Journey to Nyidalur across Sprengisandur

Journey to Nyidalur

A second waterfall stands very beautiful with tall hexagonal columns and graceful tons of water sliding and pummelling its bed of basalt. The maelstrom beneath is pale green bursting with power as if not knowing what to do with itself, spuming and foaming and would kill a person with its sheer pounding mincing force instantly.

The little bus powers on, across the stony desert, the most barren place I have been. For eighty kilometres there is nothing. Nothing at all. The land is grey, flat, with a fine gravel over it, slightly dome shaped. There are no animals, no birds, no plants, no moss. The only motion is the occasional long plume of dust from a vehicle, or a Jeep crossing a stream that suddenly has great flaring wings of translucent orange as the coloured water flowers up around it. By contrast, our bus goes slowly through the crossings, leaving little splash. Once the bus jolted so hard that Jim bounced up to the ceiling and hit his head.

When it got too jolty to write, I made desert drawings, letting the jarring motions direct the pencil. They look like a new kind of writing.

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