Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

Grandpa Was Ill and Wasn't Keen on Climbing the Volcano-But We Forced Him Up All the Same

Magazine article New Statesman (1996)

Grandpa Was Ill and Wasn't Keen on Climbing the Volcano-But We Forced Him Up All the Same

Article excerpt

At first, Grandpa was sceptical about the volcano. "I used to be into that kind of thing," he said, "but not now." He did not mention that he was 88.

The guidebook to Indonesia which he disdained--described how, once you got to the crater, the mist would rise to reveal a shimmering lake. His fellow travellers, my sister and I, often joked about our family's tendency to declare everything to be "just like Scotland". This was a living, breathing volcano. It would be nothing like Scotland.

But as Grandpa reminisced about his childhood in the Dutch East Indies, he began to warm to the idea. We set off at 7am and drove past villages with muddled terracotta roofs and rice paddies spread across the valleys like glimmering tables. We talked excitedly about our adventure. Then it began to rain. "Perhaps it will blow over," I said to my sister, as the view from the windows turned into smears.

Our driver stopped at a car park. With remarkable efficiency, he opened the doors for us and drove away. The rain was like gunfire.

To get to the crater, we had to climb into an open-sided minibus where we sat shivering in our wet summer clothes. Grandpa coughed. It was a nasty cough, which seemed to be getting worse; we had been trying to persuade him to go to a pharmacy for days. Instead, we had persuaded him up a cold and wet mountain.

Five minutes passed, and the minibus didn't budge. Then another bedraggled family squeezed in. I thought of all the would-be volcano tourists curled up in their hotels. …

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