The fellow in the photo looks like he's just stepped out of Faroe Island Fantasy: Buffet and Exhibition. He hasn't, though; he's just some guy standing in a doorway having a smoke. On St. Olaf's day, almost all of the Faroe Islanders put these traditional costumes on and wander around town. They don't do anything, in particular; they just hang out looking fantastic.
Actually, they mostly wander around pushing prams. The Faroe Islands are remote, cold, wet and, from a teenager's perspective, pretty dull. Nevertheless, despite being a population exporter, the Faroese seem to be breeding like rabbits. Everywhere you look is a couple barely out of their mid-twenties already towing two or three children. It's clearly a robust culture.
St. Olaf's day is a blast. It begins with rowing races in the harbour and then, like a virus, the fun spreads into town, and by late afternoon the streets are packed with drunk Faroese. They look so elegant in their tailored costumes, but they're all pissed--even the ones pushing the prams. On every street corner is a different band: brass bands, rock bands, folk bands and Salvation Army bands, all blaring away at the same time.
The Faroese don't do any of this for tourists. They are largely oblivious to our presence, and will not acknowledge our desperate, though timid, attempts to ingratiate ourselves. Even though we wander around town nodding and smiling like bobble-head dolls, no-one will flirt with us. I grow so shy that I stop trying to take proper photographs and just start shooting from the hip at anything that seems interesting.
St. Olaf's day is a blast. It begins with rowing races in the harbour and then, like a virus, the fun spreads into town, and by late afternoon the streets are packed with drunk Faroese. They look so elegant in their tailored costumes, but they're all pissed--even the ones pushing the prams. On every street corner is a different band: brass bands, rock bands, folk bands and Salvation Army bands, all blaring away at the same time.
The Faroese don't do any of this for tourists. They are largely oblivious to our presence, and will not acknowledge our desperate, though timid, attempts to ingratiate ourselves. Even though we wander around town nodding and smiling like bobble-head dolls, no-one will flirt with us. I grow so shy that I stop trying to take proper photographs and just start shooting from the hip at anything that seems interesting.
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