In the twilight zone

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This was published 15 years ago

In the twilight zone

The dark, cold days of winter are an endurance test for Icelanders. Thank goodness for the elves, Sacha Molitorisz reports.

By Sacha Molitorisz

It's 3.30pm as our plane touches down and, moments later, the sun follows suit. Which is funny, because it only just rose. In Iceland, in December, each "day" is shorter than a Viking's temper, yielding only four hours of feeble sunlight.

During winter on this windswept, volcanic lump of rock just north of nowhere, the days are dim and the nights bottomless, and in between are the interminable twilights. We've only just arrived, but already we can empathise with Iceland's Nobel Prize-winning author, Halldor Laxness, who described "the monotony of horizonless winter days". This is not fair. Not theinterminable twilights, but the fact that a country as remote, inhospitable and sparsely populated

as Iceland can boast a Nobel Prize-winning author. And the wonderful, bizarre singer Bjork. And the equally wonderful, bizarre band Sigur Ros. And the bold filmmaker Fridrik Thor Fridriksson.

How can a country with 290,000 people produce these, and more, great artists? Especially when their diet includes reindeer pate and dried puffin strips? For the hardy souls who live within ice-skating distance of the Arctic Circle, darkness, cold and puffin strips obviously combine into some sort of potent artistic stimulant.

Presumably the beer helps, too. My wife and I gained our first impression of Icelanders in the departure lounge at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. Awaiting our flight to Reykjavik, we were surrounded by tough-looking, swarthy types with steely, stoic eyes - and by their husbands.

And many of them were drinking beer, even though it wasn't yet lunchtime. Beer, we learn, was illegal in Iceland until 1989; less than two decades on, Icelanders seem to be making up for lost time.

It's an overcast twilight as we land 50 kilometres south-west of Reykjavik at Keflavik Airport, which was built by the US for military purposes during World War II. In the gloaming, we travel by bus to the Blue Lagoon. As you may know, The Blue Lagoon is a cheesy film starring Christopher Atkins and Brooke Shields. Fortunately, this Blue Lagoon is something different entirely: Iceland's most famous geothermal spa. And that's saying something, given Iceland is a country that has nearly as many geothermal spas as it has puffins with strips missing. In the freezing dead of winter, Icelanders love nothing better than stripping down to their skimpies and hopping into pools heated by the Earth.

By the time we arrive, darkness has finally fallen, like a feather onto snow, and the Blue Lagoon is surreal and eerie - two adjectives we're about to start using far too often. Just like "lunar". A large steaming pool amid the volcanic boulders, it has waters that are a deep, unnatural blue and a bottom that is unworldly in its whiteness, caused by the naturally occurring silica. Despite the faint whiff of rotten egg, paddling about here is wonderfully soothing. There are too many clouds to see the northern lights, but we could easily get used to being submerged in a hot pool as Arctic winds threaten to form icicles on our eyebrows.

The surrounding landscape is eerie. And surreal. And lunar. Even at this tourist attraction, it's easy to understand why Icelanders are so fond of magical creatures such as elves, fairies and Bjork.

Another bus trip later, we arrive on the slushy streets of Reykjavik, which isn't the world's prettiest capital city. Its suburbs are functional and neat, but nondescript, which is perfectly understandable once you realise this is the world's northern-most capital city.

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Having said that, Iceland's climate isn't as terrible as you might think. The winters aren't any colder than in, say, Berlin. Indeed, I've heard it said that Iceland is green and Greenland is icy. Remind me never to go to Greenland.

The reason for the "moderate" climate is that a branch of the Gulf Stream flows along Iceland's southern and western coasts. Unfortunately, when this warmer air meets the colder Arctic air, instability ensues, bringing frequent storms, rain and snow.

Iceland never gets hot. Even in summer, the temperature is, as the locals put it, "refreshing". The average maximum temperature for Reykjavik in July is 13 degrees. But then it doesn't get too cold, either. In December, the temperature usually hovers between minus 2 degrees and plus 3 degrees.

The temperature is around zero as we walk from our hotel into the centre of Reykjavik. Here, it turns out, the capital is pretty and inviting. On the main strip, a one-way street that changes names nearly as often as local puffins check their backs, there are cobblestones, wooden buildings and fairy lights reminding us Christmas is imminent. The part known as Laugavegur offers one charming cafe/restaurant after another.

We choose Solon, a warm eatery with cool music, where we soon make three observations. One: the food is exceptional. Two: there are lots of hip, young people about, most of whom are strawberry blond and look like pop stars while sitting in cafes writing film scripts on laptop computers. Three: offering to pay is foolish, because everything is outrageously expensive. A coffee costs $6, a beer costs $12 and a hamburger costs $20.

Iceland deserves its reputation as the most expensive country in Europe. The currency is the kronur, which you needn't bother knowing, given you'll never hold onto them long enough to establish any sort of relationship. As a tour guide tells us, Iceland is so expensive that the locals rarely go out. Strangely, it's not because everything is imported: the seafood is abundant, and the fruit and vegies are grown in hothouses. During our stay, I am unable to obtain a suitable explanation.

The next morning, we can't find the morning. As the hours pass, the light keeps threatening to break, before taking fright and retreating back to its hidey-hole. I return to reading Independent People by Laxness, who is the Icelandic equivalent of Patrick White, except with goblins.

