Earth's Graveyard

En route to Akuryeri

I wish I had gotten to know the Icelanders on less of a superficial basis. I am attracted to their smart, reserved mentality. There is a part of them that seems a bit unattainable, maybe even aloof, but not in the conventional sense of the word--not rude or pretentious, but perhaps they are the type of people who keep to themselves until you offer a bit of yourself (hmmm....I find that sentiment to be oddly familiar...) There is a shyness about them that reflects nature rather than flaw, but then there is also an odd playfulness, a people laden with---must I say it again---quirks.

Poster from the Living Art Museum, Reykjavik.

It's not the same type of personal oddities as I find here in NY. They are not refugees of convention, as one may label a New Yorker (and this is great in its own right), but rather there are lapses in their solitude in which they become gently off-kilter, enthusiastic and comedic with a twist of the morose. Death is a mild-to-moderate undercurrent in the culture. Case in point: While there, I was reading in The Reykjavik Grapevine that local artist Snorri Ásmundsson was in search of corpses for a new video installment. (This is the same artist who sold letters of absolution to people, "claiming" that their purchase would free them of all sins. Read the the full article here: http://www.grapevine.is/Art/ReadArticle/wanted.)

With the dreary weather and months of almost complete darkness during the winter this is not so shocking, but an unheated, shaky bus ride through the western desert interior to the seaside city of Akuryeri emphasized just how closely people mimic their physical environments. Although, let the earth-mother in me rephrase because mimic is a bit misleading. It was a trip that reminded me how we definitely are our environments.

It's cold in No Man's Land.

The ride from Reykjavik to Akuryeri was the closest I have ever experienced to "No Man's Land." I have read the same thing over and over again about the Icelandic landscape--it's otherworldy, but in reality, it was this planet that I was truly introduced to for the first time; never before had I seen such raw, pure Earth and element. It was planet Earth in all of its jagged, desolate beauty. Time's massive graveyard lay stretched out in the smoke before us, as we drove past volcanoes no longer active, but whose final acts preluding extinction echoed through craters and frozen rock. Lava formations mimicked the ruins of crumbled monastaries and castles, collapsed onto themselves and sunken down into the moss. Faded out mountains loomed in the background. From time to time a flash of turquoise from an otherwise colorless stream, or tear-streaks of the lightest lime green broke the muteness. Otherwise, colors remained silent.

Colors become dull under such a harsh sky.


There is steam everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.

Yet another image of desolation. Perfect setting for a Twilight Zone revival.

Driving further along, I saw the faces of trolls and the feet of giants at the base of the mountains, made spiritual by the legends of gold and hidden people that shadow them. White caps of the first traces of snow barely broke the ruthlessly grey backdrop. Occasionally, we did run into signs of human life-- the steam from geothermal power plants shooting upwards and blending with the gray and silvery white clouds that seem to permanently drape the landscape, at times taunting with sporadic breaks only to gather together again. There is, of course, other mammal life, including a number of nonchalant goats (are animals a product of their culture?) They sit in the bleakness, side-by-side and lazy, face to rear.

Smoke from a geothermal power plant.

Peering up the side of a mountain in a geothermal area.

A highlight of this bus trip was my fulfillment of a most anticipated desire--to bathe in a natural hot spring, not like the Blue Lagoon, which we had visited the day before (full report of this is yet to come), but just a raw, no frills, hot spring. When we finally got out of extreme desolation, we passed by a campsite at Hveravellir, a geothermal area where the ground smokes and the air is rich with sulfur. There is a bathing pool here that is naturally heated, but cold water has to be trickled into it because it would otherwise be unbearable. Our blond-hair blued-eyed bus driver told us there was technically no place to change and that we could brave it and change in the freezing, hail-like drizzle, or do it the Icelandic way. "What better way to be one with nature," he said, smiling. Now, I was all for this. When in Iceland...Colin on the other hand was not all that enthusiastic as there were two German men already lurking within. So I was forced to go in clothed and found an old crickety bathroom to slip on my bathing suit; I then proceeded to sprint up to the hot spring in the hail. The water was hot at the surface, burning my nails as I skimmed the top, and cooler at my feet. Unlike the therapeutic Blue Lagoon, where mineral and stone massaged my soles, the ground here was slippery with algae. Still a wonderful experience, nonetheless. Ever since Colin had told me about Cleopatra's pool in Turkey, I have been obsessed with bathing in a natural "hot tub." And do to this on a cold, rainy day? A natural luxury.

Goal achieved.

Back on the bus, I am damp and freezing, but satisfied. Listening to Sigur Ros, which provided the perfect soundtrack to the landscape, I realized that despite the overwhelming and intriguing sense of deadness, with the slightest break in the clouds, the same eerie world becomes blue and beautiful, shedding its aloofness and bursting into life.