Southern Iceland: Kerið, Grimsnes Area

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It was happy hour in Reykjavik.

When one spends any time in this city, one realizes that happy hour is a legit thing: it’s a festive time when drinks are discounted, making them more accessible to the average person’s budget.

One of Chris’ goals was to get an Icelander to talk to him. He had had little success with this.

We did, however, find that bartenders didn’t mind talking to us, happily answering our very American questions. We met a diverse group of people from Turkey, Ireland and Romania.

“I came here for the nature,” said the pretty Romanian bartender named Eva (not her real name). “But when you work all the time, you don’t see much nature.”

She asked where we were visiting during our short, four-day Iceland trip. Chris, who had made a spreadsheet and an itinerary that accounted for just about every waking moment, enthusiastically shared our plans.OYzIJ7YWRpSleVOHuDQSeA

Eva wrinkled her nose and muttered something about tourists and tourist busses. She encouraged us to look for more out-of-the-way places that weren’t quite as well-traveled.

“Do you have any suggestions,” Chris asked.

She mentioned a crater nearby, Kerið.

Upon further investigation, we found that it was not too far from some of our other planned destinations within the “Golden Circle,” which is a tourist route in southern Iceland.

Tourists (um…like us) flock to the Golden Circle in order to experience the country’s three most popular attractions: Geysir (Haukadalur Valley), Gullfoss Waterfall and Þingvellir National Park.+jLLFZPOT76xTOfP6ujqMQ

When we arrived at Kerið the next morning, several tour busses sat in the parking lot. So much for heading off the beaten path.

A small kiosk was set up at the “entrance” of the park and we were required to pay a 400ISK (about $3) entrance fee.

Eva would later scoff at this when we visited her again. “I can’t believe they’re charging to get in there now,” she said. I later read that this site is on privately owned land. The fee goes toward the land’s upkeep.vLiR+LBvT7abhoAfxapofg

Kerið turned out to be breathtaking.

Located in the Grimsnes area of south Iceland, Kerið is thought to have once been a cone-shaped volcano. Scientists believe that this three- thousand-year-old volcano forcefully erupted, depleting its magma reserve and subsequently collapsing in on itself.

Throughout the centuries, the crater has filled with water; because of the minerals within the rocks, the water inside the crater takes on a bluish-aqua hue. The caldera is about 180-feet deep, 560-feet wide and 890-feet across. The water level is the same level as the water table, which rises and falls throughout the year.YRlfQ4Z5QiKnQUDaSgWQGA

The slopes leading down to the water (which you can climb, but we chose to not to) are red due to the iron deposits. We walked along the upper edge of the crater and looked down.

The craggy volcanic rock path surrounded by green vegetation took much concentration: this is not a place where you would want to trip and fall down.

We visited in mid-May; it was cold and rainy. The ice on the lake had melted by this time. A review by another visitor in April complained that the lake was frozen and had dirty snow on it.

We stood on a corner at the top of the crater and took our photos with the Iceland flag we had brought. The awe and beauty of this literal mountaintop experience was something that we never wanted to forget.

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Geysir: Iceland’s Haukadalur Valley

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I sat in an oversized leather chair, holding a six-dollar Americano in my hands and listening to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA.”

I was trying desperately to warm up, having been soaked from head to toe by the steady rain. Once again, I noted my appreciation for the Goodwill-bought Cuddl Duds I was wearing underneath my clothing. I had worn them in  Nepal and now in Iceland. The decade in Florida had thinned my blood considerably and the extra warmth was a beautiful thing.

Nepal’s air had been dry, crisp and clear; Iceland’s inclement weather regularly spit water at us. We saw the sun once for a few moments. The vast majority of the time, however, a heavy, dense cloud cover hung low in the sky. These were the types of days that sent Floridians indoors and resulted in a marked decrease in productivity. 

Although the rain was a regular occurrence, I refused to buy an umbrella. Umbrella prices averaged around twenty dollars. For this reason, my perpetually damp clothing became the norm.

We had wandered around Geysir hot springs, an active geothermal area located in the Haukadalur valley of southern Iceland. We were here to see the volcanic pools, experience the geysers and take in the volatile yet beautiful landscape. It didn’t disappoint: it was beautiful, amazing and surreal–just like every other natural phenomenon we had visited within this picturesque little country.

P4cGfvBpTg+8HH9SYFJ8ugIMG_4165 Our adventure in Iceland was short: four days. In the weeks leading up to this trip, Chris had researched, planned and mapped the places we needed to see and experience with precision detail. He was determined to not waste a single moment.