Here is Laxness's description of the morning twilight: "Slowly, slowly winter day opens his arctic eye. From the moment when he gives his first drowsy blink to the time when his leaden lids have finally opened wide, there passes not merely hour after hour; no, age follows age through the immeasurable expanses of the morning, world follows world, as in the visions of a blind man; reality follows reality and is no more - the light grows brighter. So distant is winter day on his own morning. Even his morning is distant from itself ... Forenoon, noon and afternoon are as far off as the countries we hope to see when we grow up ... "

It's hardly surprising that Icelanders are obsessed by the light and the seasons. In summer, the sun almost never sets; in winter, it barely rises. And with all the cloud cover (darn Gulf Stream!), Reykjavik residents enjoy only 12.1 hours of direct sunshine in December. That equates to about 20 minutes a day. Still, that's better than inhabitants of Akureyri, on the island's north coast, who enjoy an average of zero hours of sunlight each December. Remind me not to visit Akureyri in December.

In 2004, The New York Times sent a reporter, Sarah Lyall, to discover how Iceland's residents staved off depression during winter. A psychiatrist, Andres Magnusson, told her the people had genetically adapted to live in a country with so little light. Well, to a point.

"It can be very romantic," Bryndi Olfafsdottir told Lyall, hinting at the cerebral pursuits (reading and philosophising) and sensual delights (hot spas and sex) to be had during winter. "Actually, though, I would like to live in Spain."

Maybe it's a myth, but I read somewhere that the suicide rates in countries such as Finland and Iceland, where winter days are just a cruel tease, peak in spring. It's after surviving the winter that most people top themselves, knowing that summer is on its way, but that yet another winter lurks beyond, in the shadows. In any case, whether true or not, Iceland's suicide rates are no higher than Australia's.

With the morning twilight dragging, we walk back into Reykjavik's compact centre, where snowflakes start tumbling onto our heads. This is exciting, especially for my wife, Jo, who has never before seen falling snow. She runs around in erratic circles with her face turned skywards and her mouth agape, trying to catch flakes on her tongue. Meanwhile, I'm on the lookout for the snowflake tattooed on Bjork's arm. The singer doesn't live in Iceland any more, but still visits regularly, often to see her son, Sindri, who turns 20 this year and lives in Reykjavik with his dad, a former bandmate of Bjork's from her days in the Sugar Cubes.

Unfortunately, we don't see her during our first three days in Iceland, which we spend exploring Reykjavik's attractions, including the cottage where Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev met for a peace summit in 1986. How ironic that these two leaders chose to visit Iceland to thaw the Cold War.

We spend an exorbitant amount of time eating and drinking. The cafes and restaurants in Reykjavik prove to be consistently excellent, including Vitabar, which is rightfully famous for its blue cheese and garlic hamburger. Even with frozen bullets raining down from the skies, Reykjavik has a warm, understated buzz. Its nightspots are cool without trying too hard, and many only get going at about 1am.

On our fourth day we don't see Bjork either, but we do visit a beautiful crater where she performed. It's in the course of a tour of some of Iceland's most famous natural attractions. We visit Geysir (that's the Geysir, after which all others are named) and Gullfoss, the stunning waterfall that was very nearly dammed for electricity.

We also visit Thingvellir, Iceland's oldest national park, where the snow falls on us again, this time in huge, glorious flakes. Iceland, we are told, sits on the junction of the North American and Eurasian continental plates, which are moving apart from one another at the rate of two centimetres a year. This explains all the geothermal spas and volcanic activity. At Thingvellir, which sits on a rift valley, you can see where the two plates are rubbing up against each other, creating lumps and depressions.

There is another significance to Thingvellir: apparently it is the world's oldest parliament. And it is crucial to the story of Iceland, a story of lashings of suffering bookended by flashes of prosperity.

Between 874 and 930, Iceland was settled by Vikings, most of them fleeing from nasty Norwegian monarchs. Icelanders remain intensely proud of their Viking heritage: enshrined in their sagas, this history is the cornerstone of their culture. Perhaps more significantly, Reykjavik's favourite brew is Viking Beer.

In 930, Iceland's settlers established their parliament, the Althing, at Thingvellir's natural amphitheatre. Each June, representatives from all over the land met for two weeks to resolve their disputes. From 1030 to 1163, a golden age flourished.

Sadly, the golden age succumbed to the Age of Stone Throwing (seriously, 1230 to 1264), which was a sun-soaked picnic compared with the 600 years of poverty that followed when Norway's King Haakon implemented a harsh wool tax. These were dark centuries: the volcano Hekla erupted in 1389, Norway forbade Iceland to trade with other nations and in 1627 3000 Barbary pirates kidnapped 242 unlucky locals.

Then things got really bad. After another volcanic eruption, an outbreak of smallpox killed a third of Iceland's population.

But then the good news. Finally, an independence movement delivered domestic autonomy in 1874, home rule in 1904 and sovereignty in 1918, even if ties to the Danish crown were not severed until 1944.

Since World War II, Iceland has prospered, thanks largely to its fishing industry, which continues to thrive. Our guide tells us these days most fishermen sell their catch by mobile phone long before they return to shore. You can get a sense of how much Icelanders love fish from the fact that the town of Grindavik boasts a tourist attraction called the Icelandic Saltfish Museum.

Thingvellir is beautiful, particularly under snow, and fascinating for its history and geography. In 1928, Parliament proclaimed it "the sacred site of all Icelanders".

But this is not where Bjork performed. Instead, she performed in an implosion crater named Kerio, which we also visit. Fifty-five metres deep, it has a lake covering its floor, where Bjork set up a barge and held an unamplified concert, relying on the volcanic crater's natural acoustics.

The landscape here is eerie, surreal and lunar. In Iceland, where the land buckles, bubbles and boils, it's no wonder just about everyone believes in elves.

Unfortunately, we don't see any elves this time. Or Bjork. And the aurora borealis, or northern lights, will have to wait until next time. As will the puffin strips. After four days that seem too short - perhaps because they are - our flight to Paris takes off at 8am, in the darkness. Daybreak is still several long hours away.

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