The
Stargate Connection (re-printed
from magazine)
- Vanuatu’s
Volcanoes. Seriously, that’s how it all began.
Okay, the MGM television series didn’t begin that way, but the spin-off novel, Stargate SG-1: City of the Gods certainly did. In fact most of the book is set on a world with a volcanic landscape modelled directly on Vanuatu’s Ambrym Island. Yasur volcano, on Tanna Island, also makes a sneak appearance, and Lopevi certainly tossed a piece of lava in the dramatic final pages.
When one of the editors of Fandemonium, the UK publishers of Stargate novels, suggested I pen a story based on the multi-award winning television series, volcanoes were the first thing that came to mind. Y’see, the producers and writers of the show spend a lot of time running around the sets, yelling, ‘Make it bigger!’ Of course, a television budget only allows so much when it comes to cramming amazing special effects, kabooms and a cast of thousands into forty-two minutes of airtime. A novel, however, is not quite so limited. So, in keeping with Peter DeLuise and Brad Wright’s wishes, I made City of the Gods, huge, complete with just about every explosive volcanic event you can think of — and a few alien ones to boot.
No, I’m not going to give the plot away. Suffice to say that it involves a lot of mythology and an entire Aztec civilization set against a backdrop that’s pure Ambrym, simply because this island is one of my favourite places on Earth, and I felt it was long past time that everyone heard about it.
I began this love affair with Ambrym back in 1980, during a sailing trip up through the islands. We’d arrived there late in the afternoon, and the pilot notes stated clearly that there was a lagoon just around the corner from Craig Cove. We didn’t find the lagoon until the following day, and by then it had become a landlocked lake. Apparently there’d been the odd eruption or two — or maybe five or six — since the pilot notes and chart had been published.
Now, most people think of the world around us, particularly things like mountains, as being a reasonably permanent proposition, at least in terms of human lifetimes. Sure, beaches erode and riverbanks get washed away — and New Zealand has an impressive collection of active volcanoes, not to mention entire cities that periodically bounce up and down on their foundations. But generally speaking, we tend to think of the earth as being more or less stable. Certainly you don’t expect an entire island to keep shifting its terrain so that an aerial photo taken one day is literally useless — at least when it comes to using it as a map to trek across the island — after a single rainstorm. But since much of Ambrym is a gigantic tuft cinder cone comprised of ash and scoria, that’s exactly what happens.
I admit that by the time we found the lagoon, I was seriously hooked on the place. I hadn’t slept much the night before, what with the ruby red glow pulsating over the mountains and the deep rumbling subterranean giant with a mild case of flatulence. What really staggered me though, was the monumental scale of verdant life set against a backdrop that was pure Mordor. SCUBA diving in the active vents just offshore, the ones bubbling out large quantities of hot water, was an equally surrealistic — and quite...ehm…warming experience.
Some years later, three of us had the distinction of being the first Europeans to walk across Ambrym. We set out from from Craig Cove, and, after a full four hours of scrambling over old lava flows and bashing our way through jungle, abruptly emerged onto an extraordinarily barren ash plain, complete with Benbow and Maroum throbbing away in the not-so-distant background. Four novels and several hundred articles later, I’ve never fully been able to articulate the visceral impact of that scene. Having kept a journal of the trip, I used those first impressions to write an early scene in City of the Gods:
A coal-black flume of ash belched from the volcano’s torn throat, forcing aside a mass of gray clouds. Some seconds later, a disarmingly loud crescendo, like the rumble of a freight train, rolled across the brooding landscape... The ground, normally covered with the ash from the volcano, was carpeted in a soft layer of cotton-ball white. The cinders beneath the snow crunched under their boots like dead insects. Another rumble rolled across the valley… Jack knew that the cherry-red glow over the volcano and the ever-present rumbling meant the lava inside the crater was sloshing around, doing its thing, not bothering anyone. The lava lake and geothermal activity acted like release valves on a pressure cooker. The effects were spectacular but not normally dangerous.
Okay,
there’s no snow on Ambrym, but at the height of summer in
February, when most of the country is sweltering in the tropical
heat, the nights were damned near freezing.
Equally memorable is the scenery walking — well, climbing, mostly — up and out of the eastern rim of the caldera, through dense rainforest. I’d bet good money that there are several species of as yet unclassified plants, fungi and insects to be found on this side of the island. It’s almost constantly wet, with the smoke pouring from the volcano creating its own micro-climate and generating a lot of local rain.
Of all the places I’ve since visited, from the craggy highlands of Scotland to the magnificent Milford Sound, that walk still ranks in my memory as the most spectacular I’ve ever undertaken. If I could sum it up in one word, it would have to be prehistoric. It cemented my lifelong addiction to a place whose many faces are constantly changing.
So what exactly is Ambrym in volcanic terms? Most people think of it as an island with two volcanoes named Benbow and Maroum. In fact, Ambrym is a massive shield volcano, most of which is deep under the ocean. The tiny bit poking out the top is what was left after a huge explosion almost tore the island apart in 50AD. The dip in the centre is a collapsed caldera twelve kilometres across, while Benbow and Maroum are the two largest of several vents, some more active than others, that dot their way across a fault line that runs from west to east through the centre of the island. In recent years, certainly since I first walked across Ambrym, there have been several eruptions, and not primarily from Benbow and Maroum’s lava lakes. Indeed, the most significant lava flows have bubbled directly out of cracks and maars — old vents about the size of tennis courts — in the floor of the caldera. I’d slept on the ground directly over two such places, inspiring me to write several of the climactic scenes in the novel. I still get a distinctly unpleasant, twitchy feeling in my stomach every time I think about it.
I
remember when the helicopter pilot who worked in the Adventure Centre
first came up there with me. He stood on the edge of Benbow for
several minutes, clearly having difficulty gathering his thoughts.
Finally, he looked back in the direction of Vila, and said, “I
think we took a wrong turn someplace. This is not planet Earth.For those with more time, contact The Adventure Centre, who are the experts when it comes to arranging both short and longer duration adventure treks to Ambrym. A word of advice: this is adventure tourism at its best. Allow extra time, be aware that this is truly a primitive island — no five star resorts and evening cocktails around the bar at sunset — and know that the weather can play a key, and often unpredictable factor in dictating where you can go and what vents you can access.
If this all seems a bit to hair-raising for your taste, but you still want to experience what its like to stand on the edge of a live volcano, take an overnight tour with The Adventure Centre down to see Yasur volcano, on Tanna Island. Yasur is considerably more accessible, and generally much tamer — at least, as far as volcanoes go — but never fails to impress.
Me? I can’t wait for my next trip to Ambrym. Of course, I love visiting alien worlds; it is comes with the territory, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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