Mount Yasur erupted up from the ashy ground, an understated but formidable entity. Plumes of volcanic smoke crowded the top of the mountain, hinting at an active crater below. The air was electric with anticipation as swathes of tourists waited eagerly at the crown. They were ready to gawp at the pyrotechnical displays from Yasur and I was one of them.
At 361 metres tall, old man Yasur is a relatively small mountain, found on the remote island of Tanna in the archipelago of Vanuatu. He is often described as being one of the world’s most accessible, active volcanos – frequently shooting out lava from the hot core within.
We had driven through dense forest foliage and remote island villages. Wild piglets roamed free, dancing around the hut like structures that were dotted throughout the villages. After what felt like hours, we finally arrived at the foot of Mount Yasur. I could sense my excitement slowly change into a delirious happiness as we walked the sloping path up towards the rim of the crater.
All my senses were engaged. There were wafts of what could only be described as decaying, week old eggs assaulting my nose. There was the sight of this awe-inspiring mountain, blanketed in thick, black, volcanic ash surrounded by what looked like the most desolate ash plains. It was enough to trigger my imagination and I conjured up visions of a post-apocalyptic world. What I remembered most vividly, however, was the sound: a deep, rumbling roar reminiscent of waves thundering onto a wild and exposed shoreline. I imagined lava sloshing around somewhere in the depths of old man Yasur.
Late afternoon slowly bled into evening, and the soft blue hues in the sky painted a perfect backdrop to the outline of a mountain, silhouettes of faraway trees and humans dotted around the top of the volcano. We were handballed off to our 16-year-old tour guide Ben, who – in his flip flops, shorts, and singlet – handed us plastic torches. He told us not to get too close to the edge of the crater and unleashed us to the mercy of the rumbling beast.
Looking around me, I was astounded that there were no fences or railings cradling the top of the volcano. It had initially made me uneasy, but I decided to lean into it and fully embrace the discomfort as I peered tentatively into the exposed crater. If anyone did want to jump into the soup bowl of magma below, there was nothing there to stop them.
Wafts of a conversation I had had with a love in the wee hours of an unremarkable morning swept into my mind as I stared, hypnotised, at the glowing red centre of Mount Yasur. I listened as he had talked about how him and his father had the perfect solution to overpopulation: feeding humans to volcanos once they reached the ripe age of 70. I had laughed at the impossibility of it and thought nothing of it till now, as the visual of the glowing red chambers within the crater in front of me intermingled with pictures of stick figure humans tumbling, arms outstretched, into the belly of a ravenous volcano.
I’d wondered what magnificent lore Mount Yasur had inspired on Tanna, and turned to ask Ben if he knew, but he was nowhere to be seen. I made a mental note to scour the internet once back in our ocean bungalow and continued in a trance as we walked along the rim of the crater.
A sudden break from this reverie was delivered when a loud noise, not too unlike the violent crack of thunder, rippled through the darkening evening. Mount Yasur had finally burst. A small amount of lava shot its way to the top of the crater. There were spindles of red and orange that spread out like spiders’ legs, and little beadlets of lava solidified in the air before dropping to the ground as solid rock. We were finally getting to see the splendour of the volcano and I could not have been more excited.
Words escaped my mind; comprehension paused, and I was transported to a place where all I could do was stare and take in the astonishing nature of everything in front of me. I had seen this before, in the barrage of advertisements we’d perused prior to coming to Tanna, but pictures of an eruption in the dark of night and even videos were a completely different ball game to actually being there. Hypnotised by the eerie, red glow from the crater, I wondered if there was anything down there.
As it turns out, there was.
Later, as we settled in for the night in the comfort of our bungalow, I began to filter through search results on the internet for ‘Mt. Yasur’, ‘Tanna’, ‘cargo cults’, ‘man-God’ and ‘John Frum’. The more I delved into this history, the more curious I got.
Lore sprouted in remote island communities when servicepeople miraculously appeared in the South Pacific during World War II. Men would appear as if by magic from the skies, parachuting down in cameo with seemingly continuous supplies of material goods.
According to legend, one of these such men, John Frum, arose as a sort-of messiah in resistance to the colonisation of Vanuatu by Christian missionaries, who had made their way to Tanna and enforced their religion and lifestyle onto locals, punishing them for continuing to practice their culture.
There was really no consensus on who John was. Some described him as a spirit, others as a local, but the most popular incarnation seemed to be an army serviceman from the U.S. Some even considered him to reside within the hot chambers of Mount Yasur, making trips from Tanna to the U.S. via underground tunnels.
The stories all agreed on one thing though: John Frum was a hero who would help the people of Tanna reclaim their customs and traditions, and he would also reward them with riches in the form of cargo goods such as refrigerators, cars and material wares that would make life more convenient. Supporters of John Frum even went on to institutionalise the movement, and today it is registered as both a church and a political party.
As night descended over the volcano, the sulphurous smoke crowning the top began to reach toxic levels. Ben indicated it was time to leave. Once back in the ute, I positioned myself to look out backwards as we tore along the ash plains in the black of night. Maybe one day John Frum would finally emerge from Mount Yasur, a harbinger of much needed good news. Either way, I was thankful to have been able to simmer in awe and be astounded by forces that were larger than life and so magnificently inhuman.
I glanced back at the looming silhouette of Yasur. He sat immovable upon the large ash plains. Smoke continued to spill out of the cinder cone, stark and white against the night air like it had done for hundreds of years and, hopefully for many more years to come.
Cover and third inset by Seiji, Seiji; first and second inset by Gemma Clarke on a digi camera back in 2009 lol