PUFFINS!

So glad I didn't eat one of these little creatures! Seeing them in their natural habitat has been the absolute highlight of this journey, and I am thoroughly indebted to Svenni for taking us to these cliffs. The Westman Islands, off Iceland's southern coast, are home to the world's largest Puffin breeding colony, but the past few years have seen a decline in the bird's numbers. An article in this week's issue of The Grapevine, Reykjavik's English language paper, reports a 25% drop in the Islands' Puffin population, qualifying it as an endangered species. Islanders haven't stopped hunting them, but the paper says that local hunters have at least agreed to cut back on the killing. In addition to hunting the birds, scavenging for Puffin eggs on the cliffs is another popular sport on the Islands. When I saw Svenni drop to the ground and land on his back, I assumed he'd been knocked over by the formidable winds (Heimay is apparently the third windiest place in the world, according to some official list from some official office). Turns out he was egg hunting, laying on his back, one arm shoulder-deep in a Puffin hole, expertly searching for a precious, sizable egg. He didn't find one. Did you know that Puffins lay only one egg a year? Yet another factor in their current crisis. But enough with the depressing factoids. Here is an adorable little anecdote: When Puffin chicks hatch, their mothers abandon them so they can learn to fly on their own. In order to fly, a Puffin must be able to see the ocean, for reasons I don't fully understand. Sometimes, the tiny Pufflets get confused and slightly hypnotized by the city lights beaming from Heimay, and they mistakenly fly into town instead of towards the water. This happens every year in late August, prime Puffin season, and I can only imagine what it might be like to stroll down a street crowded with bewildered Puffin chicks. It's become a tradition for all the children on the island to go around and collect the chicks in baskets, bring them back to the shore and set them free. With the ocean back in sight, the birds are able to fly again, a ridiculous sight that everyone should witness in their lifetime. Puffins are terrible at flying, so awkward and clumsy, but so cute. Moral of the story: Don't eat Puffins!

The Sea Baron

The man who supplied us with our shark fix. He's famous!

Shark Bites!

Rose and I had been anticipating this moment, our hearts full of dread, since we arrived in Iceland. The timing couldn't have been worse- it was 10 in the morning and our bellies contained only a meager breakfast. Regardless, this was something we had to do. As I wrote in a previous entry, the shark delicacy, called hakarl, is not cooked, but rather dried, cured and finally frozen, a process that can take up to six months. I expected the meat to reek of poison, but thankfully it emitted only a potent, fishy odor. I assume the freezing serves to quell the stench of ammonia and acid, chemicals that accumulate within the kidney-lacking sharks and would surely kill any fool attempting to ingest the fish raw. As for the aftermath of my video, I couldn't manage to swallow my hakarl, mostly because of its unbearably rubbery texture. I would've been chewing that teensy bite for hours, a prospect that I'm even shuddering at right now, hours after the experience. My fingers are still perfumed with fish smell, and I pity the sucker who will soon be sandwiched between me and Rose on our flight home. Smell and mouthfeel aside, the hakarl didn't taste as ghastly as I expected. It was very salty and spoiled, but my body had prepared itself for the flavor of rotten fish, so fortunately for you, the viewer, you were not forced to watch me projectile vomit all over the Reykjavik harbor. You're welcome.

