Our final day in Vanuatu found us anchored off the island of Tanna. While customs and immigration were due to clear us out in the afternoon, the voyage crew had other plans. For months, the office had been researching the area, looking into the very best places to visit and possibilities of what to do there. The event that everyone was most excited for on this leg was a trip to the crater of Mount Yasur, a chance to stare into the mouth of Vanuatu’s most active volcano. Immigration had guaranteed that we wouldn’t have to show our faces- that passports were enough to identify and clear us all out. This meant that we could leave the officers to their favourite task of dealing with bureaucracy and head to the very edge of the fiery inferno.
The drive to Yasur’s foot was a long one, about an hour and a half, but an ideal opportunity to see some of the 550km2 island. What started as sea and black-sand beaches quickly transitioned to dense tropical jungle. Tree ferns, mango trees, and- of course- coconut palms packed every inch of land, with epiphytic ferns and vines scrambling over their mass, each fighting to carve out a space for themselves in the fertile land. I noticed the same hibiscus we have been seeing throughout the South Pacific, known by the islanders for its medicinal properties, lightweight yet strong wood, and leaves that can be used as plates. Outside every home was a small stall of vegetables- pak choi, lettuce, and cabbages were the most abundant. It was clear that the volcano, coughing up nutrients from the bowels of the earth, provides life and sustenance to the environment, and in turn, the people of Tanna.
But this lush landscape began to peter and fade to a scrub-land. The plants here are less familiar to me. Grasses were now shorter and spikier, trees looked like Dr Seuss sketches- long winding trunks crested with tufts of foliage. Maybe this was an area of less water retention?
We wound over hills, steep chicanes both up and down, before we caught our first glimpse of Mount Yasur. The shrubby vegetation soon petered out into an other-worldly landscape of black sands and craters, and we stopped the trucks so we could better view the mountain. It was now that I realised that these ‘sands’ were actually pure volcanic ash, strewn in layers across the land, smothering all life but providing vital nutrients for it. Water run-off and winds had carved gulleys and craters in which we could see the many layers of ash that now formed a black sediment. We were in the lava plain.
Towering above us was the volcano. What I first assumed to be summit clouds concealing her peak soon proved to be billowing steam, sulfer, and ash as the wind changed direction. We stood in awe of her towering majesty, both curious and apprehensive of what would greet us at the summit.
A further drive took us across the alien landscape, through rivers and over knife-edges of fragile ash, as we wound around Yasur’s foot. We passed through an entrance lined with traditional tree-fern carvings before gaining three guides and passing under a rickety ‘Out for Tour’ sign. The climb up the volcano was steep and I wondered how long the lifespan of our pick-up trucks would be. The drivers navigated low-hung branches, trenches in the roads, and sharp corners expertly. We came to a ‘carpark’ of sorts- open plains of the same other-worldly landscape high above dense forest and circling raptors. The three main features were: a shack labelled ‘Volcano Toilet’, steps that presumably are meant for graceful dismounting of truck beds, and a handrail ascending the ridge which the lead guide warned was ‘very badly built and not safe to hold’. All real adventures have a volcano toilet and handrail you can’t touch.
We had been told it was 66 steps to the summit. What we soon realised was that there were actually only 4 steps followed by a steep incline which may have taken 62 paces if your legs were 2 meters long. We took our time on the ascent, eager to see what awaited us but also enjoying the landscape below.
When we did all reach Yasur’s summit, after the anticipation of the drive to get there, there was a moment of realisation that the plumes of steam were actually concealing the depths of the crater- and therefore the lava- from view. This led to a brief moment of underwhelm before something unexpected began.
We could here Yasur splutter and groan. Heavy rumbling, deep from the belly of the earth, belched and gurgled its way through the atmosphere. A sudden pulse, visible in the smoke, tangible in our bodies, of pressure release reverberated from her. That was when the eruption began. Chunks of liquid rock, glowing red hot but cooling to black in flight, coughed through the air and descended back into the fiery cauldron.
I should have considered it before. I was so caught up in the abundance of the landscape and mystical volcano that I had completely overlooked the devastation coupled with her presence. The double-edged sword of living on a volcanic island hit me like the drumming from below. The islanders rely on income from volcanic tourism, fertile soils for their crops, not to mention the creation of the land on which they make home. But as fire brings warmth and safety, it also destroys what once was. Volcanic events have caused great grief and suffering on the island, worsened by their unpredictable nature. The government has devised a scale of 0 – 5 of volcanic activity, a method of gauging the threat that she poses to the island, although a major eruption can occur at any level.The day we visited Yasur, she was a at 2. This signifies ‘major unrest’ although, luckily for us, the unrest remained well below where we stood at the lip of the crater.
The rumblings continued, and one spot of lava now persisted through the smoke below us and on the opposing side of the 400 m wide crater. We could make out two main cauldrons, portals boring through geology to the centre of the earth, each glowing embers and coughing up fire.
We stayed there until dusk, where lava glows the brightest,and the returning walk is safe. There was one point where the persistent grumblings stopped, the wind died and there was dead silence. We looked around one-another nervously - instinctively feeling as though something was wrong but knowing that if there was, there was nothing we could do about it - until we saw the guides leaning against the ‘unsafe’ handrail and chatting. A couple of minutes later, the winds picked up and Yasur’s rumblings restarted, a collective sigh of relief concealed by the returning noise.
On the return trip, we were left with not the same sense of excitement that we had begun on, but with a much deeper reverence for the earth. It was an experience similar to what we had already felt so much of on this trip, but in a different flavour. First, the endless oceans made us feel small and powerless to natures whims, next, dazzling stars strung along the highway of the milky way preached our insignificance. Now, Mount Yasur,the volcano, churning up minerals from the depths, passed on the same lesson. It’s like all the elements are coming together to remind us of our place, our tiny corner, in time and space.