A blog on volcanoes, with info and photos of the most famous volcanoes on Earth, tips and trivia, plus info on how to get there.
Text and photos are under the Creative Commons Rights.
Slawka G. Scarso is the author of all the photos in this blog, except where otherwise indicated.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006,11:00 AM
Magmatrek - a guide to the volcano of Stromboli
Stromboli is one of the most interesting volcanoes on Earth, having had an almost constant activity for centuries and centuries. In fact it used to be called the "lighthouse" of the Mediterranean...
When you arrive in Stromboli, there are various organizations providing guides who will lead you to the top of the volcano. My suggestion is to go with one of them, for Stromboli is known for its volcanic bombs too - some of which have killed toursist in past... Not that one should panic, but going with someone who does know the area makes the difference.
Among the various organisations on the island, there is one which has an excellent website, namely Magmatrek. Here you can find info on the volcano, a route map, plus insights on the flora and fauna on Stromboli, as well as a detailed chart illustrating what you might expect, weatherwise.
There are beautiful photogalleries here and here.
Monday, June 05, 2006,12:08 AM
Lunar scenery on Mount Etna
Fly me to the moon... in fact this picture was taken in September 2004 on Mount Etna, not too far from the 2002 crater. You can see how big volcanic bombs can sometimes be, and at the same time you can appreciate how thin the volcanic dust is..
Sunday, June 04, 2006,5:34 PM
A path breaking experience - a half day trip to the remote island of Alicudi in the Aeolian archipelago
We got off the ferry boat on a hot may day, with two commuters, a motor cart loaded with fresh vegetables and the postman. Two girls around ten years old with long brown hair highlighted by the sun and an early golden tan approached us and tried to sell us some sea shells. Getting exercised for the high season, we thought - as if many tourists ever arrived at this remote island.
Alicudi is indeed the most isolated island of the Aeolian archipelago, otherwise famous for its constantly active volcano, Stromboli. To get there, you need to catch a ferry boat from Milazzo, in Sicily, or from Naples, get off in Lipari and then take another one which will eventually take you to Alicudi Porto. Far too much fuss for most tourists, and that's why a hotel and two grocery shops, one of which also serves as a coffee bar, comprise Alicudi's tourism industry. We had only planned to stay for our few hours anyway, that is until our next ferry boat to the island of Salina.
As it was lunch time however, we bought some sandwiches from Umberto, the grocer near the port, who also allowed us to leave our backpacks under the porch in front of his shop. A critical help as Alicudi, an ancient volcano, is virtually all uphill and the village spreads upwards and culminates with the ancient church of San Bartolomeo, which was where we wanted to go. Having to take our backpacks on our shoulders would have meant spending the rest of our time by the port. Instead, with our backs unburdened, we headed upwards, via paved paths and staircases of volcanic stones which squeeze through white and pastel pink houses surrounded by cascades of red geraniums and fuchsia bougainvilleas, and walls of prickly pears.
At that time of the day we were the only people around. We did hear a few voices, probably engaged in lunchtime conversation, coming from under the private shade of porches overlooking the sea. Otherwise, it was just us and a couple of cats running from the shadow of one bush of flowers to another. Unfortunately, though immense to our eyes, those bushes weren't big enough to shelter us from the sun too.
We passed the post office, also deserted. Two or three yellow dandelions half hanging from the post box where they had their roots proved that no one had posted a letter from there for ages. We walked with heavy paces - the heat of the day, the steepness of the hill and the ham sandwiches in our stomachs all weighing us down as if we had two 70 litre backpacks.
The pungent scent of capers growing in the orchards hit our noses and as soon as we found the shade of a lonely tree we decided to take a rest. Suddenly a lady leaned out of a nearby window and we asked her in Italian:
"Is this the right path to go to the church of San Bartolomeo?" She looked at us as if we had spoken a foreign language. What had we said that was so wrong?
"Do you mean the STREET to San Bartolomeo?" she asked us in turn.
"Right" we replied confused.
"Yes, this is the right STREET. There's about another fifteen minutes of walking to do."
"Thank you" we all answered then started our climb again, wondering how it is possible to call a paved path, just large enough to have two people walking side by side and with grass growing in between one stone and the other, a street.
