Ice #3 : Snussa

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ICELAND #3 : SNUSSA

Needless to say after my shark 'n' schnapps adventures at her
father´s, Disa took the wheel and drove us through the mountains
to Snussa. She burst out laughing when she looked sideways at
my weak smile, then said that her father was probably taking a
nap by now, too. The little red Renault Twingo sped out of the
city in the rain, and soon we were engulfed in a dense fog at
the higher elevations. The roads are black and narrow in Iceland
and, as mentioned earlier, drivers like to test one another´s nerve.
Many hug or straddle the center line, only shifting a little toward
the shoulder at the last moment to avoid sudden death head-on
collisions. This is even more fun in dense fog.

Snussa is the summer cabin of Ingibjorg and Gardar, Disa's friends.
The rain so thick this first day on the road, my recollections
of the Icelandic countryside are of cloud, the rhythm of wipers,
and narrow black roads that vanish fifty yards ahead. I was
glad when we reached Snussa, a lovely cabin, rust-orange with
red doors and trim. Outside on the sundeck was the hot tub.
Inside, we had everything we needed: bedding, towels, cooking
utensils, heat, coffee maker and grinder, small stereo player.

When it´s clear, Snussa overlooks a wide flat plain, leading
across to a row of mountain peaks which include, to the east,
Hekla, one of the more famous volcanos on the island. At night,
from the front deck, there is a view of the lights of the town
of Fludir on one side and Skalholt on the other, with its tall
church lit up in gold. As we unpacked I realized how much time
and money Thordis had put into this getaway. She´d brought
enough food and refreshments for two weeks, including many
things unique to Iceland. The first evening we had cod breaded
with pistachio, purchased fresh en route. This was delicious.
Later, we ran through the chill night air to relax in the
steaming hot tub. The water in Iceland comes from underground
geothermal stores. You smell a moment´s sulphur when you turn
on the hot water tap. Home heating is achieved via radiators
using the same subterranean hot water, one of the benefits of
living on a volcanic island.

A sweetness, to be together with Disa again, after all these
months apart, floating in a hot tub at Snussa at midnight
with Icelandic jazz wafting from the open cabin window, the
waxing moon fighting through swift-moving clouds to spill a
chalk light on the deck. Laying back, I took the deepest
breath I´ve taken in a long while… and could not help but
cry. We´d gone a long time since seeing one another and,
though we´d spoken on the phone many times and shared web
chats and e-mails, physical distance takes its toll. To hold
her, to hear her laugh, see how her smile lights up her face,
and witness again in person the brilliant dance of her mind…
these combined to slow my heart to a kind of peace I haven´t
known since she flew away last summer to work in Reykjavik
as a counselling psychologist in the school system.

The next morning we rose early and hit the road. Disa had
things to show me. As we bounced down the potholed backroads,
me at the wheel now, we saw a small herd of Icelandic ponies
in the field to the left. I pulled over. Disa unlatched the
farm´s gate and we walked inside, latching it behind us. A
half-dozen of these adorable, multi-colored, pint-sized ponies
with their long rock-star manes came nuzzling up to us.
They´re native to Iceland, shorter than typical horses, which
means you can have rather intense and up-close eye contact
with them. Their gentle nature impressed me, along with the
experience of being licked and nudged and bumped by so many
of these creatures at once. Their eyes, peering at you from
behind the thick mops of their manes, gleamed with the
unpredictability of the moment. I felt such love for them
and their rebel-wild looks.

Next up were the falls at Gullfoss. Their sound alone is
humbling, frightening. I could imagine the earth giving
way and caving underfoot, as the vibrations from this
wide waterfall were felt through my boot soles. The spray
soaked us as we got within a few meters of the final
descent of water. I had never heard of these falls, but
they are every bit as magnificent as Niagara´s. From
Gullfoss we drove on to Geysir, so named because of its
geysers. If they haven´t filmed a war movie here, they
easily could, as they'd save a lot on special effects.
The steam rises like devil´s breath from dozens of openings
in the earth and envelops the whole area. The most active
geyser at the moment is Strokkur, and true to its reputation
it erupted moments after we stood near it, first producing
a rising torquoise blue bubble, then blowing an eighty-foot
plume of water and steam into the sky.

