In Search of Volcano: My Excursion to Martinique's Mt. Pelée
One summer, I decided to take the plunge and fulfill a recurring obsession by going to the Caribbean island of Martinique, in the French West Indies. Specifically, I have been drawn for years to the story of St. Pierre, a town of about 30,000 souls that was obliterated within ten minutes by a volcanic eruption in 1902.
Before embarking on my adventure, I read everything I could get my hands on about that event. I managed to find, among other things, the fax number for the volcano observatory there. My curiosity now aroused beyond the point of no return, I faxed them to see if I could wangle a visit. The director faxed back and asked me to call to arrange a meeting on arrival in Martinique! What a coup, I thought. Just call me intrepid.
On my first full day in Martinique, I toured the town of St. Pierre. The 1902 Mt. Pelée eruption, consisting of a massive black cloud of gas, flame, ash and volcanic rock that thundered directly down on the town, destroyed everything in its path with the force of an atomic bomb -- even sinking ships in the harbor. St. Pierre’s inhabitants had had ample warning in the form of ashfall, earthquakes, mudslides, and flooding, but mostly chose not to heed the signs, largely because an upcoming election kept many in town for fear of losing votes to the other side. The governor of Martinique had even commissioned a group of “experts” who hastily declared that St. Pierre was safe. But the governor of Martinique, the mayor of St. Pierre, and the expert commission never made it to their precious election. I can’t think of a more stunningly tragic case of denial.
The volcano, in all its ominous magnificence, still looms in the background of the St. Pierre of today. Nasty-looking blackened craters in the sides, marking the sites of eruptions, mar the otherwise green undulating surface of the mountain that blends into the gentle slope of a verdant valley. Pelée is expected to erupt again some day.
St. Pierre was once the commercial and cultural center of Martinique, and, some say, of the Caribbean. The town, now run-down and depressed-looking, retains little of its former glory as the “Paris of the West Indies.” The town has been rather half-heartedly built back up, using the ruins of the eruption for a foundation, and now has a population of about 5,000–6,000. Various ruins are still plainly visible, some left untouched except for clean-up of the rubble -- and the 30,000 charred bodies.
Most impressive is the grand theater that used to seat 8,000. Only the foundation of the theater survived the fatal eruption. Plainly visible are remains of the stage, orchestra pit, and even the original marble tiles of the floor. One can easily imagine the townspeople gathering there to enjoy the latest show from Paris.
Behind the theater on a hill stand the ruins of the governor’s second home. Having come to St. Pierre to reassure the inhabitants of its safety, he perished along with the others. The ruins of his home serve as a haunting reminder of the futility of the hubris of man in the face of Nature’s superior power.
Next to the theater is the prison cell wherein one of the few survivors, Louis Cyparis, suffered burns as a result of the eruption but managed to escape two death sentences: one legal, the other volcanic. Just before the eruption, his death sentence was suspended, but he was still kept in the prison. The thickness of the heavy stone walls of Cyparis’ cell, as well as the fact that the doorway and small window face away from the volcano, are believed to have saved his life. After the eruption, he was pardoned, joined Barnum and Bailey’s Circus, and was paraded about as the “sole” survivor of the catastrophe (even though there were several others). His former intended executioners, as well as the men who ordered him kept in jail, were all mowed down by the roaring black cloud. Irony abounds in St. Pierre.
I also could not miss the irony of taking a tumble at the “Ascent to the Sky,” of all places, which is a set of stairs leading up the side of a small, steep cliff that once boasted a seminary. I had accidentally stepped into a deep drainage gutter that runs down the middle of the concrete walkway. Fortunately, being somewhat of the Rubinesque persuasion, I had a rather soft landing. (I knew those extra pounds would come in handy one day!) I also managed to save my camcorder from breakage, a feat accomplished by allowing my body to take the bulk of the impact. I guess the folks of Martinique aren’t as lawsuit-happy as we are in the United States. Here, there would be all sorts of warning signs, yellow paint and disclaimers -- but in Martinique, you’d better just watch your step.