Forty minutes and several stops later we reached the deserted church of San Bartolomeo. So deserted that one of us climbed on the roof and rang the bell. The view from there was vast, spreading across an empty Mediterraneum except for the island of Filicudi not too far away. Besides, the church courtyard bestowed another precious gift, a beautiful series of shadow yielding holm-oaks.
Later, when we collected our backpacks from Umberto, we discovered that during the summer indeed many tourists come to Alicudi (though how much "many" means is a mystery).
"They have bought houses everywhere, even near the church of San Bartolomeo," he continued.
We were quite shocked. Not just because tourists arrive everywhere, but because we wondered how someone would choose to buy a house where even bringing a six-pack of mineral water was a crusade.
"By the way," we asked, "how do people bring water, or shopping up to those houses?"
"By donkey," he answered as if it was obvious.
"And how much does it cost?"
"20 euro."
Alicudi's tourism industry may not be extremely developed, but they're definitely working on it.
First published in TouristTraveler
Alicudi is indeed the most isolated island of the Aeolian archipelago, otherwise famous for its constantly active volcano, Stromboli. To get there, you need to catch a ferry boat from Milazzo, in Sicily, or from Naples, get off in Lipari and then take another one which will eventually take you to Alicudi Porto. Far too much fuss for most tourists, and that's why a hotel and two grocery shops, one of which also serves as a coffee bar, comprise Alicudi's tourism industry. We had only planned to stay for our few hours anyway, that is until our next ferry boat to the island of Salina.
As it was lunch time however, we bought some sandwiches from Umberto, the grocer near the port, who also allowed us to leave our backpacks under the porch in front of his shop. A critical help as Alicudi, an ancient volcano, is virtually all uphill and the village spreads upwards and culminates with the ancient church of San Bartolomeo, which was where we wanted to go. Having to take our backpacks on our shoulders would have meant spending the rest of our time by the port. Instead, with our backs unburdened, we headed upwards, via paved paths and staircases of volcanic stones which squeeze through white and pastel pink houses surrounded by cascades of red geraniums and fuchsia bougainvilleas, and walls of prickly pears.
At that time of the day we were the only people around. We did hear a few voices, probably engaged in lunchtime conversation, coming from under the private shade of porches overlooking the sea. Otherwise, it was just us and a couple of cats running from the shadow of one bush of flowers to another. Unfortunately, though immense to our eyes, those bushes weren't big enough to shelter us from the sun too.
We passed the post office, also deserted. Two or three yellow dandelions half hanging from the post box where they had their roots proved that no one had posted a letter from there for ages. We walked with heavy paces - the heat of the day, the steepness of the hill and the ham sandwiches in our stomachs all weighing us down as if we had two 70 litre backpacks.
The pungent scent of capers growing in the orchards hit our noses and as soon as we found the shade of a lonely tree we decided to take a rest. Suddenly a lady leaned out of a nearby window and we asked her in Italian:
"Is this the right path to go to the church of San Bartolomeo?" She looked at us as if we had spoken a foreign language. What had we said that was so wrong?
"Do you mean the STREET to San Bartolomeo?" she asked us in turn.
"Right" we replied confused.
"Yes, this is the right STREET. There's about another fifteen minutes of walking to do."
"Thank you" we all answered then started our climb again, wondering how it is possible to call a paved path, just large enough to have two people walking side by side and with grass growing in between one stone and the other, a street.
Forty minutes and several stops later we reached the deserted church of San Bartolomeo. So deserted that one of us climbed on the roof and rang the bell. The view from there was vast, spreading across an empty Mediterraneum except for the island of Filicudi not too far away. Besides, the church courtyard bestowed another precious gift, a beautiful series of shadow yielding holm-oaks.
Later, when we collected our backpacks from Umberto, we discovered that during the summer indeed many tourists come to Alicudi (though how much "many" means is a mystery).
"They have bought houses everywhere, even near the church of San Bartolomeo," he continued.
We were quite shocked. Not just because tourists arrive everywhere, but because we wondered how someone would choose to buy a house where even bringing a six-pack of mineral water was a crusade.
"By the way," we asked, "how do people bring water, or shopping up to those houses?"
"By donkey," he answered as if it was obvious.
"And how much does it cost?"
"20 euro."
Alicudi's tourism industry may not be extremely developed, but they're definitely working on it.
