New four-wheel drives rule the road in Iceland.

By Rudy Brueggemann

Written August 1998

Besides sheep and rain, the first thing visitors to Iceland notice is the abundance of new cars. This observation struck me soon after I arrived on the north Atlantic island nation, the cloudy morning of June 3, 1998. Driving into the capital, Reykjavík, all I could see were pricey, four-wheel-drive vehicles, despite gasoline priced at about $1.10 a liter. In fact, I saw little else on the roads during my two-week stay.

To an outsider, it made no sense why cars and trucks older than 10 years had become virtually extinct and replaced by snazzier gas guzzlers. Were Icelanders wealthy enough to discard cars every few years? Curiosity piqued, I started quizzing Icelanders I met.

Almost everyone I spoke to had ready answers (to protect the innocent, I will use pseudonyms). Jens a farmer who gave me a ride the first of my two weeks in his country, said while shopping for a used car, he couldn't find one listed in the newspaper older than 1980. Armed with this information, I suspected a criminal syndicate and a nationwide operation. Then, based on more anecdotal hearsay, I uncovered an underground economy linking Iceland to the Evil Empire of the Cold War.

When I quizzed Leif, another middle-aged Icelander I met on the road, I learned that Icelanders loathed the steep taxes assessed on the resale of used vehicles. So, they found buyers from visiting Soviet cargo ships on through the early 1990s. Leif said a used Volkswagen that could sell for just $2,000 after taxes in Iceland could be bartered on the black market at the piers with Soviet seaman (with possible Russian mafia connections) for quick resale in the U.S.S.R. In exchange, the Soviets would pay in vodka, by the case, which an Icelander could then sell illegally to an alcohol-loving populace for about $20,000. Prices varied on the car and its condition, of course.

"My father used to have an old Lada," said Olafur, an older Icelander who lamented not selling the Russian-made jeep. "Oh, they would have paid a fortune, if I could have sold it to the Russians."

A tourist deluge is overwhelming Iceland, as seen in these converted military transport vessels and their tourist cargo.

Unlike old cars, budget travelers are a common sight in Iceland, especially during the peak summer season, when the arctic summer daylight bathes the island in northern light. In fact, Iceland has become the rising star on Europe's adventure travel circuit since the early 1990s, despite the country's notoriously high prices. Backpacking Europeans make up most the visitors.

In summer, the main campground in Reykjavík will have as many as 200 tents, plus 100 cars and motorcycles. Some wealthier David Livingstone wannabes ferry over with $50,000 Land Rovers, to explore the no-man's land in the rugged interior on the Kentucky-sized island.

Iceland's growing tourist stock makes perfect sense. The nation is barely two hours by plane from London or Amsterdam, and accessible by ferry from Denmark. Iceland's also free from Europe's crowds and pollution, while blessed by photogenic landscapes that turn up in every corner of the island.

The scenic town of Olafsfjördur sits at the head of Eyjafjördur in northern Iceland.

When asked by my friends to describe that visually stunning -- though oddly sterile -- scenery, I say, imagine a Hawaiian island, with prominent mountains and coastal basalt cliffs battered by torrential rains. Take away the mosquitoes, palm trees, and tropical sun. Add icebergs as large and larger than Los Angeles. Toss in some active geysers and barreling cataracts, with some volcanic explosions optional. Make sure the cast members are Scandinavian looking. Et voilá, you've got Iceland!

Like its geological blood brother, the "Big Island" of Hawaii, Iceland boasts soggy corners and a permanent desert terrain, where black volcanic rock stretches for miles on an arid steppe. Iceland's vast volcanic-dotted interior calls to mind central Oregon, with its many craters and cones.

In the dry interior of northeast Iceland, volcanic plains and hills fill the bleak horizon.

Much of Iceland, however, is coated with a lush moss and grass carpet. Hundreds of thousands of sheep keep that greenery neatly fertilized and manicured, while providing wool for export. Trees, cleared during the early centuries of Norse settlement after the 10th century A.D., are seen only in cities and isolated tree farms.

True to it's name, Iceland is home to six large ice sheets, including the largest glacier in Europe. Measuring a kilometer thick and covering 3,300 square miles, the Vatnajökull ice field occupies a huge chunk of the island's south, creeping down to sea level through narrow chasms. Visible for hundreds of miles from the island's main circular highway, Ring Road, Vatnajökull is a visual feast.

Europe's largest glacier, Vatnajökull, climbs down from the mountains to the sea in southeast Iceland.

Despite its northern latitude, just south of the Arctic Circle, the temperature is mild. The Gulf Stream keeps the climate wet and surprisingly warm. Even during winter, temperatures in Reykjavík average about 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Plenty of rain accompanies that warm air. The capital records 32 inches of rain a year, or slightly less than Seattle. However, Iceland's wettest city, Vík, registers nearly 100 inches of annual precipitation. Ten of my 14 days in Iceland, in June and July, were marked by heavy downpours.

