Naked in Dangerous Places

by Cash Peters

  Another example: by all accounts, I'm in for a fabulous treat later this afternoon, though exactly what that treat might be is kept strictly under wraps. All anyone will say is that it's one of the things Tanna is famous for around the world, and it lies on the other side of the island, about twenty-five kilometers from our hotel, as the pterodactyl flies.

  “No problem. And how do I get there?” I ask Eric.

  Somewhat puzzled, he indicates the van.

  “No, no—on the show, how do I get there? You said it's twenty-five kilometers away.”

  The logistics are farcical.

  But for once Eric and I are on the same page about this. Transport, he tells me, will be provided.

  Right on cue, a shiny green Toyota pickup rumbles to the curbside, one of our hotel's porters at the wheel. For a moment I find myself staring vacantly, first at Eric, then at the Toyota, then back at Eric again.

  “This is Joe's truck,” he explains. “You'll both be riding in back.”

  Ah, okay. “And is it actually Joe's truck?”

  I mean, I don't claim to know too much about the guy's circumstances, but I do know he lives miles across the ocean on another island and therefore probably didn't drive here, even if the Toyota turns out to be amphibious, which I doubt. One of its windows is missing.

  Wary that an ethical cul-de-sac may be looming, Eric pleads the Fifth. “Dude, look, don't worry, okay? Everything's super cool.” And, with a disinterested flap of the hand, he walks off. “If there's a problem, you can fix it in post.”2

  Oh dear. Originally, I had higher hopes than this. I envisaged the series appealing to an older, more discerning crowd. Now, following a rethink, I'm reduced to praying that the bulk of our demographic is made up of idiots.

  “Excuse me, is that an erupting volcano over there?”

  One thing I didn't know about Vanuatu is that it has the misfortune to be sitting on the Pacific Ring of Fire, arguably the most unstable volcanic region in the world, a region, according to Science, that's been earmarked for cataclysmic destruction in the not-too-distant future. Good job we came here when we did.

  As evidence of this, there's some sort of steaming vent a mile away across the valley we're driving through. And not just any old steaming vent either—we're looking at Mount Yasur. I recognize it from the journey in on the plane. And also from Survivor! They made a whole episode about it. The ground shook, lives seemed to be in danger. It was very dramatic.

  As we're watching, a couple of spectacular orange flashes light up the clouds around the peak, followed, a moment or two later, by a crackerjack bang that sends great gray cauliflowers of smoke outward and upward, joining earth to sky in a column of sulfurous gases that inspires at least one member of our party, I won't say who, to query out loud whether, given our easy expendability in the eyes of Nature, we really should be visiting a live volcano in the first place.

  Just a thought.

  Though not one that is heeded, alas.

  To my dismay—okay, it was me!—minutes later we're right there on the volcano's eastern flanks, splashing across a shallow river onto a vast sloping plain of deathly gray ash, even as more violent explosions, like a series of quarry blasts, rend the air overhead, causing the earth to tremble.

  Today's mystery destination, it turns out, is not the volcano per se, but a small village called Namakara, which cowers on its northern slope and is therefore, one might suppose, perpetually in harm's way. Clean and well laid out, its houses are solidly built of wood and volcanic soil, and appear to have been completed to the highest possible specifications, as laid down by perhaps the greatest master architects in history: the Three Little Pigs. As a result, the structures are able to withstand the force of a 120-mile-an-hour cyclone tearing through the jungle, or, to a much lesser extent, a wolf blowing on them. I would even go so far as to describe Namakara as quite charming and a good place to live.

  Well, except for—

  BOOOOOM!!!

  —that. A guttural splutter-bang explosion flings a spray of red-hot debris into the sky, giving the crew a start. Nobody in the village even bothers to look up.

  The inhabitants of Namakara have let go of the traditional grass-skirt-and-nambas look, succumbing to more progressive gear: light summer dresses for the women, shirts and long trousers for the men. At the center of the village, four tall flagpoles stand side by side before a neat wooden chalet. The flags hang limp. But even furled, I can tell that one of them, intriguingly, is the Stars and Stripes.