First published in TouristTraveler
,3:45 PM
Why volcanoes explode
I found this old article on the BBC website and found it very interesting. Dr Damian Carrington explains why volcanoes explode. Dr Carrington explains that it all depends on the stickiness of the magma: if the magma is very fluid, the gases contained in it can easily escape (examples are Etna and Hawaii volcanoes); if the magma on the contrary is sticky, the the bubbles of gas cannot escape and an explosion is likely to occur (these are the cases of Pompei, Mount St. Helens and Monserrat to name a few).The image illustrates the original piece on the BBC website.
,3:21 PM
Scared in Scari - Visiting Stromboli
by Slawka G. Scarso
“Has this hydrofoil broken down?” asks the German tourist sitting next to me as the ferry stops. We are floating free off the minuscule village of Ginostra on the volcanic island of Stromboli, right in the heart of the Mediterranean Sea, and the tourist can't figure out why we've stopped here.
Stromboli belongs to the Aeolian Islands, a group of volcanic islands located between Sicily and about 30 miles (50 km) from the southern part of the Italian mainland. It is the northernmost of the Aeolian Islands, and the continuously active stratovolcano, whose summit is at 3,031 feet (924 m) above sea level, rises in its center. Stromboli’s base, however, is between 4,921 and 6,561 feet (1500 and 2000 m) below the sea. About 400 people live on this tiny island with a surface area of only 4.8 square miles (12.6 km²).
“Little Ginostra has no port big enough for a hydrofoil or ferryboat to land,” I explain to the tourist, pointing out several locals who are jumping with their luggage into a small boat that will eventually take them to their homes, while other people lower baskets of bread and groceries down into the small craft. There’s no electricity here, either, though there are plans to build a small port, particularly after the last major eruption on December 28, 2002.
It was Stromboli’s first effusive eruption in 17 years, and two days later, colossal blocks of magma and volcanic rocks around 141 million cubic feet (or 4 million cubic meters) in volume slid into the sea. This triggered a tsunami wave, which damaged buildings close to the sea and temporarily closed the island for tourists.
After a few minutes the hydrofoil starts its journey again and drops us off on the northeastern side of the island, where a slightly larger port called Scari is ready to welcome us.
The local people invite us to stay at their hotel or in one of the small flats they rent to tourists. An authorized guide asks us if we want to take an excursion to the Sciara del Fuoco in the northwest of the island, where the magma flows into the sea from an active volcanic vent.
Climbing to the top of Stromboli is by law only allowed if you join a guided tour. Weather permitting, tours are offered on most days during the season. You can choose to depart in the afternoon, stay on the summit until darkness and descend late at night. Or, to avoid the scorching summer heat, you may prefer to start in the evening and descend in the early morning hours.
My friends and I opt for the evening excursion (13 Euro or about US$ 16 per person), and the guide says he’ll pick us up at our hostel at 10 p.m.
“Make sure you each have strong walking shoes, a torch and an extra t-shirt,” he adds. Though the torch and shoes are quite an obvious requirement, the extra t-shirt leaves us a little surprised and curious.
For now, we slowly make our way along the sea to the hostel we had already booked before arriving on the island. On our right, the volcanic beach and rocks are pitch black. On our left, high above, the top of the volcano looms over us, with a small wisp of smoke appearing when the wind blows in our direction.
In between, the tiny villages of S. Vincenzo, Ficogrande and Piscità, are perched on a hill with their typical small white houses, with some of the buildings still in ruins after the 2002 tsunami. I remember the images on the evening news, showing most of the inhabitants abandoning the island on ferryboats or helicopters, while a small minority refused to leave their houses.
After a little rest, a quick pizza and a last minute quest for a torch, we’re ready for the nighttime excursion to Stromboli. Going at night will also give us a better view of the lava flow. Before 2002, it was possible to climb right to its top. Nowadays you can only get to the observatory at 1,312 feet (400 m).
The guide arrives at our hostel early at 9.30 p.m. with helmets for us all. A few tourists have been seriously wounded or have died while on top of Stromboli, being hit by volcanic bombs — small masses of lava shot out of the volcano, which cool and solidify in midair before landing on the ground. But the observatory is rather safe, our guide reassures us, and the reason why we are not allowed to reach the top of the volcano is that a new and more secure path to get there with shelters near the summit is still being built.