Unfortunately, droves of tourist busses also had the same idea: a steady flow of them entered and exited the popular location within the heart of the “Golden Circle.” Wide-eyed tourists armed with cameras filed off their transports.  I realized that this described us, too; however, we marched to the beat of our own drum. We rented a car and relished the freedom that this expense had provided us.jmYBKcblRRm6mQCY0tudgw

Iceland’s volcanic activity had formed this area–as well as this whole island–millions of years ago. Black lava fields and volcanic rocks remained and are strewn everywhere: in countrysides, near the ocean, in towns. The beaches are made from black sand. Even the salt is black.FoEIZoSKQyyInC3JGsQypA

2Pvu0e7pTMG3wCjPjzL1zgIceland straddles two tectonic plates: the Eurasian plate and the North American plate. These plates are slowly moving away from each other at a rate of about just under one inch per year, causing the country-wide geological phenomena that people flock to the Scandinavian country to see.

Iceland is one of the only places on Earth where the Mid-Atlantic Ridge is visible above sea level. About 90 percent of the fissure that circles the planet is located under ocean waters. In Iceland, however, you can see the crack, walk through it and even swim around it at Thingvellier (Þingvellir) National Park.c6zq+HZMRh2vfdW8UJQ+dA

Because of this volcanic activity, the hot water in Iceland is serious business. Not only is it scalding hot right out of the tap, this abundant natural resource is harnessed and is used for sustainable energy. For this reason, Iceland’s heating and energy is fairly inexpensive. The geothermal power plants located across the country produce about 30 percent of the country’s electricity and meet the hot water needs of about 87 percent of Iceland’s 338,000 residents.

We were visiting the Thingvellir tomorrow. Today, however, we were exploring this hot spring area in the rain. Steam rolled up and billowed around us, caused by the underground and surface boiling water pools that bubbled from the ground in varying degrees of intensity. A heavy sulfur smell lingered in the air.

When Chris first told me that we would visit this area, I had a bit of a “been-there-done-that” attitude. I had been to Yellowstone National Park multiple times. Although the landscape was somewhat similar, the United States had bubble-wrapped its volcanic gem  with ramps, gates and fences. Here, there wasn’t much standing between me and the boiling pits of death–merely a thin rope.aGe76%0URjyi07JA4hH2fgVqdIvNUlSP+VE7I%tmNuwg

There was one large warning sign as we approached. The distance to the nearest hospital was in black and white: it was about 38 miles away. For the unfortunate soul who tripped and fell or attempted to “test the temperature” of the water, it would be a long, agonizing ride to help.DrRZLWg9Rn6uwuOJ4Jw

I bent down to touch the ground; it was hot. Steam billowed out from the earth in fumaroles around us. The heat felt good.

We headed toward one of the most predictable geysers in the park, Strokkur. Boiling water explodes from geyser at a rate of about every eight minutes to 10 minutes and reaches as high as 90-plus feet into the air.

We wandered throughout the area, marveling at the volcanic pools around us. They were brilliant blues, yellows and oranges.  Although research had shown that the area had been active for about 10,000 years, the geysers in the valley have varied in their frequency, awakened periodically by earthquakes.

About 30 geysers surrounded us. “Geysir,” which is the largest, can go years between eruptions and is currently in an inactive phase. We had seen Smiður and Litli-Strokkur, as well as had witnessed the power of Strokkur. We had seen boiling mud pots and had looked deep into the earth, thanks to the crystal-clear water of these pools.

As we sat in the visitor’s center, eating pastries and drinking warm drinks, I reflected on the beauty of the land around us. I appreciated this amazing adventure, despite the cold drizzle, the dark skies and the rain.

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Ashes: Pashupatinath Kathmandu

IMG_4733If I closed my eyes and imagined myself somewhere else, it would have been in a happy place. Like, at a Memorial Day barbeque. Chris would be grilling burgers on our lanai; I would be setting out our favorite broccoli salad—the one with the raisins, red onions and bacon bits. The kids would want to open the bag of Wavy Lays and the French onion dip. “Don’t open that until dinnertime,” I would yell. I would then open it myself when the kids wandered off. I’d shove several chips in my mouth when I made sure they were out of sight.

IMG_4740I would have preferred to be there. Not here.

I fished the face mask out of my yak wool jacket’s pocket as soon as I began to see the wafts of smoke billowing across the path in front of me. This would be neither pleasant nor easy. I fastened the ear loops around my right ear, then my left.

I wanted to see this.

I pulled the mask up and covered my mouth, then my nose. My eyes were still exposed to the air; they burned. I would later send the clothing to the laundry service at our guest house and would take a shower. The smell of burning meat permeated and lingered.

It would be more accurate, however, to say that the smell of “burning flesh” lingered.

The smell of cooked meat, the billowing smoke—it was all caused by burning bodies. It was 11 a.m. on a Tuesday.  Barely 24 hours before, the bodies had been people: they had laughed; they had cried; they had probably known they were going to die. Their families had gathered around them to say their goodbyes.

It was hospice.

I am at Pashupati Nath on the banks of the Bagmati River in Kathmandu, an area that consists of 518 temples and monuments. This is the biggest shrine in Hinduism. It is also one of the holiest places, where the dead are prepared for their eternal ritual. It was recognized as an UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1979. It is dedicated to Pashupati, an incarnation of the Hindu god, Shiva. “Pashu” means “living beings”; “Pati” means “master.” According to maptia.com, “Pashupati is the master of all living beings in the universe.”