For lovers of wild, charismatic mammals, Iceland falls decidedly short. It's more like a giant animal farm, with occasional visits by whales and seals on the coast.

The most common mammal is the sheep. This docile animal knows no natural predator, and as a result, few Icelandic farmers bother using sheep dogs. The sheep seem to be everywhere, too, spread throughout the ubiquitous farms.

Drive any Iceland road and every farm will have its own sign, leading to a white building or two in the distance, with ivory-colored walls and red roofs. Sometimes a farm is accompanied by a tiny, isolated Lutheran church, bringing to mind Catholic shrines in the Americas. In the summer, bales of hay sit in the field, wrapped in white, pink, and green plastic bags. Though this rural image conjures a peaceful images, the repetitious monotony of green fields, sheep, farms, and hay bales can be soporific.

For tourists, the Iceland horse (equus scandinavicus) is the most photogenic mammalian resident. They are hard to miss while driving country roads. Similar in appearance as the Shetland pony and sporting a seductive long mane, the small breed is a favorite among Europe's doddering nobility and wealthy eccentrics the world over. Like some Mongolian breeds, the Icelandic horse has five, not four, gaits: fet (walk), brokk (trot), stök (gallop) skeið (pace), and the infamous tölt (running walk). The latter is so calm, riders scarcely notice any movement.

The Icelandic horse is world famous for its long mane and five gaits.

The Japanese also love these horses, but for their tasty meat. Icelanders I talked to couldn't agree about the controversial topic of exported Iceland horse meat. But they enjoyed discussing the controversy, I think, because of its scandalous nature, much the way Americans revel in discussing Bill Clinton's infidelity.

"They only kill the old ones, who would be put to sleep," said one farmer on Iceland's southern coast. "Iceland horses are sold young to Japanese meat buyers. Their meat is a delicacy in Japan," said another Icelander, from Reykjavík, who wasn't ashamed Icelanders were turning a profit.

Iceland, above all, is famous for its numerous bird species. They are everywhere: auks, gulls, skuas, puffins, razorbills, kittiwakes, sandpipers, arctic terns, oyster catchers, and more. I couldn't walk an Iceland beach without being scolded by oyster catchers or sandpipers. The terns, however, would gang together and dive bomb me to protect their young, who nest in the grass. During nesting season in early, Iceland truly is a birders' paradise, if one can tolerate the birds' feistiness. The image of thousands of nesting gulls, soaring and shimmering above the green cliffs of Vík, will stay with me forever.

As a people, Icelanders are hard to crack. On the street or in passing, they tend not to smile, though most Icelanders speak fluent English, and have wonderful manners with visitors.

To get to know the Icelanders, you need to talk with them privately. On my flight to Iceland, I was lucky to have such an exchange with an ex-pat named Ole, a retired fisherman from Vancouver, B.C., who left Iceland when he was 20. Ole returned every summer to visit his sister. The day we arrived, she met him at the Keflavík airport. They offered me a lift to the capital and later invited me over to their Reykjavík apartment for fried fish and, of course, black coffee. Ole also gave me a personal tour of the city. Great hosts, the Icelanders.

In 1986, the Reagan-Gorbachev summit was held in what's now called the "Reagan-Gorbachev house" in Reykjavík.

Unlike many Europeans, Ole exuded a typically Icelandic unpretentiousness. Historically, Icelanders never suffered through European-style aristocracy. To this day, Icelandic society is without a class system. Instead, their national character was forged through the painful trials of their stubborn, independence-minded forefathers. And if history teaches any lessons, Iceland proves there's no substitute for slavery and natural disasters for strengthening the national backbone.

Icelanders endured centuries of foreign domination (by Norway then Denmark) and, later, attacks by slave-raiding European and Arab pirates. The last occupiers were British, who seized control of the island in 1941 to keep it from falling into Nazi hands. (Americans replaced the Brits soon after during the war, and remain to this day.) Older Icelanders I talked to also boasted of the "hard times" just a century ago, when their grandparents' survival meant catching enough cod in the cold Atlantic.

The proprietor of Skogar's folk museum, Tørdur Tømasson, occasionally plays the organ for visitors.

Even nature routinely conspired to thrash the lowly, sparsely numbered Icelanders, who only number 270,000 today. Iceland recorded massive volcanic eruptions in the 17th and 18th centuries, including Laki, in 1783. That disaster killed three quarters of the island's livestock and a fifth of its people. The frequency of the volcanic pyrotechnics is due to Iceland's location above one of the world's most active geological zones, the Mid Atlantic Ridge. This pressure zone is so volatile, that one-third of all the lava spewed on the planet in the last 1,000 years is Icelandic in origin. The last eruption in September 1996, underneath Vatnajökull glacier, wiped out portions of Ring Road with a tidal wave wash more than 12 feet high and a quarter mile wide.

