Getting Stuff Done in The Land of Maybe
The physical environment leaves its mark on the cultures of the people upon which it impacts. Take, for example, the Sami people, indigenous to Arctic Europe – an area covering northern parts of modern day Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia. Knowledge of snow and ice conditions was necessary in order to survive in the harsh environment in which they lived. As such, their language developed over 300 words to describe snow.
The Faroe Islands are a cluster of 18 islands located in the North Atlantic, midway between Scotland and Iceland:
As one can imagine, being stuck out on some volcanic rocks in the middle of the north Atlantic Ocean can naturally lead to some pretty tough living conditions. This is why, much like the Sami people, the Faroese have over 1,000 words to describe wind. Over 1,000. No one’s really sure exactly how many words there are, but here you can see just a “few” examples:
Photo courtesy of http://i.imgur.com/3rM1wZb.jpg
Some of these include:
Sólvindur - wind around midday when the sun is high in the sky.
Andøsgul - strong, steady breeze.
Landsynningstømingur - wind specifically coming from the south-east.
Gjalur - wind that blows persistently from the same direction.
Strekan - wind that blows through a fjord.
And my personal favourite, terri, which is often used to describe wind that is excellent for hanging out clothes to dry in. Because, when the winds are usually so high you can barely go outside, let along hang out your clothes, that is an important thing to know.
Not only does this precarious location contribute to the country’s stunning, tree-less scenery, but it also facilitates the Faroese people’s complete inability to plan anything. Ever. This is why the Faroe Islands have the nickname, "The Land of Maybe".
I had the opportunity to see this first hand on two different trips to the Faroes which, although they took place during completely different seasons, essentially ended up with similar experiences: stuck inside looking out a window, longing for the beautiful vistas I had been promised by stunning photos on the internet.
The first environmental factor to tackle was the lack of sunlight during the winter. Having spent Christmas in the Faroes, I quickly learned the extent of what is possible to accomplish when one has only three hours of sunlight: sunrise at 12.00, see something beautiful for a few minutes, sunset at 15.00, eat, drink, sleep, repeat.
Managed to capture this shot of Funningur on the island of Eysturoy before sunset.
Of course, thanks to modern advances it is possible to do things in darkness, but what you don’t realise until you’ve lived it, is that those dark days really mess with you! I was tired all. the. time. In the early days, my body would naturally wake up around 09.00, but upon looking out the window into complete darkness, my brain would go: “nope, it’s far too early – get back to bed!”. My internal body clock eventually gave in to my brain, and I wouldn’t be able to surface until around noon, when the sun would just start to peek over the fjord. By the time I had breakfast and got ready to leave the house, there was only usually an hour and a half to two hours of sunlight left. There were even a few occasions I would tell my hosts I was off to bed, only to realise it was just 18.00.
A beautiful Faroese winter view, circa 10.00
This experience left me feeling robbed of the true Faroese experience and I was determined to come back in the summer to see the real Faroe Islands.
I didn’t realise it at the time, but this was probably the most authentic “Faroese experience” one could have.
Regardless, this past summer I spent three weeks in a camper van driving around and attempting to explore these tiny islands.
It was July.
It was 6 degrees Celsius (42 degrees Fahrenheit).
Gale force winds (the Faroese would probably call it “strekkur”) swept across the Atlantic, whipping stinging rain sideways and bringing with it the kind of cold that gets inside your bones and rattles around for a while.
It was July.
Needless to say, any planned hiking or excursions were called off and instead we opted for hot coffee and jigsaw puzzles inside the safety of the camper van.
Just your typical summer in the Faroes.
A rainy hike to Trøllkonufingur (The Witch's Finger) on the island of Vágar. It's July.
The word “kanska”, perfectly sums up the Faroese approach to planning. You hear it so often, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was the Faroese equivalent to “hello”. But no, it actually means, “maybe”.
“Shall we go out to dinner?”
“Kanska”
“Are you coming to my birthday party?”
“Kanska”
“Do you want this life-saving procedure?”
“Kanska”
The Land of Kanska.
The Faroese lack of commitment is purely down to the unpredictability of the weather. Sure, they could make a plan, but the likelihood of a sunnanódn suddenly blowing through the fjord and making the tiny roads impassable is so high, why risk having to break the plan?
It’s better to not make any plans at all than to make a plan and break it. That’s the Faroese way.
This was so different in so many ways to my life in Switzerland.
The concept of having no plans, because it is essentially impossible (meteorologically speaking) to plan anything in advance was too much of a foreign concept for my newly Swissed brain to handle. The first few days were tough. After three years in Switzerland, the only country to make the Germans look unorganised and inefficient, I simply had no idea how to turn off. I forgot how to sleep in, to not do laundry on my designated laundry day, and to just go with the flow and do as I pleased. The Faroese’s lack of plans, perfectly timed itineraries and constant activity was, well initially, unbearable for me. I couldn't help but think, “Shouldn’t I be doing something right now?”.
After a few days, however, I began to find this lack of planning refreshing, even liberating. After all, what is more liberating than doing exactly what you want, when you want, without any obligations to anyone else?
After centuries of enduring harsh weather leading to inevitable food shortages, the Faroese have a deeply engrained way of enjoying what they have, when they have it and not getting bummed out when they don’t have it. They just go with the flow.
This was the lesson the Faroe Islands were trying to teach me: stop planning, be grateful for what you have when you have it and just go with the flow. I had simply forgotten how to flow and needed reminding.
