Dear Editor,
I recently read an article in a Swedish newspaper that said that in Iceland it is possible to meet with elves, or as you often call them in Iceland, ‘the hidden people’. I have long been fascinated by elves, ever since I saw the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I am a big fan of Legolas.
I would like inquire if it is possible to book an appointment with an elve when I come to Iceland, preferably in its natural surroundings rather than in a display booth? Where should I turn? Do you pay by the hourly rate, and are discount rates available? Also, is there a bar in Reykjavik frequented by elves? I would love to meet one outside of their working environment.
Thank you so much for your time,
Goran
Vaxjo, Sweden

Dear Goran,
Thank you for your letter. Several people will claim they can put you in touch with elves. I am not familiar with any specific website that makes this sevice available, but you might want to seek out Salarrannsoknarfelagid, (www.srfi.is) an association of Icelandic spiritists. I am not sure what elves charge for their services, but I would imagine that they follow similar rates as taxi drives, with a starting-fee of 450 ISK. Elves would most likely attend the live music venue Organ, since their interest in music and dance is very well documented. I would say that is your best bet to meet an elf outside of work.
Hope this helps,
Editor.

It’s been an amazing final week up here in this glacial valley of Skagafjordur.

On Tuesday the foreign team, AKA non-Nepali boys took a mission up to the hot pots of Saudakrokur. These beautiful little pools are situated on a point overlooking Drangey Island, a meeting place for millions of migratory birds including puffins. There is some debate as to whether the ocean here is the Arctic or North Atlantic. Since oceans don’t really have borders and I’m on the north coast of Iceland, I’m going to say it’s the Arctic, which means given my rather short dunk I’ve swum in all the world’s oceans.

On Wednesday we got a day off to hike the tallest peak in the valley. It was clear, allowing us spectacular views of the massive Hofjokull and Langjoskull glaciers.


On Thursday our boss Maggi surprised us with an impromptu shotgun shooting competition.

Friday’s rain brought out the adrenaline in some of us and we went creek hunting, hoping to kayak some waterfalls. We missed the window on this creek, but Chris and Yuji had nice runs of Reykjafoss. I’m a pansy and opted out.


Then came today with my last run of the East River, and oh what a fun trip it was. The rain’s brought the river up to a fun level and I got a five load of big Icelandic electricians keen for a wild ride. I specifically asked them what kind of run they wanted down the most difficult rapid, the Green Room. There were plenty of hoots and horned hands so I figured that after the second drop I’d head back up steam into the hole and see what happens. Here’s what happens:




One of the larger guys didn’t have a good time of it, however. In the case of large men in one-size-fits-all life jackets you never know what’s going to happen when you add this combo to churning, boily white water. In this case the dude stayed down a long time, in the green room, as we call it. By the time he hit the surface he had reasoned he would die. His brain at some point told his lungs to take a big old swig of oxygen as is the case when one’s panicked. Unfortunately for Ollie or whatever his name is, he hadn’t reached the surface yet and exploded from the swirling waters a sputtering, vomiting mess. By the time the flip was cleaned up and I reunited with my crew he just stared me down with his blood shot eyes and washed out face and said ” you bastard.” It’s all fun and games until somebody thinks they almost drowned. Rafting is over, my time in Iceland has come to a close. It’s time to go back home.

A group of 13 year Swedish girls spent most of their trip shouting “oh my fucking God.” My favorite was a Dutch family; mom, dad, and their 12 and 13 year old sons. You can imagine my surprise when upon tripping into the raft at the starting point the youngest boy belts out a hearty “oh fuck”. My ears perk up and I flash the mom an apprehensive glance.

“What did he just say?” I ask.

“I think he said ‘oh fuck,’” says mom with a look that acknowledges my curiosity regarding his choice of words. She doesn’t seem too concerned and during the course of the trip drops a couple “oh shits” and f-bombs herself.

One of the keys to Northern Europe’s mastery of English comes from the fact that they don’t dub over English movies so they have endless opportunity to practice listening. The point I’ve only recently considered is that our Hollywood titles are so littered with expletives that this manner of speech seems normal to non-native speakers. So basically “fuck yeah Scandinavians speak great English.”

“Save a horse, ride a cowboy.” I don’t have to laugh because Jhaks is already chuckling at his own joke despite the fact that it’s the fourth time he’s told it in the past three hours. Don’t let his incessant talk of “bitches” (beetsiz), or scoring some pussy, or pretty much constant gyrating fool you; he’s a good guy deep down but perhaps just a bit too compulsive for his own good.

