Big boys
of Iceland
I’d been messaging Lukas for a week. He owned a cattle farm in Iceland and needed a worker to do daily tasks. I did not know much about cows except that I ate them, but this qualification alone I believe made me an excellent candidate.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
It was quiet for a few a seconds.
“Erm, so, I’m Lukas.”
“Ah Lukas, about the farm.”
“Yes.”
“How are you mate?”
“Yes good.”
It was quiet again. I had never been on the receiving end of a phone call where I needed to be the one initiating conversation.
“So,” both of us said at same time, then we shut up at the same time.
“You wanted to talk about the farm work,” I said.
“Yes.”
And we did.
“I’ll book a flight.”
“Yes sounds good.”
And I did.
Flying into Iceland was the clearest thing I ever saw, nothing but brown flat land and mountains in the background. The coast is the only flat part about it, but unlike other places, it’s completely flat, and when the mountains begin, it’s just mountains.
Lukas picked me up from the main station in Reykjavik. We drove an hour on the south coast to his farm in Hvolsvöllur. On the way he bought me lamb stew for dinner at a petrol station.
He gave me a tour of the farm and I met his two hundred cattle divided into bulls, calves, heifers, and cows. He said he would take me under his wing and I’d follow him around for jobs. The first job the next morning was picking up some calves from the neighbouring farm.
The farmer’s name next door was Yohan, and the one next door to him was also called Yohan. We drove into his farm and these two huge boxer dogs ran out, chasing the car as we pulled up. They poked their floppy and friendly heads through the door as we got out.
Then out came the great Yohan in his overalls and crocs. He had the Icelandic farmer build. If you isolated his arms, neck and head he could be mistaken for a bodybuilder – it was only his generous stomach sabotaging his stage readiness.
Yohan made filter coffee and brought cakes, and he and Lukas got to speaking. Almost all Icelandic people I met spoke terrific English. It is understood their language is difficult, very specific, and sometimes impractical, so they often switch between English and Icelandic.
Yohan and Lukas discussed business, and discussing business mainly consisted of them making jokes, sighing defeatedly, shrugging, rubbing their faces, talking shit about other farms and farmers, leaning back and breathing heavily, chuckling, and staring stoically at nothing while they contemplated all the jobs they were behind on and things they needed to do for their farms.
We went to the vet after for some calves’ medicine. The vet lived a few towns down the highway, and when we arrived at his house, we opened his door and walked straight in. I was already becoming comfortable just waltzing into people’s places. Lukas rummaged and found the tub of medicine himself.
The vet then walked in with his overalls and crocs, and he and Lukas began conversing in a similar manner as he and Yohan did. Then we just walked out of his house.
“Don’t you have to pay?” I asked.
Lukas explained Iceland has a system of recognised business numbers which can be invoiced, and people don’t have to physically pay anything. It was the same when we went to get a tool repaired. The tradesman fixed it and Lukas and I just walked out.
“He knows me,” Lukas said, “he will charge me when he gets time. No one is ever in a hurry to get things done here though. They are too relaxed. But everyone needs everyone’s business, so what can you do?”
Lukas was only twenty-three, but he had been farming for a few years by himself, and he was as switched on as you had to be running a farm in Iceland. The Icelandic lack of stress does not make them apathetic or uninterested in complex things.
I think their stressless-ness frees up their mind for other things, like research or reading, and it does not have to be bound to their occupation or societal label. Most Icelandic people I met were into politics and complicated issues of the world. Lukas even knew, when I did not, what was happening in my country Australia.
There were some other workers on Lukas’ farm I got to know. Sometimes we worked together, but mostly they just went off on their own and we’d all reconvene for lunch. There was Christian, a potato farmer in his spare time, and he mainly worked the large engines.
“Christian is doing some seeding out in the field,” Lukas said, “we will go see what he is doing.”
We often drove around just to check in on people for no real reason. We visited and said a few words about what needed to be said. Then we would just relax in each other’s presence, saying something every thirty seconds or so, usually unrelated to the job. I imagine people working by themselves out in the field all day just need the bouts of companionship.
I learnt how to drive tractors and things like that, but Lukas and all the workers made fun of me because I drove so slowly. I was constantly shitting myself because I can’t drive a manual car, and I was usually driving a manual lifter carrying a tonne of material down a bumpy gravel road after being told, “Don’t drop anything.”
They also laughed at me because I was stupid and incompetent. It’s funny because they were right. I also found it funny because it didn’t offend me in the slightest. I had no pride wrapped up in being a good farmer. I was merely a tourist in their world.
