I peered down into the crater as a puff of yellow smoke issued from a crevice in the rock. An acidic stench stung my nostrils and whipped the breath from my lungs. I stepped back, taking gulps of fresh air, but the burning sensation in my nose persisted. The pungent smell of sulfur clung to my clothes. The taste lingered on my lips, mingling with the salt from the sea air. This was George, and he was alive and well.

My sister and I had backpacked the length of Greece, enduring nightmare ferry rides on ships way past retirement age, and hellish bus rides with drivers practicing for the Grand Prix, all for a glimpse of this volcano. By the time we had reached the surrounding island of Santorini, a glimpse was no longer enough. As a result, here I was on the islet of Nea Kameni, my toes touching the rim of the crater named after King George of Greece.

I watched as a brave or foolhardy (I could not decide which) French boy clambered down into the pit to get a photograph of the yellow fumes that spewed from the cracks in the rocks. It had taken half an hour to reach George, clambering up lava formations and down through the smaller craters that pitted the islet. It was like rambling on Mars – not having visited there, I could only take a stab in the dark – or being on Earth after a nuclear war: ravaged, wasteland, desolate, dusty. In the distance, Santorini stood in contrast, with its white-washed cube buildings clinging to the cliffs like vanilla icing sparing spread on the top of a chocolate cake. It was evident life existed on the neighboring islands, but on Nea Kameni, all was dead. We were alone, save the ominous emissions from our sleeping giant, George.

My sister kneeled down to inspect the yellow flecks of color that dusted patches of the ground; they were sulfur crystals. The islet was surrounded by a circle of bright green sea amid deep blue water, more evidence of sulfur emissions, of the warming of the water. George stirred in his sleep. I checked my watch. We had to begin our trek back to the waiting boat. I felt almost sad saying goodbye to George—and silly, as the French boy caught me doing so. I did not wish to be abandoned on this barren rock, with only the big guy and his sour breath for company.

Our small wooden boat pulled out of the tea-colored harbor and back towards the port of Mesa Gialos, below Santorini’s capital Thira. From the sea, the sharp black lava rock edges of Nea Kameni jutted out of the water, giving the appearance of an ugly junk pile. An abandoned bicycle or tin cans strewn across landscape would not have seemed amiss. It was not until we were a safe distance away that I wondered when George would flex his muscles again.


THE FACTS

Nea Kameni, for obvious reasons, is uninhabited. The only way to get there is by boat. If you don’t possess one of your own, any of the tourist agencies in Thira will sell you a ticket on one of the many daily cruises to the volcano. Thira offers various types of accomodations, from youth hostels and pensions to good hotels, and a range of eateries from sandwiches to seafood.

Olympic Airways flies to Santorini twice daily from Athens in the winter, at 6.20 and 18.30. One way fare is 18,800 drachmas ($65).*

Ferries leave daily from Piraeus for Santorini, stopping en route at all of the islands (Ios, Naxos, Milos, etc) which makes it a long (8-9 hours) but scenic journey. Tickets can be purchased at the port of Piraeus, priced from 6,000 drachmas ($20) for deck class, one way.

The tourist season in Santorini doesn’t begin until May 1, so traveling beforehand limits accommodations available (we traveled in April), but also means less crowds.

* Winter prices and times are subject to change. Information was obtained from the Olympic Airlines Winter Timetable booklet.

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