Italy). Although the general trends already identified are present and, while both regions are culturally southern European, here the similarity ends and their histories are contrasting in terms of both the recording and communication of data on eruptions. The Azores Islands for most of their history have been characterised by isolation; both geographic and intellectual. Located in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, the islands were only settled in the 15th century and for much of their subsequent history have never held a central or even a secondary place within the scientific mainstream. The Azores exemplify the difficulties of using indigenous data sources to compile, not just assessments of impact but, also at a more basic level, a complete list of events with accurate dates. Many of the accounts which are available were collected by a limited number of literate observers, who were often priests, and require much careful interpretation to extract usable information on eruption processes and their effects.

In contrast, information on Mount Etna and its eruptions stretches back to prehistoric times and has become progressively better known over more than 2000 years of written history. In Greek and Roman times it was at the centre of attempts by classical authors to make sense of the natural world with interpretation often involving aspects of mythology (Chester et al. 2000), in the *Renais-sance* major studies of Etna and its eruptions were published, the *Enlightenment* and the nineteenth century saw the volcano being studied by both indigenous and distinguished foreign scientists of the calibre of Sir William Hamilton, Charles Lyell and Sartorius von Waltershausen and this contin-ued through to the 1980s. Etna and Vesuvius were part of the European Grand Tour, Sicily was strategically important during the Napoleonic Wars, later in the nineteenth century visits to the volcano were eased by the spread of railways and stream ships and, following the introduction of the electric telegraph, educated appetites in the USA and Western Europe could be satisfied by detailed reports in newspapers of record which often appearing only hours after the events being described (Chester et al. 1985, 2012). Yet even on

Etna significant gaps remained in the record—not least on human impacts—even for events that took place between 1900 and 1980.

### 3 The Azores: Communicating Eruption Information from an Isolated Region

The settlement of the Azores was part of the voyages of discovery undertaken by Portuguese navigators from the 15th century and, although there is debate over whether or not there were earlier visitors to the islands (Ashe 1813; Admiralty 1945; De Meneses 2012), it is generally accepted that in the autumn of 1431 an expedition led by Gonçalo Velho Cabral established a settlement on Santa Maria and that by 1457 all nine islands were known (Fig. 2). Indeed the arrival of the first settlers on São Miguel ca. 1439–1443, probably coincided with the dome-forming final stage of a sub-plinian phreatomagmatic eruption of Furnas volcano (Queiroz et al. 1995; Guest et al. 1999). Between settlement of the archipelago and 1980 a further 26 eruptions took place (Fig. 2 and Table 2), with one subsequent submarine occurring between 1998 and 2001 (Gaspar et al. 2015).

The communication of information about eruptions was not marked by steady progress and even in the second half of the 20th century there were still major gaps in the record. For instance the Azores volume of the *Catalogue of Active Volcanoes of the World* was published in the 1960s (Neumann van Padang et al. 1967), but when compared with what is known today (Gaspar et al. 2015) shows a lack of detail about the volcanological character of historic events, human impact is ignored and some eruptions—most notably that of ca. 1439–1443—are absent. Another standard reference from the period (Weston 1964), also ignores the ca. 1439–1443 event, lists an eruption of Sete Cidades (São Miguel Island) in 1439 that did not occur and reports a lava flowing in the direction of Rabo de Peixe (São Miguel Island) in 1652 which is incorrect. Maps and memoirs produced by the
<figure><img src="image_147.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 2** The Azores archipelago: general location and the position and dates of historic eruptions (data from Gaspar et al. 2015)</figcaption></figure>

Serviços Geológicos de Portugal<fnref n="9" /> (e.g. Zbyszewski et al. 1958, 1959; Zbyszewski 1961) were published as part of the 1:50,000 scale mapping of Portugal and the Atlantic Islands and are likewise partial in their treatment of historical eruptions and their impacts.

Between 1950 and 1980 a few studies of past eruptions were published in international scientific journals, but these were either focused on: the most recent 1957/8 phreatomagmatic eruption at Capelinhos on Faial Island, but again strongly themed on volcanological aspects rather than human impacts (e.g. Machado et al. 1962); or concerned large plinian events that took place long before the islands were settled and are, therefore, outside the scope of this review (e.g. Walker and Croasdale 1971; Booth et al. 1978). Establishing a detailed record such as that provided by Gaspar et al. (2015), requires detailed analysis of all

accessible archival sources and its cross-checking with field evidence so that historical accounts may be either verified or eliminated.

Although the Azores lie some 1360 km to the west of the coast of Portugal, lack of transmission of information cannot be blamed solely on physical isolation. Admittedly before the era of mass air transport visiting the islands was difficult and time consuming, but in comparison with other mid-oceanic islands seaborne communication was well developed, with the ports of Ponta Delgada (São Miguel), Horta (Faial) and Angra do Heroísmo (Terceira) in particular being important staging posts in Atlantic trade. In the era before steam power the agricultural economy of the archipelago was highly specialized and was concerned not only with subsistence, but also with provisioning the many ships that visited the islands (Admiralty 1945; Callender and Henshall 1968). The volcanoes of the Azores tend to give rise to short-lived subaerial activity with activity lasting no more than few days or weeks, and in the 17th and 19th centuries there is little evidence that the eruptions of: Pico 1718 and 1720; Terceira 1761 and São Jorge 1808,

<footnote n="9">⁹Later part of the Instituto Geológico Mineiro (Institute for Geology and Mining), from 2004 to 2007 the Instituto da Engenharia Tecnologia e Inovação (Institute of Engineering Technology and Innovation) and, thereafter, the Laboratório Nacional de Energie e Geologia (National Laboratory of Geology and Energy).</footnote>
<table><caption>**Table 2** Major eruptions on the islands of the Azores: 1439/1443 to 1980 CE (Based on Gaspar et al. 2015)</caption><thead><tr><td>Eruption date</td><td>Location</td><td>Characteristics of eruption</td></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>1439/1443</td><td>Furnas volcano, S. Miguel</td><td>Sub-plinian, phreatomagmatic associated with trachytic pumice and a lava dome</td></tr><tr><td>1562–64</td><td>Fissural System, Pico</td><td>Hawaiian and strombolian activity, producing lava flows and pyroclasts</td></tr><tr><td>1563</td><td>Fogo volcano, S. Miguel</td><td>Sub-plinian, phreatomagmatic eruption. Products include trachytic pumice lapilli/ash and surges. Two deaths due to gas inhalation</td></tr><tr><td>1563</td><td>NW Flank of Fogo volcano, S. Miguel</td><td>Hawaiian activity, with basaltic lava flows, spatter and pyroclasts</td></tr><tr><td>1564</td><td>Fogo volcano, S. Miguel</td><td>Phreatic</td></tr><tr><td>1580</td><td>Manadas Fissural System, S. Jorge</td><td>Hawaiian/strombolian activity, producing lava flows and a pyroclastic flow. About 15 deaths</td></tr><tr><td>1630</td><td>Furnas volcano, S. Miguel</td><td>Sub-plinian/phreatomagmatic eruption, associated with lava domes, pumice, ash/lapilli, lava domes and pyroclastic density currents. At least 195 deaths from surges and collapsed buildings</td></tr><tr><td>1638</td><td>Candelária submarine volcano, S. Miguel</td><td>Surtseyan</td></tr><tr><td>1652</td><td>Picos Fissural System, S. Miguel</td><td>Vulcanian—ashes, blocks, lava domes and flows</td></tr><tr><td>1672–1673</td><td>Capelo Fissural System, Faial</td><td>Basaltic lava flows and pyroclasts. A least 3 deaths and around 1200 persons displaced</td></tr><tr><td>1682</td><td>Crista João Valadão Submarine Volcanic System, off the west coast of S. Miguel</td><td>Few details</td></tr><tr><td>1718</td><td>Pico Volcano</td><td>Hawaiian and strombolian eruption, producing submarine and sub-aerial pyroclasts and lava flows. 2 deaths</td></tr><tr><td>1720</td><td>Fissural Volcanic System, Pico</td><td>Basaltic pyroclastic and lava flows</td></tr><tr><td>1720</td><td>D. João de Castro Submarine Volcano, between S. Miguel and the Central Islands</td><td>Surtseyan</td></tr><tr><td>1761</td><td>Santa Bárbara Volcano, Terceira</td><td>Vulcanian (?) Trachytic ashes, blocks and lava domes</td></tr><tr><td>1761</td><td>Terceira Fissural Volcanic System</td><td>Hawaiian and strombolian activity, producing basaltic bombs, lapilli, ash and lava flows</td></tr><tr><td>1800</td><td>Submarine SSW of Terceira</td><td>?</td></tr><tr><td>1808</td><td>Manadas Fissural Volcanic System, S. Jorge</td><td>Hawaiian/strombolian and phreatomagmatic. Basaltic lapilli/ash, lava and pyroclastic flows. More than 30 deaths</td></tr><tr><td>1811</td><td>Sabrina Submarine Volcanic System, S. Miguel</td><td>Basaltic submarine eruption, ash and blocks</td></tr><tr><td>1867</td><td>Crista da Serreta Submarine Volcanic System, west of Terceira</td><td>Basaltic submarine eruption</td></tr><tr><td>1902</td><td>Submarine, SW of Terceira Island</td><td>?</td></tr><tr><td>1907</td><td>Submarine, SW of S. Miguel Island</td><td>?</td></tr><tr><td>1911</td><td>Submarine, SW of S. Miguel</td><td>?</td></tr><tr><td>1957/8</td><td>Capelo Fissural Volcanic System, Faial</td><td>Surtseyan, hawaiian and strombolian activity. Submarine and sub-aerial basaltic pyroclasts, surges and lava flows</td></tr><tr><td>1958</td><td>Caldera Volcano, Faial</td><td>Phreatic and phreatomagmatic. Ash produced</td></tr><tr><td>1963</td><td>Cachorro Submarine Volcano, offshore, north of Pico</td><td>Submarine activity</td></tr><tr><td>1964</td><td>Velas Submarine Volcano, S. Jorge</td><td>Submarine activity</td></tr><tr><td>1998/2001</td><td>Crista da Serreta Submarine Volcanic System, west of Terceira</td><td>Submarine lava balloons, submarine ashes and volcanic gases</td></tr></tbody></table>
attracted interest from outside the islands. Volcanoes on the Azores did not show phases of persistent activity as was the case with volcanoes like Etna or Vesuvius and this, together with isolation, may explain the lack of foreign visitors. It is interesting to note that a detailed description of a submarine eruption in June 1811, which occurred off the shore of São Miguel, was undertaken by the captain of a Royal Navy frigate and communicated to the *Royal Society of London* (Tillard 1812). This report was fortuitous because the ship was in the area by pure chance and the eruption was named *Sabrina* after the frigate. In the 1890s the islands (and especially Faial) became major nodes on the worldwide telegraph network, with personnel from Germany, the UK and USA being billeted on the islands particularly in Horta the principal settlement of Faial. Despite ships and later telegrams arriving in Europe and North America on a daily basis searches of newspapers of record—such as the *London Times* (1785–2008) and *New York Times* (1851–2007) and daily publications of a more popularist character contained no eruption reports until well into the 20th century, although it must be admitted that between 1808 and 1957/58 there were no eruptions on land, only a number of submarine eruptions. The 1957/58 eruption of Capelinhos, Faial (Coutinho et al. 2010) was the first to be covered in any detail.<fnref n="10" />

Isolation may take several forms and in the Azores was expressed intellectually, scientifically and politically. In Portugal both the institutional and professional development of science and more particularly the geological sciences, lagged behind that in other European countries

and greatly inhibited the contemporary collection and transmission of eruption data. In a devoutly Catholic country it might be thought that the development of geology would have been inhibited by religious considerations, especially following the publication of Lyell's *Principles of Geology* and in 1830 Darwin's *Origin of Species* in 1859, but as Carneiro et al. (2013) have argued this was not the case. Universities had been outside religious jurisdiction since 1772 and there was a long tradition of independence between science and religion among educated elites across Portugal. In the second decade of the twentieth century, 'despite the close relationship between the newly established regime<fnref n="11" /> and the Roman Catholic Church, António Salazar (1889–1970) maintained the separation of Church and State; in addition, the State held no official position regarding scientific matters' (Carneiro et al. 2013, p. 333).