People are afraid of entering other people’s worlds because they know nothing of them, and hence become stupid tourists. They’re never stupid so long as they remain in the worlds they know. You don’t have to deviate from the worlds you know if you don’t want, I just think it’s fun to be stupid again in a different world and place no importance on it.
Calves are cute, noisy, bony little things. They are awkward and haven’t figured out their bodies and proportions yet. Their eyes and ears stick out and their legs are too long for their mid-section. Most are timid, but there are cheeky ones who like to give you cheap shots by ramming their head between your legs from below.
They do this by unsuspectingly positioning their head under your legs. They sniff around for something making sure you haven’t realised their head is there, then they ram it right up with all their might.
They are fun to wrestle with too. Lukas showed me how to flip them onto their backs. For the first few days I wasn’t so comfortable throwing the calves around, but then you realise you’re both animals, and wrestling is fun.
There was one calf, I don’t remember its name or number, but he had a white head and brown body, and he always cheap shotted me. So I flipped him. I flipped him good and he knew it. He lay on his back defeated and didn’t even attempt to move. But as soon as I turned away he jolted up and cheap shotted me again.
Calves also produce the most smell with their shit because of all the milk they drink. Once they switch to grass, their gut stabilises, and they produce those lovely neutral cow pats which fertilise the soil and you can pick up to hurl at people.
Cows and bulls have bacteria in their multiple stomachs that break down grass into fat and protein. The problem with not being fed grass is it takes away the role of these bacteria. With processed high calorie feed, the bacteria is out of a job and they die off. This, more than anything, is a contributor to sick animals.
Lukas gave his animals names based on things they’ve done. One of my favourites was a bull called Osama who, as one could imagine, caused much terror. There was one bull however who made a lasting impression on me.
“This here,” Lukas said, “is the Big Boy.”
We leant over the fence and watched him skulk around looking for action. He had a thick skull and a wide, dominant head, but it was not a mean or angry head. In fact, he was rather pretty, I thought, the prettiest of the bunch. His eyes were clear and kind and somehow he wasn’t dirty or covered in mud like the rest of the bulls were.
“He is one-fourth angus.”
He was the Big Boy because he had the best genetics and so he could impregnate all the girls. It was his reward. All the cows, if they were lucky, would have a bit of angus in them, in time.
“The Big Boy,” I smiled, saying it in the same way Lukas said it, “bik bouuuy!”
“You have to say big boy like that,” Lukas said, “bik bouuuy.”
Big Boy moved with his head down, legs stepping measuredly on and off the ground. He walked straight toward us and his body and torso swayed benevolently side to side, jutting out from behind his head.
Big Boy approached the fence, “He will go to the forever home soon though,” Lukas said as he ruffled his ears.
“When?”
“Next few weeks, someone will come collect him.”
The Big Boy was full of testosterone and he got out of his pen. Seeing him out in the open field was different, as was being out in the open field with him. It’s all fun and cute to ruffle their heads and pat them, let them knock against you from behind a fence, but as soon as they’re out in the open, you realise that’s eight hundred kilos of force.
Big Boy was making a ruckus, jumping up and down, tearing up dirt and grass.
“Just leave him be for a little while,” Lukas said, “take the car back home. We will come back later and sort it out.”
I walked delicately out of the shed toward the car. Big Boy watched me and did some more dancing, then began coming towards me. I tried walking faster but so did Big Boy. I turned and faced him, trying to be scary.
“Ah,” I said, stamping my feet pathetically.
Big Boy stopped. More out of pity I feel. I started walking again, but so did Big Boy.
Because I haven’t spent enough time with these animals, I didn’t know the range of what could or couldn’t happen. I didn’t have the experience to know his capabilities. I dived ungracefully into the car even though I probably didn’t need to. Big Boy looked into the window and then just walked away.
Lukas eventually came back in the car and we both watched Big Boy in the open grass now, ducking and rearing his head.
“Fuck, he is going to cause some chaos.”
“We can try getting him in now,” I said.
Lukas put the Rav 4 in gear and slammed on the accelerator. He drove straight at Big Boy. Big Boy did not move, only angling back providing a living ramp for the car to propel over. Lukas did not alter his path, neither did Big Boy. It was Lukas plus Rav 4 vs Big Boy.
Just before the mass collision of two great forces, Lukas swerved and skidded to the right, making a large divot in the already chomped up ground. Big Boy had merely moved a step. He stared at us in the Rav, unimpressed.
“Jesus,” Lukas said, “not moving.”
Instead of pelting full pace again, Lukas began revving and halting, charging with the car then braking hard. Big Boy responded by ducking his head like it was a game. Eventually though, the loud car did get to him. Big Boy slowly began turning and backing away, looking back every few seconds to face the car, then backing out again.