Such gutters also run along the sides of the extremely narrow streets, both in the town and along the well-maintained but mountainous, curvy roads with little or no shoulder. (Because of this, every disabled vehicle creates a major traffic jam.) One has to take care not to let one’s tires slip into the gutters while driving. That’s an extra challenge especially on two-way streets that are sometimes only wide enough for one and a half cars!
The next day, I decided to make my foray to the volcano observatory. I set up an appointment and hopped in my rental car for the hour-and-a-half challenging but fun drive from my hotel in the resort area at Pointe du Bout, past the capital city of Fort-de-France and along the scenic mountain roads to St. Pierre, with Caribbean “zouk” music blasting on the car radio the whole way. I wasn’t exactly sure how to get to the observatory from St. Pierre; I had gotten instructions from the director over the phone, but they weren’t quite clear to me. I could see it marked on the map, though, so I resolved to find it once I got to the general area. I had also asked him if it was an okay route for a car. No problem, he said. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
I had quite a hard time getting there. First, I drove along a steep, curvy mountain road leading from St. Pierre into the interior. The forest got thicker and thicker, and as a woman alone, I realized with a growing sense of unease that I must be getting lost. The road was narrow and there was a cliff-like drop-off on one side, so I had no place to turn around for some time. Finally, I found a little spot in which to turn around, and drove almost all the way back to St. Pierre. I stopped in a nice-looking little development perched on an overlook, hoping to find someone to ask directions, and was lucky enough to see a woman working in her yard. I started babbling at her in French, but she turned out to be from New Zealand, and gave me some instructions in English. What a relief! Her little girl handed me a flower. I took that as a good sign, and was soon on my way again, feeling encouraged.
An unmarked, dirt/gravel, ratty-looking road that I had passed by earlier turned out to be the right one. The road was bumpy, winding, steep, narrow and remote. Holy Moly, I exclaimed as I creeped up the first incline, hoping nothing on the car would give out. “Civilization,” such as it was, rapidly disappeared behind me. Geez Loweez, I said. (My thoughts are profound and articulate in such circumstances!) The road is only wide enough for one car in most places, even though it’s a two-way road, and you can’t see around the numerous curves. When another vehicle approaches, which is a rare occurrence, you have to inch over to one side to let it pass. Here and there, thank God, there are little clearings that enable you to pull over for this purpose. As I bounced along, I clung to the steering wheel for dear life, wondering whether I had taken yet another wrong turn. But one thing I wasn’t much worried about by this point was crime. I figured that a mugger would have to be nuts to look for any action in a place like this. But I had some pepper spray handy, just in case.
Just then, two fellows in a van pulled up alongside my car who appeared to be local workers. They seemed friendly, curious and amused at the sight of this lost foreign woman in a fancy rental car, out in the middle of nowhere. I made a quick assessment: trustworthy. I asked them where the “Observatoire” was. They explained in French that I was going in the right direction, and had to continue “climbing” the road. (Notice they didn’t say “following” the road!) I felt relieved that soon I would arrive at my elusive goal.
Finally, I reached the site of the observatory. I parked my car in the deserted parking lot and gazed up at the building, “Observatoire Volcanologique de la Montagne Pelée,” which was on a very steep hill. You would need mountain-climbing gear to reach it, I thought. How to get to the entrance, I wondered. There were no signs marking the way -- and no apparent entrance. Then I saw a long set of steep dirt stairs leading up one side of the hill. That has to be it, I said to myself. (Wrong!) I climbed up the stairs, and had to keep stopping to catch my breath because I was getting winded easily at that elevation. I reached the top of the stairs and there was a dirt mound above them, which I also climbed. There was nothing at the top but a large metal cylinder about twenty feet across (some type of volcano experiment or power source, I guess), and a cliff on the other side that made me dizzy. Jiminy Christmas! I said, or words to that effect, while peering warily over the edge. Hmmmm ... “American Woman Plunges to Accidental Death at Volcano Observatory.” What a headline! Sure beats getting run over by a Good Humor truck. I chuckled mentally. I didn’t have enough breath left to chuckle out loud.
When you start having thoughts like that, you know the elevation must be getting to your brain cells, and it’s definitely time to split.