He’s one of the six Nepalese guys I’ve been sharing a small trailer with this summer in Iceland. Jhaks isn’t a full time staff member so he’s been relegated to couch surfing. Although he drinks pretty much constantly he’s the only boozer among them that doesn’t make me uneasy when he’s drunk.

I get off the river early one afternoon and Jhaks is watching Nepalese music videos in our ramshackle hut nicknamed Kathmandu. My bare feet stick to the linoleum floor and the place smells strongly of stale beer and curry. Jhaks is surround by the empty cans of his half finished case of Vikings.

“Day off Jhaks?” I ask. He works in Saudakrokur’s fish processing factory 20km north.

“No man. I just didn’t feel like going.” Just like yesterday. His eyes don’t move away from the screen and I know he’s going to start some commentary on the beetsez soon.

“Oh man. I will pay 20,000 kronur for her. Fuck I want to buy her for the night.” I know he would.

Ashok walks into Kathmandu singing along with the video. He stops, still staring at the screen and launches into an intense conversation with Jhaks in Nepalese.

“Bibbity bobbity ma chigney doobity lado ma chigney hoobity puty ma chigney lado.” We’ve become wise to the way of Nepalese cursing and still marvel at their ability to fit so many ma chigneys (mother fuckers) into the same sentence, followed closely by a few lados (dick) and puty (pussy). This is in no way how typical Nepalese people speak, but you can count on the Nepalese raft guides for an amusing “dick motherfucker fuck pussy dick” tirade. In this sport Ashok is the champion.

Ashok

He stops and turns to me, closing his eyes with a slight bow he says “how are you today Mr. Jesus,” my nickname for the summer.

“I’m alright.”

“I’m vedy happy to hear that.” Then he settles in on the sofa next to Jhaks, his partner in crime and fellow squatter. They don’t clean, hardly work and generally seem like guys lost in the world. I’m baffled by how Ashok can be so polite and considerate one minute and such a sketchy lado ma chigney the next. While Jhaks is harmless, Ashok has a wild streak and a violent temper. He’s the brother of our head boatman Anup and is basically in Iceland because there are too many people back in Kathmandu, Nepal who want him dead, including his mother. Two summers ago Anup got a phone call from his mother swearing that if he didn’t bring Ashok to Iceland she’d poison him at breakfast. Over the course of the summer we’ve started to understand why.

Unfortunately for Yuji from Japan, he’s taken the brunt of Ashok’s wrath. One night after partying down at the hotel Yuji asked Ashok not so smoke in Kathmandu. Yuji is one of the few Japanese males who detests cigarettes. Ashok exploded and promptly went to the kitchen for the biggest knife he could find. It took three guys to hold him down as he shouts, “I will fucking kill you, I don’t care ma chigney!” I believe him. Then one morning while having a quiet conversation over breakfast Ashok erupts out of his makeshift bed on the living room floor, belting out a long string of lado ma chigneys. Okay, so he’s mad, I think. Then he puts on his favorite Nepalese pop at full volume. I shout something about it being the morning and turn it down but he doesn’t see it’s me with his head buried in his covers.

“Who the fuck turned down my music ma chigney!” Up goes the volume again. This time Yuji grabs the remote and within thirty seconds the brawl starts. Yuji’s a pretty big dude and gets Ashok in a headlock. Raj and I come over too and soon Raj has the little fucker restrained on the couch and he’s promising over and over “I won’t do anything, I’m done. I won’t do anything.” Raj lets him go and he immediately goes for the guitar. Yuji braces for it as Ashok smashes it on his back. As Ashok tells the story now, “that Jap broke my guitar.” He smirks when he says it but he seems a bit disappointed as he used to play it the most. A guy who destroys what he loves is a guy who doesn’t care.

First Mr. Doyle-Kelly gives it a go.

It doesn’t end well.

I’m next.

Then little Karu dazzles us with his deep throat action.

He wins.

I first arrived in Iceland’s capital a month and a half ago. For being the center of everything and hosting over half of Iceland’s modest population of 300,000, it still strikes me as small and quaint. The downtown area can be covered on foot in an hour. There’s a big famous church, a lake, neighborhoods filled with the fanciest corrugated metal houses you’ve ever scene, and a shopping street that comes alive with Reykjavik’s notoriously hip bar scene every Friday and Saturday night. This is a proud city with small town charm.

