Volcano

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I met her in Java, in a tumbledown little place near Mount Bromo surrounded by fields of rice and soybean that had been stitched into forests of bamboo. The mountain had terrorised the region for generations but had ended up offering from its bowels some of the most luxurious soil in the world. You could grow anything on it. That’s the thing about volcanoes, they’re monumentally awful and gloriously beneficent at the same time. A bit like Paula really.

 

It was easy to talk to her. Tom and I were backpacking round the world and anyone you met who looked like they were doing the same thing – well it was virtually an obligation. You were part of an elite club, those who could take the world apart and use it for their own convenience, who weren’t trapped in a cultural prison in which you wondered what the neighbours would think. So there’s no problem slobbing on a beach half naked being eyed disapprovingly by the locals sweltering in a tightly dressed ‘whatever’ from head to toe. You didn’t complain about them so why should they be concerned about an acre or so of flesh. Mutual disregard was the only way to get by.

 

Travelling was great as long as you were one of the first. After that you became a tourist and if you got called that your street cred was in shreds and you might as well pack your bags and go home.

 

We weren’t half naked in this ramshackle hotel. Half way up a dormant volcano near the equator meant it was perpetual spring. Brilliant for crops but mornings and evenings you chose between sweaters or death.

 

‘Going to the top tomorrow?’ asked Paula.

‘Sure. Got my place booked on the hotel bus.’

 

I’d said the wrong thing. The ‘Tourist’ word had formed in her head. I could see it.

 

‘I’ve got myself a taxi,’ she said.

I let out a silent breath. ‘I thought you were going to say you were hiking up.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m a photographer. I wouldn’t get fifty yards with the equipment I lug around. Anyway, I need a good spot before the sun rise. Can’t wait for the herd. They’ll ruin it. You can join me if you like.’

 

She could see me wavering. I was going to feel rotten not tagging along with Tom. And what would he say when he heard I was going to the top in a taxi? But this attractively arrogant woman might turn out to be the highlight.

 

‘You can help me carry my stuff when we get there.’ She smiled. ‘I’d like you to come with me.’ So that was that.

 

It turned out she was a real professional, what with bags of lenses and filters, a tripod and a couple of cameras. What she needed was a gopher and I fitted nicely into her scheme. We reached the top as the dawn stretched tentative fingers over the landscape. Rock formations were gradually silhouetted against a light grey background. Then the sun shot a few sparks from behind the mountains. The sparks formed into shafts and the sides of the crater became a maelstrom of light and dark, white and black, as shapes appeared and disappeared.  

 

Paula was clicking away furiously. Twisting the tripod head and changing filters and lenses before the magic of the early morning gave way to a relentless sun.

 

‘Get that bag out of the way,’ she snarled. ‘I’m almost tripping over it. Can’t you carry it over your shoulder? If it falls into that cauldron you’ll be in there with it.’

 

I went along with the diatribes. I was mesmerised. She was a woman who was clearly good at what she did, knew her own mind and didn’t really care how she got what she wanted. But then why should I worry? I was off to Singapore and Malaysia in a few days for some civilised relaxation. What ever we had together would last till then.

 

‘Thanks for helping,’ she said over dinner. ‘Sorry if I was a bit cruel. When I’ve got the bit between my teeth I just go for it.’ She smiled that smile again and stroked my hand. ‘Don’t forget your toothbrush.’

 

The next couple of days were fantastic, that’s all I’ll say. She was continuing her trip the day before our flight, eventually returning to Pretoria. In the late afternoon I walked into town to get some water while she packed her stuff but when I got back the room was empty. She’d checked out. Didn’t even leave a note.

 

‘Didn’t impress her much, did you?’ said Tom.

 

I said nothing.

 

‘There’s another guy here,’ he continued, ‘who met her in Tanzania. She picked a bloke up then and dropped him when he’d passed his “use by” date.’

‘You’d have done the same as me,’ I said.

‘Probably,’ he replied.

 

She sent me a travel magazine about a year later with pictures of Java and a covering note with her address and phone number.

 

‘Thought you’d like to see these,’ she wrote. ‘Thanks for a great time. If you want to come and see the wilds of South Africa, let me know.’

 

The pictures were great. Moody, sulphuric images that were both stunning and threatening. I was still mesmerised by the time we’d had together and longed to lose myself again. She’d show me those vast plains and giant herds of wildebeest. Maybe she’d blow my mind and I’d never come back home.

 

She never mentioned going without saying goodbye. I suppose she didn’t care about what remained once she’d swept through someone’s life. Volcanoes don’t care but they’ve got an excuse.  But then she’d kept my address for a whole year. I decided I needed some self respect, screwed the letter up and threw it in the bin. Two-o-clock that morning I got up, retrieved the note and started to write while my head and heart got on with one of those rows. She didn’t reply.

 

That damn war between what I felt and what I thought went on for weeks, ruining every day. It became clear that deciding something even if it looked stupid was better then not deciding. Thus, at this point, I left the realms of reality. I booked a flight and wrote again letting her know when I’d be arriving.

 

When I reached the Johannesburg arrivals lounge I was drowning in excitement and dread. The dread won out. She wasn’t there. I phoned and a male voice answered.

 

‘Very sorry sir, Miss Neumann not here.’

‘Did she leave a message? This is Alan Fletcher. I wrote to tell her I’d be coming.’

‘Yes sir. I have message for Mr Fletcher. She say very sorry. Has to go away for work. Very sorry. She say you can stay here till she come back.’

‘When is she back?’

‘Miss Neumann back next week, sir.’

 

I worked out how to get to her place by public transport then got a cup of coffee and thought things through. I drained the cup, walked round the arrivals lounge a couple of times and investigated the impossible cost of changing my return ticket. Then I got myself booked onto a safari at the tourist office. I was going to enjoy that. You can trust animals to do the right thing. They look good and don’t pretend their interested. Most of the time you can even trust volcanoes.