The grounds are crawling (literally) with monkeys. The “sadhus,” who are ascetic “holy men,” are seated around the area, covered in the ashes from the funeral pyres. They have unshaven beards and long hair. They wear orange robes; although, some are naked. Naked yoga sometimes occurs. (We did not see this when we visited. Thank god. Thank…Shiva!?)

In Hinduism, those who are cremated on the banks of the Bagmati River and whose ashes enter the water will have their sins washed away. In turn, they will be closer to their eternal goal, which is referred to as “moksha,” “nirvana,” or “samadhi.” This goal is essentially a release from the cycle of life—of death and rebirth.  All living things are trapped in this cycle, a belief that ultimately results in the caste system.

IMG_4744The bodies are prepared by the oldest son, who is the “lead cremator.” Before the cremation begins, he bathes himself in the river. The women step aside: they are not allowed in the area while the ceremony occurs.

The bodies are wrapped in white or red (red, if it is a woman whose husband is still alive). Water is put in the deceased’s mouth. The big toes are tied together with a string and a Tilaka (a mark on the forehead) is applied. The body is put first on a ghat near the river and is then set on the pyre with its feet facing south.

There were currently no less than six cremations happening, just across the trash-strewn “river.” At this point, in early January, the Bagmati River seemed less like a river and more like a trickle of water. (Although I grew up along the banks of the Mississippi. So, my standards of what constitute a “river” are slightly skewed.)

The water was filthy. A little girl of seven or eight had taken her shoes off and had waded into calf-deep water. Smiling, she fished something out of the water. She lifted it up triumphantly to show her brother who was kicking rocks on the riverbank. I wondered what she had found. At that age, my daughter would have collected rocks, mulch, ribbons—it didn’t take much to pique her interest.

“Look at that,” my friend Michael said as he leaned in next to me. He pointed to an active pyre. I looked just as a leg—from the knee down—tumbled out of it and onto the ground.

uXZdq0JJTPeCNV5su28s7gThe man tending the pyre, perhaps the lead mourner, grabbed two sticks. He deftly picked the limb up and flipped it back into the fire. The charred foot remained visible. I wondered who this person had been — what his or her contribution had been to the world. To me, he/she would always be associated with, “that time I saw the foot fall out of the fire at Pashupati.”

The air was heavy with not only smoke and ash, but with sadness. This was a place of sorrow and of death. I could feel it; it was acute. I believe I could feel it even more so: my dad had been cremated hardly a month before on the other side of the world.

We had sat in a small room at a dark paneled wood conference table on rolling caster leather office chairs.  A young woman sat in the corner. She wore foundation that was several shades too light and a dress that was at least two sizes too small. She didn’t say a word, but fetched water for us and, occasionally, documents off the printer.

The shock of his death had barely set in. Not even 48 hours before, I had rushed to the hospital as fast as I could. I didn’t make it on time. I had instinctively known this. When I had pulled over to call my mom, the hospital’s chaplain answered her phone. Never a good sign.

“Thank you for being with her,” was all I could say. Several hours later, I kissed his forehead. He looked like he was sleeping.

My brother, husband and I sat with my mother in a weird, uneasy silence across from a rotund man in a cheap suit. He was nice, straightforward, and considerate—everything you would want in a funeral director, although I had no experience with this. It had been a preneed arrangement and had been already paid for. The date on the preneed papers my mom clutched within her file said 2015.

There were, however, several choices we need to make.

“Behind you are the biodegradable urns,” the man in the cheap suit said. We all turned, as if choreographed, to look simultaneously at the selections. They were all unremarkable, I thought; as Marie Kondo would say, nothing “sparked joy.” None were remarkable enough to hold my dad—a person who was utterly remarkable in every way. Not every daughter could say that, but I could. And I still can.

They were all slightly chintzy. He would have scoffed at the choices. We chose the biodegradable urn with butterflies on it. It wasn’t really him, but it would do: It would be going into the ground, anyway…what did he care?

The man went through the charges. He fussed around with a credit that had resulted when we decided that the burial would be performed at a later date: transportation wouldn’t be needed to the cemetery.

We designed the funeral programs.

The cardboard box in which he would be cremated cost $90.fullsizeoutput_1ac7.jpeg

I looked across the river at the bodies covered in orange cloth and sprinkled with marigolds. We had seen strings of marigolds draped across homes, shops, gates. Here, they were laid across the bodies before they were burned. I thought they were beautiful; however, I would never look at marigolds the same way.

His forehead had been so cold when I had kissed it. I’m sure the bodies across the river from me were also cold. Although the sun was out, it was a chilly day. The families of the deceased sat huddled together by each funeral pyre. I wondered if they felt the warmth from the fire in front of them; I wondered how it felt to know that the fire’s fuel and warmth came from their loved one.

My eyes stung. I realized I was crying.