As Mota and Carneiro (2013, p. 24) have noted, ‘despite the creation of the national geological survey being coeval to other European countries, the teaching of geology and geological research became effective only as late as the mid-twentieth century and the Portuguese Geological Society was only founded in 1940.’ In addition until 1911 there was only one university in Portugal at Coimbra, after this Oporto and Lisbon were added and the University of the Azores only dates from two years after the Portuguese Revolution of 1974. Until well into the twentieth century, people—almost invariably men—who wanted careers in science only had three choices: ‘medicine; the clergy; and, in the nineteenth century, military engineering’ (Carneiro et al. 2013, p. 332).<fnref n="12" />

<footnote n="10">¹⁰The *London Times*, *Nineteenth Century British Library Newspapers* and *Nineteenth Century US Newspapers* are available from Gale GENGAGE—see Footnote 4. The *New York Times* is available from ProQuest http://www.proquest.com/. Accessed 16 May 2014. It is interesting that, in contrast to eruptions, Azorean earthquakes were extensively reported in the international press. Earthquakes frequently caused death and destruction to places in the Azores visited by European and North American seafarers and, in the nineteenth century alone, earthquakes of intensity VIII or greater affected Terceira in 1800, 1801 and 1841 and São Miguel in 1810, 1811 and 1852.</footnote>

<footnote n="11">¹¹This is the authoritarian *Estado Novo* regime (1928–1974) which was led by António Salazar until 1968.</footnote>

<footnote n="12">¹²It is notable that neither of the two leading figures in Azorean volcanology in the first six decades of the twentieth century was a geologist by training. José Agostinho (1888–1978), who published on a variety of volcanological topics (e.g. Agostinho 1932) was an army officer and meteorologist. Frederico Machado (1918–2000) was a civil engineer, who made notable contributions to both recording and managing the 1957/8 eruption and earthquake on Faial Island (Machado et al. 1962).</footnote>
A lack of trained personnel and of focused science policy can be clearly seen as late as the 1950s. By the time of the Capelinhos eruption (Faial—1957/58), the current authors have noted that leading roles were played by engineers and other professionals, rather than geologists and that the regime was open to and encouraged scientific enquiry, which was financially supported and involved both Portuguese and foreign scholars. There were no ‘in-depth studies of the impacts of and government responses to the emergency. Evaluative and potentially critical studies of policy were not welcomed by the government’ (Coutinho et al. 2010, p. 266).

These features of Portuguese intellectual history meant that in the Azores the intellectual elite, who included State officials, was diligent in recording eruptions in locally published books, monographs, academic journals and freely discussed scientific ideas—including geological advances—in the local press. They did not, however, disseminate information more widely. Many early eruptions and their effects were recorded by the priest historian, Gaspar Frutuoso (ca. 1522–1591—Fig. 3), in Book IV (São Miguel) and Book VI (Terceira, Faial, Pico, Flores, Graciosa and São Jorge) of his multi-volume work: *Saudades da Terra* (English translation—*A Nostalgic Longing for the Land*—Frutuoso 2005). This work remained in manuscript form until the late nineteenth century, was published from 1873 onwards (Luz 1996) and did not become widely available outside Portugal until much later. For instance, in the United States the *Library of Congress Catalogue* only lists Book IV (1876) before the complete work appears in 1978, while in the UK the position is only slightly better with only three locations being listed for the 1873 edition.<fnref n="13" />

Later in the nineteenth century the historian and politician Ernesto do Canto<fnref n="14" /> (1831–1900—

Fig. 3), collected many accounts of historical eruptions and published these in a journal, *Arquivo dos Açores*, which he both launched and printed. This publication had limited dissemination outside the Azores and in fact has only been widely accessible since it has become available in digital form from the University of the Azores (http://www.sdoc.uac.pt/pt/publicacoes).

The role of the press in reporting science in general and particularly natural events has recently been reviewed by Simões et al. (2012). Although rates of illiteracy in Portugal were ca. 79% in 1900, in 1894 there were 23 newspapers and periodicals published in Ponta Delgada (São Miguel), the capital of the Azores, which were read by the elite and made available for public readings in taverns, cafes and shops. In reviewing one newspaper, the progressive *Diário dos Açores*—founded in 1870, Simões et al. (2012, p. 314) show how science was extensively reported, with the motivation being ‘an attempt by the scientific and political communities to gain the support of the general public’. Although hygiene and public health were the dominant themes, there was also reporting of geological topics, with the Messina earthquake of 1908 being afforded extensive coverage. Indeed following the 1909 Benavente earthquake near to Lisbon (Degg and Doornkamp 1994), there was lobbying for a seismic network to be established on the islands and, indeed, two seismological stations had been set up in the Azores in 1902; one at Ponta Delgada and the other at Horta. Although the *Diário dos Açores* contains coverage of volcanology, progressive lobbying through the paper was less successful than was the case with earthquakes and did not lead to any significant new research being undertaken on contemporary activity, or the impacts of historical eruptions becoming more widely known (see Simões et al. 2012, pp. 318–325). It is perhaps not coincidental that eruptions in the second half of the 19th and the early 20th centuries were small-scale submarine events and the loss of 200 houses and landslides in Terceira in 1866 was caused by volcano-related seismic activity, rather than by volcanic activity per se (Gaspar et al. 2015).

<footnote n="13">¹³Oxford and Cambridge University libraries and the library of Kings College London.</footnote>

<footnote n="14">¹⁴Also known as Ernesto do Canto e Castro.</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_148.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 3** Two pioneers of Azorean volcanology. a Statue (left) of Gaspar Frutuosa at Ribeira Grande (São Miguel) his place of birth ca. 1522. He was the son of a local landowner and trained for the priesthood at the University of Salamanca (Rodrigues 1991). b Photograph of Ernesto do Canto in 1884 (right). Canto was a notable Azorean intellectual and was born into one of the most influential</figcaption></figure>

families on the islands. As well as founding the *Arquivo dos Açores*, Canto was member of the Portuguese *Academy of Sciences*, the *Lisbon Geographical Society* and made valuable donations to the public library in Ponta Delgada. For further details of his life and work see Dias (1931). Photographs Nicolau Wallenstein
<figure><img src="image_149.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 3** (continued)</figcaption></figure>

**4 Mount Etna, Sicily: The Accumulation of Knowledge Over 2000 Years**

The volcanoes of Italy and especially Etna and Vesuvius were amongst the first to be known to literate European observers. Etna (Fig. 4) a huge volcano in comparison with Vesuvius, covering an

area of 1178 km² and standing 3328 m in height (Branca et al. 2011), was virtually continually in eruption during classical times, with activity being typically effusive and strombolian in character, though there were more explosive events such as the plinian eruption of 122 BCE which produced considerable tephra fall and caused severe damage in Catania (Coltelli et al. 1998). Although most activity occurred away from inhabited areas, at
<figure><img src="image_150.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 4** Mount Etna: location map</figcaption></figure>

times larger flank eruptions caused widespread destruction. Etna and its eruptions feature in the literature of the classical age through reflections of a predominantly mythological and legendary character and, indeed, a list of authors includes some of the era's greatest writers (see Chester et al. 2000; Duncan et al. 2005; Johnston 2005; Smole- naars 2005). Records of eruptions can also be extracted from Greek and Roman sources, partic- ularly the works of Pindar, Diodorus Siculus, Thucydides, Virgil, Pliny the Elder, Suetonius, and Lucretius, but as Branca and Del Carlo (2004, pp. 2–3) have noted: only major eruptions were recorded; information has often to be ‘translated from poetic language into hard fact’; there is an

issue in linking eruption reports to deposits found
in the field and, although some eruptions are
associated with important historical events—most
notably the death of Julius Caesar in 44 BCE—
before the 17th century the dating of the lava flows
is problematic. The publication of the new
1:50,000 scale map of Etna in 2011 acted as a
stimulus for ancient texts to be examined afresh.
New dates for eruptions occurring in the classical
and medieval eras have been proposed, that are
supported by both archaeomagnetic and radiomet-
ric dating of volcanic products (Branca et al. 2011;
Tanguy et al. 2012) and which allows a compre-
hensive eruption history to be defined for the last
2500 years.
What Branca and Del Carlo (2004: 2) have termed the *ancient period* continued until the 11th century and the end of the era of Islamic<fnref n="15" /> domination of Sicily. Thereafter until the close of the 12th century, there was Norman control of Sicily that in the 13th century gave way to Spanish domination which broadly coincides with the *Renaissance*. Two decades ago it was thought that the record of flank eruptions was fairly robust from the 14th century (Romano and Sturiale 1982), though there was questioning of the status of some 16th and early 17th century eruptions by Chester et al. (1985, Table 3.3), but on the basis of information collected during the construction of the 2011 geological map this conclusion can no longer be sustained. As Branca and Del Carlo (2004, p. 5), note 'we can only be certain about eruptions that occurred below 1800 m ...on the southeastern flank, because information on volcanic activity was only available in the cultivated and inhabited zones on the outskirts of Catania' (Fig. 4). In spite of this lack of comprehensiveness, knowledge of Etna's eruptions improved greatly especially from the start of the 16th century and mirrored the pattern for the *Renaissance* in general, with the more widespread dissemination of printed volumes written by distinguished polymaths such as: Fazzello (1558),<fnref n="16" /> Filoteo (1590),<fnref n="17" /> and Carrera (1636).<fnref n="18" /> From 1600, a growing interest in the natural sciences meant that almost all flank eruptions—though not all summit activity—was recorded. In fact geological and archaeomagnetic data have revealed that some flank eruptions in the 17th century, and in the late 18th and early 19th centuries some events on the upper northwest flank, were not recorded in contemporary sources (Tanguy et al. 2012). As noted in the introduction large eruptions stimulate research, reporting and communication and the

1669 eruption was no exception. Etna's most voluminous historical event, the 1669 eruption, devastated the south-eastern flank of the volcano, destroyed the western part of Catania, the large village of Nicolosi and many smaller settlements (Fig. 4). It was reported by Sicilian and mainland Italian authors (Monaco 1669; Squillaci 1669; Tedeschi Paternò 1669; Borelli 1670), together with foreign writers (e.g. Anon 1669; Winchilsea 1669).<fnref n="19" /> There were reports at the time in international scientific publications (e.g. *Gazette de France* and the *Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London*). These sources provide descriptive material on aspects of the eruption and some of its immediate impacts. Recently, Branca et al. (2015) have undertaken a detailed study of this material which shows that the impact of the 1669 eruption was complicated by the catastrophic earthquake that devastated eastern Sicily in 1693.

Following 1669 and reflecting the strong empirical interest in nature which characterized the *Enlightenment* (see Footnote 4), the manner of describing eruptions changed and became more detailed, complete and for the first time summit activity began to be recorded, though it was not until the establishment of the Etnean Volcanology Institute by Gaetano Ponte in 1926, that this was undertaken in a systematic manner (Branca and Del Carlo 2004, p. 3). Within this tradition two major studies were published by Recupero (1815) and Ferrara (1818). They included observations made during the late 18th century and earlier and their publications were widely distributed across western Europe, appearing in library catalogues in France and Great Britain. An increasing number of foreign visitors were arriving in Sicily. At the start these were young aristocrats and other equally wealthy tourists who were experiencing the *Grand Tour* of classical sites and historic cities. Some took an active interest in and published widely on Etna (Vaccari 2008), most notably the Scot Brydone (1773) and later

<footnote n="15">¹⁵It is often termed the Arabic period, but the Islamic settlers also included Berbers and Spanish Muslims.</footnote>

<footnote n="16">¹⁶Tommaso Fazzello (or Fazello) 1498–1570—Priest, historian and orator and known as the father of Sicilian history (Anon 2014a).</footnote>

<footnote n="17">¹⁷Antonio Filoteo (unknown—1573)—Jurist and historian. Also known as Antonio Filoteo Degli Omadei. (Anon 2014b).</footnote>

<footnote n="18">¹⁸Pietro Carrera (1573–1647)—Chess player, priest, historian and Italian author (Anon 2014c).</footnote>

<footnote n="19">¹⁹The English Earl of Winchilsea (1669) was sailing off the coast of Etna at the time of the eruption. An *English Merchants' Report* to the *Royal Society of London* (Anon 1669) was sent by business men resident in Sicily.</footnote>
during the brief British occupation of Sicily (1806–1815) an officer visiting the volcano sent home a report of the 1809 flank eruption which was subsequently published in a Scottish newspaper (Anon 1809). By the time of the 1865 flank eruption visits by foreigners were well established, were facilitated by the advent of railways and are described as ‘pouring into the region’ (Anon 1865). In fact this event was the first eruption to be photographed by the Frenchman, Paul M Berthier, who accompanied the volcanologist Orazio Silvestri in a visit to the vent (Abate et al. 2013). By the early years of the 20th century, ‘dark tourism’ was causing problems for the authorities in managing the visitor influx (Anon 1923).<fnref n="20" /> Tourism stimulated a thirst for news first in Europe and later in the USA, and during the course of the 19th century there was marked increase in eruption reporting in both newspapers of record and in the more popular press (Chester et al. 2012).

