Shadows of the Ring of Fire

Foreword to New Book by Lawrence Blair

Oct 20, 2025

I was honored to write the foreword for my friend Lawrence Blair’s new book, Shadows of the Ring of Fire: Fading Dreams of a Vanishing World on a Warming Earth, details at the end of this article.

This short piece highlights some of my thoughts about, well, lots of stuff, but mostly the duplicity of fire. I’ve added some of my photos.

FOREWORD

Geologists will explain Indonesia’s rumbling, spurting, spectacular volcanoes using terms like magma chamber, pyroclastic cone, and adiabatic expansion.

Indonesians will nod politely, and, if pressed, add a simple “yes, but…” an innocent-seeming reply that camouflages a grand collection of myths, religions, and lessons to live by.

To pre-industrial societies, fire was a mysterious power, and the control of fire (cue Prometheus) made possible civilization. It’s logical then that Vulcan, the Roman god of fire, the forge, and metalworking, was honored by the modern term “volcano.”

Indonesia’s roughly 130 active volcanoes (the precise number is debated by scientists) are more expansive than mere science can define. Yes, fire destroys. But fire is also an essential component of creation and new beginnings. Although Lawrence Blair might not admit to such a grand explanation (but as a psycho-anthropologist — lovely descriptor — I suspect he would agree), what he has done with Shadows of the Ring of Fire is reveal how he transformed a fiery disaster into something innovative, positive, and full of renewed energy.

In 1984 Lawrence’s A-frame house in California caught fire while he was sleeping, exhausted after staying up most of the night writing the chapter for Ring of Fire about climbing the “newly erupting ‘Child of Krakatoa’ volcano in the Sunda Straits” (an exploit everyone had warned was too dangerous). He had been sleeping naked, but instead of grabbing shorts, he wrote: “[I] tried grabbing my slide-albums, [but] they were melting like a cauldron of boiling oil…. The vinyl binders which had contained my [12,000] slides were discovered among the ashes as a single, solidly welded lump…This carbonized giant clam finally yielded to saws … and tweezers … at its centre were several hundred perfectly preserved slides. Radiating outwards were different stages of transformation, giving an eerily beautiful look to the already exotic subject matter. The firemen’s water had contained an extinguishing agent which at specific temperatures has an exalting effect on colour emulsion.” The rescued slides provided “enough imagery to illustrate something of both the linear and the dream dimensions of an odyssey into the oceanic hemisphere of our beginnings.”

Blair saw an ethereal beauty in the distorted images and perceived that these celluloid memories could have a second life as memorable as Cinderella changing from torn jeans into a bejeweled evening gown. The result is Shadows of the Ring of Fire. It is a book that arose from fire that first destroys, then leads to re-creation, growth, and transfiguration.

Lawrence Blair

Lawrence Blair wrote in Ring of Fire: “The vinyl binders, which had contained my slides were discovered amongst the ashes as a single, solidly welded lump. Hard and sharp as a meteorite, this carbonized giant clam finally yielded to saws and machetes, razor blades and tweezers. At its centre were several hundred perfectly preserved slides. Radiating outwards were different stages of transformation, giving an eerily beautiful look to the already exotic subject matter.”

In the 1970s brothers Lorne and Lawrence Blair set out on a 10-year voyage to visit the people who live within lava-spitting distance of Indonesia’s volcanoes, part of a vast parabola of tectonic geography that runs from Southeast Asia, up through Japan, across to Alaska, and all the way down the Pacific coast to South America’s Patagonia. The Blair brothers were, in the best tradition of British amateur explorers, naïve in planning expedition logistics. But they were infused with a deep interest in things that go bump in the night — what Lawrence now calls ethno-psychology. They also had A-list connections — Ringo Starr gave them initial funding, having taken a liking to the two young dreamers who wanted to meet Bugis pirates, experience a Toraja “star funeral,” and search for the greater bird of paradise. The Blairs hoped to ensure their reputations as “white medicine men,” and for this voyage of “guerrilla ethnography,” packed a Boy Scout compass, insect repellants, and a “primitive” Polaroid camera. For emotional sustenance, they carried tapes by the Beatles, Joni Mitchell, and Bob Dylan; a jar of bitter marmalade; a “medicinal” bottle of Grand Marnier. and several bottles of Marmite.

Lawrence and Lorne Blair didn’t coin the descriptor “ring of fire” to identify this swathe of geography, but they were instrumental in popularizing the term. Their book and film of that title fascinated thousands of people who likely had given little thought to the wonders found in this low-profile country (the world’s fourth most populous) of more than 17,000 islands that spans a distance similar to that between Seattle and Miami.

And it was the people they met who generated as much excitement among the reading public as the volcanoes themselves.

In spite of the publisher’s gushy, embarrassing book-jacket claims (Notorious pirates! Naked cannibals! Man-eating dragons! A mystical tribe who believe their ancestors descended from the sky in starships! The most exotic animals and primitive peoples on earth!), Ring of Fire not only opened our eyes to, yes, naked cannibals and mystical tribes, but to seldom-visited people who the Blair brothers treated with respect, along with a substantial dollop of curiosity, irony, immersive anthropology (on the island of New Guinea they stripped naked to photograph their similarly clothes-challenged hosts), self-deprecation, solid scholarship, good humor, British Boys’ Own derring-do, and gee-whiz wonder, accompanied with a healthy respect for my spiritual mentor, Alfred Russel Wallace, all packaged in a book that has become a classic of travel literature.