  Joe leads me to the meetinghouse, a simple open barn structure with benches arranged along both sides, upon which a bunch of men are sitting quietly. The least prepossessing of them stands to greet us: he's small and middle-aged, with an endearing toothy smile when he does smile, but who otherwise boasts a dour countenance not uncommon among people living in the shadow of an erupting volcano. This is their Bigman.

  “The chief will now explain the history of the village to you,” Joe announces, getting ready to translate.

  “Okay”

  And, by golly, he does just that, fleshing out his story in the most phenomenal blow-by-blow detail, but in Bislama. Normally, this would pose no problem for me, of course. But out here in the more remote villages, everyday conversation tends to venture beyond the easy basics of “alo,” “tank yu,” and “banana.” People speak to each other in whole sentences, making it tough for foreigners to understand. Accordingly, seventeen hours later—at least, that's what it feels like—the last word he says is the only one that makes any sense to me at all. And that word is “John.”

  Huh?

  “Er … I'm sorry, what?” I blink myself awake. “Who's John?”

  A BRIEF SUMMARY OF WHAT

  THAT GUY WAS JUST SAYING

  During World War II, Vanuatu, or the New Hebrides as it was still called at the time, was earmarked as a staging post for the U.S. military. At one point, three hundred thousand troops were stationed here at a base on the main island of Efaté.

  On February 15, 1941, or so the story goes, an African American pilot from the Office of Strategic Services, on a mission to find places where the U.S. military could land their aircraft safely, proved why they shouldn't choose Tanna by crashing his, parachuting into the jungle like a flailing marionette, not in one of these newfangled chutes that refuse to open and let you hit the ground while you're still tugging at the cord, but with a real one, one that set him down gently in the vicinity of Namakara.

  “Hi, how's everybody doin’? I'm John,” he announced cheerfully to the gathering ni-Van, probably handing out tights and cigars. “John from America.”

  Awestruck, the natives instantly began fantasizing that he was the reincarnation of some ancient deity, possibly the rock creature Wuhngin, and started worshiping him.

  Unfortunately for them, John's visit was short-lived. Just as they were thinking that their Dawn of Man existence was over and progress was within their grasp, the strange godlike airman was gone. No word on why. My guess is, his parachute got caught in a high wind and he was jerked up into the sky again. From here, as he was being yanked backwards through a chaos of undergrowth and branches, he yelled his lasting promise to the islanders: “Someday I'll return—ouch! Aaagh!—And when I—ouch!—do, I'll bring you—ow! Oh, God, that hurts so much—food and supplies, as well as—aaaaaaaaaghghgh!—twenty thousand soldiers, and we'll—OW! Goddamn freakin’ nettles!—take y'all back—aaaagh, sheeeeeyit!!—to America with us—OW!—okay? Byeeeeeeeee—”

  And away he went.

  Now, why he would promise to return with twenty thousand soldiers remains a mystery. But many of the natives took him at his word. Fracturing into small religious groups, they raced to make lengthy preparations for John's return, building fake radio towers out of bamboo with tin-can microphones swinging from them, so that he could address his people when he got here; a runway for his aircraft with fake planes on it; and, just to be on the safe side, in case John came by sea, they built a harbor too. The
y even flew American flags. These are hoisted and lowered daily, while ni-Van men dressed as U.S. soldiers salute them with toy rifles. Finally, once the frenzy of preparations was over, they flopped down, breathless, on the grass, their hopeful eyes pinned on the sky, and waited for John from America to return to Tanna, bringing them his precious cargo of refrigerators and record players and deodorant and whisky, and possibly more tights.

  And they waited.

  And waited.

  And continued waiting. For sixty-five years, and counting.

  But John never came back.

  Of course.