During the 19th century rational investigation of Etna made a significant contribution to understanding within the earth sciences. This is an apparent paradox, because in a devoutly Catholic region in which every eruption was and is still associated with elaborate rituals supposedly to assuage divine wrath (Chester et al. 2008), *Enlightenment* science prospered so well. Giuseppe Recupero (1720–1778), Francesco Ferrara (1767–1850) and later Giuseppe Alessi (1774–1837) were priests yet, with one exception, encountered no opposition from the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The exception was Canon Recupero (Fig. 5), famous for his published work and for introducing the Naples-based diplomat and volcanologist Sir William Hamilton to Etna. Many years before the publication of Lyell’s *Principles of Geology* (1830), Recupero speculated about some lavas being much older than the generally accepted biblical chronology for the age of the earth. Brydone (1773, p. 132) writes:

Recupero tells me he is exceedingly embarrassed, by these discoveries.... Moses<fnref n="21" /> hangs like a dead weight upon him, and blunts his zeal for inquiry; for that really he has not the conscience to make the mountain so young, as that prophet makes the world. What do you think of these sentiments from a Roman Catholic divine? The bishop, who is famously orthodox .... has already warned him to be upon his guard; and not to pretend to be a better natural historian than Moses; not to presume to urge anything that may in the smallest degree be deemed contradictory to his sacred authority.

Clearly observation and study of the natural world—God’s created order—was acceptable, but speculation about its origin and when it came into existence was not. Following the publication of Brydone’s book Recupero was censured and lost his canonical preferment (Rodwell 1878).

Giuseppe Alessi was also a priest/scientist and published extensively on Etna and its eruptions (Alessi 1829–1835), but in the first half of the 19th century the baton passed to secular scholars, in particular to the brothers Gemmellaro (Mario 1773–1838, Carlo 1787–1866 and Giuseppe 1788–1876). Between them the brothers observed and described Etna’s activity and speculated about its volcanic phenomena (Guest et al. 2003, p. 180), Giuseppe accompanying Lyell on his visits and Carlo producing a major academic study (Gemmellaro 1858). Lyell’s *Principles of Geology*, his theory of uniformitarianism and the methodology espoused by him and other leading contemporary geologists of the time, found ready acceptance in Italy (Vaccari 1998) and by the close of the century, not only was the eruptive history of Etna known in considerable detail from ca. 1600, but flows had been mapped with accuracy most notably by the German geologist Wolfgang Sartorius von Waltershausen. The 1:50,000 map produced by Waltershausen, was published as the *Atlas des Aetna* (von Walter-shausen 1844–1859) and was the world’s first geological map of a large active volcano. A scholarly society, the *Accademia Gioenia*,<fnref n="22" />

<footnote n="20">²⁰Dark tourism involves visits to sites associated with death, war and other tragedies. Not all the tourism was 'dark', however, and major studies were published by some visitors not least Rodwell (1878).</footnote>

<footnote n="21">²¹It was generally accepted at the time that Moses was the author of the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Old Testament or Hebrew Bible, beginning with Genesis.</footnote>

<footnote n="22">²²The academy was named after the Sicilian scholar, Giuseppe Gioeni d'Angio (1743–1822).</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_151.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 5** Two pioneers of Etnean volcanology. a Canon Giuseppe Recupero (1720–1778). b Alfred Rittmann (1893–1980). *Photographs* Stefano Branca and the *Istituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Vulcanologia* (INGV), Catania</figcaption></figure>

was established in Catania in 1824, many leading geologists were members and its journal quickly found a place in the libraries of learned societies and major universities in Italy and across Europe.

The years from ca. 1850 to 1928, the year in which the well studied eruption destroyed the village of Mascali, were ones of consolidation. Major flank eruptions occurred in: 1852/3; 1865; 1879;

1883; 1886; 1892; 1910; 1911 and 1923, and there were progressively more detailed accounts in newspapers of record particularly in the United States and United Kingdom. Sicily was first linked to the Italian mainland by the electric telegraph in the 1850s, with the first reliable trans-Atlantic links dating from a few years later (Chester et al. 2012, pp. 75–76). By the twentieth century, newsreels
<figure><img src="image_152.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 5** (continued)</figcaption></figure>

were also depicting Etnean eruptions for an inter-national as well as a national audience. Detailed studies of eruptions were published by a number of scientists among whom were Orazio Silvestri, Annibale Riccò, Ottorino De Fiore and Gaetano Ponte. In 1926 Gaetano Ponte founded the *Etnean Volcanological Institute* within the University of Catania, and under his leadership a complete inventory of eruptive activity was maintained throughout the economically difficult 1930s and during the Second World War (see Branca and Del Carlo 2004, pp. 3–4), although until the 1950s international contacts were much reduced and there was little communication of information outside Italy other than through the pages of *Atti Accademia Gioenia di Scienze Naturali*.

The appointment in 1958 of the eminent Swiss volcanologist, Alfred Rittmann (1893–1980—Fig. 5), to the *Etnean Volcanological Institute* re-launched the international profile of

volcanic studies. In 1967 with the financial support of the *Consiglio Nazionale delle Richerche* (CNR—National Research Council) and with the patronage of UNESCO, the institute became the *International Institute of Volcanology* and Rittmann encouraged collaboration between Italian, French and British scientists, that culminated in both: the production of a 1:50,000 scale geological map and memoir (Romano 1982) and the publication of a research volume (Chester et al. 1985), which grew out of this collaboration.

**5 Concluding Remarks**

Italy and in particularly Etna has unrivalled historical records of volcanic activity extending back well over 2500 years to classical times. There are large gaps in the record, however, with accounts dating from Greeks and Romans times
being typically mythological and/or speculative and containing relatively little usable observational detail. For both Etna and the Azores it was priests who from the 16th century provided written descriptive accounts of eruptions and to a more limited extent their impact. They showed an ability not only to describe, but also to utilize their observations to develop an understanding of volcanological processes, which in the case of Canon Recupero brought him into conflict with his ecclesiastical superiors. Sicily is situated at the cross-roads of Mediterranean trade routes and the 1669 eruption of Etna attracted international interest (Azzaro and Castelli 2013). Observers showed a scientific approach in their description, observing and measuring lava flows and making comments on their impacts on local communities. Results were published first in letters and reports of limited circulation, later in research volumes and, beginning with the *English Merchants' Report* to the *Royal Society of London* in 1669, in international scientific journals (Anon 1669).

With the exception of the submarine eruption off the coast of São Miguel which was fortuitously observed by Captain Tillard, the Azores were more remote and eruptions were neither witnessed nor described by international scholars to the same extent. This remoteness, combined with the distinctive intellectual history of Portugal and the Azores, meant that, although there were major eruptions in the 16–18th centuries, documentation of activity was largely restricted to the islands, sometimes not published until much later and not communicated to the wider world to anything like the same extent as occurred on Etna. Indeed until the eruption of Capelinhos in 1957/8, there is virtually no reference to eruptions in the Azores in volcanological texts, despite better communications —steam ships and the electric telegraph—being important elements in the islands’ economy from the mid-19th century.

At the global scale the ways in which information on eruptions has been communicated between 1980 and the middle of the 2010s is the subject of another chapter in this volume, but for reasons of completeness the situation in the

Azores and Etna can be brought up-to-date. For the Azores the designation of Furnas as a *Laboratory Volcano* acted as a powerful stimulus and brought together a number of scholars from a variety of European countries and from a variety of disciplines, who researched topics which ranging from the ‘traditional’ (e.g. volcanic geology), to the innovative (e.g. hydrogeology, health hazards and human vulnerability). These were subsequently published in a special ‘issue’ of *Journal of Volcanology and Geothermal Research* (Duncan et al. 1999). Today volcanology in the Azores is studied both by the *Departamento de Geociências, Universidade dos Açores* and the university hosted: *Centro de Vulcanologia e Avaliação de Riscos Geológicos (CVARG)* Centre of Volcanology and Evaluation of Geological Risk); and *CIVISA (Centro de Informação de Vigilância Sismovulcânica dos Açores)* or Centre for Information and Seismo-volcanic Surveillance of the Azores) (Gaspar et al. 2011). These bodies have continued to communicate information both, locally through liaison with the Civil Defence authorities, and internationally by means of publication in peer-reviewed academic volumes/journals and having a strong on-line presence (http://www.cvarg.azores.gov.pt/Paginas/home-cvarg.aspx).

The situation in Sicily is broadly similar to that in the Azores, with attention being focused, *inter alia*, on: observing and communicating information on contemporary eruptions; liaising with the Civil Defence authorities; reconstructing the impact of historic eruptions (e.g. Branca et al. 2013); geophysical monitoring of Etna and increasing public awareness. From 1999 the *International Institute of Volcanology* became a section of the *Instituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Vulcanologia*, its website is available in Italian and English (http://www.ct.ingv.it/en/) and, as in the Azores, there is a strong emphasis on international publishing and attendance at academic conferences.

Even in well studied areas, such as Japan, Hawaii, the Cascades and Italy, in 1980 the data available to the international research community were almost exclusively focused on the physical characteristics of eruptions, the spatial extent of
their products and petrological aspects of lava flows and pyroclastic deposits. This deficiency was, however, becoming recognized, for example by Gordon Macdonald in his seminal book (Macdonald 1972, pp. 427) notes, ‘it is time for volcanologists to put less emphasis on purely scientific aspects of their science, such as the generation and modification of magmas, and to give more attention to humanistic aspects—prediction and control of volcanic eruptions and the utilization of volcanic energy’. There were exceptions, such as Sheets and Grayson’s (1979) edited volume *Volcanic Activity and Human Ecology* and Murton and Shimabakuro’s (1974) paper on human adjustments to volcanic hazard in Hawaii—both published in the decade before 1980, but overall volcanology was dominated by the concerns of the geologist and igneous petrologist. Therefore, before the designation of the 1990s as the *International Decade for Natural Disaster Reduction (IDNDR)* and the subsequent *International Strategy for Disaster Reduction Communication (ISDR)* from 2000, the information communicated by means of the international peer reviewed literature was different in kind as well as being more restricted in volume. For instance in the eight years between 1982 and 1990, a survey of research output carried out in the context of the European *Laboratory Volcanoes* initiative,<fnref n="23" /> showed that academic publication was dominated by the concerns of pure researchers, with papers in academic journals on more applied topics (i.e. prediction, social impact, policy implication and civil defence), constituting but a very small proportion of the total (Chester et al. 2002, pp. 419–420). Similar comments apply to other volcanic regions, with much of the information on social impact and civil protection being restricted to official reports and conference

papers. This ‘grey literature’ was neither widely known outside its country of origin nor was it peer—reviewed by members of the international research community. Today in the wake of the *IDNDR* and the current *ISDR*, not only has volcanology become more focused on hazard reduction, but the personnel has also widened to include social scientists, health professionals and experts in civil defence (Chester 2005).

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# What Can We Learn from Records of Past Eruptions to Better Prepare for the Future?

David M. Pyle ID

## Abstract

There is a long and rich record of historical observations of volcanic activity that has the potential to enhance current understanding of volcanic eruptions and their impacts, and to inform planning of responses to future events. However, apart from a small number of well documented examples, much of this broader material remains unread and little used. In this chapter, we explore examples of contemporary observations and accounts of volcanic eruptions at Santorini (Greece) and the Soufrière, St. Vincent, in the 18th, 19th and early 20th centuries. We show how these sorts of data could be used to inform and advance our understanding of, and approach to, volcanic crises; and to better understand the roles that communication—of hazards, of past events, or during an emerging crisis—may play in helping to prepare for the future.

