No Soap — Geysir
An Icelandic Cure for Eruption Dysfunction
The monks wore simple sandals made of rush weed and hemp. Sheltered from the light rain by long yellow robes, they walked carefully over the fractured terrain. In front, the abbot carried a book decorated with the hand-painted strokes and curlicues of ancient staves and runes. A young brother wearing the unadorned robe of an acolyte followed close behind, shielding the abbot with a small umbrella. Then followed two who walked side-by side, balancing a brass urn on a wooden plank rescued from a Viking strongboat that had dashed on nearby rocks centuries ago.
Behind them six more — the Elders — moved slowly, unsteadily, struggling to find sure footing on the small boulders and broken rocks. Their stories — their accomplishments — were announced by the badges and ribbons earned as former abbots and plank-holders displayed on their robes.
The crowd lining the approach route stood unnaturally quiet, as if aware their own breathing might distract the abbot as he unhooked the rope barrier that surrounded the cleft in the surface rocks. Keeping his gaze on the slow-steaming vent-hole, he called for the plank-carriers to step forward as he waved the others to join them.
The monk-circle formed around the dark vent as the white smoke seeping out of the crevice rolled over their sandals and rappelled up their robes. Careful to not spill its contents, the abbot solemnly lifted the sacred urn off the plank with both hands, offering it up to the foreboding sky.
He began to chant — slowly, rhythmically, deeply in the devilishly difficult tongue. The monks moved their heads up and down, matching his undulating cadence. Their voices, and those of the villagers, soon joined the abbot’s as they added their earnest belief to the incantation’s intensity. The words were indecipherable to any who did not know the ancient tongue, but the rhythm and the tones could be heard, and felt, and their meaning understood by any who lined the road that day.
When it seemed that the mountains and the valley could no longer maintain the echoing resonance, the abbot shouted a final plea in the ancient tongue, and the chanting stopped.
Eyes now unfocused, seeing only the future demanded by the invocation, the abbot turned the urn forward…and white flakes fluttered out, dancing in the slight wind as they fell and were swallowed by the gaping fissure.
Clocks work like clock-work until they stop. Although stopping is not-necessarily a fixed space-time point.
My first watch — a birthday gift from my grandparents — never left my wrist. I wore it all the time when I went outside — riding bikes, playing wiffle ball, and setting small fires in the woods behind my house. I even parlayed it into the most coveted leadership role among my clan of peers. In 2nd grade, when we started smoking cigarettes and gaping at Playboy magazines in those same woods, I would hold a cigarette (an unfiltered Camel, of course) to my lips with my right hand while looking carefully at the watch on my left wrist, giving each of the other 2nd-grade boys exactly one minute with the unfolded centerfold of the month.
Old watches had to be wound up at least once a day, which I did religiously. Eventually mine started slowing down — but this was not necessarily obvious. I would look at it and realize that it couldn’t be the right time, but yet I would wait a few minutes and, sure enough, the minute hand moved the right amount. Was it really slowing down (there was no second hand on my watch), or was it stopping briefly, then beginning again but moving more rapidly? I felt that this distinction was crucial to my understanding of time, and, more important, why things start and stop for no apparent reason. Was it the time between ticks that was stretching (stretching into what, I wondered), or was time itself what was stopping and starting?
Don’t mind me — I was smoking cigarettes in 2nd grade, so maybe these were nicotine-fueled fever-thoughts.
Of course, the watch eventually stopped. It was no longer possible to wind it. The internal springs — the clock “works” had lost all their springiness — their elastic pull that kept the kinetic energy of the minute hand fed by sacrificing the elastic potential of the spring.
I occasionally find one of my watches that I have put in a drawer and forgotten for many months that is no longer ticking. These are battery-powered, so my first inclination is to shake it vigorously — often getting a few more days or even months of clockwork, as if I had shaken out an old drawer where my grandparents might have hidden a billion electrons for me for just this occurrence. Eventually, this resuscitation fails and it’s time for a battery transplant. Then I wonder if my shaking accelerated the loss of clockwork, and whether, if I had waited 10 years before shaking it, I might have been rewarded with some borrowed time when I really needed it.
Of the many haunting images of Hiroshima, nothing is as emotionally devastating for me as the pictures of timepieces found cracked and partially melted, their hour and minute hands remaining only as burnt shadows on the clock faces, permanently displaying the exact time of the grimness of atomic fury and death, the exact time that time stopped.
The word geyser comes from the Icelandic verb geysa, an Old Norse verb meaning “to gush.” One of the most famous geysers in the world is the Great Geysir, or Stori-Geyser (pronounced gay-zir), approximately 100 km northeast of Reykjavik. In other words, Geysir can be considered to be the world’s “first” geyser, or at least the first geyser to be called Geysir. (And, while we marvel at coming across the ur-geyser after which all others are named, let it be known that Robert “Burner” Bunsen was the scientist who explained how and why geysers work.)
