The Eye Of The Fire

By John Rolley

AS I looked into his wide-open mouth, surrounded by its stubbly growth, I thought I heard a rumble frorn away

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shuddered as I thought of my fate. I was gaping into a volcano crater.

Here in Savai’i, Western Samoa, there is a vast area of bare volcanic rock and clinkers, where nothing grows. Between 1905 and 1911 the volcano of Matavanu, by successive belchings of molten rock, laid waste hundreds of acres of fertile land, cultivated by the native Samoans.

The lava steam-rollered its destructive way to the very villages. The people fled.

Plantations of cocoa, coconut, taro and banana were razed, and in some parts covered with lava 12 feet thick. Four villages were completely obliterated and over 1,000 people were homeless. The government, which was then German, re-established the majority on Upolu, and granted them compensatory land.

When the lava reached the sea, it filled the narrow lagoon, covered the reef, and slopped over into the Pacific in enormous nifles along the flsh minglld with fumes d nsn mmgieo witn sulphur lumes.

At night, even in far away villages, there was no need for lamps or lanterns.

The glow from the crater and the molten

rock illuminated the land with an awful crimson light.

The s amoans ca ii e d the volcano “Mata ° Le flre R MI T LE and tw ° other V‘ la f * ad f a " d 1 rode from the coast at Safotu. on °hr skinny horses. We made an early start, before the sun was high. Folks busy brushing out their houses or hunched over steaming bowls of home pounded cocoa, called out “Where are you going?” A question which comes so readily to the lips of a Polynesian, that it is in the nature of a pleasant greeting, We did not head direct to our goal, but followed a track leading up a valley through bouldery plantations. This was to avoid the vast bulging tract of the most recent lava flow. After about four miles, we tethered our horses by some enormous banyan trees, then set out on foot across the lava. I had rubber and canvas boots—made in China—which were just the thing for walking over that uneven rocky terrain Emile wore sandals; J£ e other two were barefooted, although the over knobbly rocks.

Here and there were crevices and P ot holes ’ with wirey ferns and stunted bushy trees eking out an arid existance as forerunners of future forests. Soon we passed on to an area of fine cinders which was overgrown with a more lush vegeta

tion such as grasses and creeping vines.

The going was much easier. At each step there was a slight crunching sound, as the cinders yielded a little, under the pad of juicy green weeds. There were more trees too, not stunted, but tall and sappy, with great flanging boles and but tressed roots. Fantastic curtains of mile a-minute vine reached from the ground to branches 40 feet above, forming arch ways and screens of pale green.

The crater cone loomed ahead. Our comfortable carpet was left behind.

Clinkers and crinkled lava rock were underfoot. The last 200 yards led us up steeply to the crumbling edge. The ori fice, at the lip, is roughly oval shaped and fully half-a-mile across at the widest part. Scanty vegetation is insecurely rooted in cinders and black pumice. Steep funnel-like sides led down 250 feet or more—to what?

WE sat on the edge absorbing the scene. It was easy to imagine this cone spouting fire, lava and white hot cinders, like some great boil on the body of the earth. The wonder and mystery of volcanoes seemed suddenly more easy to comprehend. While count less millions of tons of matter in tiny particles were being irresistably drawn to the gravitational core of the earth, simi lar quantities, having undergone a meta morphosis, are travelling in the opposite direction. Some are drawn up by tree roots to spend a while aloft as leaves and branches. Some impregnate the waters of springs and bubble out into the sun shine. And volcanoes excrete their quota.

So it goes on, wherever you care to in vestigate, to and fro, or round and round.

But to come back to earth. There we were sitting on the edge of a volcano. It’s not everyone who’s done that. Emile and I decided to descend into the crater. Go ing down was awful. I was afraid. There was nothing firm to hang on to. What sort of bottomless pit was down there?

I slid a few yards taking with me a small avalanche of cinders. I was sweating. In panic I dug my fingers into the rubble.

The avalanche went on ahead, rattling down into some shrubs and ferns. My arms and legs were bleeding. Abashed.

I looked around at Emile but he, too, was having his difficulties, so I went on.

At the bottom it seemed we might fall through the cindery floor. It felt hollow.

And the hole. You couldn’t go very near because—well, you could, I suppose, but I didn’t dare. It just looked black in side. And then came that rumble and vaporous belch.

It was the climax and I was impressed.

Emile said “Ta o” (let’s go.) As I waited for him to get a start I pocketed a few interesting looking nuggets of dross and clinker from underfoot.

When we reached the banyan trees where our horses were tied, we rested a while. I impaled one of the nuggets on a pocket knife and held a lighted match under it. It spluttered as it burned. It gave off an unmistakable smell and shed black plastic drips. Yes, it was sulphur alright.

The only souvenirs I took all the way home, were the cuts and scratches sus tained when I frantically grasped at clinkers to save myself from sliding into purgatory ... or gravity.

It is reported from Rabaul that the new bitumen roads have stood up well to re cent torrential rain—in contrast to the pot-holey conditions of roads that were merely “sealed.” or to the gravel roads outside the town that are still a thorn in the flesh of all who must use them.