The Kindness of Vikings

So far, Rose's and my interactions with native Icelanders have been exceedingly pleasant (save for the shuttle plane operator who pushed me off the stairs rather than verbally inform me that it wasn't time to board). Every time we've approached someone for travel tips, the stranger's response has been to not only answer the question at hand, but to take us under his woolen sweater-clad wing and nurture our struggling itinerary until it is strong and chock-full of rewarding activities. Truth be told, as a couple of young, female Americans, the men who have assisted us (yes, sadly it's only been men) may be taking interest in our plight for largely biological reasons. Still, these guys conduct themselves in a way that is neither creepy nor overbearing. In our travels thus far, I've not been oggled, whistled at or aggressively approached by one man (except of course for those American sailors). Despite the culture's Viking origins, the country doesn't seem to celebrate machismo like a part of me expected it to. I'm giving the World's Strongest Man competition a free pass here because it was Independence Day, and it was sooo awesome. Let us not forget that women have always played major roles in Icelandic society, even dating back to Viking times. The world's first openly gay female prime minister currently presides over the government. Perhaps more strides towards gender equality have been taken here than any other place I've been.
Back to my initial topic- There was Fridrik, the grandfatherly hotel manager in Skogar who gave us free breakfast, printed us weather forecasts from the Internet, and planned us out a two-day sightseeing excursion in southern Iceland after dismissing our original schedule for being pointless, and even a little dangerous. We ended up doing everything he said, praising his name all the way. Please, if you're ever traveling Iceland, stay at one of Fridrik's All Season luxury hotels, and tell him we say hi. I've also mentioned Svenni before, the convenience store manager who gave us a free tour of the Westman Islands (where we flew to on Fridrik's suggestion). After wolfing yet another delicious gas station sandwich, I asked him if he had any tips on Puffin sighting, to which he replied, " Wait 15 minutes and I'll drive you to the Puffin cliffs." And so began the most exciting adventure I've had in years. Seeing Keiko's old pen was interesting, but nothing compares to seeing Puffins in the wild. Being native to the islands, Svenni is a seasoned Puffin hunter, and knew exactly which cliff to look for them at. More about our amazing Puffin adventure will come soon, but for now, because I told him I'd do my best to throw some business his way, here is a photo of Svenni's shop in Heimay, Westman Islands.

Keiko's Story

When Svenni, our convenience store clerk/Puffin tour guide, was driving us around the island of Heimay, he made a point to stop at a particular nook of the main harbor where he regaled us with an interesting (albeit tragic) anecdote about one of the world's most famous whale's. The story stuck with me, so I'm sharing it with you. Keiko was a great Killer Whale, born wild in Icelandic waters in the 1970s. After being caught by a fishing boat as a youngster, transported to North America and doing a stint at Canada's Marineland, Keiko was selected by Hollywood producers to fill the title role in "Free Willy" (I know y'all cried at that movie, so don't act like you've never heard of it). No one knew quite what to do with Keiko after the film's release, so in 1998 the Icelandic government decided to purchase back the giant Orca, reintroduce him to his natural habitat and eventually set him free. This was a mammoth task, and ridiculously expensive, because Iceland had to enlist a U.S. Airforce Hercules plane to move the whale all the way to Heimay. Part of the harbor was sectioned off and whale-proofed to ensure that Keiko would have plenty of space to move around, but also so that he wouldn't be able to escape until he was strong, healthy and acclimated to his surroundings. Everything progressed swimmingly, and by 2002 Keiko, fitted with a tracking device, was released to the wild. He followed a fishing boat to Norway, where he instantly earned fame amongst locals and tourists alike. His friendly disposition and comfort around humans made him a hit with tour boats off the Norwegian coast. But the icy waters did not agree with Keiko, and after a year of freedom the whale succumbed to pneumonia. I'm sorry if this story totally bums you out, and also because it's not that relevant to our travels, but for some reason it just tugged at my heart strings. These are some pictures of Keiko's old house.

What the Hekla?

This area is so remote, and the terrain so rocky that I wouldn't advise that anyone with a similar vehicular situation to ours attempt to travel there. Sadly, we were unable to approach the base of the volcano because of our car's limitations (nothing against the Skoda Octavia, finest motor carriage the Czech Republic has to offer). But you can see in the photos just how bizzarre and martian the area is. If you must abandon your car and continue by foot, as we did, pick a good landmark to remember your parking spot. Though it didn't feel like we'd walked far, Baby Sko (as we lovingly refer to our wheels) somehow vanished in the black desert, and we wandered aimlessly for a bit, chasing mirages, until she at last revealed herself behind some ominous lava rocks. We promptly got the hell out of there.

Ham n' Cheese on Highway 1

If you're ever in the neighborhood, this stop is about halfway between Reykjavik and Selfoss! They gave us free coffee because we were so jazzed about their sandwiches (at press time, we've each consumed about 5).