On our Friday off me Yuji, Chris, and his friend Patricia de Espana meet up with Lovisa the Swede and head out east of Reykjavik. Outside the city the terrain turns into a flat valley floor of rough black basalt, an old lava flow that has since been covered in thick green moss. As you walk along the ground bounces like a giant green mattress. Vents spouting steam spot the surrounding hills and serve as a constant reminder that the forces that once blanketed the land in lava are still at work. We park near a simmering mud pot surrounded by sheep. This is Iceland at it’s finest. An hour hike brings into view a gorgeous valley that is literally steaming with boiling creeks and pools. We spend an awesome day soaking before heading back to Reykjavik. This weekend is the gay pride parade which is a pretty big deal here. One of my raft customers tells me the gay pride weekend is a bigger party than independence day. When even Grandmas come downtown to watch the parade with rainbow flags in tow you know you’re in a tolerant place.We’re excited to jump into Reykjavik’s party scene that starts to fill the countless bars and pubs around midnight on weekends. The scene is always delayed by a home drinking session where the booze is cheaper. A beer out in Iceland is typically 600 kronur at the very least. That’s $10 bucks. So when the bars finally fill up between 1 and 2am the masses are already loaded on home brews or are still sneaking swigs from can beers or hip flasks. Not so gay Pretty gay Reykjavik doesn’t disappoint. We wander the strip most of the night before heading back north to be on the river for a noon East Glacial trip. Is rafting a dangerous sport? It might be. Not because of rapids, rocks and drops, but because your raft guide might be running on zero sleep and bourbon.

Case of beer- $41.50  Party supplies don´t run cheap here.  No sir.

Shot of Stroh-  $8.30  Ah, the spirit of Austria. 

 

Number of Varmalið Hotel burgers consumed by raft guides this weekend- 13  If you came all the way to Iceland just for this burger the trip would be worth it. 

 

Guide swims- 1

Number of moons to finally make an appearance- 1

 

It´s finally starting to get dark here.  Happy verslunarmannahelgi everyone.

]]> http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Danny-in-Asia/verslunarmannahelgi.html/feed http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Danny-in-Asia/the-russian-extravaganza-three-days-on-the-east-glacial-river.html http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Danny-in-Asia/the-russian-extravaganza-three-days-on-the-east-glacial-river.html#comments Thu, 02 Aug 2007 18:22:11 +0000 Administrator The East Glacial River (Austari-Jökulsá)

The East Glacial River is a blast to raft and pumps just big enough to give kayakers a run for their money too. It is one of the best rivers in Europe and definitely one of the most technically challenging. My company, Activity Tours, offers a three day trip on the East which is the only overnight raft trip available in Europe. Three days ago fifteen Russians showed up for this, our third trip down the entire Austari-Jökulsá, as it´s known in Icelandic.

We´ve been anticipating these Russkies for weeks, expecting a liver workout with endless vodka shots. Yes, they bring plenty of vodka, but these super rich folks from Moscow and Petersburg seem to have developed more of a taste for whiskey, good whiskey, which is thankfully more down my alley. They don´t mind sharing either.

On the first day we drive up to the hut in the interior of Iceland. Once we get out of the valley and on the top the terrain goes completely lunar. There are no plants, only rocks and crisscrossing streams that our fearless driver Valdi charges through without hesitation. The hut overlooks a large hot spring where you can soak, enjoy a beer, and gaze out on the massive Hofsjökull glacier, the source of our river adventure.

Then Anil Gets Wasted

There is one caretaker, the warden, who stays at the hut for two months straight during the summer. He´s over to start chatting the moment we arrive. You can see the cabin fever in his eyes. After dinner all us guides head to the hot pot with beer and wine in tow. The warden is there too.

“You need a beer?” he asks. “I´ve got a lot of beer. One more month´s worth.”

“Thanks.”

“I´ve got lots of weed and mushrooms too.” Of course he does. I wonder how many trolls and elves he´s met up here walking the rock fields high on shrooms.

I go to bed at 3am. The next day is long and I want to be fresh. When I wake up at 7, Anil, the Nepalese bulldog is stumbling into the kitchen with his swim trunks falling down his waist. Anil´s the cook so I assume he´s coming in to start breakfast.

“Where did you sleep?” I ask. He obviously thinks I ask where are you going to sleep because he points to the kitchen floor with a queasy smirk and passes out in a naked heap, grunting and farting while the rest of us guides exchange uneasy glances.

Anil and the warden spent the whole night in the hot pot getting drunk and stoned and eventually fighting.

“He held me under the water so long time,” recounts Anil, slurring his words. “Not under like this,” he puts his hands on my head, “but like this.” He grabs my neck and starts to squeeze.

“I get it, I get it.” It got hot in the hot pot.

