Black Mountain, Black Teeth: volcano surfing, Nicaragua

Each stumble on the crumbly black molten ash sets the team back, but the determination to trudge on has been worth it, because the view at the summit of Cerro Negro is still fit for old Gods.

Cerro Negro is the youngest volcano in Central America, having first appeared in 1850. But it is tempestuous in its youth, having erupted approximately 23 times, making it one of the most active volcanoes in Nicaragua.

Negro last erupted in 1999, but while it slumbers, volcano boarding has become the latest activity upon its slopes, as back-packers from the world over seek a new thrill. Since the tour began four years ago, 10,000 people have sat at the top waiting to find the urge within to push off. Those more valiant look to break speeds of around 50mph.

Our team leader Phillip Southan - inventor of the tour - begins unpacking the orange jump suits and plastic goggles. The only other requirement is the board itself, simply a plank of wood roughly one metre long with a single piece of rope attached for steering.

Phillip is from Barbados, and slightly overconfident for my liking, rambling through the technicalities of volcano boarding in a matter of minutes. “Keep your mouth closed,” he says, “but the most important thing to remember is to not put your hands down.” The crew winces as one, collectively conjuring up an image of burnt palms.

Edging around the great plumes of burning sulphur was the challenge during the 45-minute climb up Negro, but at the peak, there is a new problem: giant volcano-dwelling wasps incensed by the latest intruders. There is a rush to cover up inside the orange boiler suits which had started out as the pinnacle of comedy, but were quickly becoming the height of fashion.
                                                                                       
I join in all the male camaraderie, poking fun at the female half of our troupe who are showing strong signs of fear. Inside though, I am a lesser man than what it seems. At the bottom our white pick-up truck is just about visible against the ash, having left a trail like a slug in the blackness. From this high up, you can see the smooth, thick edges where molten lava has slithered down the volcano-side, pouring out into the green lands like a spilt tin of paint.

It is my turn to go. I am racing against Matt from Australia. National pride is at steak. I begin to get pumped inside. I am in the go-karting position and my focus is intensely on the pair of busted white trainers at the end of my legs, so white against the blackness.

Without knowing it I have been given the push. Ash is flying up my nose and the rush of air blows through my boiler suit. The instincts take over because my vision is a veil of black soot, although I can just about make out an orange blur darting to my left, leaving a blast of ash behind him like a car exhaust.

Small rocks beat in rhythm beneath my board, and within twenty seconds I shoot out at the base, beaten by team Australia. Matt is a worthy champion, but how can anything be taken so seriously when you end up with black teeth? The taste of ash is not pretty either.

Standing at the bottom watching the rest of our motley crew ride the volcano, I begin to understand what it is about my love for Central America. It wasn’t so much the speed I had just performed, but the freedom with which I had done it. All that I had for protection was a pair of goggles, and there was a sense of great pleasure in the lack of rules and restraint. To top things off, Phillip comes running down trying desperately to keep up with his legs which are pumping almost independently.

We pile into the back of the pick-up and start our journey home. As we pass through bumpy mud-roads, ducking to avoid trees, barefooted children come rushing from their homes to wave, delighted that we have come to visit. I send a wave back, together with a poorly articulated ‘buenos dias’.