  THE END

  Six decades or so later, the cargo cults of “John Frum,” as they're known (“Hi, I'm John frum America”) are still waiting, their confidence not diminished one iota by the passage of time; still convinced that their heroic savior—who would be well into his eighties by now and probably on a walker—together with his twenty thousand elderly, decrepit storm troopers, and presumably a host of attendant caregivers as well, are up inside Mount Yasur, hiding in the crater somewhere, waiting for the right moment to emerge and distribute their largesse. (If you're interested, further details about cargo cults can be found in the book John Frum, He Come, by Edward Rice.3

  “And did John Frum come?” I ask, once the story grinds to a close.

  Silence. From Joe. From the Bigman. From the crew.

  “Oh, I see. Well … never mind.”

  Once we're done interviewing the chief, one of the Marks floats the idea that we maybe should climb the volcano. That way, we can see if John Frum and his twenty thousand geriatrics are indeed up there loitering, can't we? And if they're not—duh!—then we simply come back down and break the news to the tribe, bringing their agonizing sixty-odd-year wait to an abrupt but long overdue end.

  At that moment, behind us, an aerial river of belching smoke blocks out the sun.

  “My Lord!” I gasp, too terrified to move. “Is it safe?”

  “Yes. It's safe.” Joe nods. “The safest volcano in the world.”

  “The safest about-to-erupt volcano in the world?”

  “Yes.” He smiles and starts walking. “Come on.”

  Mount Yasur rises in a series of lurching terraces, scuffing the clouds at around a thousand feet or so. It's a daunting climb when you're not used to it—though, to be honest, it poses no problem for me and Joe. Following a brief saunter across the ash plain, we tackle the boulder-strewn slope for as long as is necessary to make us look butch and valiant; then, the instant the camera's off, we run back down the hill and drive the rest of the way by van.

  After a short, jolting ride along a rough track, the driver draws to a stop in a parking area that's been leveled out of the hillside. From there we proceed on foot, pausing only when a particularly startling boom from up ahead sends dancing scree and gravel cascading past our feet.

  “Are you absolutely sure it's not going to explode?”

  I'm really having second thoughts about this.

  Joe shrugs. “I can't guarantee it, no.”

  According to him, activity is about a Level 1 today. There are five levels altogether:

  LEVEL 0: Practically dormant. Nothing to see here. Go back in your homes. (Its celebrity equivalent would be Enya.)

  LEVEL 1: Normal activity. Occasional rumbles and tremors. Sounds dangerous, and alarmists are bound to overreact, but it's all for show. (Celebrity rating: Dixie Chicks.)

  LEVEL 2: Moderate to high activity. Everyone, including alarmists, should start running. Evacuate the area, don't just hide under a table. (Think Rosie O'Donnell.)

  LEVEL 3: Cancel your trip. We may have another Pompeii on our hands. Time to admit that the alarmists probably had a point. (Lily Tomlin.)

  LEVEL 4: Run for your life! A full-on Barbra Streisand. Volcano making an unannounced comeback. Expect your charred remains to be featured on CNN.

  Yasur demands respect. Tales abound of unsuspecting tourists who, paying no heed to its warnings, wandered up the side for a picnic, completely misjudging the peril they were in, and ended up being killed by lava bombs before they'd even unscrewed the lid off their Thermos.

  BOOOOOOM!

  Once again, the ground shivers. I make a grab for Joe and cling on to him, something he's clearly not used to. The ni-Van have been a little slow to embrace man-on-man action, even when it's quite innocent.

  Following the all-clear, we rush up the last few feet of slope and emerge onto a path about four feet wide running a quarter of the way around the circumference of a crater four hundred feet across. And when I say the path is four feet wide, that's only in some places. In others it's as thin as a tightrope, skirting a one-hundred-foot drop.

  B-BOOOOOOMMM!!

  Several sharp blasts, like rapid pistol fire, launch mortars of fiery spume twenty stories into the air, creating phosphorescent wings of smoldering debris that shatter in every direction. Every direction, that is, but one—ours. Let's hope it lasts.

  K-BOOOOOOM!

  The sloping innards of the volcano are as barren as the moon. Inside the bigger crater, there's a smaller one, with a red-flaming fissure etched into the bottom that churns restlessly the whole time, as if the Earth has a bone in her throat and is trying to dislodge it, throwing up with each gargantuan belch a meaty phlegm of shimmering golden magma that splays through the air uncomfortably close to where we're standing.