Lukas was herding Big Boy now, trying to channel him back into the shed. He sped around every time Big Boy tried deviating from the path. It was much easier to keep Big Boy moving rather than move him from stagnant. After a few minutes, Lukas eventually herded him back into the shed.
When Big Boy was finally locked back inside, I asked Lukas what would have happened if he didn’t slam on his brakes the first charge.
He shrugged, “There’d be a very big dent in the car then.”
We watched Big Boy, defeated, slinking round his pen.
“When you’re handling bulls you always need two people. If one person goes down, you need the other for calling the ambulance. You don’t jump in to try and save them. People try and save other people, and that’s the thing that gets them really fucked up.”
Big Boy got out of his pen yet again a few days later, but only into the connecting shed. This time, we had to move him through the shed back into his section.
Lukas would use a stick and lots of noise to draw Big Boy around the shed and into a smaller pen which connected back to his section. I would be standing right by the small pen because there was an opening beside it. It was a small gap, but it was big enough for Big Boy and his bigness. Lukas gave me a stick.
“Stand here. Just make yourself large and wide and make lots of noise. If he comes at you though, don’t try fight him. He’s very good at fighting. Just run and try find a small gap somewhere he can’t get to you.”
There was a pole which came across the opening like a boom gate and I closed it off. It was not imposing enough to deter Big Boy if he was running full pelt, hence why I needed to be there.
From behind the safety of the makeshift gate, with my pole and spread stance, we began. Lukas whacked the metal along the pen and Big Boy complied, slowly moving away. Then Lukas picked up the pace, charging and smacking him with his stick. Big Boy started running now, and just like before, once there was momentum, the most effective thing to do was capitalise, so Lukas began sprinting.
Big Boy started running so fast he began slipping over, his hooves sliding on the tarmac and the shit on the tarmac.
Lukas ran harder, “Hey! Hey!” he yelled, and Big Boy frantically got up again.
The two big boys came charging down the line now, headed straight for me. Here is when I started piping up. With my stick I pounded down, hitting the metal so hard the vibration made my hands completely numb.
I must have overdone it, because with one final hit, I managed to smack the gate clean open. Its horizontal edge suddenly crashed to the floor and began rolling away from me. I had exposed myself fully now. Big Boy’s face changed as he saw the opening and the measly target placed perfectly within that opening.
I did not jump out the way and I’m not sure why I didn’t. Perhaps I thought I would hold my own against Big Boy, or perhaps I just trusted Lukas enough that nothing bad would happen to me under his wing, nor would he put me in a situation where that was the case.
But alas, it was now Big Boy vs Jay plus stick.
However, fate was kind to me. Because the metal pole had begun to roll. When Big Boy was only a few mere metres from me, charging full pelt, the pole managed to find its way under his front hooves.
It threw him off balance, his front hooves getting tangled. His head bowed as his weight lowered. This in combination with my huge war cry and stamping made him skid to a halt. His momentum carried him another metre as his bowed head poked its way into the opening just to my left. I whacked it with the stick to direct him the other way.
Big Boy stifled, and quite suddenly, his huge frame shifted away from me and to his pen, practically diving into the thing. Lukas came charging in as soon as he was inside and closed the gate. The click of the lock signified safety.
We both stood there breathless, Lukas because he had been running and I because I had forgotten to breath for some time. We looked at each other.
“When I knocked that gate down, I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t like I was going to fight him. I think I just accepted I would die.”
Lukas laughed. I think he thought I was joking.
It was my last week at the farm. Like with most things, it felt a lot longer than two months. I took the quad bike to feed the bulls and visit the heifers out in the field. When I got back to the main pen, there was a truck parked out front. It had a red label, SS, underneath the logo of a deer’s silhouette.
I walked around the back and found Lukas talking with a lady. There was a channel set up from the pen leading to a platform into the truck. Lukas went down the line, and a few moments later came walking back out from behind Big Boy. Lukas was lightly pushing and tapping him along, almost like he was patting him.
Big Boy was walking in the same benevolent way as when I had first met him. He was directed onto the small platform at the boot of the truck. He got onto the platform, and I patted that big old pretty head.
“Where is he going?”
Lukas and the lady looked at each other quickly, and the answer became obvious to me.
“Oh,” I said, not knowing why I hadn’t remembered nor been prepared for this.
“We will need a new big boy now,” Lukas said.
“I wonder what he’ll be called.”
“Big boy.”
I smiled, “Bik Bouuuy.”
“Bik Booouuuuuy.”
Lukas patted Big Boy’s head as the platform raised him into the truck. It was such a pretty head.