We stopped in Fludir on the way back to Snussa for a few
items. Disa bought me some Skyr, a thick and creamy yogurt-
like treat that is unique here. I found a pair of reading
glasses very cheap, and a few things for the curry I was
making for the evening meal. Disa knew of a man in Fludir
who cultivated roses. Magnus was his name. We looked along
the narrow streets for his glowing greenhouses. We went
into the greenhouses, but Magnus wasn´t to be found.
Knocking on the door of the nearby house, we were greeted
by a white-blond and clear-eyed eleven year old Icelandic
boy, Jonas, grandson to Magnus. He said hello, and reached
to shake my hand. He had a red t-shirt on with St. Louis
Cardinals scripted across the front of it. I asked him
where in the world he got this t-shirt, and he said an uncle
in Norway who liked baseball gave it to him. For him to have
the same name as my son and be wearing a baseball t-shirt
8,000 miles from America made the scene surreal. I noticed
in this boy, as I had in other Icelanders whose doors we
knocked upon or in some cases just walked through, that
there is no fear of strangers in rural Iceland. There is
a respectful fear of active volcanos, yes, earthquakes too,
storms off the sea during fishing season, of course... but
not of other human beings. Perhaps in Reykjavik I will see
a little of it, but outside the main city there was no fear,
not in the ponies, not in the children, not in the people in
the village streets.

That evening I treated Disa to my recipe-less curry, served
on a table with a few roses and red wine, as outside under
the almost-full moon it began to snow lightly. If you want
to feel as though you have travelled outside of the circle,
to a place where the plug of stress has been pulled from
the wall, then Iceland is a place to consider.

You may remember Disa´s explanation of how children are named
here. Her brother, Sverrir, is Sverrir Gudmundsson, taking
Gudmundur´s first name as his son. Sverrir runs a musical
instrument repair shop out of his basement in Reykjavik, a
block from Disa´s. Gudmundur´s last name is Halldorsson. Disa
is Thordis Gudmundsdottir. In the phone book, people are listed
by their first name. In the case of a Magnus, for example,
there are something like 1350 such Magnuses listed in the
Reykjavik phone directory… meaning that you need to know what
Magnus does for a living and find him by word-of-mouth, unless
you want to dial 1350 numbers. The Magnus who grows roses
(blomasolumadur, i.e. bloom maker) would be found this way
if Disa did not already know of him. In the graveyard, under
the person´s name and dates of birth and death, it lists their
profession or gift. This is how people are distinguished, then,
by father and by what they offer to the community. I would be
Douglas Jamesson, songmadur, the guy relaxing in the hot tub
at midnight catching snowflakes in his mouth, sipping a glass
of Jack Danielsson.

Disa remembers when she was the same age as that boy at the
greenhouses, Jonas Magnusson (his father had the same name
as the grandfather, i.e. he was Magnus Magnusson), and the
island of Heimaey, one of the Vestman islands off the south
coast of Iceland, had a massive volcanic eruption. She watched
in awe on television as another Magnus Magnusson and a few of
his fellow Icelanders sprayed water on the molten flow of lava
as it headed toward the main town. This had never been done
before and it was the subject of much ridicule initially,
referred to as pissa a hraunid (hraunid meant on the lava,
you can figure out the rest). Well, with help from better
and better hoses, including some from the U.S. Army Air Corps,
the lava was diverted in this way and thousands of lives and
homes were saved. How strange, then, that I should read to
Disa in bed later from the John McPhee book that I'd brought
from Canada and, unknown to me, in that book this very event,
from the 1970´s, forms a main essay. Disa remembers, through
the eyes of a young Icelandic girl, wondering at the courage
or stupidity of these men standing in their boots on the very
lava they had just cooled with their water hoses, two inches
separating the soles of their feet from the molten lava. “It
is very Icelandic, that…” she says, referring to the defending
of a community against the incandescent fires of the mountain
in any way possible, and at any risk.

The third night, after a day visiting the site of the island´s
most ancient church at Skalholt – they´ve built a grand new
one, but the remains of the old are being excavated next door
by the graveyard – we have barbecued lamb. Disa arranges
everything this time, including the roast potatoes and carrots,
the broccoli, with the hjirmjolk (rice pudding) for
dessert. It is outstandingly delicious, this meal. We follow it
with a rich black coffee with brown foam, and look out as the
twilight skyline to the west glows with pinks. I am reminded
of the Icelandic girl, four years old, Ingunnjulia, whom I met
in Vancouver at Disa´s UBC graduation party. After I had
announced and played a blues for the gathered guests, little
Ingunnjulia leaned over and whispered to me, “Mr. Doug, can
we play a pinks now?”

Tomorrow, the forecast is for sunshine. We are headed back
to Reykjavik, this time via the south coast road through a town
called Eyrarbakki from which we may, if the weatherman is
correct, be able to see the Vestman Islands. These islands
are where, some thirty years ago this fine woman at my side
saw the miracle of men performing the pissa a hrautnid.
All I ask is that, one more time, on our way down out of the
mountains, we stop by a farm and stand among those Icelandic
ponies. I want to hug one, let him lick the salt from my face.

Love from Iceland,

DL