## 1 Introduction

Despite considerable advances in scientific methodologies, monitoring techniques and modelling capacity, many aspects of the science of volcanology remain empirical; in particular the anticipation of ‘what may happen next’. This presents a critical challenge to those charged with the management of emerging volcanic events, and those responsible for communications and

crisis management as events unfold during an eruptive sequence. At volcanoes with a long legacy of monitored activity, recognising and developing an empirical understanding of the way the volcano behaves, and being able to read the signs of what might be unfolding, is one of the core skills of the staff at the local volcano observatory. However, instrumental records of volcano observation are short compared to the typical intervals between large eruptions; and what about volcanoes not known to have had unrest or activity in the recent past? It is in these contexts that accounts of prior activity, perhaps deep in the past, have particular value, both in providing a qualitative picture of what may have happened in the past; and in forming a narrative

D. M. Pyle (✉)

Department of Earth Sciences, University of Oxford,

South Parks Road, Oxford OX1 3AN, UK

e-mail: david.pyle@earth.ox.ac.uk
with which to engage communities who may be
affected by volcanic activity.

In the context of a volcano which is starting to
show unrest, the conventional approach to the
understanding of the emerging volcanic hazard
still relies to a great extent on a combination of
(i) the mapping of the likely hazard, based on the
physical deposits of prior eruptions, (ii) assess-
ment of the timing of past eruptions and (iii) ef-
fective monitoring of the volcano, whether from
ground-based sensors, or by satellite remote
sensing, combined with an analysis of instru-
mental records of past eruptions (e.g. Scarpa and
Tilling 1996; Haynes et al. 2007; Pyle et al.
2013; Hicks et al. 2014). The next step is often
based around the analysis of likely eruptive
scenarios, which will in turn be based on an
understanding either of the past eruptive history
of that particular volcano; or, in the case of a
volcano showing unrest for the first time, may be
based on scientists’ judgements about the sorts of
eruptive scenarios that might be typical of the
volcano. In recent years, this process has been
developed and applied to great effect. For
example at Montserrat, West Indies, an iterative
and repeated process of expert elicitation has
been used to form a consensus view of the state
of the volcano (Aspinall et al. 2002, 2003;
Aspinall 2006; Wadge and Aspinall 2014). The
development of ‘Bayesian Belief Network’
approaches represents a valuable tool for using
the learning from past events to inform decision
making about future events (Hincks et al. 2014).

As other work on Montserrat and elsewhere
has also shown, a poorly understood aspect of the
response to emerging volcanic events is the role
played by communication: not only in terms of
the formal pronouncements on hazards, risks and
‘alerting’ processes (e.g. Barclay et al. 2008,
2015; Wadge and Aspinall 2014; Donovan et al.
2012, 2014), but also in terms of the communi-
cations with and within the diverse communities
affected by the emerging crisis; and the impacts
on those affected by the activity (e.g. Hicks and
Few 2015). This is a significant gap which would
certainly be worthy of future investigation.

In this chapter, I argue that volcanologists
could add considerably to the evidence base

relating to past eruptions, and consequently
improve our capacity to manage impending or
future crises, by seeking out the wider historical
records of past eruptions. In particular, there is
much to be learned from records (for example
contemporary accounts, written by the people
who experienced the event) that document not
only how the past physical events unfolded, but
also the social, economic and political conse-
quences of the event. These same resources may
also record the roles played by communication
during these past crises: from the immediate
response (when, why and how did people affec-
ted by events respond?), to the diffusion of news
of the events, and the response of external actors
and agencies.

## 2 Volcanic Eruptions and Their Consequences

The rich sources of contextual information
around volcanoes and the impacts of their his-
torical eruptions have only rarely been exploited.
Three better known examples, where diverse
source materials have been brought together for
analysis sometime after the primary event,
include studies of the eruption of Tambora, in
1815 (e.g. Stommel and Stommel 1983); of
Krakatoa in 1883 (Simkin and Fiske 1983); and,
on a smaller scale, of Parícutin, Mexico in 1943
(Luhr and Simkin 1993). These examples are
briefly described in the following sections.

### 2.1 Tambora, 1815

The Tambora eruption of April 1815 was one of
the largest eruptions of the past 500 years, but
was understudied until relatively recently (Self
et al. 1984; Self and Gertisser 2015). Eyewitness
accounts of the eruption were gathered at the
time by the regional Governor, Stamford Raffles,
who dispatched a team to deliver emergency
relief to affected communities, and collect
information on what had happened (see Oppen-
heimer 2011; Pyle 2017). It was only many
decades later that others attempted to assess the
wider impacts of the eruption. Heinrich Zollinger, a Swiss botanist, climbed Tambora in 1847, and later documented the scale and severity of the eruption, including the casualties (Zollinger 1855). The extent of the global consequences of the eruption became clearer once the stories of the ‘Year without a Summer’ of 1816 had been gathered, and linked to the eruption of Tambora (e.g. Milham 1924; Stommel and Stommel 1983; Stothers 1984), while the narratives of links to global health crises and economic collapse are still emerging (e.g. Post 1977; D’Arcy Wood 2014; Oppenheimer 2015). The Tambora event is a case study of a globally-disruptive event; and one that would benefit from further analysis, particularly in the context of communication and crisis management.

## 2.2 Krakatoa, 1883

Krakatoa was the first volcanic eruption with a global impact where news of the event travelled faster than the spread of the ash cloud. The newly completed international network of submarine telegraph cables ensured that the opening phases of the Krakatau eruption in summer 1883 were reported in *The Times* newspaper in London within 36 h of the event (Simkin and Fiske 1983; Winchester 2003). The aftermath of the climatic phase of the Krakatoa eruption in August 1883 was an early example of the use of crowd-sourcing to gather information about the far-flung impacts of an eruption. George Symons, a British meteorologist, chaired the Royal Society's Krakatoa Committee. The remit of the committee was to collect information on the scientific phenomena attending the eruption, and Symons placed calls in early 1884 for 'the communication of authenticated facts respecting the fall of pumice and dust... unusual disturbances of barometric pressure and sea-level (etc.)' (Symons 1888, p. iv). The final report contained only a very brief outline of the relief efforts that followed the eruption (Symons 1888, p. 2), alongside more extensive eyewitness reports from those both at sea, and on land. To mark the centenary of the eruption, Simkin and

Fiske (1983) collected together these and many other accounts, and refined the timeline for the unfolding events. The existence of a telegraph network meant that some of the otherwise transient records of events were recorded for Krakatoa in ways that had never before happened for an eruption of this scale. However, while analysis of this material could provide valuable insights into the nature of emergency communication and response during a large-scale volcanic emergency, the full potential of these records has not yet been realised.

## 2.3 Parícutin, 1943

The eruption of Parícutin, Mexico, was on a smaller scale, but had dramatic consequences for farming communities of the high Mexican plains. In February 1943, an eruption began without warning in the corner of a corn field. Over the next nine years, the new volcanic cone of Parícutin grew, eventually covering 25 km² of land with lava. To mark the 50th anniversary of the eruption, Luhr and Simkin (1993) collected and edited a volume of papers and reports—some contemporary with the eruption; others offering a retrospective analysis of the wider impacts of the events on those affected. Accounts document the first-hand experiences of farmers who first had to cope with the fallout of ash and cinders; then a 'rain of mud', when the rains arrived, and finally resettlement in new locations that had no connection to their original homes, and required them to adapt their farming practices to lower elevations. The value of this volume in bringing together a diverse range of papers on the physical, environmental and social impacts of a one-off eruption was considerable; but, as with the examples of Tambora and Krakatoa, lacked any formal analysis of crisis communications.

## 2.4 Other Examples

While there are volcanological studies of many past eruptions, there are rather fewer that extend to an analysis of the human impacts and
responses. Recent work on historical eruptions of
Vesuvius in 1906 and 1944 that explore human
impacts, crisis management and emergency
response (e.g. Chester et al. 2007, 2015) reveal
some important lessons for dealing with future
volcanic crises, at Vesuvius and elsewhere.

Deeper in the past, volcanic events and their impacts may only have been recorded in official and other records if the event was of sufficient scale to have required a response (evacuation, aid and assistance, rebuilding or relocation); and if the local governance systems collected and recorded such information. There are extensive records of natural hazard events from the Spanish colonial period of Latin America (e.g. Petit-Breulh Sepúlveda 2004, 2006; Hutchison et al. 2016), but scant records from, for example, Ethiopia (e.g. Gouin 1979; Wiart and Oppenheimer 2000): differences that in part reflect the spatial locations and numbers of chroniclers, and the security of the archives. Beyond this, large-scale natural disasters may be captured in oral histories that require patience, luck and persistence to piece together (e.g. Blong 1982; Johnson 2013).

3 Why the Instrumental Records of Past Eruptions Is Deficient

Two major challenges face scientists in their
efforts to extend and develop an evidence-based
approach to anticipate the behaviour of
less-well-known volcanic systems that are start-
ing to show their first known episodes of unrest.
Even for systems where the recent volcanic
record is well preserved, challenges include:

- The preserved geological record, and much of the physical observational record, for most volcanoes is almost exclusively a record of past *eruptive activity*. In itself, this is a record biased towards activity of a scale or style, or deposited into an environment that can be preserved (e.g. Pyle 2016). There is often a lack of evidence from which to make inferences about the nature of either non-eruptive

unrest, or of long-term precursors to subse-
quent activity (Moran et al. 2011).
Non-eruptive unrest leaves no accessible trace
in the geological record, and as result most of
our current knowledge about unrest dates
from the modern, instrumental, era.

- The catalogued records of past activity are almost exclusively records of eruptions, rather than of non-eruptive unrest (e.g. Siebert et al. 2010); and these records rarely, if ever, document the wider social, political and economic consequences of these past eruptions. While catalogues of volcanic activity have evolved an effective set of tools for recording the totality of an eruption—start date, size, end date—there are as yet no agreed standards for recording, preserving and making accessible the long-termtime-series of measurements (and associated metadata) and observations of volcanic events, and their consequences, beyond the daily, weekly or monthly ‘status’ bulletins; despite valiant efforts by individuals (e.g. Perret 1924), international projects including WOVOdat (Venezky and Newhall 2007), the Global Volcanism Programme (Siebert et al. 2010) and the Global Volcano Model (Loughlin et al. 2015); and a handful of prominent case studies (e.g. Mount St. Helens—Lipman and Mullineaux 1981; Pinatubo—Newhall and Punongbayan 1996; and Montserrat—Druitt and Kokelaar 2002; Wadge et al. 2014). As a result, fine-grained details about the evolution of eruptive activity during a crisis are prone to being lost, and will be hard, if not impossible, to recover after the event. Thus, our understanding of even the ‘volcanic’ part of past volcanic crises (leave alone their social imprint) is far from complete (e.g. Hicks and Few 2015); and our understanding of the run-up to eruptions is even more fragmentary.

Volcanology is now entering a period of time
when it is possible to monitor volcanoes globally
using satellite remote-sensing; and where
near-real-time automated remote detection of
changes in behaviour (whether thermal, geodetic, seismic or gas) is becoming a reality (Hooper et al. 2012; Pyle et al. 2013). The challenge will be to match this step change in our *capacity* to monitor changes in behaviour, with our ability to interpret these changes in behaviour, in a way that is useful to those charged with managing volcanic risk.

An indication of the scale of this problem can be seen from an analysis of global patterns of volcano deformation (Biggs et al. 2014). Biggs et al. analysed the published satellite geodetic (InSAR) studies of 198 systematically observed volcanoes in the 18 year period up to 2013, distinguishing between volcanoes that erupted in that same period; and those that did not. Critically, they found that only 44% of detected ‘deforming volcanoes’ actually erupted during this period; meaning that the majority of deforming volcanoes are not poised to erupt; while 6% of ‘non-deforming’ volcanoes erupted, meaning that some restless volcanoes may show little sign of being restless, before erupting. This result shows that the successful recognition of pre-eruptive unrest will continue to require multiple sources of observation; while the interpretation of the signals of unrest will continue to require an understanding of the specific attributes of the system that is showing unrest.

# 4 Retrospective Analysis of Volcanic Crises

Here, we use records from historical eruptions at two typical subduction-zone volcanoes (Santorini, Greece; Soufrière, St. Vincent) to illustrate how retrospective analysis of the wider archives and records of past eruptions might help in the management of ongoing and future crises.

## 4.1 The Kameni Islands, Santorini, Greece

First we consider post-calderadome-forming eruptions on the Greek island of Santorini; a

restless caldera in the Mediterranean. The volcano is well known to the local residents (e.g. Dominey-Howes and Minos-Minopoulos 2004), and intimately linked to the deep archaeological history of both Santorini, and the Aegean Bronze Age ‘Minoan’ culture (e.g. Marinatos 1939). It has a significant transient summer population of tourists; some of whom will have come to see the volcano and its hot springs.

