His name was Jim and he was the postman; yes, singular. I can still hear his Ni-Van accent sounding out every syllable, ‘S-lo-w Jes-si-ca.’ Wincing, I also remember yelling at the happiest man I’ve ever met. **** Jim delivered mail, barefoot and smiling, to the residents of West Ambae, Vanuatu. He connected us to home and family, easing ‘suffering’ six months without electricity, running water or internet. With access to only one telephone line, his face quickly became our poster child for salvation on that basalt rock bordered island. Emerging from the tree-covered surface on Ambae is Vanuatu’s largest volcano and now one of the most active volcanoes in the world. Self consciously covering his almost toothless mouth to speak, Jim passionately told us about the beauty of its crater lakes through leathered fingers. He offered to take us to the top of the volcano to see his adored landscape with our own eyes. It was a 4:00 am start on our second attempt at walking up the volcano. The slippery and steep first attempt was enough to scare off my friend Claire, so I set off with Jim and three other locals. A dirt road eased us into the journey, warming our muscles as five relative strangers adjusted pace to walk together. We walked through waking villages as the first sparks of light broke to dawn. Armed with machetes, my companions cut our way through the overgrown jungle. Sweat droplets pearled forming flecks of gold on their dark skin before plummeting to the rich soil at their flattened feet. Jim’s toes were spaced so far apart, untouching, and his arches non-existent so they looked deformed. But one after the other, Jim walked upward through the lush foliage. I knew he was smiling even with his back to me. Tropical conditions brought moments of monsoonal downpours, interludes between a beating sun. My shorts were heavy cotton, holding water, sweat and heat, the perfect conditions for inner thigh chafe. A rice-and-laplap-laden island diet had decreased the distance between each thigh so the burn started early. Seven hours passed, my legs burned and I was feeling every single step. Although there’s something about walking up a mountain, towards a peak that keeps you focused and determined. It was just as my exhaustion started to slow my enthusiasm for the trek that I realised Jim had stopped up ahead. The smell of sulphur sprung me forward and all at once, relief, awe, exhaustion teamed up and produced tears from my eyes. We were all silent, mesmerised. Jim smiled at my weeping face, knowing. A blackened border with deadened trees accentuated the turquoise blue of the lake. Curls of sulphur fumes formed a cloud blanket over hotter sections. The eery silence contrasted the vibrant jungle outer. It was otherworldly. A rice and island cabbage lunch fueled our exploration of the lake’s edge. I couldn’t see anything living in the crystal, warm water. The difficulty of the climb made the desolate beauty more profound somehow. I was reluctant to leave. My personal unravelling started an hour or so into our descent. Slippery, muddy, thirst, chafe; they were eating away at my normally strong resolve. I followed the freshly cut path down with Jim behind me. Over and over and over and over, Jim repeated the phrase, ‘S-lo-w.... Jes-si-ca…’ I know he cared for my safety but it was grating my patience. I was tired and longed to finish. ‘S-lo-w.... Jes-si-ca…’ Frustration overwhelmed me, ‘I AM GOING SLOW!’ Shame replaced my anger as Jim went quiet. I had just yelled at the happiest man I had ever met. My apologetic splutterings filled the blistering silence and true to his character, Jim replied, ‘It’s OK, Jessica.’ It was dark when we finally got to the dirt road where the trek commenced that morning. I yelled out to Claire as I spotted our little shack 30 minutes later and she ran out to greet me. I fell into a dramatic hug, crying. She bathed me outside under the stars, careful around my bleeding thighs and cuts on my calves. I told her everything; the lake, Jim, losing myself. She asked if it was all worth it. ‘Absolutely.’