Yasur's Throne.

Tanna is an island of blood. Where the sons of Tangalua fought in legend, warriors of rival tribes have laid down their lives for centuries. In this place, the fallen were cannibalised by their victors - consuming their body and soul under the ever-present vigilance of Yasur, the volcano.

Yet such brutality seemed so far away. The droning of the engine and the insects formed a harmony that didn't quite cover the banal island music drifting from the radio up front. As the locals jumped on and off the ute they looked at me with bemusement, stuffed between sacks of yams and two pigs in the thick, wet air.

We left the white sands and moved deeper into the jungle. The foliage had an intensity to it. The plants fought a constant battle for every spot of clear sky - climbing, twisting, strangling each other for survival.

The jungle became thicker, darker. The insect orchestra had won their battle with the radio. My companions had left, scattered to the villages we passed. The sun had set, yet there was still light - Yasur stood ominously in the distance, its lava lit the ash clouds above with an eerie glow. The earth was now a rich obsidian, ancient rock given life by the volcano aeons ago.

Suddenly it felt like I was underwater. The air lost its warmth as the jungle fell away, the leaves, the insects, everything. We were entering the ash plains, the moonscape where volcanic activity literally smothers everything. There are no roads - nothing is permanent on the shifting dust. The humid air condenses on the ash above and drives it down into my face and hair.

When we crest the crater, Yasur roars. The earth shakes and shivers beneath me while I breathe a sulphuric cocktail. Lava shoots through the night, hardening into rock as it flies like wax drops in water. It splutters and groans and rages while I stand there, so small, so weak, so vulnerable. Right then I look through the eyes of every human who has ever stood here, on this island of blood, in awe of its power.