In line, each one with his torch, we start to walk out of the village of Piscità and up the very rough path that follows the coast and gradually ascends. The dusty track squeezes between canes and plants, which we can hardly see.
The peaceful silence is only interrupted by an occasional sea breeze blowing eerily through the canes, and a strange sound that resembles the gnawing of huge rats. Meanwhile, the pungent aroma of wild capers and the salty sea hits my nostrils, making me wonder why I am here instead of eating a lovely fish fillet cooked with cherry tomatoes and a handful of those very same capers back at the village restaurant below.
Every now and then, a warm wind comes from a different direction than the usual sea breeze, from the point towards which we are walking, and we get a whiff of the volcanic vent.
The climb is much harder than I would have expected, and perhaps because the path is so dusty, breathing is rather difficult. Our guide doesn’t speak too much. He seems to portion his conversation with the wisdom of someone who leads such excursions a few times every day, during high season, while making sure, every now and then, that no one is left behind. We only make a couple of stops to rest for a few minutes. Then we’re back on track, until, after over two hours, we arrive at last at the observatory. It is not some kind of building as we had expected, but merely a larger, flatter, and, most importantly, panoramic portion of the same path we’re walking up.
We switch off our torches and sit on the stones in bewilderment as the lava, only 656 feet (200 m) from us, flows slowly and dives into the sea generating a thick cloud of vapor. Rocks, sometimes as big as 10 feet (3 m) in diameter, burst out of the vent with a thundering sound and roll down, often crumbling into smaller rocks.
We’re all speechless, though I must admit this could also be due to the climbing itself, or to becoming chilled in our damp T-shirts and the night breeze. We have reached the highest point we can, and so there is only the way back down. So we change into fresh shirts in the lava flow’s demurely atmospheric light.
The stars above are not visible, as they are covered by a thin cloud of smoke coming from the volcano. At sea level, however, a little constellation is observable.
A few cruise ships anchored not too far from Stromboli remind me of the nick-name this island has been given over the past centuries because of its constant volcanic activity—“the lighthouse of the Mediterranean Sea.”
First published in Go World Travel
“Has this hydrofoil broken down?” asks the German tourist sitting next to me as the ferry stops. We are floating free off the minuscule village of Ginostra on the volcanic island of Stromboli, right in the heart of the Mediterranean Sea, and the tourist can't figure out why we've stopped here.
Stromboli belongs to the Aeolian Islands, a group of volcanic islands located between Sicily and about 30 miles (50 km) from the southern part of the Italian mainland. It is the northernmost of the Aeolian Islands, and the continuously active stratovolcano, whose summit is at 3,031 feet (924 m) above sea level, rises in its center. Stromboli’s base, however, is between 4,921 and 6,561 feet (1500 and 2000 m) below the sea. About 400 people live on this tiny island with a surface area of only 4.8 square miles (12.6 km²).
“Little Ginostra has no port big enough for a hydrofoil or ferryboat to land,” I explain to the tourist, pointing out several locals who are jumping with their luggage into a small boat that will eventually take them to their homes, while other people lower baskets of bread and groceries down into the small craft. There’s no electricity here, either, though there are plans to build a small port, particularly after the last major eruption on December 28, 2002.
It was Stromboli’s first effusive eruption in 17 years, and two days later, colossal blocks of magma and volcanic rocks around 141 million cubic feet (or 4 million cubic meters) in volume slid into the sea. This triggered a tsunami wave, which damaged buildings close to the sea and temporarily closed the island for tourists.
After a few minutes the hydrofoil starts its journey again and drops us off on the northeastern side of the island, where a slightly larger port called Scari is ready to welcome us.
The local people invite us to stay at their hotel or in one of the small flats they rent to tourists. An authorized guide asks us if we want to take an excursion to the Sciara del Fuoco in the northwest of the island, where the magma flows into the sea from an active volcanic vent.
Climbing to the top of Stromboli is by law only allowed if you join a guided tour. Weather permitting, tours are offered on most days during the season. You can choose to depart in the afternoon, stay on the summit until darkness and descend late at night. Or, to avoid the scorching summer heat, you may prefer to start in the evening and descend in the early morning hours.
My friends and I opt for the evening excursion (13 Euro or about US$ 16 per person), and the guide says he’ll pick us up at our hostel at 10 p.m.
