Dry Wednesday
By GEORGE SCOTT IAKE me, take me,' said the drunk. 'Take me.' THe reeled against the camera. It was 4.30 p.m., Wednesday, in the main street of Reykjavik, capital of Iceland. A second drunk, gibbering unintelligibly, joined the first. They leaned against each other and gawped eagerly, amiably, into the face of the camera. The Panorama cameraman was trying to focus on a statue of one of the distinguished figures of Icelandic history. The two rather less distinguished representatives of present-day Iceland blurred the proud image.
Our taxi-driver left his Russian car, a Zim, to explain. 'Black Death,' he said. 'Of course.' (His English was better than that of any other taxi- driver I have ever known. It is nearly midnight; we say we want to drive out some twenty bone- shaking miles to see the hot springs. `To Krisuvik. The hot springs. But of course.' At 2 a.m. we arrange the schedule for the morning. 'You want me at the hotel at seven o'clock. Of course. Not seven? Ah, seven-thirty. But of course.') Black Death, of course, was the explanation. It explained many strange sights. Black Death, I was told by an extremely unsteady and unreliable source, has a brandy base. It mixes well, appar- ently, with beer, champagne, or with Spanish burgundy, which is what the waiter brought, take it or leave it, when we asked for wine with our meal. I tried to find out for myself about Black Death but I made the mistake of asking for it on a Wednesday, Wednesday. as everyone in Iceland knows, is a dry day. Well, that is to say, in Icelandic, a non-strong day.
I know of nothing comparable with the Ice- landic Wednesday (unless it's the Welsh. Sunday). It is a tribute to the tolerance of the nation. Even Iceland has its temperance workers and though they are in a minority the others thought some- thing ought to be done for them. So they instituted dry Wednesday. It does not alter the number of drunks, young and old, male and female, all the clock round, but no doubt it makes the abstemious minority feel good to be alive. On Wednesday the bars are forbidden to sell strong liquor; beer or wine is all right. A hip flask or a generous helping hand at home bridges the gap. Honour is satisfied all round. The temperance people have their dry day; the drunks have their drunk; the latent (very latent) Lutheran conscience is appeased.
But perhaps only the Americans really believe in dry Wednesday. There are some 5,000 of them at the NATO base at Keflavik, some thirty miles from Reykjavik, and they are subject to a curfew: off the street and out of public places by 10 p.m. each night. Except Wednesday. Then they are allowed out until midnight.
In fact ReykjaVik sees few Americans these days. They are becoming sensitive to surroundings in their difficult role of universal providers and protectors. In other words, they are learning their lessons. Two years ago in Iceland a government fell and an election was held. The new govern- ment, a coalition of moderates, Socialists and Communists, won by promising to get rid of the Americans. Hungary caused a rapid change of heart in all but the Communists; those taking part in a so-called student mud-throwing and stoning of the Russian Embassy included government politicians. But the Americans took the hint; now they stay out of sight as much as possible. As the Island Commander, General Henry G. Thorne, Junior, was the first to point out, 5,000 Americans in a capital town of 60,000, or even spread out in a country of 160,0'00, could be conspicuous.
Dances are organised, some Icelandic girls do chew gum, some marriages are arranged, but for the most part the. American way of life is con- ducted behind barbed wire. And when one talks to the American officers about Iceland their tact is impregnable.
'Cold? Oh, it's not so bad. Blizzards of course, but remember the lowest recorded temperature is seven degrees. Fahrenheit. Don't forget the Gulf Stream.' Thus the major at Keflavik. Not for nothing was he in the information service.
Then there was the lieutenant. 'If you can for- get what Iceland hasn't got—like trees—and con- centrate on what it has got, why then . .
* * *
The air scratches at the face, powders the skin with scurf, cuts open the hands. May in Iceland is a sharp spring day in England, metallic sky, the sun glittering on the blue sea in which no one ever bathes. Minutes can transform the sky and snow begins to fall. By evening the sun has re- turned and at midnight it is still only dusk. The light is precious, to be enjoyed. The streets are lined by groups of lounging youths watching the girls go by (but no whistles or wolf-calls). Bedtime is when dusk is giving way to sunrise again. 'Come for a drink,' said the young couple. 'All of you.' We said it might be 2 a.m. before we were finished. 'Never mind. Come. No one goes to bed early in Iceland.'
First, last and always, fish. The lifeblood of Iceland, as we were told so many times. (We were there to report the dispute over territorial waters. Iceland has announced an extension of her exclusive fishing limits to twelve miles out; British trawlermen stand on the traditional three miles. A compromise is the only hope but the Com- munists in the Icelandic Government are playing the fishing dispute for all they're worth, and try- ing to evade collective responsibility for economic measures which will drastically devalue the kronur.) Fish. Raw red ocean perch unloading at the quayside. The smell of fish even in the hotel bed- rooms. Hundreds of thousands of fish, hanging in pairs, exposed to wind and sun, shrivelled and stiff like dry wash-leathers, for sale eventually to Nigeria.
We fly in a coastguard Catalina to the disputed waters, skirting the black, volcanic mountains which look like creamed slag-heaps. Lava covers the country, a sea of frozen mud. At the hot springs the mud bubbles and burps and the spout- ing sulphuric mist lays a white carpet over the land for miles around. A patch of even the poorest green grass is a find; good enough for a lonely cot- tage and a few shaggy, curly-horned sheep. On jagged peninsulas each house has a boat in its backyard, as it were, except that the houses have no fences there and a backyard may be a mile or so of black, barren land. But every room has a view of Iceland's harsh magnificence.
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