Over the past 3000 years, a series of dacite lava and tephra eruptions have progressively built the Kameni islands; a 4 km³ edifice which now emerges above sea level within the caldera (Druitt et al. 1999; Nomikou et al. 2014; Table 1; Fig. 1). The first eruptions to form the nascent Kameni islands would have been exclusively submarine, but there have been at least 8 subaerial eruptions since 46 AD which have progressively enlarged the Kameni islands (Fytikas et al. 1990; Pyle and Elliott 2006; Nomikou et al. 2014). Of these eruptions, there are written contemporary accounts of six, and detailed accounts of all known eruptions since 1707.

An eruption from 1707–11 was the first such event on Santorini to be documented in a journal (Box 1, Gorée 1710); and is the earliest eruption of Santorini for which early maps or sketches exist (Fig. 2). 150 years later, from 1866 to 1870, a major dome-forming eruption became the focus of a significant amount of contemporary observation and writing. This eruption led to the first treatise on the medical effects of volcanic eruptions and their gas emissions (da Corogna 1867), and was documented in considerable detail by Ferdinand Fouqué, leading to the modern ideas on the origin and evolution of calderas (Fouqué 1879). Contemporary observations of eruptions in 1866–70 and 1925–1928 detail the eruption progress, including rates of dome growth, of explosions, and lava extrusion. These datasets provide the essential quantitative information that underpin later forecasts for the style of future activity (e.g. Watt et al. 2007; Jenkins et al. 2015). The last of the eruptions of Santorini was in 1950, three decades before the installation of the first instrumental monitoring networks on the islands.
<table><caption>**Table 1** Historical activity of the Kameni islands, Santorini, Greece</caption><thead><tr><td>Eruption date</td><td>Location</td><td>Primary sources</td></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>10 Jan–2 Feb 1950</td><td>Nea Kameni</td><td>Georgalas (1953)</td></tr><tr><td>20 Aug 1939–July 1941</td><td>Nea Kameni</td><td>Georgalas and Papastamatiou (1951)</td></tr><tr><td>23 Jan–17 Mar 1928</td><td>Nea Kameni</td><td>Reck (1936)</td></tr><tr><td>11 Aug 1925–Jan 1926</td><td>Nea Kameni</td><td>Reck (1936)</td></tr><tr><td>26 Jan 1866–15 Oct 1870</td><td>Nea Kameni</td><td>Fouqué (1879)</td></tr><tr><td>23 May 1707–14 Sep 1711</td><td>Nea Kameni</td><td>Gorée (1710)</td></tr><tr><td>1570 or 1573</td><td>Mikra Kameni</td><td>No primary records</td></tr><tr><td>1457</td><td>Palea Kameni</td><td>No primary records</td></tr><tr><td>726</td><td>Palea Kameni</td><td>No primary records</td></tr><tr><td>46–47</td><td>Palea Kameni (Thia)</td><td>No primary records</td></tr><tr><td>199–197 BC</td><td>Hiera (or Lera)</td><td>No primary records</td></tr></tbody></table>

*Notes* Full sources listed in Fouqué (1879); Stothers and Rampino (1983); Pyle and Elliott (2006); Nomikou et al. (2014)

<figure><img src="image_153.png" /></figure>

**Fig. 1** Summary timeline of eruptions of the Kameni islands, Santorini, and the Soufriere, St. Vincent, since 1700 AD, showing those events for which contemporary records (including newspaper reports, or sketches, or diaries, or official reports) and scientific reports exist. In contrast to the ca. 300 year-long record of contemporary

observations, the scientific instrumental monitoring record (e.g. seismicity, or ground deformation/geodesy) is much shorter. There are no systematic instrumental monitoring records of the most significant eruptions of either system (1902–3 eruption of St. Vincent; 1866–1870 eruptions of Santorini)

**Box 1: The 1707 eruption of Nea Kameni, Santorini**

Excerpt from Gorée Fr (1710) ‘A relation of a new island, which was raised up from the bottom of the sea on the 23rd of May 1707, in the Bay of Santorin, in the Archipelago’.

‘Five days before it appeared, viz on the 18th of May between one and two of the clock in the afternoon, there was at Santorini an earthquake, which was not violent and continued but a moment; and in the night between the 22nd and 23rd there was also another, which was yet less sensible
<figure><img src="image_154.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 2** Map of the Santorini caldera, showing the Kameni islands during the eruption of 1707–1711. The Ile Nouvelle (new island) is the lava dome and flow</figcaption></figure>

formed during the 1707 eruption. This now forms a part of the island of Nea Kameni. From Tarillon (1715)

than the former [...] Add to this, that a long time before the earthquakes the fishermen perceived an ill smell every time they passed by that place [...] Notwithstanding it is very certain that there have not been any other earthquakes at Santorini than those which, 14 or 15 years ago, continued for several days and were very violent. However it was, some seamen discover'd this island early in the morning, but not being to distinguish what it was they imagined it to be some sort of vessel that that had suffered shipwrack.

The smoak appeared first upon the 16th of July: at which time there rose up a ridge of black stones and which was afterwards not only the centre of the while island, but also of the fire, and smoke and great noise

that was heard some time after. The smoak which issued out of this ridge of stones [...] was very thick and white.'

## 4.2 Eruption Progress

Work on the Kameni islands since the mid-1800s documenting both the nature of eruptions and the petrology of the erupted products meant that by the early 21st century, volcanologists were able to develop a simple but detailed conceptual model of what a future eruption might look like. The key factors that fed into the model were:

- The observations that the compositions of the erupted products, and the style of eruption
have varied very little over the past 500 years (e.g. Nicholls 1971);

- The observation that many of these eruptions may have been 'triggered' by the influx of hot, volatile-rich magma some short time before (e.g. Higgins 1996; Martin et al. 2006);

- The observation that there is an apparent linear relationship between the period elapsed since the last eruption, and the volume erupted in the next eruption (Pyle and Elliott 2006).

This led to the hypothesis that the next eruption of the Kameni islands would be preceded by 'general uplift of the edifice and discoloration of the sea, and anticipated some days to weeks in advance. The eruption would involve the early formation of lava domes, which would later act as a focus for vigorous, intermittent explosive activity' (Pyle and Elliott 2006, p. 266).

The recognition of a relationship between eruption length and the interval between eruptions for the last 4 large eruptions of the Kameni islands, consistent with a model of a constant time-averaged deep supply of magma, also meant that it was possible to forecast the duration of a future eruption. While this analysis is entirely empirical—based on collation of observations from eruptions over the past 300 years—this approach is typical of the way in which much modern volcanology still operates; this analysis would not have been possible without the depth and breadth of contemporary descriptive materials accompanying the historical eruptions.

## 4.3 Precursors

Although the eruption record of the Kameni islands is well known, the record of anything that may have happened in between eruptions is almost non-existent. We know of precursors, or pre-eruption changes, for several eruptions (see Box 1), but apart from a mention of an earthquake swarm a few years prior to the 1707 eruption, there are no known reports or records of any sort of unrest that wasn't subsequently

followed by an eruption. This lack of evidence for 'precursor behaviour that didn't culminate in an eruption' (non-eruptive unrest) is likely to be a common feature of many volcanic systems (Moran et al. 2011)—and likely to explain the poor correlation between 'run up' and eruption scale that is evident in the most recent analysis of these sorts of datasets (e.g. Passarelli and Brodsky 2012).

The lack of documented non-eruptive unrest and the volcanological model for 'the next eruption' was brought into sharp relief in 2011, with the start of the first modern volcano-seismic crisis on Santorini since the eruption of 1950. In January 2011, the first small earthquakes located within the caldera were detected by the local seismic network. This was clearly anomalous, since most of the detected seismicity in the region since systematic measurements began in the late 1980s has been associated with structures outside the caldera, most notably the submarine Kolombos volcano (Dimitriadis et al. 2005; Nomikou et al. 2012).

The event was readily identifiable as a period of volcano-seismic unrest, due to localisation of shallow earthquakes along a well-known fault system thought to have been responsible for the delivery of magma to the surface during previous eruptions; and from the patterns of uplift and ground deformation detected from the network of continuous GPS instruments and analysis of satellite radar interferograms (e.g. Newman et al. 2012; Parks et al. 2012). Later, field evidence also showed changes in the nature of the diffuse degassing around the summit craters. In early 2012, the authorities convened a Special Scientific Committee for the Monitoring of Santorini Volcano, and oversaw the deployment of a host of new instruments across and around Santorini, but fairly soon the unrest came to an end and nothing further happened (Aspinall and Woo 2014). No formal notice of the unrest was declared by the authorities until the event was effectively over (see Vougioukalakis et al. 2016), and although there are now a dozen or more scientific papers describing these events, there was no eruption and there is no record of the event in the Smithsonian Institution's Global
Volcano Programme dataset or associated reports.

Best estimates of the scale of the magmatic anomaly associated with the 2011–2012 unrest suggest that the shallow magmatic pressure source increased in volume by ca. 14–23 million cubic metres (Parks et al. 2015); equivalent to a couple of decade’s worth of ‘steady state magma accumulation’. This presents a challenge to the previous consensus model for the volcano: here was evidence for a large, shallow intrusion which did not lead to eruption. Whether this is the typical behaviour of the system, or not, is something that cannot yet be determined—because although the rich documentary record of past events furnishes us with the evidence for how the next eruption *might* proceed, it provides us with no information, one way or the other, about the frequency and style of episodes of unrest. However, the episode of unrest has stimulated new work on conceptual physical models for repeated eruptions driven by pressurisation and failure of the shallow magma reservoir by intrusion (e.g. Browning et al. 2015; Degruyter et al. 2016), and stimulated retrospective analysis of bathymetric maps, that chart the ups and downs of the volcano since the 1850s (Watts et al. 2015). The unrest has also opened up a public discussion of how the scientific community, civil defence and local authorities

should plan for a future crisis; including how to manage hazards, risk and communications (Vougioukalakis et al. 2016).

## 4.4 The Soufrière, St. Vincent

The Soufrière, St. Vincent, is another example of a lava-dome forming volcano in a subduction-zone setting. In contrast to the Kameni islands, recent and historical eruptions of St. Vincent have been of a more mafic magma (basaltic andesite, rather than dacite), and eruptions have tended to be significantly more explosive than those of the Kameni islands, with much more serious consequences (Fig. 1; Table 2). Below, we briefly introduce the chronology of the St. Vincent eruptions, and their broader consequences, before discussing the challenges for the future.

## 4.5 Eruptive History and Impacts

St. Vincent lies in the eastern Caribbean, and is one of the southern islands of the Lesser Antilles Arc. The eruptive history of the presently active volcano—the Soufrière, a complex of craters at the top of the Morne Garou—is not well known prior to about 1700. Since then, St. Vincent has

<table><caption>**Table 2** Historical activity of the Soufrière, St. Vincent</caption><thead><tr><th>Date</th><th>Notes</th><th>Phenomena</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td></td><td><i>Summit crater is dry, with an exposed lava dome</i></td><td></td></tr><tr><td>13 April–October 1979</td><td>Explosive eruptions, and dome extrusion</td><td>P, E, L</td></tr><tr><td>17 May 1971–1972</td><td>Minor effusive eruption</td><td>L</td></tr><tr><td></td><td><i>Summit crater is water filled</i></td><td></td></tr><tr><td>6 May 1902–1903</td><td>Major explosive eruptions</td><td>P, E</td></tr><tr><td>1880</td><td>Crater lake level increases, temperatures rise</td><td></td></tr><tr><td></td><td><i>Summit crater is water filled</i></td><td></td></tr><tr><td>1814</td><td>Possible minor eruption</td><td>E?</td></tr><tr><td>27 April–6 May 1812</td><td>Major explosive eruption</td><td>P, E</td></tr><tr><td>ca. 1784?</td><td>Possible minor eruption</td><td>L?</td></tr><tr><td>26 March 1718</td><td>Major explosive eruption</td><td>P, E</td></tr></tbody></table>

*P* precursor seismicity; *E* explosive eruption; *L* lava dome Compiled from Shepherd (1831), Anderson and Flett (1903), Robertson (1995) and Richardson (1997)
experienced four major explosive eruptions, and at least one minor dome-forming eruption (Fig. 1; Table 2; Robertson 1995). Eruptions in 1718, 1812 and 1902–3 each had major consequences for the northern sectors of the island— with widespread tephra fallout, explosive execution of ballistic blocks, column-collapse pyroclastic density-currents, and lahars deposited across or coursing down the flanks of the volcano. Each of these explosive eruptions led to significant ash fallout across other islands of the Caribbean; notably Barbados.