Wikipedia

Alfred Russel Wallace, who explored the Malay Archipelago from 1854-1862, inspired the Blair brothers and countless other adventurers, naturalists, and historians.

Let’s look at Java, a roughly New York State-sized Indonesian island that is the most densely populated large island on Earth, and which is the epicenter of the country’s political and economic power.

All well and good, but where do those spirits, ancestor tales, gods, and rituals come in?

It is useful to recognize that most Javanese are cultural hoarders. They don’t throw away faiths, tales, beliefs, and superstitions when a new cultural power enters their realm. They accumulate, like a cook adding just one more spice to an already flavorsome curry. The Javanese did not discard their Animistic nature-spirit beliefs when Hindu traders entered their consciousness, bringing with them majestic temples and a taxonomy of social hierarchy that defined a pecking order overseen by an inordinate number of multi-armed, all-powerful, yet somehow anthropomorphic gods burdened with human-like foibles and strengths. Then came stern Islamic imams and Confucian teachers, and finally Christianity of various forms, first arriving with Catholic and Protestant European traders, soldiers, and colonials. More recently humor-challenged Christian evangelicals have made an inroad, people whose priests have little patience with spirit interventions, ancestor worship, prophetic dreams, and shamans who mingle with gods who aren’t Jesus. These varied religions (all of which have their own peculiar underpinnings of prophets, oracles, and miracles), had, in advertising terms, a unique selling proposition — if you obey the rules and don’t rock the boat, donate generously, and stay awake during the priests’ sermons, you will have a happy afterlife. Of course, such a promise can never be proven, but “trust us,” they say, “we’re from the true religion.”

Complicating the formal religious quagmire, new pervasive, nonsectarian religions have sprung up, eager to proselytize and modify behavior to their ideals. First was the imposed faith of Nationalism which, like the formal religions, had a strict gospel — “join the nation-building effort, speak the national language, wear proper clothes, have a respectable god (you can choose from a government-approved list), and you’ll be rewarded with schools, health care, roads, electricity, and cellphone towers.” With a cash economy came the gospel of Advertising — “your life will be better when you use this shampoo and drive this motorcycle.” More recently the mantra of the Nature Conservation-religion fought for respect — “don’t cut that tree, your grandchild might need it.”

Java is home to some 45 active volcanoes, primus inter pares: Gunung (Mount) Merapi, a constantly smoldering, frequently erupting, dominant feature that sits near both the geographical center and the cultural heart of the island. In its core reside two all-powerful mythical blacksmiths, metalworking magicians who transform base metals into powerful kris daggers capable of great magic.

I like to wander along the foothills of Mount Merapi, near the historic capitals of Yogyakarta and Surakarta (also called Solo) in central Java. Merapi (commonly called “Fire Mountain” in English, the name reflects Java’s cultural melting pot; it is a conjoint of the Sanskrit Meru, referring to the sacred mountain home of the Hindu gods and the Indonesian term api, or “fire”) is arguably the most active of Indonesia’s volcanoes. When it erupts, farmers reluctantly evacuate to safer ground, but return shortly after the event, even while the ground still smolders. This is more than a homestead. It is, in Javanese duality, both their sacred space as well as their productive land. The fiery volcanic lava leaves behind a wonderfully fertile soil. The fire rejuvenates the land so plants can flourish; it is said, “shove a broomstick in the ground and it will grow into a tree.” And it’s all thanks to the spirits.

I’ve had several encounters that highlight this man-fire relationship.

In 2010 I was granted an interview with Mas Penewu Surakso Hargo, better known as Mbah Maridjan, the juru kunci (“keeper of the key” or guardian) of Mount Merapi. He was 83 — frail but articulate. I waited on his front porch on the slopes of the volcano, along with a half dozen people who were seeking spiritual advice from the old man. His son, Asih, told Mbah Maridjan that a foreigner wanted to see him, and in an embarrassing situation, the old man asked me to join him in his study. I protested, “But there are others waiting…” but he insisted. We spoke about his responsibilities in mediating between the sacred spirits of the natural world and the profane world of people living in modern society. This conversation naturally included his role as liaison between Kanjeng Ratu Kidul, the powerful Queen of the Southern Ocean, and the Sultan of Yogyakarta. His basic message, which I had heard frequently in Java, was that Mount Merapi erupts when Kanjeng Ratu Kidul and other spirits grow impatient with the incessant greed, arrogance, noise, and pollution, and lack of spiritual respect shown by the populace. Several months after I met him, on the afternoon of October 25, 2010, Mount Merapi underwent a major eruption. Despite the danger, Mbah Maridjan refused to leave. He remained in his home and prayed to the spirits to spare the lives of his kinsmen. He died doing so, along with 353 other people, in Merapi’s pyroclastic flow.

