T is for Tavurvur.

I can’t remember if it was the alarm on my Baby-G watch which awoke me, the mosquito in the room, or the thudding around of my colleague, but whichever it was I was awake, morning had arrived, 18th September, dawn in another hotel room. The light came through the mosquito mesh on the window, and then straight on through the threadbare curtain once designed to keep it out. It’d been a short one night in a basic and not cheap hotel room.

It was time to get up and out, there was a boat ride to be done and best to be done before the sun was high and the heat was up. Breakfast was grabbed on the go, tins of sardines in tomato sauce emptied onto dry white bread. Tasted great. A breakfast of kings. I forget what chased the sardines, bottled water, perhaps a (ubiquitous the world over) Lipton’s yellow teabag cup of tea. During breakfast the cases and bags were moved out on to the balcony, pelican cases stacked up, and dry bags containing our clothes for the few days trip we were embarking on.

There were four of us, we grunted “morning” to each other, some spat, some smoked, some were cheery, some were still half asleep. The bags were taken down to the shore, to await the arrival of the ‘banana boat’ which would take us down the eastern coast of New Britain Island, from Kokopo where we were, down round the point, heading along the coast.

And as we stood on the foreshore, there on the horizon was the beautiful sight that we could barely see the night before when we’d arrived. Tavurvur. Erupting, spewing ash high in the clear blue morning sky. Pale grey ash tinted orange by the rising sun, spewing across a palette of sky blue. It was mesmerising to watch, tumultuous, churning, evolving, constant.

The boat arrived, coming from our right, nods and hellos to the boatman, some talk in Pidgin. We loaded our bags, heavy and hard to the bottom, the softer ones to the top to act as pillows on the boat ride which would be sure to be bumpy and unforgiving on our weary bones. Around the the cases and bags a blue tarpaulin was wrapped, enveloping the luggage, hopefully to keep it dry from any spray, and from the inevitable beetle nut spittle of our travelling companions. Bottles of water and packets of cheap dry biscuits were thrown on top, and even at this early time bottles of sun tan lotion handed round and liberally applied.

And with that we were in the boat, the sun rising fast, the conversation still muted. We watched as Tavurvur receded into the distance, in my camera viewfinder getting smaller and smaller and changing angle until it no longer looked as magnificent, threatening or mesmerising. The tarpaulin was adjusted and camera put away, bags re-covered, moved around to get rid of sharp angles and handles, people settled down for the journey, hats were drawn across faces, packets of cigarettes stashed, the GPS placed where it had a good view of the clear blue sky.

The boatman adjusted his stance, standing, holding the engine handle in one hand, and in his other gripping a rope which was wrapped around his wrist and secured to the plank of wood which served as a seat in front of him. He leaned back, turned the throttle, and the nose of the boat lifted, bumping, taking us onwards.