The eruptions of 1812 (at least 56 fatalities; Robertson 1995) and 1902–3 (1600 fatalities) were severe, with much damage to properties, many associated with the sugar plantations in the northern parts of the island; and deaths in the communities which provided labour for those plantations (Anderson and Flett 1903; Smith 2011; Pyle et al. 2017). The details of the social and economic consequences of these eruptions can be reconstructed in an extraordinarily fine-grained way, principally because of the preservation of official correspondence and reports from the time in colonial archives (Gullick 1985; Smith 2011; Richardson 1997; Pyle et al. 2017).

There are no known reports, however, of the consequences of the explosive eruption of 1718 for the inhabitants of St. Vincent. The only written record of the eruption was gathered from the descriptions of European mariners, and published anonymously in a pamphlet that declared ‘the entire desolation of the island of St. Vincent’, and that ‘the island was no more’ (Box 2; Defoe 1718). This account was not mentioned by Shepherd (1831) in his history of St. Vincent, even though by that time the 1718 eruption would have been well known to natural historians from the works of de Humboldt and Bonpland (1825).

**Box 2: The 1718 eruption of St. Vincent**

Daniel Defoe ‘The destruction of St. Vincent’ from Mist’s Journal, July 5, 1718.

‘On the 27th [March] in the morning the air was darkened in a dreadful manner; which darkness by all accounts seems to have extended over all the colonies and the islands which were within 100 miles of the place [...] The sum of [reports from ships] ‘they saw in the night that terrible flash of fire and after that innumerable clashes of thunder [...] a thousand times as loud a thunder or cannon. As the day came on, still the darkness increased.’

In the afternoon they were surprised with the falling upon them as thick as smoke, but fine as dust and yet solid as sand; this fell thicker and faster as they were nearer or farther off—some ships had it nine inchers, others a foot thick, upon their decks. The island of Martinico is covered with it at about seven to nine inches thick; at Barbadoes it is frightful, even St. Christopher’s is exceeded four inches.’

The eruption of April–May 1812 and its consequences were recorded in detail in a range of primary contemporary sources (letters and diaries) and published reports and accounts (see Smith 2011, for a detailed analysis). The diaries and reports of a British barrister and plantation owner, Hugh Perry Keane (Box 3) are thought to also have provided the materials for *The Times* leader story on the eruption, published six weeks later in late June (Smith 2011). Keane’s sketches of the eruption were later used by JMW Turner to inform his 1815 painting of the volcano in eruption. One notable feature of this eruption is the contrast between the published accounts that stress the ‘dreadful’ scale of the eruption, and the apparent light loss of life (Smith 2011). Estate owner Alexander Cruikshank wrote that ‘there has [not] been so violent an Eruption recorded since the destruction of Herculaneum and Pompeii’ (Blue Book 1813, p. 4), and a committee of landowners petitioned the Crown for compensation, on the basis that these ‘distressed Memorials [had suffered] severe visitation of Divine
Providence... unexampled in any of His Majesty's dominions for much more than a century' (Blue Book 1813, p. 9). These accounts were presumably motivated by a desire for financial recompense, and stress the physical impacts of the eruption on their crops, estate lands and property. In contrast, the same reports are very thin on the consequences of the eruption either for their enslaved workers (one sugar estate owner appended the brief statement 'but most providentially not many lives were lost'; Blue Book 1813, p. 4), or for the island's native residents. Reports suggest that many people from the Carib communities who lived around the flanks of the volcano evacuated spontaneously within a couple of days of the eruption starting, but before the eruption reached a climax (Blue Book 1813; Smith 2011). It is not known whether this reflected a response based on oral histories of prior eruptions; or that the effects of the tremor and tephra fallout had become intolerable.

**Box 3: The 1812 eruption of St. Vincent**

Excerpts from the diary of Hugh Perry Keane [Virginia Historical Society mss1 k197 a23], transcribed in Smith (2011), Hamilton (2012) and Pyle (2017).

Weds 29 [April] Then to see the Souf-frier, involved in dark clouds and vomiting black sands. Landed at Wallilabou. Spent the evening in contemplation of the vol-cano, and slept there.

Thurs 30th in the afternoon the rousing of the Mountain increased and at 7 o'clock the flames burst forth and the dreadful eruption began. All night watching it between 2 and 5 o'clock in the morning showers of stones and earthquakes threat-ened our immediate destruction.

May 1 The day did not give light till nearly 9—the whole island involved in gloom. The mountain was quiet all night.

May 2 Rose at 7, Drawing up my nar-rative for the register.

Sun 3rd Rose at 7 and after gathering some Bfast... Proceeded to Wallibu—strange and dismal sight, the river dried up

and the land covered with cinders and sulphur. Morne Ronde Hid in smoke and ashes—the track covered with trees and a new formation given to it—burnt carcasses of cattle lying everywhere.

Mon: 4 rose at 6 and took a cup of coffee... and returned to town. Kingston in great confusion.

Wed 6 the volcano again blazed away from 7 till 1/2 past 8.

The catastrophic eruptions of 1902–3, in which about 1600 people were killed, left dense records of official and other communications during both the immediate crisis, and the relief and recovery efforts (Blue Book 1903, 1904; Anderson and Flett 1903). Eyewitness accounts of the build up to the eruption again suggest that significant numbers of people from communities living on the flanks of the volcano evacuated spontaneously during the 24 h before it reached a climax (Pyle et al. 2017). Indeed, by the time the scale of the eruption became apparent to colonial officials in Kingstown, telephone lines to the north of the island had already been interrupted and submarine telegraph lines from St. Vincent to the neighbouring island of St. Lucia had been severed (Report of Edward Cameron, Administrator; Blue Book 1903). A combination of the infrastructure of the Colonial Government; the relative ease of international communication (telegrams) and the coincidence of the devastating eruption of Mont Pelée, Martinique, just one day after the eruption of the Soufrière of St. Vincent meant that these two volcanic disasters in the Caribbean attracted world-wide interest at the time, and a rapid international relief effort (Pyle et al. 2017). Scientists and journalists arrived with some of the relief boats, and dramatic reports of the aftermath of the eruption were soon widely available (e.g. Russell 1902; Morris 1903; Anderson 1903; Hovey 1903a, b). Since that time, though, little of this material has been re-considered by volcanologists; and a full analysis of both the entire eruption sequence, and the recovery process has yet to be completed.
<figure><img src="image_155.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 3** Sketch map of the summit crater of the Soufrière of St. Vincent in 1784, showing a steaming lava dome (top, centre) within a steep-sided summit crater, flanked by two small crater lakes (Anderson and Yonge 1785).</figcaption></figure>

The image was drawn by Frederick Nodder, from a sketch by J. Anderson. Image RS 9780, Map of Morne Garou, reproduced by permission of the Royal Society

In between these eruptions, each of which were preceded by many months of felt seismicity in areas close to the volcano, there may well have been other small to moderate eruptions which were non-explosive, and which produced few noticeable consequences—whether in terms of detectable seismicity, or other manifestations. There has been speculation that an eruption in 1784 formed a lava dome which was subsequently described after the first known ascent by

a European in late 1784. Anderson, who was then keeper of the newly established Botanic Station on St. Vincent, describes the nature of the crater in detail, along with a sketch map of the summit area (Fig. 3). This can readily be interpreted as a lava dome with actively degassing fumaroles—not greatly different from the current status of the dome, which extruded in 1979.

During the ‘modern era’ there were two eruptions of St. Vincent, both of which were
<figure><img src="image_156.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 4** Schematic timelines of the eruptive sequences at St. Vincent for each of the last 3 eruptions, based on contemporary reports (Blue Book 1902, 1903; Aspinall</figcaption></figure>

et al. 1973; Shepherd and Aspinall 1982; Shepherd and Sigurdsson 1982)

closely observed and documented. In 1971–1972 a ‘quiet’ effusive eruption led to the emplacement of a lava dome within the summit crater-lake. This was followed, just 8 years later, by a short but violent series of explosive eruptions (from April 13–26, 1979), followed by six months of the emplacement of a lava dome (Aspinall et al. 1973; Shepherd et al. 1979; Shepherd and Sigurdsson 1982; Huppert et al. 1982).

## 4.6 Challenges for the Future

In the context of anticipating future events, the detailed records of these past eruptions and their timelines (Fig. 4), would certainly inform the development of future eruption scenarios. But our understanding of the nature of any precursors is, as with the case of Santorini, rather limited, with just the two most recent eruptions having any instrumental monitoring record—the first of

which made barely a trace in terms of detectable precursory seismicity (Aspinall et al. 1973).

Each of the last four explosive eruptions were preceded by felt earthquakes in the north of the island; each of the eruptions for which the crater was flooded also showed short-timescale changes in the nature of the lake waters. There are no quantitative data on the nature of any pre-eruption gas emissions, since the most recent eruptions in 1979 occurred only just in time for the satellite monitoring era (Carn et al. 2016), and before the widespread adoption of volcanic gas measurement technologies. Nonetheless, there have been local crises on St. Vincent triggered by the appearance of sulfurous odors and haze. The most recent of these events occurred in mid-February 2005, and was detected both on the island of St. Vincent and on the Grenadines (50–75 km S). In the event, Seismic Research Unit scientists and the Soufrière Monitoring Unit determined that the cause of the event was purely
meteorological in origin: the typical winds in the area take the fumarole emissions out to sea, and this event was ascribed to an unusual wind field (Weekly Report, Smithsonian Global Volcanism Project, March 2005).

# 5 A ‘Typology’ for Volcanoes?

Until we have accumulated a few more decades of instrumental monitoring and global survey data for both restless and erupting volcanoes, volcanologists will of necessity have to fall back on the empirical approach of trying to understand how individual volcanoes might behave in the lead up to a future eruption. With larger and longer-term datasets, we should soon be able to make progress developing quantitative ‘typologies’ of volcano behaviour (c.f. Hone et al. 2007; Grosse et al. 2014), and also to test whether the concept of an ‘eruption cycle’ for volcanoes can usefully be developed and applied more generally (e.g. Luhr and Carmichael 1980; Luhr 2002; Pyle et al. 2013).

Until that time, statistical approaches to managing both long-term activity and poorly-constrained future activity might best be developed by building on the ‘evidence-based learning’ approaches to managing volcanic unrest developed by Aspinall and others, (Aspinall et al. 2003; Aspinall 2012; Hicks et al. 2014). This approach has been widely used on Montserrat as an element of the regular external scrutiny of the state of the volcano. Advances in machine learning and the use of the ‘crowd’ to harness the potential of citizen science volunteer communities for collecting, analysing and interpreting digital data of all sorts (both structured, and unstructured; quantitative and qualitative) have already begun to make an impact in the area of rapid disaster response (e.g. Ramchurn et al. 2015). The new field of ‘human agent interaction’ offers significant potential for developing new ways of converting contextual information on past volcanic events (including that currently buried in archives) into a form that can be used to develop and test conceptual and quantitative models of hazard and risk; and as a

way of beginning to analyse the networks of people, agencies and organisations affected by or responding to volcanic events.

Both approaches have the potential to deepen understanding of what happens to volcanoes when they enter into a new phase of unrest or eruption, and to aid the detection and diagnosis of these changes in time-series of observations. They also have potential to feed into the processes of communication of hazards and risk, by providing a framework within which to understand the parallels between volcanoes. For example, connecting with the narratives of past events at a re-activating volcano, or of past hazard events at a volcano with shared characteristics, will be important elements in helping to frame discussions and decision-making processes about how to prepare for and mitigate the effects of a future event.

# 6 Conclusions

To make the best use of evidence-based approaches to the management of emerging volcanic unrest, volcanologists would benefit from making fuller use of the wider contextual ‘data’ that may exist that documents the consequences of prior volcanic activity, or unrest, at that volcano. Retrospective analysis both of the formal scientific literature, and reading of a wider range of contemporary sources that document the broader personal, social, economic and political impacts of prior events will enrich and add to our capacity to anticipate, prepare for and mitigate the consequences of future events; and to advance the ways in which these learnings may be communicated.

