Torshavn

I woke warm and cozy in my sleeping bag and listened to the watercourse that had sung me to sleep. The house was quiet and there was a stillness in the air as I rose and dressed. The waters of the fjord between Vagar and Stremoy were smooth as glass and reflected Vagar's bulk perfectly. To the west, framed by the mouth of the fjord a small island rose from the cobalt sea beneath the blue morning sky. I realized then that the first thing I was going to have to find was a good map. I wanted to know where I stood in the landscape, to learn the names of every village, peak and promontory, and to be able to find myself by looking at the topography. The land and the sea were speaking to me and I wanted to be able to return the favor.

I am, as a hard and fast rule, a night person. I've always said that the best way to see a dawn was to stay up for it. The quiet house made me realize that something strange was afoot. 5:45AM and I was wide awake and by all appearances the first one up in our little household. The Faroe Islands are eleven hours ahead of Hawaii Standard Time. 6AM in the Faroes was 7PM at home. Perhaps my body clock was simply still running on Hawaiian time. I would have to keep track of when I woke see if the time changed in the weeks to come.

The kitchen had a small table and two chairs and I set up shop there with my computer and notebook. Hot chocolate and toast with melted butter and cheese was my breakfast while I recalled and documented as much as I could of the previous day and of the feeling I had right then, in the early morning stillness as the sleepers began to wake.

First to rise was Bonnie. She walked into the kitchen with a big smile on her face and began to make coffee. We sat and talked and drank in the view and shook our heads in amazement. We were in the Faroes! I still get chills up my spine when I remember that morning. Three long weeks to do exactly as we wished and an infinity of possibilities open before us.

"What are you writing?" Bonnie asked.

"Everything." I replied. Bonnie smiled.

That was how most mornings would start for the duration of our stay. Up in the stillness to write about the previous days adventures and occurences and then a hearty breakfast as we planned the new day's activities.

Pall arrived shortly thereafter and we roused the gang, fed them breakfast, then crammed into the car for the ride to Torshavn, a city of about 20,000 inhabitants located on the northern side of the south-western tip of the Island of Stremoy. Larina sat on someones lap in the back and Bonnie crowded in between Pall and I in the front. The trip lasted about half an hour and took us along a route close to the coast. On one side several bodies of water were visible and on the other the land rose to an ever changing view of mountain tops wreathed in clouds. The weather was marvellous. Blue sky and bright sunshine combined to show us the islands in all their green clad splendor. Waterfalls appeared regularly as white cascades that wound up into the hills and disappeared among the crags. We passed through two small towns and gradually turned west until we crested a small hill and saw the capitol of the Faroes laid out before us. As we approached the outskirts of town Pall pointed out a dense thicket of tree surrounding a few buildings.

"That is our forest," he deadpanned with a ghost of a smile that would come to characterize him.

It would have been funny if it were not true. These were the first trees of any note that we had seen besides a few in the river valley that led to Leynar.

"Why are there so few trees?" I asked.

"Sheep," Pall replied. "And cold winters." The answer made perfect sense.

One translation of Faroe Islands is Sheep Islands, supposedly bestowed upon them by Irish monks who used the islands as a hermitage in the 8th century. Whatever the case, the name was fitting. On every hill and Hamrar edge on the way to Torshavn, sheep could be seen in abundance, each wearing a numbered tag to identify them prior to shearing or in the unfortunate event that a motorist hit one.

We made our way along the seaward side of the town, past a ferry terminal and into a parking lot next to a small boat harbor that abutted a much larger harbor that serviced cargo ships. The town came right down to the water, buildings neat and tidy and painted in bright colors. Pall pointed out the Tinganes, a group of older red buildings situated on a rocky peninsula, site of the oldest functioning parliament in Europe. We strolled past the innermost boats, small fishing craft very reminiscent of the classic Viking ships of old. They looked well maintained and seaworthy, lines properly stowed, bumpers positioned carefully and all hatches battened down. Here and there large jellyfish undulated slowly through the shallow water.

One of the first buildings that caught our eye was a two story tavern, black sided with a brilliant green turf roof. Painted in bold letters across the seaward end were the words, 'Cafe Natur'. This establishment was to become one of the unofficial headquarters of our expedition. It was closed, but I knew we'd be seeing its interior later in the day.

Pall led us inland and uphill through narrow streets toward the city center. No building I could see was over six stories high and the majority were mostly one and two story edifices. Old and new mingled without clashing in a spacious yet Old-Worldly arrangement around plazas and squares. Pall pointed out a kiosk, gaily painted in red with white trim.

"My grandmother works there," he said. "She sells newspapers and magazines and has owned and operated it for almost thirty years."

The town was a delightful mixture of modern and old buildings, with sculptures throughout and an endless amount of shops to explore. I found a bookstore with a great section of maps and chose two. The first was a good road map and the other a large folding topographical map that would serve me well when I wandered far afield. We spent the morning wandering and photgraphing and drinking in the sights and sounds. Summer in the Faroes is tourist season and we fit the bill. You have to start somewhere to get to know a place and Torshavn was perfect for our first day.

Around noon we walked down to Cafe Natur and had lunch and some very fine Faroese beer. If I could have figured out a way to stop time I'd be there still. It's that nice. Our meeting with the reporter from Socialurin was scheduled for right after lunch and I felt somehow that the tables had been turned. Why on earth anyone wanted to interview us was a mystery. But, hey, when in Rome...