Geysir ran like clockwork for a long time, erupting periodically for some 10,000 years (according to geologists who read the sintering pattern near the eruption site). But it was slowing down noticeably through the 19th century, with time between eruptions stretching from every 30 minutes to over 6 hours.
Until 1916, when it was steam off and lights out. It had a little burp in 1935 — but that’s it.
It was like my first watch.
I can’t imagine how Icelanders reacted to the 1916 shutdown. If the zeal with which they carry out their national program of linguistic purism is any marker, their culture seems so unchangingly steady while seeking the past that I picture an anxiety growing into despair as the days shortened and Geysir’s superheated steam receded into history.
In 1989, I happened to be in Reykjavik for a 2-day layover on the way home from a European trip. (Back then Icelandic air was a very inexpensive, and therefore very popular carrier.) While there, I rented a room at a private home — easily arranged through the Tourist information area at the airport.
Sigríður, the lovely home-owner, had a nice lunch prepared for me when I arrived. She spoke little English, but enough for me to be able to explain where I was from and what I did (I am a college teacher). But, when it came to explaining what I taught — that was impossible.
I said “mathematics”, but she did not understand. I proceeded to change my pronunciation to any way that I knew: matematica, matematik, mathématiques…
Nothing registered. Finally, Sigríður retrieved an English-Icelandic dictionary from her library and handed it to me.
Of course! How could I forget that the Icelandic word for mathematics is
which is still unpronounceable after all these years. This was Icelandic Linguistic purism at work…
“…a sociolinguistic phenomenon with the aim of substituting loanwords with the creation of new words from Old Icelandic and Old Norse roots and preventing new loanwords from entering the language. In Iceland, linguistic purism is archaising, trying to resuscitate the language of a golden age of Icelandic literature.” (Wikipedia)
In (literally) other words, foreign words that creep into use in Iceland — loanwords — are to be officially removed from the language. Mathematics, derived — “on loan” — from the Greek máthēma, never stood a chance.
The result is that words eventually lose their meaning by official diktat. But do they? Icelanders who use these words in everyday speech probably can’t shut them off instantly. Instead, the loanword use must diminish in frequency, getting slower until the newly-approved Old-Norse version replaces it in the speaker’s utterances. But there must be an occasional relapse, as a word no longer permitted to be in play shows up in a conversation — or, more likely, in a heated Icelandic argument.
There is no well-defined stopping point unless, and until all of those who occasionally have a forbidden-loanword-relapse are gone. Gone from where, one wonders. Iceland?
Sigríður smiled, finally understanding what subject I taught. She pronounced stærðfræði for me, coaxing me in how to say it, but I couldn’t come close to articulating the Icelandic phonemes. I couldn’t even hear the difference between them because they are so different from spoken English.
Avoiding further embarrassment, I refrained from trying to communicate that I also taught physics and computer science. But we did get around to what I might like to do during my 2-day stay.
Sigríður’s immediate suggestion: GO SEE GEYSIR
When Icelanders gazed at Geysir shortly after the last time it erupted in 1916, they had no idea that it had stopped. After all, you don’t know whether something is not working like clockwork until it hasn’t worked like a clock for some period of time. Maybe it would go off again shortly. As the days eventually turned to years, though, I’m sure many started sadly accepting that a Geysir eruption might not be witnessed again in their lifetimes.
I doubt that many were actually happy about not seeing Geysir erupt as much as Swedish geologist-chemist Carl Wilhelm Paijkull.
In his 1868 scientific travelogue Summer in Iceland, Paijkull writes that he wouldn’t be able to see the steam and water plume in its full glory in the dark Icelandic night, and hence..
“I was not sorry, therefore, to see the night wear away without any eruption taking place. Not the less, however, was the impression that was conveyed to my mind one of extreme solemnity during that short night.”
Paijkull used this solemn time waiting in the dark to experience the ultimate essence of Geysir, which can only be seen during the stretched-time between eruptions…
“For a long time I stood on the brink of the basin gazing down into its dark, mysterious depths, whilst the white steam slowly rolled off the surface of the water, or was carried on one side by the wind. Overhead the northern lights were silently flickering, and the stars revolving in their peaceful courses. But ever and anon dull, subterranean, rumbling noises, like the distant booming of cannon, could be heard, whilst the earth trembled, and the surface of the Geysir was heaved up. Then all became quiet again, and only the plashing murmur of the water served to break the deep silence of the night.”
Geysir has been a sacred and tourist destination for hundreds of years. It is reported that King Christian IX of Denmark visited the area in 1874. There by the foot of the mountain close to Geysir, his Icelandic hosts tried to wow him by boiling eggs in the hot springs. But, in order to look into the roiling cauldron, King Chris had to lean on some larger rocks. The rocks are now called Konungssteinar — “The King’s Stones.”
The tour bus made its way through the rugged terrain. Though pictures may suggest otherwise, it is wrong to think of the mountainous regions of Iceland as bleak — that is simply the wrong word. Under overcast skies, punctuated occasionally by small churches spiritual in their simple design, the landscape is austere, it is harsh, and defiant in its other-worldliness. It does not look or feel like Planet Earth.