**Acknowledgements** This work has been supported by the NERC-ESRC funded STREVA project, ‘strengthening resilience in volcanic areas’, and has benefitted enormously from discussions with Jenni Barclay, Teresa Armijos Burneo, Paul Cole, Anna Hicks, Chris Kilburn, Sue Loughlin, Tamsin Mather, Richie Robertson, Mel Rodgers, Simon Smith, Jon Stone, Caroline Williams, Emily Wilkinson and many others. I thank St. Anne’s College and the University of Oxford for permitting a period of sabbatical leave; Cambridge University Library, the Bodleian Libraries, Oxford, and the British Library for access to their archives; the Bodleian Libraries
Exhibitions Team for providing a creative outlet and focus for some of this work; and Carina Fearnley and the editors for their patience.

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Reflections from an Indigenous
Community on Volcanic Event
Management, Communications
and Resilience

H. Gabrielsen, J. Procter, H. Rainforth, T. Black,
G. Harmsworth and N. Pardo

Abstract

Ngāti Rangi, an indigenous tribe of Aotearoa New Zealand, live on the southern flanks of their ancestral mountain, Ruapehu, an active volcano. Ruapehu has erupted and caused lahars within living memory, and nearby Tongariro erupted as recently as 2012. Ngāti Rangi and other tribes affiliated to these mountains are intimately connected to and familiar with the moods, signs, and language of the mountains and have valuable knowledge to contribute to decision-making and warning systems during volcanic events. To date this knowledge or *mātauranga Māori* has been somewhat under-utilised, and Ngāti Rangi have not always been included in decision-making processes during volcanic events. But communication is improving, and Ngāti Rangi have begun a journey of building their own monitoring, information collection, and communication systems. Past and present monitoring, warning systems, communications and tribal civil defence resources are examined to determine how Ngāti Rangi and their tribal knowledge can be better recognised, communications with governmental volcanic hazard management agencies improved to ultimately work together to improve outcomes for the tribe and local community.

H. Gabrielsen · H. Rainforth
Te Kahui O Paerangi—Ngāti Rangi Trust,
P.O. Box 195, Ohakune, New Zealand

H. Gabrielsen · J. Procter (✉) · N. Pardo
IAE, Massey University, Private Bag 11 222,
Palmerston North 4442, New Zealand
e-mail: J.N.Procter@massey.ac.nz

T. Black
Te Whare Wānanga O Awanuiārangi,
13 Domain Road, Whakatāne, New Zealand

G. Harmsworth
Landcare Research-Manaaki Whenua, Private Bag
11052, Palmerston North 4442, New Zealand

# 1 Introduction

Koro Ruapehu is constantly changing. Sometimes he's sleeping, sometimes he's active – sometimes he erupts

(pers. comm. Ngāti Rangi Trust 2014)

Despite a plethora of initiatives internationally, regionally and locally to reduce risk or increase resilience to natural hazards (e.g. the United Nations International Strategy for
Disaster Reduction), indigenous communities and peoples are not well provided for.

Like many indigenous cultures around the world the indigenous people of Aotearoa New Zealand, have observed and monitored and then responded to and recovered from numerous hazardous volcanic events. The indigenous knowledge gained from these experiences is rarely considered when scientifically identifying volcanic hazards or developing emergency management plans, yet mātauranga Māori (Māori knowledge) does contain a unique, valid epistemology and data source. The mātauranga has driven Māori decision making to endure and adapt to the natural hazards they face (Durie 2005). This has not been fully recognised by current hazard and emergency management regimes in New Zealand and has resulted in a disconnect in communication between the indigenous populations and Government agencies (Jolly et al. 2014). This disconnect has become more evident over time and particularly in relation to the 1995–6 sequence of eruptions of Ruapehu, the 2007 lahar and eruptions of Ruapehu and the 2012 eruption of Te Maari, Mt. Tongariro. Is it then feasible to communicate hazard and risk in today’s world to Māori living in these areas within a knowledge framework that is spatially and temporally consistent with their past understandings? Simply, is there a means to desegregate methods to create an understanding of risk unique to our volcanic areas that is universally acceptable by all?

The case study chosen for this research is Ngāti Rangi, a central North Island iwi (tribe) who have held unbroken occupation over the area for over 1000 years. They have an intense and living relationship with their ancestral maunga (mountain), which they refer to as Matua te Mana (“prestige of the father”) and is located within the Tongariro National Park, one of New Zealand’s United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) World Heritage sites. The Tongariro National Park is recognised not only for the natural values of the landscape, but also for the cultural values associated with these maunga (mountain) (UNESCO 2014). This recognition demonstrates the cultural

importance placed on this area by local iwi and the acknowledgement of this by UNESCO, who govern the World Heritage List and locations worldwide, in the awarding of dual status in 1993 (recognition of cultural and environmental values) (Keys and Green 2008). The Tongariro National Park is managed by the Department of Conservation, a Crown entity (an organisation that forms part of New Zealand’s state sector). Despite the formal recognition of the cultural significance to local iwi of the Tongariro National Park, iwi have little involvement in its management (Gabrielsen 2014).

To understand and develop resilience within Māori communities requires an examination of the role of traditional knowledge within volcanological hazards, risk communication, and emergency management. This research combines several disciplines and therefore requires a distinct method to acquire and analyse data. A mixture of qualitative and semi quantitative research data collection techniques were applied that is based upon recognised kaupapa Māori techniques (Smith 1997). The research undertaken for this study is based on an analysis of the current emergency management framework, analysis of marae survey data, marae assessments, conversations with Ngāti Rangi leaders and elders and an assessment of volcanic based data.

An important aspect of this research is that all researchers are Māori with knowledge of Māori language culture and customs. Secondly, the case study proposed was based on iwi and their interactions with their environment. This meant that iwi determined the progression of the research throughout which was paramount. This process also allows the iwi to be the decision makers, to provide what information they want and to decide how it is used. Consequently, special processes that protect the iwi and their knowledge base were crucial to this research. This research involved the interviewing of iwi leaders, iwi environmental management staff and elders within the Ngati Rangi Tribe. Over the course of a year (2014) approximately 10 individuals were interviewed and 3 wananga (traditional workshops of 3–5 people) were held on
Ngati Rangi Marae (traditional meeting house) in rural areas located within the Ruapehu Volcano ring plain in recently active volcanic areas. In conjunction with interviews, oral traditions, waiata (traditional songs), purakau (ancestral accounts) were also examined. Another unique source of information was written records or minutes of traditional church meetings from the 1800s. Due to traditional practice iwi members are reluctant to have their information publically quoted.

The qualitative aspect of this research was used largely to seek a human perspective. The aim was to identify perspectives from the ground, from people that lived in the area, and from people with a relationship to the land, and to the volcano. Iwi in general have large repositories of knowledge coded in local waiata (songs) and karakia (prayer) and held by those in particular deemed worthy of holding on to such knowledge. Historical knowledge of volcanic episodes should be confined within iwi history and korero (speech). This assumption was made purely based on the fact that Ngāti Rangi have long lived within the lands of their ancestors, for over a thousand years, and therefore will have experienced and recorded in some way, volcanic events.

Gaining a better understanding of historical occurrences and responses is beneficial for current research on volcanic hazards and for emergency management. A qualitative approach was able to unearth to some degree the current gap in the knowledge base regarding iwi and volcanic hazards, and understanding what aspects contribute to iwi resilience to natural hazards. This approach was also required as a means for some freedom of movement in the type of method utilised to better support the dynamic nature of iwi and the preference with which iwi choose to be consulted. The ultimate outcome is elucidating some potential indicators of what resilience means to Māori and can it be strengthened within current emergency management frameworks.

## 1.1 Resilience and Indigenous Communities

Various aspects of communication with, and the resilience of, indigenous communities are contained within natural hazards research, but are described in the following ways: disaster prevention (Alcántara-Ayala 2002), disaster risk reduction (Mercer et al. 2010), and assessing the vulnerability of communities to natural hazards (Cutter et al. 2010). Work with indigenous communities within the Pacific region has provided examples of capacity building within indigenous communities and incorporating their own cultural knowledge into scientific methodology to adequately prepare for, and deal with, natural hazards (Petterson et al. 2003). The community of Savo Island in the Solomon Islands is exposed to a high level of volcanic activity with a history of large fatalities (Petterson et al. 2003). Outside expertise and assistance was sought to initiate the development of strategies to address the risks from volcanic activity on the island (Petterson et al. 2003).

The development of these strategies to address the risks from volcanic activity on Savo encompassed in-depth work with the local community. This work included workshops and identifying and using local knowledge of hazards in conjunction with science to develop a disaster management plan. This process identified in some respects how crucial the political, economic and infrastructural climate is in supporting the resilience of these island nations; political drivers secured the expertise thus enabling the development and implementation of the disaster management plan. Despite the best intentions in aiding indigenous communities in developing strategies to deal with natural hazards, there can be a multitude of barriers in undertaking this work. One of the challenges identified in work undertaken on Ambae Island, Vanuatu, was initially the lack of acceptance by the local population of scientific knowledge (Cronin et al. 2004b).
Breaking through the barrier of the dominance of science is essential for indigenous cultures, as there are a significant number of deep-seated issues surrounding research, intellectual property and exploitation. These issues have led to indigenous communities distrusting researchers, their methods and their desired outcomes. As a means to alleviate such issues researchers have used the principles of the Participatory Rural Appraisal to alter the attitudes and approach of the specialists and to promote community input and knowledge (Bird and Gísladóttir 2012; Cronin et al. 2004a, b). These principles perhaps parallel Māori research initiatives (e.g. kaupapa Māori; Smith 1997), which emphasises elements central to the Treaty of Waitangi, such as participation, partnership, and protection (Robertson 1999). In Vanuatu, Cronin et al. (2004b) observed that strong cultural customs prevented the indigenous peoples from accommodating standard scientific methods, but also that these methods were inconsistent with those customs and the knowledge and beliefs of the people. The researchers envisaged that PRA would act as the instrument to incorporate traditional knowledge into the development of a hazard management plan without the risk of jeopardising the indigenous communities' local belief structures (Cronin et al. 2004b).

Despite work by scientists and disaster management researchers in their aim to understand and improve the resilience of many indigenous cultures, Campbell (2009) indicates that many Pacific Island nations were once inherently resilient to natural hazards. Traditional disaster reduction measures describe the ways through which indigenous communities succeeded in living with natural hazards. Colonisation introduced changes to these societies (Zimmet et al. 1990) that removed the importance of their traditional and highly social practices and left communities unprepared and ill-equipped to deal with natural hazards. Globalisation and other external pressures may be processes that are out of these communities' control, but still have far reaching impacts on their internal processes and

traditions (Mercer et al. 2010; Pelling and Uitto 2001). Among these pressures, Paulinson (1993) found the market forces to be at fault. These aspects may inhibit indigenous communities from being resilient. Despite this, the traditional disaster reduction measures that are representative of inherent qualities central to communities living with natural hazards promote resilience.

## 2 Ruapehu Volcano

The convergence of the Australian and Pacific tectonic plates is the driver of volcanism within New Zealand. Situated within the Tongariro Volcanic Centre (TVC) (Acoella et al. 2003) (Fig. 1), Ruapehu is the largest and most active volcano in the North Island standing at 2797 m high (Lecointre et al. 2004; Neall et al. 1999). Upon Ruapehu are three summit craters that have all been active over the last 10,000 years (Donoghue and Neall 2001). This includes the current Crater Lake, Te Wai-a-moe, which is situated over the active southern Crater. Ruapehu's periodic activity causes a number of hazardous events with evidence of these volcanic hazards recorded in the landscape and represented by the surrounding volcaniclastic ring plain, (Fig. 1) which is made up of fragmented rocks deposited by historical lahars, debris avalanches and some fluvial and glacial deposits (Donoghue and Neall 2001).

The Department of Conservation management of this area is guided by the Tongariro National Park Management Plan 2006–2016 (Department of Conservation 2006a, b). This document outlines the roles and responsibilities of the Department and the policies that guide the use of this area. The responsibility of managing natural hazards lies with the District and Regional Councils, while monitoring volcanic activity is undertaken in conjunction with research providers such as GNS Science and Massey University. The Department of Conservation describes the risks from natural hazards as taking 'two main forms' (Department of Conservation
<figure><img src="image_157.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 1** Location map of Tongariro Volcanic Centre, New Zealand and the Taupo Volcanic Zone (inset)</figcaption></figure>

2006b): (1) flows such as lahars, pyroclastic flows, lateral blasts, landslides/floods and lava flows and (2) air borne materials such as rocks, tephra and toxic gases. Ruapehu is unique in the sense that the Crater Lake, Te Wai-a-moe, is located over the current active vent of the volcano. Keys and Green (2008) mention that only one other crater lake (i.e. Kelut in Java, Indonesia) similar to that of Ruapehu exists within the world where there has been an intense focus on physical lahar mitigation. Both of these crater lakes and the research undertaken in reference to lahar hazards have provided important scientific data for hazards research.