(To be continued.)

(If you stopped in with us at Cafe Natur, please leave a comment and I'll buy you a round.)

(Especially you, Eric!)

Orientation

The Vagar Airport arrivals concourse was also the departures concourse. It was a large rectangular building with a small entrance lobby which opened onto a spacious glass walled waiting area that looked out onto the runway and contained a concession stand, souvenir store, news stand and a few displays of Faroese cultural items. About thirty square tables with metal chairs allowed passengers and their loved ones to wait in comfort for departing or arriving flights. Security was present but there were no oppressive choke point searches or endless lines of shoeless passengers filling bins with their personal items. Comfortable was the word that came to mind. It was a throwback to an earlier time and not the worse for being so.

The Faroese language was dominant throughout, as one would expect, yet careful listening revealed that many people, both workers and travelers, were speaking english when necessary. The concession stand had a large variety of food for sale but what caught my eye was a type of hot dog, thin and long, that was held in a long crispy one piece bun carried in a piece of paper or a napkin. Ketchup, mustard or mayonaise was squirted down a perfectly sized hole in the open end of the bun and then your choice of hot dogs, cheese filled, hot and spicy or regular, were slipped into the hole, wrapped in paper and handed to you. I filed this appetizing delicacy away for future research.

On one wall of the Atlantic Air ticketing booth a large map of the Faroes showed a tight group of eighteen islands that covered a space in the North Atlantic that was seventy miles from north to south and fifty mile from east to west. It was like looking at a Rorschach Blot test. The names of each island all seemed to end in 'oy' and all of the place names were composed of ninety per cent consonants with a few vowels sprinkled in for good measure. Trying to guess how to pronounce any of them gave me a headache. The knowledge that it took me three years before I felt at ease with Hawaiian place names put things in perspective. I resolved to try to learn the correct pronunciation of every word, but would not beat myself up if I got them wrong the first few times.

Closer examination of the map revealed a pattern in the layout of the islands. Each was in general, separated from the next by a fjord or narrow channel of water. The channels were oriented from northwest to southeast. I tried to imagine what forces had contributed to the shaping of the islands and the channels between them. Glaciers? Geologic uplift? Several hundred miles to the northwest was Iceland, a land mass created entirely by volcanic eruptions. Could the Faroes be volcanic in origin? It was at this point that first noticed the similarities between the Faroes and the Hawaiian Islands. The notion was vague and nebulous at first, but would later grow more substantial as I learned about the unique archipelago we had come to visit.

Bonnie's plane arrived and I was reunited with what I began to think of as 'the gang'. They walked from their plane to the terminal with the same wide eyed fascination that I must have displayed an hour earlier. As they collected their baggage Bonnie introduced me to a tall, blue eyed young man with soft brown hair and a very quiet, yet attentive demeanor. Páll Georg Hammer had responded to Bonnie's ad in Socialurin, on of the major newspapers in the Faroes, and had agreed to act as a liason and guide for her endeavor. Páll dove right in and got us organized and sitting at two tables. He then explained that he would have to take Bonnie and the majority of our luggage to Leynar, a small village on another island, where he had rented a house for us to stay. They would offload the luggage and Páll would return for the rest of us. We helped them load up in a small blue sedan Bonnie had rented and waved as they drove off, then returned to our tables to pass the time until Páll returned.

As would become my habit during our time in the Faroes, I got out my notebook and began to jot down my impressions of the place, our trip thus far and impressions of the team Bonnie had assembled. Larina, Bonnie's daughter, was a high strung young woman with brown hair and a petite frame. She was pretty and pert and had been brought along by her mother because Bonnie wanted someone to connect with the youth of the Faroes. Louie was Bonnie's brother and closest relative. They shared a tight bond from their youth and Louis' cosmopolitan nature would allow him to merge smoothly into the club scene and city life in general. Christof Putzel, Bonnie Carini's nephew, was a budding film-maker fresh off of the success of Left Behind, an award winning documentary about AIDs orphans in Kenya. Cristof had the most journalistic chops and a mindset that was focused and sharp. He had an eye for details and the quiet confidence of youth. Gabe was a tall, handsome, dark haired Hawaiian youth and friend of her family that Bonnie had recruited to mix with the locals and report. He was a direct counterpoint to the stereotypical blonde haired, blue eyed Scandanavian and as such would attract a great deal of attention from many young women throughout the following weeks. Gabe was an accomplished SCUBA diver and Ukulele player whose outlook on life was simple and to the point. Hang loose and go with the flow.

The last guy on the list was the writer. I wanted to help wherever I could, but in reality what I most wanted to do was observe and absorb and document everything we experienced on the trip. Mine was the easiest job on the crew because it was exactly what I wanted to do. Years ago I had written one novel with a friend and was in the middle of another when I decided to drop everything to travel and work with Bonnie. My mind was geared toward the big picture and the overarching view. What, I wanted to know, was the story? Any additional help I gave to the effort would be a plus for her team, but I think Bonnie knew I would be the recorder of things. She knew also that I was a person of like mindset when it came to one of the reasons for her travel to the Faroes - The Pilot Whales and the Grindadrap.


(To be continued...)