Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [33]
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