Asih, also known as Bekel Suraksosihono

Mbah Maridjan with the author. The photo was taken months before Maridjan was killed during an eruption of Mount Merapi. He refused to leave his home on the slopes of Merapi, preferring to meditate and try to mediate with the volcano spirits.

Mbah Maridjan was first appointed by Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX, a national leader of the wars of independence against the Japanese and then the Dutch. I put on a formal batik shirt for my meeting with the sultan, arranged by one of his relatives. We talked about how one of the responsibilities of the sultan, whose lineage goes back to 1755, is to mediate between the cosmic forces of nature and the mundane needs of the people. Part of a king’s responsibility, at least in pre-industrial times, was to ensure that the farmers receive adequate rain, but not too much; sufficient sun, but not so much that the buffalo die; enough wind to ease the fishing boats in and out of harbor, but not so much that they are lost in storms at sea. Such tricky negotiations with the cosmos required the sultan to perform rituals, attend sacred dance performances, and practice intense meditation to console (and seek the beneficence) of nature spirits.

Painting courtesy of Museum Wayang Beber Sekartaji, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Photo by Paul Spencer Sochaczewski

@BravesStory-z9q

These two images from an Indonesian film show the influence of Kanjeng Ratu Kidul (also known, in different forms, as Nyai/Nyi Roro Kidul). She is commonly seen as the spirit of the Indian Ocean, but, as shown in this CGI video tall tale, she also has influence over terrestrial volcanoes. The Indonesian caption might be translated as: “True story!!! Uproar in Central Java!!! Will a secret agreement between Nyi Roro Kidul and Sanghyang Putri Jagat (Goddess of the Universe) cause Merapi volcano to explode?”

I was, and remain, particularly interested in the relationship between the Sultan of Yogyakarta (and that of his cousin, the Susuhunan — King — of Surakarta) and Kanjeng Ratu Kidul, the powerful Queen of the Southern Ocean. In his souvenir-filled office, I asked Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX my key question. I tried to be polite, but in essence it was this: Why did a cosmopolitan man like the sultan perform rituals to appease the spirits of the sea and the volcanoes? After all, he was well aware of the realities of the world. He spoke Dutch, English, Bahasa Indonesia, and several forms of Javanese; he was educated in Europe; he served as the country’s second vice president; he held senior ministerial posts in the federal government; and he was the spiritual and secular (governor) leader of several million people. “Part of my brain is a Dutch brain — very logical,” he explained cautiously. “But the other half is a Javanese brain — we believe in things that can’t be explained by science.” He laughed, almost paraphrasing Hamlet’s advice to Horatio: “You’re asking a Western question and expecting a Western left-brain explanation. Don’t do that. Either accept it. Or don’t. But don’t try to dissect such things.”

Mount Merapi in central Java is one of the most active volcanoes in Indonesia. Its eruptions destroy, but create.

On another occasion, I wanted to climb Mount Merapi and, in order to get an early start the next morning, stayed overnight in my guide’s simple house at the hamlet of Selo on the flanks of the mountain. Merapi had erupted a few months earlier, and my guide, Poniman, had been evacuated. He returned even before the all-clear was given, and I asked if he was afraid of returning so quickly, since the mountain was still rumbling. As happens so often in Indonesia he gave me a roundabout answer containing a wisp-of-smoke reality. “That was the work of Lord Shiva,” he said, referring to the Hindu god of destruction and creation. “We need the fire. Now my crops will grow even better.”

Wikipedia

Although Panimin is Muslim (that’s what it says on his identity card), many Javanese haven’t discarded the layers of historic cultures with which they are blessed. In his case, Panimin welcomes Mount Merapi’s frequent eruptions as the sign that the god Shiva is angry (perhaps for humanity’s lack of respect for the old ways and not following the dharma), but the outcome is positive — fertile soil. Shiva destroys. Shiva creates. It’s the natural cycle of life. Shown here is the iconic form of Shiva Nataraja. Shiva dances on and subdues Apasmara, the dwarf demon of spiritual ignorance.

Neither Mbah Marijan, Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX nor Pak (Mister) Panimin would be surprised by Lawrence Blair’s alchemy in resurrecting his fire-damaged slides that other people might have simply discarded. These ethereal images have given Blair an opportunity to create art and revisit adventures that shaped his life. Yes, volcanoes (and fire) destroy. But fire (and volcanoes) are essential for creating new life, renewed fertility, innovative myths, and cunning transformations. Fire and volcanoes are essential elements of the cycle of life and the Indonesian duplicity of existence (think day and night, sun and moon, male and female, good and evil, fear and courage, rainy season and dry season, order and chaos, reality and dreams, science and myth). The goal: a harmonious balance of these opposite forces.

Educated Indonesians, when asked whether they believe in spirits that inhabit volcanoes might hesitate, then shyly smile and say “fifty-fifty.” My takeaway: Don’t ignore the scientists with their talk of divergent plate boundaries and laccoliths. But I urge you to also give proper acknowledgement and thanks to Lawrence Blair for summoning outside forces and creating art from the ashes.