By now, I was discouraged, sweating, and finding it hard to catch my breath even though I had worked out aerobically for several months in advance of the trip. This made me panic, but I said to myself, “Don’t panic; you need the oxygen!” The appeal to my survival instincts calmed me down. I considered quitting, but then said to myself, “You’ve come too far to back down now. You’ll find that damn entrance if it kills you and they have to come and peel your body off the hill!” I imagined the scientists coming out at the end of the day and finding this woman collapsed on the side of the hill. They would find my passport and the authorities would notify my mother, who would wonder why in the heck I was there in the first place. She would probably suspect foul play, not realizing that I was foolish enough to get into this situation all by myself. (You can see by now that I’m quite good at soothing self-talk in emergencies.)
To get back down to the bottom of the hill, first I had to slide part of the way back down the muddy mound, because it was so steep (and now slippery from a light drizzle) that I was afraid if I stood up, I would take a fall. I heard a dog barking ferociously somewhere while I was climbing back down the stairs and panting, and I thought, “Great, either I’ll die here from lack of oxygen or the dogs will get me!” I’m a positive thinker, you see.
At the bottom of the hill, I thought again about quitting and going back to my nice comfy hotel, now painfully distant (how do you spell relief? “h-o-t-e-l”), but my determination had only increased with each obstacle. This little excursion had become nothing short of a quest. With destiny beckoning, suddenly I saw a small unmarked (what else?) road leading around to the other side of the building. Why hadn’t I seen it before? I walked around that, still out of breath, and saw two vehicles in a garage and what appeared to be an entrance at the top of some concrete stairs. Eureka!
I climbed up to the entrance, pausing every couple of stairs to catch my breath, whipped open the door, and staggered in. It was almost an anticlimax. Inside were several scientific-looking guys, who all turned toward me simultaneously and looked startled, like squirrels caught in the headlights, as if to say, “Who is this crazy sweating woman in our doorway?” (I suppose those volcano guys are the shy, introverted type who don’t want to encourage visitors. Say, maybe that’s the reason for the dirt-stair fiasco and the attack dogs! You can only come inside if you survive the “test” first. The big metal cylinder is probably where they store all the bodies.) (Just kidding, volcano guys.)
I explained while panting that I had an appointment with the director, who suddenly appeared. He was very cordial and I began to feel relieved. Then he pointed to a set of stairs. I exclaimed, “You mean we have to walk up those stairs?!?” Hardy sort that he was, he seemed puzzled at my reaction. At the top of the stairs, we entered an office, where I had a fascinating hour-long interview with him. He explained details of the 1902 eruption, and that the volcano is still active and will erupt again. They just don’t know when.
During the interview, while I was catching my breath and surreptitiously mopping up sweat in between taking notes, the director looked dry and fit as a fiddle. I felt like such a namby-pamby weenie by comparison. I thought to myself, “I bet this whole observatory thing is a piece of cake for him; he has no idea what I went through to get here!” And I wasn’t about to tell him. I preferred to preserve the illusion of a self-confident, independent American Woman-Who-Runs-With-Wolves type. National pride was at stake. But when he suggested some other remote places where I could collect additional valuable information, I laughed and said, “That’s okay; I think I’ll just stick to the library from here on out.” I don’t think he got the joke.
As I was leaving, I paused to gaze at Pelée, the “Goddess of Fire,” hovering silently across from the observatory, and felt in my bones her beauty, mystery and danger. She had ceased to be a mere mountain in my mind; she was now a Presence. I drank in the most perfect rainbow I have ever seen, with no sound to distract me but the wind and the resultant creaking of the observatory. It was worth every minute of the hassle.
The drive on the way back to civilization was much easier; I knew the route and I had the wonderful feeling of accomplishment of my mission. “Well, Christine, now we’ve had our little adventure. Are we satisfied, I hope?” I asked myself. Knowing that the answer was “yes,” I smiled as I made my bumpy way down, looking forward to a long break back at the hotel.
I’ll be monitoring eruptive activity worldwide via computer for a while, from a comfortable chair. I think I’ll let a little time pass before I plan my next adventure. Until then, I have my memories, camcorder footage, and photos to savor.
