, including the valley that this pool occupies. As a result, the valley was cut much larger and a rocky river rushes through it, completely black with cliffs of ash flanking the sides. Scientists calculated that during the eruption, up to 1,000 cubic meters of ash were being send into the air every second. 1,000 cubic meters will fill 100 trucks. Entire walls and numerous large piles have been made of the stuff, and luckily it makes pretty decent fertilizer.
The other effect of the volcanic ash was that it completely filled the pool. It also pushed open the changing room doors and filled each of the three rooms and collapsed the benches inside. It's a mess. However, it's incredibly remote and beautiful.
To get to the pool, you must trek across the river. Waterproof shoes are necessary unless you don't mind getting wet, or are brave enough to attempt balancing on a pipe that spans a portion of the fast-flowing, ice-cold glacial meltwater. Then just follow the path and look for the plumes of steam and you're there.

The pool is called Seljavallalaug and was never maintained. A small sign in Icelandic posted on the side of the building tells when it was built, who the first person was the swim there, and to please clean up after yourself and no dogs. Even when it wasn't full of black ash, it would often have algae growing on the edges. On the day we visited, algae was indeed in full bloom on the remaining wall, but the water was hot and inviting, and I stripped down and plunged in. I had expected the water to be very shallow, but it was actually fairly generous. Standing up in the deepest part, the water came to my waist. A gentle slope of ash under the water made a decent beach and lean against. When it was stirred up, the visibility dropped to almost zero, and it was a similar experience to the Blue Lagoon, being able to vanish just an inch below the surface.
Michal joined me in the pool only a minute after, and Katka eventually overcame shyness in favor of a luxurious soak, and soon we were all marveling at our incredible luck to be in such a place. Katka pointed out that we would remember this for the rest of our lives, and I was very glad she said that because she was right.

The only thing missing was towels.
...Next time!