Deep down, Icelanders know their world can literally blow out from under them, which probably keeps the national ego humble.

Icelanders do enjoying boasting about their AlÞing, the oldest, continuous parliamentary tradition in the world. The AlÞing dates back to 930 A.D., when the early Nordic settlers established an anti-monarchical body to administer law and order on their inhospitable hunk of volcanic rock..

A geyser near Myvatn reveals the geothermal activity bubbling beneath Iceland's surface.

The first parliamentarians met southeast of Reykjavík at Pingvellir ("the assembly plains"), which 998 years later became the first national park. The early AlÞing gathered some 48 chieftains and 96 advisors for an annual two-week schmoozefest. Occasionally, the AlÞing forced undesirable ruffians like "Eric the Red" into exile. (Being a good Norseman, Eric had settled a blood feud against a neighbor by avenging the murder of two of his slaves -- nonviolent the early Icelanders were not.) Branded an outlaw in 982 A.D., Eric set sail for Greenland, then returned to recruit daring colonists, who left for Greenland four years later aboard 25 long ships. Of these, 14 reached their destination on Greenland's west coast, beginning five centuries of Norse settlements that mysteriously vanished in the early 1400s.

Iceland finally won complete independence from Denmark in June 1944. The new government adopted a constitutional system based on the Danish legal model. The country also continues to tolerate foreigner meddling, including an American-led NATO contingent, which built a large military base at the Keflavík airport 45 minutes out of Reykjavík on a desolate volcanic peninsula, and a missile warning system to detect Soviet nukes during the Cold War. But since declaring its independence, Iceland has lived at peace, having no armed forces or a military budget. It has prospered by harvesting the ocean for cod, shrimp, and other seafood exports valued at more than $1.25 billion a year.

The governing body is still called the AlÞing, and all parliamentary debate happens in a modest, three-story stone building in Reykjavík that's smaller than most neighborhood churches in the States. I felt like I was entering someone's bedroom uninvited when an AlÞing guide gave me a personal tour of the small chambers, where the 63 legislators gather to debate national politics. It felt very democratic inside that room, built to human scale, open to everyone.

So it's no surprise to me that Icelanders expertly exploited their abundant geothermal energy to its fullest democratic potential via the ubiquitous sundlaug, or swimming pool. These facilities are found in every Icelandic city and hamlet. A sundlaug isn't just a swimming pool, heated via free underground energy that's harnessed through centralized heating plants. It's the very hub of Icelandic culture, the Icelanders' conquest over the cold, their dominion over a cruelly hostile nature. The sundlaug is an Icelander's pub, barroom, dance hall, and social club, all wrapped in one.

The swimming pool, or sundlaug, in the Reykjavík suburb Laugardal, features an Olympic-size pool and four Jacuzzis.

A larger facility always will have an outdoor swimming pool, heated to about 85 degrees Fahrenheit, plus at least one warmer Jacuzzi. The fancier facilities also include kids pools, slides, multiple hot baths at varying temperatures (95-115 degrees), and possibly a sauna and massage room. The pools' locker-room showers blast out Iceland's wonderfully hot and faintly sulfuric smelling water.

After a swim, Icelanders will take showers as ritualistic as a Japanese tea ceremony. This requires a healthy scrub while chatting with a friend, followed by more slow-paced conversation while dressing. The daily sundlaug experience can last more than an hour.

I found the pools so refreshing, not because of their cleanliness, but the way they stripped away human pretension. Believe me, it's hard to be arrogant in a Jacuzzi wearing just a bathing suit, when you're surrounded by kids, the elderly, young men eyeing the young women (and vice versa), families bathing together with their young babies, and businessmen -- and -women -- chatting about their work. No one particularly cared if you had a limp or a birth mark, and I saw more of those than I thought imaginable, and all displayed without embarrassment. Plastic surgeons clearly have not made great inroads on this island. And I can't remember feeling so liberated then the times I strolled naked in the men's locker room gazing at the practically hairless bodies of Icelandic men.

In Iceland, nothing beats a refreshing float in a heated swimming pool.

Occasionally a young girl or two in a Jacuzzi would laugh at me and whisper to her friend when they saw my dark chest hairs and dark beard. Clearly I wasn't an Icelander, though no one really cared where I was from or how I looked. I simply was the guy with dark body hair and blond hair on top -- I mean, that is weird looking. If only the rest of the world could be so relaxed about the human body.

On my last day I swam twice, at morning and night. On that final visit to the deluxe sundlaug next to the campground where I stayed, I counted more than 30 people in one of the small heated pools. It was 8 p.m. and would remain light for another three hours. The pool bubbled soothing hot water. I looked around and saw relaxed, disinterested Icelanders talking to one another or merely drifting in thought. Sure, I didn't look like my pool neighbors, but I felt I had become their adopted son, if just for that final bath.

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