Tags: Martinique, volcano, Pelee
Before embarking on my adventure, I read everything I could get my hands on about that event. I managed to find, among other things, the fax number for the volcano observatory there. My curiosity now aroused beyond the point of no return, I faxed them to see if I could wangle a visit. The director faxed back and asked me to call to arrange a meeting on arrival in Martinique! What a coup, I thought. Just call me intrepid.
On my first full day in Martinique, I toured the town of St. Pierre. The 1902 Mt. Pelée eruption, consisting of a massive black cloud of gas, flame, ash and volcanic rock that thundered directly down on the town, destroyed everything in its path with the force of an atomic bomb -- even sinking ships in the harbor. St. Pierre’s inhabitants had had ample warning in the form of ashfall, earthquakes, mudslides, and flooding, but mostly chose not to heed the signs, largely because an upcoming election kept many in town for fear of losing votes to the other side. The governor of Martinique had even commissioned a group of “experts” who hastily declared that St. Pierre was safe. But the governor of Martinique, the mayor of St. Pierre, and the expert commission never made it to their precious election. I can’t think of a more stunningly tragic case of denial.
The volcano, in all its ominous magnificence, still looms in the background of the St. Pierre of today. Nasty-looking blackened craters in the sides, marking the sites of eruptions, mar the otherwise green undulating surface of the mountain that blends into the gentle slope of a verdant valley. Pelée is expected to erupt again some day.
St. Pierre was once the commercial and cultural center of Martinique, and, some say, of the Caribbean. The town, now run-down and depressed-looking, retains little of its former glory as the “Paris of the West Indies.” The town has been rather half-heartedly built back up, using the ruins of the eruption for a foundation, and now has a population of about 5,000–6,000. Various ruins are still plainly visible, some left untouched except for clean-up of the rubble -- and the 30,000 charred bodies.
Most impressive is the grand theater that used to seat 8,000. Only the foundation of the theater survived the fatal eruption. Plainly visible are remains of the stage, orchestra pit, and even the original marble tiles of the floor. One can easily imagine the townspeople gathering there to enjoy the latest show from Paris.
Behind the theater on a hill stand the ruins of the governor’s second home. Having come to St. Pierre to reassure the inhabitants of its safety, he perished along with the others. The ruins of his home serve as a haunting reminder of the futility of the hubris of man in the face of Nature’s superior power.
Next to the theater is the prison cell wherein one of the few survivors, Louis Cyparis, suffered burns as a result of the eruption but managed to escape two death sentences: one legal, the other volcanic. Just before the eruption, his death sentence was suspended, but he was still kept in the prison. The thickness of the heavy stone walls of Cyparis’ cell, as well as the fact that the doorway and small window face away from the volcano, are believed to have saved his life. After the eruption, he was pardoned, joined Barnum and Bailey’s Circus, and was paraded about as the “sole” survivor of the catastrophe (even though there were several others). His former intended executioners, as well as the men who ordered him kept in jail, were all mowed down by the roaring black cloud. Irony abounds in St. Pierre.
I also could not miss the irony of taking a tumble at the “Ascent to the Sky,” of all places, which is a set of stairs leading up the side of a small, steep cliff that once boasted a seminary. I had accidentally stepped into a deep drainage gutter that runs down the middle of the concrete walkway. Fortunately, being somewhat of the Rubinesque persuasion, I had a rather soft landing. (I knew those extra pounds would come in handy one day!) I also managed to save my camcorder from breakage, a feat accomplished by allowing my body to take the bulk of the impact. I guess the folks of Martinique aren’t as lawsuit-happy as we are in the United States. Here, there would be all sorts of warning signs, yellow paint and disclaimers -- but in Martinique, you’d better just watch your step.
Such gutters also run along the sides of the extremely narrow streets, both in the town and along the well-maintained but mountainous, curvy roads with little or no shoulder. (Because of this, every disabled vehicle creates a major traffic jam.) One has to take care not to let one’s tires slip into the gutters while driving. That’s an extra challenge especially on two-way streets that are sometimes only wide enough for one and a half cars!