“Make sure you each have strong walking shoes, a torch and an extra t-shirt,” he adds. Though the torch and shoes are quite an obvious requirement, the extra t-shirt leaves us a little surprised and curious.
For now, we slowly make our way along the sea to the hostel we had already booked before arriving on the island. On our right, the volcanic beach and rocks are pitch black. On our left, high above, the top of the volcano looms over us, with a small wisp of smoke appearing when the wind blows in our direction.
In between, the tiny villages of S. Vincenzo, Ficogrande and Piscità, are perched on a hill with their typical small white houses, with some of the buildings still in ruins after the 2002 tsunami. I remember the images on the evening news, showing most of the inhabitants abandoning the island on ferryboats or helicopters, while a small minority refused to leave their houses.
After a little rest, a quick pizza and a last minute quest for a torch, we’re ready for the nighttime excursion to Stromboli. Going at night will also give us a better view of the lava flow. Before 2002, it was possible to climb right to its top. Nowadays you can only get to the observatory at 1,312 feet (400 m).
The guide arrives at our hostel early at 9.30 p.m. with helmets for us all. A few tourists have been seriously wounded or have died while on top of Stromboli, being hit by volcanic bombs — small masses of lava shot out of the volcano, which cool and solidify in midair before landing on the ground. But the observatory is rather safe, our guide reassures us, and the reason why we are not allowed to reach the top of the volcano is that a new and more secure path to get there with shelters near the summit is still being built.
In line, each one with his torch, we start to walk out of the village of Piscità and up the very rough path that follows the coast and gradually ascends. The dusty track squeezes between canes and plants, which we can hardly see.
The peaceful silence is only interrupted by an occasional sea breeze blowing eerily through the canes, and a strange sound that resembles the gnawing of huge rats. Meanwhile, the pungent aroma of wild capers and the salty sea hits my nostrils, making me wonder why I am here instead of eating a lovely fish fillet cooked with cherry tomatoes and a handful of those very same capers back at the village restaurant below.
Every now and then, a warm wind comes from a different direction than the usual sea breeze, from the point towards which we are walking, and we get a whiff of the volcanic vent.
The climb is much harder than I would have expected, and perhaps because the path is so dusty, breathing is rather difficult. Our guide doesn’t speak too much. He seems to portion his conversation with the wisdom of someone who leads such excursions a few times every day, during high season, while making sure, every now and then, that no one is left behind. We only make a couple of stops to rest for a few minutes. Then we’re back on track, until, after over two hours, we arrive at last at the observatory. It is not some kind of building as we had expected, but merely a larger, flatter, and, most importantly, panoramic portion of the same path we’re walking up.
We switch off our torches and sit on the stones in bewilderment as the lava, only 656 feet (200 m) from us, flows slowly and dives into the sea generating a thick cloud of vapor. Rocks, sometimes as big as 10 feet (3 m) in diameter, burst out of the vent with a thundering sound and roll down, often crumbling into smaller rocks.
We’re all speechless, though I must admit this could also be due to the climbing itself, or to becoming chilled in our damp T-shirts and the night breeze. We have reached the highest point we can, and so there is only the way back down. So we change into fresh shirts in the lava flow’s demurely atmospheric light.
The stars above are not visible, as they are covered by a thin cloud of smoke coming from the volcano. At sea level, however, a little constellation is observable.
A few cruise ships anchored not too far from Stromboli remind me of the nick-name this island has been given over the past centuries because of its constant volcanic activity—“the lighthouse of the Mediterranean Sea.”
First published in Go World Travel
,3:09 PM
Opening a closed door in the Azores
by Slawka G. Scarso
No need for hair pins nor jimmies. There are different ways to open the locked door of a historical building when you're visiting the most remote islands of Europe. All that is necessary is a confident peep inside any window, some gesticulation meaning that you'd like to look around (a circular movement of the arm usually does the trick) and most importantly, a nice smile. The Azoreans are so proud of their sights they will open you every door, even if the church or palace you'd like to see is closed for repairs or the visiting hour is over.
