HE SOUND IS LIKE THE DISTANT roar of the ocean at first. I pace slowly up the loose sandy scree, boots sinking and sliding in a bare landscape, monochrome grey save for random emerald tufts or a smear of moss. The sound grows until I crest a ridge where the roar becomes like a jet-powered waterfall, though there isn’t a drop of water in sight. Instead, acrid sulphur invades my nostrils, sweeping my tastebuds, and I look down upon some of the few
