The only gas pump in Hólmavík belongs to the fuel station company Olís, one of the major fueling options here in Iceland. Uselessly, the car rental company handed me a discount chip for Olís stations, which I would—in theory—use by waving in front of the pump, inserting my credit card, and then begin pumping diesel into my Ford Kuga. There’s a little hiccup, though: my credit card needs to have a chip and pin system, something uncommon with American cards…despite the security benefits that go along with this card technology.
Yep, that's my rental car!
At just over half a tank, I didn’t want to risk driving through some of the most remote sections of Iceland without a full tank of gas under me (ironic that sitting atop a sloshing jug of explosive fluid would bring be such comfort), so I decided it’d be worth attempting to buy fuel at the Olís pump. And it literally was just one pump, plopped down directly on a side street in front of a tiny convenience story filled with flies and two very old men.
The store owner, who must have been in his mid 80s, spoke not a word of English, so I had a lovely time attempting to explain to him that in order to pump the gas, he’d essentially have to pay for it, and then I’d reimburse him. A bit round in the face with a double chin that hung down below his collar-bone, the old man poked at the pump for a bit with my discount chip, though it was, of course, in vain, as I had no means with which to pay for the gas directly. (With N1 stations, I’m able to buy a gas card that works at their pumps, but not so with Olís.) Eventually, his equally old friend wandered out of the fly-filled store.
This man was thin and wind-whipped, and I imagined him to be a retired fisherman. Luckily, he spoke a bit of English. Unluckily, he was more interested at poking fun at his friend than actually translating or facilitating the transaction. He shouted, arms wide to the sky, “This man belongs in crazy house. Look at him. Police come any day now to take him to crazy house.” While entertained by the newcomer’s shenanigans, I couldn’t help but notice that the original man had disappeared back into the store with my car keys and discount chip. “He is a loon, can’t even run his own gas pump,” the second man was saying, cackling into the sea-smelling wind.
All this went on for fifteen minutes or so before I finally managed to sort out the situation, get my keys back, pay for the gas, and be on my way. The second man high five-ed me in apparent glee when all was said and done, wishing me well on my trip and laughing off down the street.