  B-BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

  “Whoah!”

  Nothing emphasizes your insignificance, I find, quite as effectively as being close to some powerful object that could at any minute indiscriminately roll over and snuff you out.

  “Walk this way,” Camera Mark, completely unfazed, bawls into the wind, directing me to one of the narrower points on the rim. “Stand there. Then we can shoot the eruption as a backdrop.”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  B-BOOOOOOOM! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

  Pebbles and dust at my feet bounce in time with the detonations.

  “Aw, c'mon. It's totally safe, just do it. Three paces back, then walk toward us.”

  “Nope. I'll fall.”

  There follows a Crew Look. Eric glances at Camera Mark, who glances at Director Mark. All three glance at Tasha. A round robin of disapproval.

  “You won't fall, Cash. Come on, just three steps.”

  BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!

  “Aaaaagh!”

  Loud cracks of what sound like thunder ricochet around me, as a bulging tongue of magma soars up in slo-mo, attempting to lick the clouds above us.

  Excuse me—hello? Anyone feel like running for their life right now?

  “Dude!” Bold, unshaken, as always, Camera Mark shouts, “Come on—hey, where are you going?”

  His pleas are tinnitus in my head. I issue a few odd comments to Joe, for the benefit of the camera, about how awesome this all is. Then, gripped by blind terror, I race over the rim in precisely the opposite direction Mark's been pointing at, and down the hill again, to safety. My work is done here. I have what I came for. I can now say with incontrovertible certainty that there are neither angry spirits huddling in Mount Yasur's crater, nor twenty thousand American marines and their caregivers. I can't wait to see the glee on the faces of the John Frums when they hear that their hope all these years was false and their faith in America completely misplaced.

  Wouldn't surprise me if they decided to reward me in some way for enlightening them, perhaps bestowing on me the status of god and savior. Y'know, now that the position is vacant ‘n’ all.

  After sunset a slight wind picks up, rustling the leaves in ways that wouldn't sound creepy normally, only when an entire forest you can't see is closing in around you.

  Darkness in the jungle falls faster than a collapsing high-rise. When it does, your senses become drastically impaired. You find that your eyes, for example, which normally would adjust, don't at all, principally because … well, what are they going to adjust to? There's nothing out there.

  About now is when
Nature comes into its own and gets a little cocky. Suddenly, humans are the endangered species. We're surrounded by invisible movements and shrill screeching and nonhuman footsteps and barking and sniffing and, now and then, frantic wing-flapping overhead. Not far off, dusky zombies, seminaked, move sluggishly among the trees, sedated by the mystical soporific power of kava, their eyes reduced to gray pinpricks in the beam of a flashlight, staring blankly ahead. Some stop, disoriented. Others continue, playing out their eerie choreography for a final few steps until they find a space apart from everyone else, where they sink in a slow, fluid collapse to the ground and sit there, stupefied.

  At the center of the John Frum village, there's a party going on. A small choir stands in virtual darkness, their happy faces lit by showers of crackling sparks from a small fire as they wail their discordant chants. Inside the meetinghouse a guitar band pounds out an entrancing beat, surrounded by crowds of people singing and dancing, gyrating provocatively. For the sake of the camera only, and in an attempt to blend in, I join them, though it's plain to see I have no sense of rhythm. Most of the time I dance like I'm stepping on cockroaches, which is going to look awful onscreen. So I jiggle and wriggle about from foot to foot for as long as it takes Camera Mark to grab a couple of shots. Then that's enough. I'm done.

  My first thought when I barge into these noisy festivities is that the tribe has caught wind of my amazing news already and they're celebrating being sprung from their decades-old straitjacket of superstition and ignorance. But according to Joe, who I think is beginning to tire of my wild theories, because he's not smiling as much as he used to, that's not the case. These dances are a routine, held every week, he insists. Furthermore, they're regarded as sacred religious events by the islanders, who are apparently more than a little upset by my ridiculous “prancing to the left, hopping to the right” dance technique.