The next day, I decided to make my foray to the volcano observatory. I set up an appointment and hopped in my rental car for the hour-and-a-half challenging but fun drive from my hotel in the resort area at Pointe du Bout, past the capital city of Fort-de-France and along the scenic mountain roads to St. Pierre, with Caribbean “zouk” music blasting on the car radio the whole way. I wasn’t exactly sure how to get to the observatory from St. Pierre; I had gotten instructions from the director over the phone, but they weren’t quite clear to me. I could see it marked on the map, though, so I resolved to find it once I got to the general area. I had also asked him if it was an okay route for a car. No problem, he said. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
I had quite a hard time getting there. First, I drove along a steep, curvy mountain road leading from St. Pierre into the interior. The forest got thicker and thicker, and as a woman alone, I realized with a growing sense of unease that I must be getting lost. The road was narrow and there was a cliff-like drop-off on one side, so I had no place to turn around for some time. Finally, I found a little spot in which to turn around, and drove almost all the way back to St. Pierre. I stopped in a nice-looking little development perched on an overlook, hoping to find someone to ask directions, and was lucky enough to see a woman working in her yard. I started babbling at her in French, but she turned out to be from New Zealand, and gave me some instructions in English. What a relief! Her little girl handed me a flower. I took that as a good sign, and was soon on my way again, feeling encouraged.
An unmarked, dirt/gravel, ratty-looking road that I had passed by earlier turned out to be the right one. The road was bumpy, winding, steep, narrow and remote. Holy Moly, I exclaimed as I creeped up the first incline, hoping nothing on the car would give out. “Civilization,” such as it was, rapidly disappeared behind me. Geez Loweez, I said. (My thoughts are profound and articulate in such circumstances!) The road is only wide enough for one car in most places, even though it’s a two-way road, and you can’t see around the numerous curves. When another vehicle approaches, which is a rare occurrence, you have to inch over to one side to let it pass. Here and there, thank God, there are little clearings that enable you to pull over for this purpose. As I bounced along, I clung to the steering wheel for dear life, wondering whether I had taken yet another wrong turn. But one thing I wasn’t much worried about by this point was crime. I figured that a mugger would have to be nuts to look for any action in a place like this. But I had some pepper spray handy, just in case.
Just then, two fellows in a van pulled up alongside my car who appeared to be local workers. They seemed friendly, curious and amused at the sight of this lost foreign woman in a fancy rental car, out in the middle of nowhere. I made a quick assessment: trustworthy. I asked them where the “Observatoire” was. They explained in French that I was going in the right direction, and had to continue “climbing” the road. (Notice they didn’t say “following” the road!) I felt relieved that soon I would arrive at my elusive goal.
Finally, I reached the site of the observatory. I parked my car in the deserted parking lot and gazed up at the building, “Observatoire Volcanologique de la Montagne Pelée,” which was on a very steep hill. You would need mountain-climbing gear to reach it, I thought. How to get to the entrance, I wondered. There were no signs marking the way -- and no apparent entrance. Then I saw a long set of steep dirt stairs leading up one side of the hill. That has to be it, I said to myself. (Wrong!) I climbed up the stairs, and had to keep stopping to catch my breath because I was getting winded easily at that elevation. I reached the top of the stairs and there was a dirt mound above them, which I also climbed. There was nothing at the top but a large metal cylinder about twenty feet across (some type of volcano experiment or power source, I guess), and a cliff on the other side that made me dizzy. Jiminy Christmas! I said, or words to that effect, while peering warily over the edge. Hmmmm ... “American Woman Plunges to Accidental Death at Volcano Observatory.” What a headline! Sure beats getting run over by a Good Humor truck. I chuckled mentally. I didn’t have enough breath left to chuckle out loud.
When you start having thoughts like that, you know the elevation must be getting to your brain cells, and it’s definitely time to split.
