Post #32: La Soufriere

One hundred and fourteen miles east of Barbados sits the island nation of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. St. Vincent is the name of the largest island in the archipelagic chain that constitutes the country, which gained independence from Britain back in 1979. It was also in 1979 that the country last saw the eruption of La Soufriere, the volcano that casts a shadow over Georgetown and Fancy on the northern end of St. Vincent. La Soufriere hadn't made a peep in forty-two years.

That changed last Friday.

La Soufriere erupted early in the morning hours of April 9, spewing gas and ash as high as thirty-three thousand feet. More than sixteen thousand people were ordered to evacuate at that time. What to do with the residents has become a stumbling block for the country. Cruise ships have offered to help but many of those weren't ready until the following Monday. Many citizens refused to evacuate. And of course, this all sits against the backdrop of the covid-19 pandemic (thank goodness we've all got masks now). 

I don't know how the island is handling all of this itself. There are stories of water shortages and power outages. Every image from St. Vincent looks like a bomb has gone off, though nothing is really destroyed. Recent reports have indicated that the volcanic activity has gotten worse, with lava flows having been spotted and the damage becoming more significant in the areas closest to the volcano.

You would think that one hundred and fourteen miles would be a decent barrier to shield oneself from the gas and ash spit forth by La Soufriere, but here in Barbados, the effects are plainly visible. For the last three days, the entire island has been covered (and I mean every single surface covered) with a fine, toxic ash. The sky has been hazy and dark. Ash has rained down like snowflakes. It has turned each walking citizen into a Pig Pen cosplayer. The government has issued stay-at-home advisories for us all, and drivers are encouraged to stay off the roads. There isn't a thing you can do without kicking up a cloud.

The irony in all this is that on Thursday, the night before La Soufriere erupted, the Barbadian PM, Mia Mottley, announced that social restrictions would be loosening up significantly. Gone would be the overnight curfew for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. On the weekends, citizens and businesses could now be out and stay open until 11pm. The beaches were re-opened for use from 5am to 7pm. Gyms were given the green light to resume activity. Pleasure crafts could take bookings again. Bars could re-open at half capacity. Our covid-19 cases had plummeted and we were getting back to the business of living semi-normal lives again. Not so fast, said La Soufriere. It seems that every time humans make the decision that life can go on again as it had before, nature intervenes to put on the brakes.

Personally, I'm frustrated but there isn't a whole hell of a lot to be done. I am again confined to my living space, and so is Roo. It is him for whom I feel most bad. That poor puppy has had a hell of a time here, adjusting first to the separation and loss of our "pack," then to the heat and humidity, then to the inhospitality of the native dogs, and now to volcanic ash clouds. He doesn't understand why he can't go outside, why he can't peek out through the patio to spy on the neighborhood, why he can't lie down or run around outside, why there don't seem to be any people-friends or puppy-friends anywhere. I am helpless. Any time we spend outside increases the risk we both face of ash inhalation, and that shit is toxic and filled with particles of glass.

The ash gets everywhere.

My windows and doors are shut, yet it's on my counters and floors.

I wear a mask outside, yet I can feel it grind between my teeth.

I put on sweatshirts and hats, yet it leaves a thin film on my skin.

There is no safe space from it. It coats everything, in total, without discrimination or prejudice. 

There is nothing to be done but wait. For now, I live in the bottom of a charcoal grill. I cross my fingers and hope for rain. I hope for stiff winds that will blow these ash plumes southward and westward. I hope that we can get past this soon. But that's all I can do is hope. Practically, there is nothing else to be done.