This isn´t the best start to our trip. Not only is Anil the head cook, he is also the gear boat guide. There are 22 people total on the trip and all the gear must be loaded on one 14 foot Avon raft. We were worried about keeping the Russians on schedule, but Anil is now the anchor weighing us down. He sleeps through breakfast and takes forever to load the gear boat which is a beast. The dry bags are super heavy, filled with bottles of whisky and port as we later learn.

The Wrap

After 45 minutes of rafting on “the moon” atop the chalky glacial waters the river´s banks grow steeper and the fun begins. What follows is three hours of continuous class 3 drops and boulder gardens. Me and Karu are having a blast in our kayaks, and so are the three paddle boats, but Anil is in hell as his drunk descends to hangover and he tries to maneuver the behemoth through the maze of rocks. At one point I watch him pull and pull on the oars as he watches the approaching rock he´s about to get parked on. The boat does nothing and he´s stuck there for a half hour in the middle of the river. There is nothing I can do.

Thirty minutes later we´re waiting for him again when an oar floats by, then a dry bag, then lunch. Something has happened upstream. It turns out to be the worst wrapped boat we´ve seen. It´s completely submerged, all tubes, and there is a rock that the whole thing is pressed up against. The rock start the problem, but how it managed to essentially sink an air-filled raft is beyond me.  It´s hard to picture how it happened but it did. It takes four hours to get off.

We don´t get to our next hut until 9:30 without stopping for lunch which is now fishfood. We are hungry and cold but the Russian are good sports and are happy with the deli sandwiches (tomorrow´s lunch) and lots of booze. The dry bags were overpacked and many peoples´ things are wet. Most of the dry bags were submerged in fast moving current for four hours so sleeping bags, clothes, and even cameras are wet. It hurt to see a Canon SLR camera in the garbage the next day. But they still don´t seem to mind. Some relish the adventure we shared and this makes me happy. Of all the things that can go wrong on a river, a wrap is the most frustrating. To get a boat unstuck you need lots of muscle and time, a tedious, exhausting process. After a couple of vodka shots (half a cup each) and we pass out.

(After the wrap day)

A Great End

The next day we run our regular East Glacial run minus the gear. We have a van come pick it up at our normal put-in.

At night we gather at the company´s beautiful summer cabins and enjoy a hot pot soak and dinner. Maggie, the boss and owner has bought us some Icelandic delicacies, hákarl, which is putrefied shark, and brennevin, Icelandic schnapps. It´s nickname is “the black death”. This is a memorable albeit disgusting way to kick off our party that goes well into the night.

Sometimes as a guide it´s difficult to remove oneself from all your past time on the river and just run a river blind, not comparing, not overquestioning the lines, but just charging down and reading the river as you go. This was that kind of trip for me, just going along for the ride. Minus the wrap it would have been perfect. Scenic, remote, challenging, and packed with great whitewater, the East Glacial River has to be the best raft trip available in Europe.

]]> http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Danny-in-Asia/the-russian-extravaganza-three-days-on-the-east-glacial-river.html/feed http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Danny-in-Asia/a-night-out-in-blonduos.html http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Danny-in-Asia/a-night-out-in-blonduos.html#comments Mon, 30 Jul 2007 22:57:58 +0000 Administrator At midnight they arrive.  You never know it´s midnight here which is made obvious by the fact that me and Chris the Cannuck are on our way out the door to play frisbee and watch the sunset.

Two girls get out of the car and introduce themselves.  I´ve given up on Icelandic names already and tap people on the shoulder if I want to talk to them. 

“You want to go to Blonduos for a party?”  You´re damn right I do.

We drive an hour skulling beers and possibly vodka through Iceland´s rocky, sunny scenery and arrive at this so called party.  It´s more like a shitty band in a high school gymnasium and costs 3,000kronur to get in.  That´s $50!  I´m not paying $50 to get into anything.  Chris goes in ands scouts out the sneak in possibilities.  Through a stroke of luck we all happened to have taken the bouncers rafting the previous week.

“Can you let me and some friends in?” asks Chris.

“How many?”

“Like…eight?”

“No problem!” 

The girls who drove us are pissed because they just forked out the 3,000kr.

The band was such complete crap that if I had paid to get in I think I might have murdered the lead singer in my drunken rage.  This is pretty much how the rest of the night went:

Whoa, almost tripped there.

 

I´m okay, I´m okay.

This guy right here…this guy is the guy. I love this guy.  Then I passed out on the car and the police took pictures of me.  I think I´m really starting to fit in here in Iceland.

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