Ice, Ice, Baby

In his book, Gnarr talks about how much nature and the elements affect the Icelandic way of being. Even Icelandair tells me that the “climate is a surprise to every visitor.”I believe that the seasons – and often four seasons in one day as I have witnessed here – have such an impact on coping and adaptability and create a distinctive sense of humour or optimism. The effect of rain and of wind (or Kári, named after the Scandinavian god of Wind) especially, on the landscape and the people is integral. On the way toward the glacier the other day I saw small clumps of moss and grass clinging with fierce tenacity onto the rocky barren ground with a determination, resilience and durability. It reminds me of the people living here.

My optimism and adaptability are also severely tested this day. Apart from a huge day ahead – 0700 start and an approximate finish time of 2200 hours ish – this is the third day in a row that has rained non-stop (i.e. since I arrived in Iceland), and it will involve the bus breaking down, and passenger issues and lack of sleep due to dorm-buddy issues. However, I have more of the impact of Iceland’s climate and beauty to behold.

Let me first tell you about the dorm buddy.

Last night was Saturday night so she went our partying which is fine but she returned at about 0130 waking everyone with banging the door and rearranging stuff. I had gone to bed about 2030 cos I knew I’d be up about 0600 for my bus at 0700, so in a way I am glad I got a few hours sleep before she returned. Once settled, my roommate then proceeded to fall asleep and give us all an orchestral arrangement of snore-song that mimicked whale-song, just as sonorous but not as lovely. There was a selection of staccato snorts and long noisy exhales, a variety of loud deep snores interspersed with breathy nostril and throat control sounds to match any opera singer. It was quite a repertoire and we enjoyed the almost two hour concert. Just when it quietened enough to make us happy with anticipation that we could finally sleep, her alarm went off. At 0330.

But not just once. She set it to snooze, so it repeated every ten minutes. Nobody said anything but I knew everyone was awake as there was a lot of sighing and position changes in beds. By the third round of her alarm, I’d had enough and called out ‘turn it off!!’ She ignored me and the alarm went off twice more before she arose in a huff, banged around, used her bright phone torch, gathered her things, and slammed the door on exit. Everyone breathed a deep sigh. Unfortunately, I had to get up at 0600 but I had stuff I’d prepared previously, woke before my alarm, and left quietly. Even I know that her performance is just not dorm etiquette. No flights or tours leave that early so it is a mystery as to why she left at 0330 but, as you can see, my day did not start out the best.

The tour bus picks me up and we all ready ourselves for a four and a half hour road trip one-way (a 740km round trip). It will be a big day . As I enter the bus, the tour guide – a lovely young Icelandic woman called Hilda who I have big chat with later – moves her things and I manage to score the very front seat which has a great view out of the front window. But, literally as soon as I settle into the seat not believing my luck, a woman from further back asks me if the seat next to me is spare. In my sleep-deprived state (this seems to be a trend, making poor decisions due to lack of sleep), I accidentally say no and she moves in at the speed of light. So, I thought I would have a leisurely space to put my bag, access my phone for the camera, even have a small nap, but no. I am languishing in my new situation of being squashed up against this woman who proceeds to include me in everything she is looking at. She also constantly looks over me back at her female friend, only two rows back, who is fast asleep and luxuriating in the spare and now unoccupied seat beside her. I sit my backpack on my lap, grumbling under my breath. She tells me to put it up the overhead space. I ignore her and use it to rest on, and fall asleep as we leave Reykjavik behind, heading east along the South coast.

Our destination is the lagoon of Jökulsárlón Glacier to view the icebergs that are shearing off it and floating out to sea. But first, one of Iceland’s biggest waterfalls, Skógafoss.

A bulbous head of cliff looms out of the mist and has no less than five waterfalls in wide rivulets spilling their contents onto the flattened valley floor some fifty metres below. It seems like the cloud has descended to envelop us. Barely visible small homesteads sit at the base of craggy overhangs. We pass a long narrow jagged escarpment thick with waterfalls like jeweled beads. We cannot see the top of the escarpment as it it is shrouded in cloud. In fact our visibility has worsened; we are driving through cloud now and the constant rain deadens the view which is limited to about only 100 metres on each side of the road. I’d love to see the countryside on a clear day. That is yet to happen. But it makes me feel a bit like explorers voyaging through the unknown.

We pass the volcano of Eyjafjallajökull, but it is in the hazy distance. Volcanoes here are 60% active dormant and the rest are active active meaning they can erupt at any time.

As we drive, Hilda explains other interesting tidbits of Iceland weather, history, contemporary commentary, and also language. She tells us that Icelandic has evolved less than other Nordic languages – and the old Icelandic accent is more Viking (from ancient Norway) – and therefore it is easier to read the old sagas. It is also why other Nordic countries cannot understand Icelandic. Icelandic has a lot more English in it these days (especially since Britain then America occupied Iceland during WWII).

