Editor’s Note: In our continuing series on these hard times, we turn our attention to Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland.  If the American economy was devastated by credit crunches and confidence falls, the Icelandic economy was atomically detonated.  The political fallout from the nearly complete destruction of Iceland’s financial system reached a fever pitch this weekend with one of the largest protests yet held in the capital.  Guest writer and gonzo foreign correspondent Ian Dundore had a front row seat inside Reykjavik and delivers this report from Ground Zero of the first global depression.

I muscled my way through the crowd of several hundred people listening, solemnly rapt, to the operatic vocalist belting out revolutionary rock n’ roll. Some of them held signs. Eager to escape the chill – windy and just above freezing – I pushed into Cafe Paris and seated myself near a tall window, stealing the front row to Iceland’s spectacularly-unfolding Saturday protest, the sixteenth consecutive of its kind. Twin tweenage boys marched past, carrying a pair of signs emblazoned with a slogan that I’d soon be seeing above the heads of many an Icelander:

“Nýtt Lýðveldi!”

This tiny rock, tucked away in the far North Atlantic, was one of the first to topple in what has become a great global chain of golden dominoes. New York’s mighty titans stagger from wounds mortal, London watches powerless as the pound is dethroned, Frankfurt slashes its bank rates like so much monetary rainforest, and Tokyo trembles in fear of a new Lost Decade. Though Reykjavík is but a mote in the tempest’s eye, it has fallen farther, faster, harder than its megalopal brethren. Its example – stratospheric unemployment, inflation doubling and redoubling, half the nation bankrupt or worse – warns of what may yet come to the wider world.

Photo: Páll Ragnar

Three hours ago, I had skimmed the edge of this very square, performing a pre-flight check for today’s savage journey. It was chillier then, and drizzling lightly. At that time even this central locale was nearly deserted, many locals still shaking off the hangovers accrued over the course of the night prior. Dutiful civic janitors had already cleared away most visible signs of Iceland’s proclivity for partying. At the midday hour, you must look into the cracks of the pavement, or an obscure doorway, to find the slow-drying, speckled evidence left by some poor sot who’d drunk one too many.

Now, although the nightclubs had gone dark, their eaves sheltered lines of strollers parked by families eager to demonstrate their staunch support in opposing the government. Even this busy cafe roiled restlessly. Two gentlemen, deep in thought, held a broken conversation as they leaned nervously back from their table. Teenagers shared a waffle but not a smile. No eyes wandered to the windows; the booming rhetoric, so inescapable anywhere out-of-doors, was inaudible here over the coarse din of syrupy, glottal Icelandic.

Soon enough, a friend of mine sat down. Páll was to be translator, guide and photographer, all gathered together under a close-cropped blond crown. We had dressed quite differently; he had donned a steel-gray sports jacket, while I sported my black long-coat and green sunglasses. Being an actual blue-eyed native, he blended in perfectly. Conspicuously-dark hair slicked back, I looked like an ‘80s CIA agent trying a little too hard to be unobtrusive.

We ventured into the crowd and Páll went to work, shouldering people aside and climbing onto walls to grab just the right shots. As he walked along above, I dodged pot-wielding children on the icy sidewalk; banging their crockery together, they’d turned protest into a sort of recreation. There were even toddlers perched on shoulders, happily gurgling and twisting about, as if they were visiting some incredible Ché-derived Disneyland.

I asked my friend to translate some of the signs they carried, particularly the most popular one, Nýtt Lýðveldi. “New Democracy.”

It’s a curious phrase to think about, New Democracy. It calls to mind many of the contemporary movements which all-too-often employ ‘Post-’ or ‘New’ to contrast themselves with traditional institutions. New Journalism. Post-Modernism. A paradoxically subversive form of governance. Judging by the number of signs demanding the New Democracy, the idea was popular. The question, of course, is what it was. No one seemed to have the answer.

We came across a tall man with a scraggly goatee who held up a bright orange flag, itself affixed to the end of a white PVC pole. I ambled over and asked, bluntly, what it symbolized. He leaned back, studied me for a moment, and then proceeded to educate me on orange’s significance as the color of non-violence. The people had worked out that particular form of demonstration, he explained curtly, over the preceding evenings. I pressed him on this.

Another man, shorter and jowlier, leaned over and stated that young kids had thrown and burnt things – a great Christmas tree gifted to Iceland by Norway had succumbed to the flames two nights ago. He spoke of the police, who had sprayed the rabble-rousers with pepper and tear gas. The taller man nodded along in agreement, adding that the police, on the whole, had done a good job.

Photo: Páll Ragnar

Páll and I weaved through the crowd, stopping every now and then to translate a sign or ask questions. The responses were largely similar, rarely notable.

One fellow, proudly wearing a knit cap colored like the Icelandic flag, hugged a plastic bucket. He walked through the crowd, soliciting donations for some cause without actually speaking to anyone. I inquired as to the bucket’s purpose. He represented Raddir Fólksins – the Voices of the People – and was collecting money to help the society continue organizing these Saturday gatherings. His bucket told of a mission well done.

My impromptu interview was interrupted when the man turned, along with his fellow Vikings, to shout “Já! Já!” – Yes! Yes! – responding forcefully as the orator on stage exhorted the crowd to return next week. The formal, organized protest was over. The seething masses shifted towards the looming two-story bulk that housed Parliament, orange flags rapidly disappearing. Now rose pounding drums, tweeting whistles and gonging pot-lids, beating the time to a new chant. All around, they roared a slogan which echoed the unifying sentiment I’d heard today.

To an American accustomed to the polarized Red-versus-Blue attitudes so unfortunately prevalent in my home country, the translation was striking. Out of habit, we describe our enemies using terms of iniquity, often characterizing them not as merely stupid or simply wrong, but as truly evil. The system might work, we believe, if only the right people were in power.

The Icelandic slogan is much different. Over and over they shout it, louder each time.

“Vanhæf Ríkisstjórn! Vanhæf Ríkisstjórn!”

All-encompassing is their condemnation. Incompetent Government. Incompetent Government.

Ian Dundore comes to us courtesy of his own blog, Men From Sky.

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