Once, I took a long walk to the village of Manadas, on the island of Sao Jorge, only to visit the church of Santa Barbara which, according to tourist brochures, was not to be missed. When I finally got there it was closed, the village deserted. I sat hopelessly in the courtyard, gazing at the Atlantic Ocean. Suddenly an old man on a bike appeared out of nowhere and asked me (in English!): "Would you like to visit the church?" I nodded. "I'll get the keys." Ten minutes later he was illustrating the azulejos representing the life of the Saint and commenting on the golden Baroque stuccoes in the nave!
The ritual was the same all over the archipelago. In Ponta Delgada on Sao Miguel, it involved entering a Jesuit convent closed for repairs. In Praia da Vitòria on Terceira, it implicated visiting the church of Senhor Santo Cristo, which had two main altars instead of one (!), after closing time.
The most unbelievable performance of Azorean welcoming however, was in Angra do Heroismo on Terceira. There I visited the convent of Sao Gonçalo once hosting cloistered nuns. Senhora Maria guided me through the church and the room where nuns and their families met (separated by a double set of metal bars to prevent any physical contact), then took me to a small medications room where two beautiful triptych altarpieces were secluded. As we were leaving, I looked outside a window and saw a courtyard still damaged by the latest earthquake but crammed with flowers of all sorts. My fascinated eyes compensated for the lack of Portuguese vocabulary and after a little hesitation she took me for a tour not only of that courtyard, but also of the adjoining one! It turned out the convent is now used as a residence for elderly ladies a couple of whom excitedly showed me to their quarters crowded with religious images and crochet work they did themselves.
Before leaving I took a last photograph of the flowered courtyard. Multicolored, giant daisies, sunflowers and (possibly) orange trees created unruly splashes of colors against the worn, whitewashed walls of the convent. After a couple of shots Senhora Maria insisted to take a picture of me too. She said (at least that's what I understood) that seeing that photo would keep me warm during the winter. Needless to say, though blurred, that portrait is by far my favorite souvenir.
Originally published in TheTraveler
No need for hair pins nor jimmies. There are different ways to open the locked door of a historical building when you're visiting the most remote islands of Europe. All that is necessary is a confident peep inside any window, some gesticulation meaning that you'd like to look around (a circular movement of the arm usually does the trick) and most importantly, a nice smile. The Azoreans are so proud of their sights they will open you every door, even if the church or palace you'd like to see is closed for repairs or the visiting hour is over.
Once, I took a long walk to the village of Manadas, on the island of Sao Jorge, only to visit the church of Santa Barbara which, according to tourist brochures, was not to be missed. When I finally got there it was closed, the village deserted. I sat hopelessly in the courtyard, gazing at the Atlantic Ocean. Suddenly an old man on a bike appeared out of nowhere and asked me (in English!): "Would you like to visit the church?" I nodded. "I'll get the keys." Ten minutes later he was illustrating the azulejos representing the life of the Saint and commenting on the golden Baroque stuccoes in the nave!
The ritual was the same all over the archipelago. In Ponta Delgada on Sao Miguel, it involved entering a Jesuit convent closed for repairs. In Praia da Vitòria on Terceira, it implicated visiting the church of Senhor Santo Cristo, which had two main altars instead of one (!), after closing time.
The most unbelievable performance of Azorean welcoming however, was in Angra do Heroismo on Terceira. There I visited the convent of Sao Gonçalo once hosting cloistered nuns. Senhora Maria guided me through the church and the room where nuns and their families met (separated by a double set of metal bars to prevent any physical contact), then took me to a small medications room where two beautiful triptych altarpieces were secluded. As we were leaving, I looked outside a window and saw a courtyard still damaged by the latest earthquake but crammed with flowers of all sorts. My fascinated eyes compensated for the lack of Portuguese vocabulary and after a little hesitation she took me for a tour not only of that courtyard, but also of the adjoining one! It turned out the convent is now used as a residence for elderly ladies a couple of whom excitedly showed me to their quarters crowded with religious images and crochet work they did themselves.
Before leaving I took a last photograph of the flowered courtyard. Multicolored, giant daisies, sunflowers and (possibly) orange trees created unruly splashes of colors against the worn, whitewashed walls of the convent. After a couple of shots Senhora Maria insisted to take a picture of me too. She said (at least that's what I understood) that seeing that photo would keep me warm during the winter. Needless to say, though blurred, that portrait is by far my favorite souvenir.
Originally published in TheTraveler