Passing through two short peaks, I could see many buses and cars ahead, parked systematically on a wide craggy plain. Short mountains, bare of any vegetation, provided a perfect black and white backdrop as hundreds of locals and tourists walked towards Geysir, slightly smoking in the distance.
After it suddenly stopped gushing in 1916, Geysir had burped only once with a brief blast in 1935. Years later, it had been coaxed into relatively puny, but highly symbolic eruptions (at one time Geysir was a violently active geyser, with 170-meter plumes) by introducing carbolic soap powder down the vent-hole — and then running for cover. This ceremony would happen for many years every June 17th — Icelandic National Day.
With great serendipity I had my layover on June 17, 1989.
And so there I was as the lead official — perhaps a mayor, or councilman, or whatever Icelanders have for local leaders — led several other official-looking-types through a short gap in the roped-off barrier that surrounded the smoking mouth of Geysir. They all wore yellow raincoats in anticipation of a highly liquid event.
The mayor spoke for a bit, but I could not hear his Icelandic message because of the wind-noise amplified by the microphone. He was handed a silver bucket, and then, with a quick gesture, poured its white, flaky contents into the geyser hole as the crowd cheered politely.
Then the waiting began. The crowd behaved like any other crowd consisting of mostly strangers — groups of a few people talking with each other, the occasional surprise connections between people separated by a dozen others announced with a loud calling of a name, kids weaving in and out of the line of sight of their parents.
No one seemed interested in moving closer to the vent-hole, where there was a noticeable uptick in the white smoke climbing over itself into the air above it, only to be scattered westward due to the wind.
After 20 minutes, as the smoke and crowd noise thickened, someone must have seen something more furious about to emerge from the chasm and shouted a warning, because the crowd all started moving back from the hole that was now rumbling noticeably.
And then it happened — Geysir was awake. Not with a gush, just a huge amount of smoke and sulfurous fumes pouring out, filling the gap between the mountains behind it, and starting to darken the sky above them.
The photo at the beginning of this story tells what happened next…
Children climbed under the rope barrier, oblivious to their parent’s shouts — rushing to the edge of the cauldron and then backing away, taunting and mocking each other, daring each other to look into the emerging gasses without leaning on the King’s Stones. They would disappear into the billowing vapor, only to emerge again a few seconds and meters away. It was their running of the bulls — horns and hooves replaced by smoke and sulfur with the magic of soap and mirrors.
According to Wikipedia: Following environmental concerns the practice of adding soap [to induce Geysir to erupt] was seldom employed during the 1990s.
I won’t begrudge environmental concerns, but I am sure glad that I was able to witness the soaping of Geysir before it was stopped. But the strange thing is that in trying to find out when this decree occurred, I couldn’t find anything on the web other than the wikipedia entry. In other words, I am left with wondering when the human-stimulation of Geysir stopped, or even whether it did stop. Or maybe no one knows, and every year a new decision is reached.
Has Geysir even stopped?
This just in!!! Rare eruption of Iceland’s most famous hot spring Geysir
As reported in The Iceland Monitor on February 21, 2016:
The Great Geysir, Iceland’s most famous hot spring, which has given the name to geysers all over the world, erupted yesterday.
Halldóra Eldon, who works at Hótel Geysir was at work when she noticed an unusual amount of steam rising from Geysir. “It was just by chance that I was looking out of the window. I decided to walk outside and it started erupting.”
Like clockwork, tales have been recounted here of hard stops and soft stops, and stops that aren’t necessarily real stops.
What about the stops in our lives. Can they be characterized with this taxonomy?
What are these life-stops?
I naturally think of losses and endings as equivalent to stops. Losing a parent or a friend to cancer. Retiring from a lifetime of work. These are certainly stops that many of us will experience if our own lives don’t stop prematurely. They seem to be fixed-in-time stops, 8:16 AM on August 6, 1945 stops — because there is a piece of paper, an official record of the loss or ending — the stop, if you will. But are they really? Maybe these are just time-stamped stops, not really full stops because of our continuing memories.
What about the ending of a friendship or relationship? Falling out of love? These must be different. How can these possibly have an official timestamp?
They don’t.
This means that no relationships can ever be thought of as ended. Stopped. They must all be given air to breathe, some stretched-time. We need to stand, possibly for a long time, on the brink of their basin of attraction, gazing down into their dark, mysterious depths to see if they will begin to bubble again. Either on their own, or by shaking vigorously looking for those extra electrons, or whatever might be the equivalent of an environment-friendly additive that can substitute for carbolic soap.
This tale isn’t about stopping, then. It is about starting again in fits and starts after an apparent stopping. Because to be a stopping point means there must have been an exact starting point.
And no one knows exactly when Geysir really started, after all — no matter what the geologists claim that the sintering says.
We just know that it hasn’t stopped yet.
