“You’re nowhere near the volcano,” the heavily accented voice said through a half-rolled passenger window. “Would you like a ride there?”
We had been hiking for the past hour in search of the trailhead to the volcano overlooking Vestmannaeyjar, but had mistakenly wandered into the city dump. The proposition seemed like a good idea at the time, and my decision was hastened by the revving of a second engine parked to our right. My traveling companion answered with pursed lips and a one-shoulder shrug. This meant “sounds good to me” in his vernacular.
Once the bodies cleared a space for us in the middle of the eight-seat jalopy, we hopped in and raced off between the mounds of earth and discarded items in pursuit of jalopy number two.
A jostling yet exciting ride turned white knuckle as the loose ground gave way to terra firma and the pace quickened further. Blind curves and oncoming vehicles held little sway over the rally as van passed van and vice versa. The bodies howled and laughed as peril begat peril until we reached our destination.
“Be careful not to fall,” the heavily accented voice warned as my traveling companion and I jumped onto solid ground. “The volcano can be dangerous.”
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