She takes us all through how to say Good Day (sounds like golden daag), Thanks (sounds like takk), and See You (sounds like bless bless and is actually from English). A small number of the group are from France so Hilda expertly translates what she has just said in English into French. Her accent is impeccable and she speaks it slowly and clearly. Even though I listen to the English, I can understand her French easily. I discover later that Hilda completed her degree in languages in Iceland then lived in France for 8 years. I learn that the lady beside me is French but I am too tired and grumpy to bother speaking to her. She continues to annoy me though, with adjusting her position on her seat, leaning over me to take photos through the windscreen, emptying then refilling her bag looking for something, bumping me the whole time.

We pass through a picturesque village called Vik which we will return to for dinner. It is a relief, a couple of hours later, to reach the waterfall, Skógafoss, and to escape the confines of my annoying seat buddy. Even though it is raining, of course, it is a breathtaking sight. And thunderous.

I venture close to where the spray is falling – I am already wet from rain anyway – and can appreciate its power and majesty better.

We return to bus wetter but refreshed. The rain eases a little which makes better viewing but we still have a long way to go.

I decided at the waterfall to let her have the front seat. It was what she wanted anyway – the way she was impinging on me in my seat made it evident she wanted the space to herself. I could have argued the case but I chose not to. So I let her have it. I have a great view out the side windows anyway, and I don’t get crankier. Easy.

With more space, my mood lightens and I look forward to the lagoon. We drop off some people at Skaftafell who have paid for a different tour in that park and will retrieve them later. Then we pull in for a lunch break. I try to avoid my old seat buddy, but she approaches me and asks in English was she was a problem? Normally I would shake my head and politely say, no, not at all, even though I’d be lying, but this time I look at her and I choose not to reply. She is affronted but walks off and leaves me alone. I am not in the mood to justify my actions to her.

Replenished, we return to the bus to bad news. The bus has broken down and we have to wait an hour and a half for the replacement bus. Another passenger and I joke that we are trapped on the bus like in the movie Speed but the opposite – going nowhere. There is nothing to do but go back into the coffeeshop, stay indoors out of the continuing rain, look at souvenirs, have a coffee and chat to the tour guide about her language degree and living in France.

Finally, there it is in the distance. A bay full of floating icebergs, distinguishable even through the downpour. By the time we arrive, we are on the second last boat tour. Our guide organises the tickets and we descend to wander the foreshore and stare in awe while we wait. She tells us to look for the boat. I see some Zodiacs on the beach so I stay near them thinking that is where she means. Meanwhile, there are a family of seals frolicking among the nearby bergs. They are fascinating to watch. Every now and then the tide spills up the shore from the wash of a nearby iceberg turning over. I am spellbound.

I don’t know what it is that makes me leave the shore to go stand on the hill, but as I do I see the tour guide beckoning madly at me – I almost missed the boat! Well, it is a boat-cum-land-vehicle thingy (amphibious vehicle) which, once I am loaded on and I have my lifejacket on, proceeds to back out of a small cleft in between the hills and drive into the waters of the lagoon. Soon we are floating.

A man in one of the Zodiacs leads us safely – and our boat follows – in between the icebergs. They are simply awesome.

The tour guide of our boat instructs the driver to cut the engines for a while, and we float without a sound past these majestic sculptures.

He snatches some ice from the water and proceeds to break bits off it for us to try.

We cruise around for at least 30 minutes, some people exclaiming but most in subdued wonderment.

I am amazed at the colours! Blue means it has more recently sheared off the glacier. Black means dust of volcanic ash. Even the shapes are astonishing; each of the abstract forms a piece of water/climate art.

When we return to shore it seems as if the whole bay has filled up the outlet to the small river, and is chock-a-block with ice.

Some people may find this sort of thing a bit boring but I thought it was damn cool. No, I thought it was unmissable.

We reboard the bus all chattering and excited after our adventure in the boat among the icebergs, and head to the road where we can see the ocean waves, not more than 200 metres from where we were. The face of the glacier from which these bergs came is 5 km away, so they have a long journey floating through the lagoon to the sea.

We return to pick up the displaced passengers who had waited two hours for us at Skaftafell and then the village of Vik for dinner. As compensation for our delay, Hilda arranges for us to get a free meal! It is the famous Icelandic lamb stew or soup called Kjötsúpa and it is delicious and warming.

The rain finally stops as we head into sunset passing Eyjafjallajökull again but this time we are able to see it. Later, in the dark we stop at Seljalandsfoss, another waterfall that is lit up. It is strange to walk up to it in the semi-darkness and be wet by the spray.

The clouds clear somewhat as the sun goes down. It as if Iceland has said to me, “Jen, well done for tolerating all the crap that has happened today as well as the climate for the past three days. As a gift, here is a gorgeous sunset, and for the cherry on top, a rainbow!” Thanks, Iceland. Takk.