17 Oct 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.

10/17 Stromboli, Italy

The next morning I hooked up with a young married couple from the states, heading in the same direction.  Since we had a few hours until our boat was scheduled to depart we headed into the countryside to get a feel of the island.  My German friend from the previous day had not resurfaced.  I snuck out quietly with my blanket tucked under my shoulder hoping nobody would notice.  We survived our trek, successfully made it to the dock on time but there was no boat and we kept getting the runaround on when our boat was to arrive.  Since based on our last conversation the boat would not arrive for another four hours so the three of us snuck into an abandoned restaurant that hung on the cliff of the opposite bay.  Out on its balcony we played cards until the concern that we might miss our boat crept to the surface.  Their indecisiveness began to plant lingering feelings of doubt.  Perhaps the boat would show early and then we really be fucked.  We checked out the local fisherman mending their nets, claimed a window table in one of the small restaurants and shared a pot of tea, waiting for our boat.  There were a couple other guys sitting just across from us who were also waiting on the same boat.  They kept on debating whether waiting was worth it or if they should begin heading back toward the mainland.  I think Greece was now looking like a better option to them.  I was sitting outside when one of those gentlemen opened up his bag, pulled out a tent and assembled it right beside our table.  When it began to draw some attention he offered it up for sale.  It wasn’t long before he was short one tent and had a little extra pocket money or maybe enough to settle his beer tab.

Once the mainland boat arrived everybody gave up and decided to head back to Sicily.  My plan was not to move one inch from that dock until our boat had arrived.  They came and went and didn’t wait around for anybody.  Their time schedules were at best, guesses.  I pretty much stayed to myself and wrote until my eyes got tired.  When our boat finally arrived I was left with a new set of faces.  There were two guys and a young lady traveling together down from Geneva, Switzerland.  It’s a good thing we were waiting on the dock because they showed up an hour and a half early.  Once we got on we were gone in seconds.  If I hadn’t been paying attention or had gone to the bathroom I would have never known this boat came and went.  I do love these Hydrofoils.  They could really get up and move.  We must have stopped at every possible port between Lipari and Stromboli.  On two occasions we waited on row boats to make it out to us.  The port of Stromboli was considerably smaller than I expected.  As soon as we stepped on dry land we went searching for the local general store.  We needed to purchase supplies for the night which ended up including a couple bottles of vodka.  The four of strolled along the black beach, enjoyed the scenery and stretched our legs before trekking up the volcano.

There was a slight breeze coming in from the west.  It was beautiful to watch the reeds dance in that wind with the blue contrast of the sea below.  It was difficult for me to slow down and stay with my associates.  They were National Geographic grantees on assignment so they were packing a lot of film equipment.  Every so often I could feel a slight rumbling from the ground beneath my feet.  The sound was getting louder as we got closer and the smell in the air began to change.  We passed a couple of people on day trips heading back down but when we reached the face of the volcano we were alone.  We claimed an existing rock circle and I spent an hour or so enlarging it so that the four of us could fit comfortably.  While I was gathering rock from abandoned circles the German that I had last seen leaving on the moped a few days back unexpectedly showed up.  He explained that he had continued through and had spent the last night on Stromboli.  He had a few stitches across his palm and a pretty interesting story about a leather strap and the doctor that sewed him up.  He had brought up a tent and offered sharing it, if I would modify the rock circle to accommodate him as well.  I didn’t have any intention of sharing his tent but adding him to our little village was without question.  It started to look as if it would be one windy night so I put an extra stone or two in the direction of the wind.

Once things were settled I accompanied two the grantees sporting video cameras down to the mouth of the volcano.  When the volcano would erupt rock about the size of softballs would be thrown into the air creating a glowing perimeter that would draw the line between us and it.  But when they got as large as basketballs I began thinking that this wasn’t the best place to be standing.  I could feel the heat through the soles of my shoes so I decided to change directions and head back to the ridge.  As darkness came the eruptions became more and more spectacular.  It reminded me of flying over the Los Angeles basin at night.  It seemed as if each new eruption was getting bigger and bigger.  Stupidity can be dangerous.  Where we once stood rock the size of microwave ovens was falling with a few the size of a refrigerator.  God, what in the hell were we thinking?  There was some moisture gathering in the air and when it mixed with those eruptions it kind of created a fog bank of sulfur.  That was about the time the vodka began being passed around.  We were about halfway down the second bottle when one of the two French guys broke out a hash joint.  Vodka, hash, fog and the glowing of the volcano were the perfect ingredients for a surreal experience.

I was lying next to the tent when I noticed another group had arrived.  They were equipped with head lamps and were roped together.  When they got close enough to make out their features I was surprised to discover they were mostly young girls.  They brought with them the news that a large storm was heading our way and suggested we head back down with them before it arrived.  Those girls like dervishes would dance and chant and their chants grew louder with each eruption.  Their white outfits were emphasized by the darkness of the night and glowed red from the rocks below.  It was as if we had wandered into a cult.  As mysteriously as they appeared they vanished down the mountain.

I woke up to the sound of thunder.  I think my dreams had been incorporating the thunder and lightning for some time.  When it began to rain it was unbelievable.  First I was concerned that the poles of the tent were invitations to the lightning, but after thirty minutes or so the tent was shredded and gone.  The lighting repeated every few minutes and would illuminate the sulfur cloud that was being created by introducing the volcano to rain.  It was terrorizing.  It was like being on the inside of a light bulb.  After each hit I reconfirmed I that I was still alive.  Then the rain came down in buckets, literally buckets and there was nowhere for us to hide.  I took my blanket, rolled it up as tight as I could and placed it against the rocks in an attempt to make a small dam.  I laid there with my important belongs under my belly.  The others protected their camera equipment.  Each of the other four sharing that experience did exactly the same, bundling up to one another.  It was impossible to sleep.  We were in a state of constant alarm and I prayed for my life the entire time.  It was like trying to sleep on a railroad tracks hearing the train getting closer and closer but unable to move.

They take pleasure from my pain, pushing everything, into their own,
Unimaginable darkness

With their fingers, they undress, pushing their teeth, into my flesh, pulling me, under and beneath,
into their orgy, of agony and pain, to remain, in this,

Unimaginable darkness