By now, I was discouraged, sweating, and finding it hard to catch my breath even though I had worked out aerobically for several months in advance of the trip. This made me panic, but I said to myself, “Don’t panic; you need the oxygen!” The appeal to my survival instincts calmed me down. I considered quitting, but then said to myself, “You’ve come too far to back down now. You’ll find that damn entrance if it kills you and they have to come and peel your body off the hill!” I imagined the scientists coming out at the end of the day and finding this woman collapsed on the side of the hill. They would find my passport and the authorities would notify my mother, who would wonder why in the heck I was there in the first place. She would probably suspect foul play, not realizing that I was foolish enough to get into this situation all by myself. (You can see by now that I’m quite good at soothing self-talk in emergencies.)
To get back down to the bottom of the hill, first I had to slide part of the way back down the muddy mound, because it was so steep (and now slippery from a light drizzle) that I was afraid if I stood up, I would take a fall. I heard a dog barking ferociously somewhere while I was climbing back down the stairs and panting, and I thought, “Great, either I’ll die here from lack of oxygen or the dogs will get me!” I’m a positive thinker, you see.
At the bottom of the hill, I thought again about quitting and going back to my nice comfy hotel, now painfully distant (how do you spell relief? “h-o-t-e-l”), but my determination had only increased with each obstacle. This little excursion had become nothing short of a quest. With destiny beckoning, suddenly I saw a small unmarked (what else?) road leading around to the other side of the building. Why hadn’t I seen it before? I walked around that, still out of breath, and saw two vehicles in a garage and what appeared to be an entrance at the top of some concrete stairs. Eureka!
I climbed up to the entrance, pausing every couple of stairs to catch my breath, whipped open the door, and staggered in. It was almost an anticlimax. Inside were several scientific-looking guys, who all turned toward me simultaneously and looked startled, like squirrels caught in the headlights, as if to say, “Who is this crazy sweating woman in our doorway?” (I suppose those volcano guys are the shy, introverted type who don’t want to encourage visitors. Say, maybe that’s the reason for the dirt-stair fiasco and the attack dogs! You can only come inside if you survive the “test” first. The big metal cylinder is probably where they store all the bodies.) (Just kidding, volcano guys.)
I explained while panting that I had an appointment with the director, who suddenly appeared. He was very cordial and I began to feel relieved. Then he pointed to a set of stairs. I exclaimed, “You mean we have to walk up those stairs?!?” Hardy sort that he was, he seemed puzzled at my reaction. At the top of the stairs, we entered an office, where I had a fascinating hour-long interview with him. He explained details of the 1902 eruption, and that the volcano is still active and will erupt again. They just don’t know when.
During the interview, while I was catching my breath and surreptitiously mopping up sweat in between taking notes, the director looked dry and fit as a fiddle. I felt like such a namby-pamby weenie by comparison. I thought to myself, “I bet this whole observatory thing is a piece of cake for him; he has no idea what I went through to get here!” And I wasn’t about to tell him. I preferred to preserve the illusion of a self-confident, independent American Woman-Who-Runs-With-Wolves type. National pride was at stake. But when he suggested some other remote places where I could collect additional valuable information, I laughed and said, “That’s okay; I think I’ll just stick to the library from here on out.” I don’t think he got the joke.
As I was leaving, I paused to gaze at Pelée, the “Goddess of Fire,” hovering silently across from the observatory, and felt in my bones her beauty, mystery and danger. She had ceased to be a mere mountain in my mind; she was now a Presence. I drank in the most perfect rainbow I have ever seen, with no sound to distract me but the wind and the resultant creaking of the observatory. It was worth every minute of the hassle.
The drive on the way back to civilization was much easier; I knew the route and I had the wonderful feeling of accomplishment of my mission. “Well, Christine, now we’ve had our little adventure. Are we satisfied, I hope?” I asked myself. Knowing that the answer was “yes,” I smiled as I made my bumpy way down, looking forward to a long break back at the hotel.
I’ll be monitoring eruptive activity worldwide via computer for a while, from a comfortable chair. I think I’ll let a little time pass before I plan my next adventure. Until then, I have my memories, camcorder footage, and photos to savor.
Tags: Martinique, volcano, Pelee
Labels: Martinique, Pelee, travel, volcano
posted by Christine M. Hanson | 9:33 AM
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