## 3 Māori/Iwi in New Zealand and Ngāti Rangi

Indigenous cultures around the world have unique world views that inform their cultural values, belief systems and link them to the natural world. Royal (2005) argues this worldview sets Māori and other indigenous cultures apart from the mainstream populations. The common denominator among indigenous cultures is that the natural world is perceived as a living being (Royal 2005; Hart 2010) and this connection with the environment ties indigenous peoples
around the world with one another, epistemologically.

Although world views varies from iwi to iwi, a strong thread uniting iwi Māori viewpoints is the genealogical connection to the physical and spiritual world. In the Māori world view, human beings are the last creation of the god of the forest, Tāne Māhuta. Rather than this furnishing humans with primacy over creation, as is the common interpretation within the European tradition, for Māori this position renders them as subordinates of all other creatures in the natural world. This world view has two implications. Firstly, Māori are connected to all things within nature. This includes physical features, such as mountains, rivers, rocks, and land, as well as what is traditionally thought of as living things. For Māori everything has a life force, an essence or a mauri. Māori are bound to be continually respectful to those who have precedence, i.e. the rocks, the mountains, etc. that precede them in their genealogy.

Mātauranga Māori is defined as ‘Māori knowledge’, and is a term that places importance on Māori histories, knowledge, and language, and refers to Māori ways of thinking, doing, and acting (e.g. Smith 1990). It is a multi-faceted and complex concept that is connected to a multitude of sources of language, culture, land, customary and intellectual knowledge sources. Furthermore, mātauranga Māori bridges both traditional and contemporary Māori knowledge and philosophies through which Māori history and knowledge are uncompromisingly told. The platform of mātauranga Māori advocates for a system of Māori knowledge that recognises cultural identity and cultural affirmation as important foundations that are connected to Māori world views. Mātauranga Māori is a crucial element in chronicling perspectives, experiences and knowledge of specific landscape and volcanic events within iwi history in Aotearoa New Zealand. Information surrounding volcanic hazards exists within the mātauranga-ā-iwi (specific tribal knowledge), for Ngati Rangi principally through waiata (song) and karakia (prayer). As a repository of cultural knowledge and information

over the generations of Ngāti Rangi existence, these examples provide the opportunity to review past events and provide a basis of knowledge to recover from future events.

At the time of the arrival of European explorers and traders, Māori may have numbered about 100,000 (citation Pool 1991). Māori numbers plummeted to around 42,000 in 1896, due to war and disease, before recovering in the early 20th century (Pool 1991). A large proportion of Māori land was alienated, often through land confiscations by the Crown, suspect land purchases, or as a result of debt accrued, in association with the Crown programme of converting customary titles to fit with the British land title system; this loss removed the economic base of the people and severed connections to traditional lands. Māori culture was severely affected through the imposition of European belief systems, practices, and laws. Despite that, iwi across New Zealand maintained cultural knowledge and connections to place. For Ngāti Rangi, this means chiefly or in part a connection to Ruapehu, their ancestral mountain and active volcano.

## 3.1 Māori and Hazards

There is limited literature on Māori and natural hazards within New Zealand. Few unpublished documents have provided further insight into the relationship that exists between iwi and the natural hazards present within their rohe (tribal area). Proctor (2010) explores how the principles of tikanga (traditional practices) can be applied to the management of natural hazards, particularly flooding in Pawarenga in Northland, New Zealand. Proctor (2010) found that tikanga was a valued resource used by locals and concluded that ‘tikanga Māori is an inherent part of … resiliency’ (Proctor 2010).

King et al. (2007) and Lowe et al. (2002) are the few who have explored the relationships between iwi and natural hazards. They found that iwi and hapū (sub-tribe) hold a store of information throughout oral narratives such as
'mōteatea (laments), pēpeha (quotations), whakatauki (proverbs) and waiata (songs)' (King et al. 2007). These repositories of information not only tell stories but can contribute information on historical events and natural hazard occurrences to natural hazard management. King et al. (2007) outlines three specific ways that Māori environmental knowledge can be applied to natural hazard management: (1) as described previously, stories, songs and place names hold a wealth of knowledge based on experiences and recollections of events; (2) the information extracted from these avenues can thus be mapped in relation to natural hazards; and (3) it can also provide for Māori involvement in planning for hazards.

Most of the current volcanic based knowledge that exists in New Zealand is largely derived from the European context. Lowe et al. (2002) suggest that the lack of information is partly due to the late settlement of New Zealand by humans. Consequently, the recorded history of interactions between people and volcanism is short. There is a paucity of information that has been published on the actual experiences of early Māori prior to colonization; however, Lowe et al. (2002) assume that Māori must have experienced numerous volcanic events from many of New Zealand's volcanic centers (Table 1).

## 3.2 Ngāti Rangi and “Their” Volcano

In terms of volcanoes, the Māori world view results in an approach where humans are connected through genealogy to mountains, and in particular for Ngāti Rangi they are descendants of Mount Ruapehu. To Ngāti Rangi Mt. Ruapehuis referred to as the grandfather. For Ngāti Rangi, specific connections to the maunga come through Te Rau-hā-moa and Paerangi. When Te Rau-hā-moa brought Paerangi to Aotearoa (New Zealand), the alighting of the bird ignited the fires waiting in Ruapehu, waking up the volcanic life of the mountain. Paerangi himself made the mountain his home, giving rise to one of the names of the mountain—Paerangi i te Whare Toka, or Paerangi of the House of Stone. Today, Ngāti Rangi numbers are at an estimated 8000 people (citation). Fifteen percent of those live in the tribal area (rohe) (Fig. 2), while the others live elsewhere in New Zealand and overseas. The iwi is supported by an iwi authority, Ngāti Rangi Trust, and guided by a tribal council representing all subtribes, Te Kāhui o Paerangi. The Trust is responsible for supporting the day to day work of the tribe, from social support programmes, to tribal events, to upholding the environmental responsibilities and cultural knowledge of the tribe.

<table><caption>**Table 1** Volcanic hazards probably experienced or witnessed by prehistoric Māori</caption><thead><tr><td>Hazard type</td><td>Volcano or centre associated with event</td></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>Pyroclastic fall</td><td>Taranaki, Tongariro, Whakaari, Auckland, Okataina</td></tr><tr><td>Pyroclastic flows</td><td>Tarakaki, Tongariro, Okataina</td></tr><tr><td>Pyroclastic surges</td><td>Okataina</td></tr><tr><td>Lava flows</td><td>Tongariro, Auckland, Okataina</td></tr><tr><td>Lava dome building</td><td>Tarakani, Tongariro, Okataina, Tuhua</td></tr><tr><td>Lahars</td><td>Taranaki, Tongariro</td></tr><tr><td>Post-eruptive flooding</td><td>Taranaki, Tongariro, Okataina</td></tr><tr><td>Debris avalanches</td><td>Taranaki, Tongariro, Whakaari</td></tr><tr><td>Volcanogenic earthquakes</td><td>Taranaki, Tongariro, Auckland, Okataina</td></tr><tr><td>Lightning, forest fires</td><td>Taranaki, Tongariro, Okataina</td></tr><tr><td>Hydrothermal eruptions</td><td>High-temp. geothermal systems in the Taupo volcanic zone (e.g. Ketetahi Springs)</td></tr><tr><td>Acidic rain/volcanic gases</td><td>Ruapehu, Tongariro</td></tr></tbody></table>

Adapted from Lowe et al. (2002)
<figure><img src="image_158.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 2** Ngāti Rangi tribal area or rohe and the Tongariro Volcanic Centre including the location of Ngati Rangi marae or traditional meeting house</figcaption></figure>

For countless generations Ngāti Rangi have inhabited the southern flanks of Ruapehu (Fig. 2). They have born witness to his volcanic activity since human settlement in New Zealand. There are early written accounts of lahars within the Whangaehu River, one such by Reverend Richard Taylor (as cited in Hodgson 1993) who in 1861 reported uncharacteristic flooding within the Whangaehu River. Ngāti Rangi has within their oral narratives records of events, records by way of mōteatea (poetry, accounts of ancestors, ngeri (chants), karakia (prayer), and other forms of waiata (songs). For example, the waiata below

is from Ngāti Rangi and was written with reference to the eruption of 1945:

**Moimoi Tahuārangi** te pikinga i Tuhirangi

Ka whakamau te hiwi ki Murimotu ee

Kei tuahiwi taku rori haerenga ki roto Ōhāpopo

Takoto whāroa ngā mānia ki Karioi ee

Kia tū wātea taku titiro te puke ki Ruapehu

Te whakaingo mai he tau pakipaki

Papaki rawa i taku uma

**He puke nohoanga nō te keukeu roa**

He roa te tāringa kia whakaaria mai ngā tohu tukutuku

**Tukutahi te puehu turaki whakatua**

**Ka whakahoki mai** hei tāpora mō te nohoanga ia koutou mā eei
The guardians cry as they ascend Tuhirangi
And then continue on to Murimotu
Over yonder is the path to Ōhāpopo
Where the plains of Karioi open up
So that I can clearly view Ruapehu
Oh the majesty as I wait for a clear period of
weather
And his majesty also reminds
That he originated from the great surges of the
ocean
I stand waiting for activity
Behold! An eruption of ash.
Do not fear, this ash will cloak and replenish the
land and help us live as one.

The waiata is another example of traditional
knowledge; waiata is a medium where large
tracks of information are stored and repeated
throughout the generations. Through this trans-
lation provided by Ngāti Rangi, the waiata
(songs) relays a number of factors describing the
iwī and their relationship with Ruapehu, and their
reaction to volcanic activity. This has the
potential to reveal the nature of the relationship
between Ngāti Rangi and their ancestral maunga
and the associated volcanic processes or hazards.

## 4 Ngāti Rangi Experiences

The communication of Ngāti Rangi perceptions
of volcanic 'hazards' or mātauranga Māori
(Maori knowledge) or mātauranga-ā-īwi (iwī
knowledge) is articulated in their internal iwi
korero (oral tradition; language), but also offi-
cially stated within their Ngāti Rangi Taiao
Management Plan 2014, a management plan
developed to address environmental issues
within the Ngāti Rangi rohe or region
(Gabrielsen 2014). Ngāti Rangi rejects the use of
the term hazard when describing the conse-
quence of volcanic activity (Rainforth et al.
2012; Gabrielsen 2014). The perspective is that it
is a natural event that should not be restrained,
diverted or withheld. This position is communi-
cated throughout the generations and therefore is
widely accepted throughout the iwi. This view-
point is based on the acceptance of Matua te
Mana (in general terms, the power and prestige
associated with the volcano as an ancestor) and
in a wider context, Rūaumoko, as natural entities

and processes involved in volcanic activity.
A Ngāti Rangi pao, a very concise song usually
sung for entertainment, describes Ruapehu in his
eruptive state.

O rongo Ruapehu
Turaki auahi
Puahiri Whakarunga
Ki whai tua ee

If you ever hear Ruapehu
Erupting with ash
You can be comforted knowing
The prevailing wind takes it elsewhere.

Key words and phrases within this pao such as
'puahiri whakarunga' is a descriptive word for an
eruption, 'turaki auahi' could also signify the
visual experience of witnessing a plume of
ash—'auahi' meaning smoke and 'turaki' to
throw down. 'Rongo' could also represent repu-
tation; the reputation or fame of Ruapehu, per-
haps an indication of the perceptions and
understanding of Ruapehu as a volcanic entity.

The Maori perceptions of the volcano as being
an active, living entity provides a focus and a
need for engagement with that entity on a prac-
tical level through the designation of tapu
(sacred) areas in relation to the mountain. Prac-
tical measures such as exclusion areas or explicit
prescriptions of behavior (i.e. not to stop in lahar
channels when walking through) were put in
place to signify the dangers and risks of places
around the maunga, such as Te One Tapu and the
kaitiaki (guardian) of the mountain that exist in
this area known as Te Ririo and Takakā. Tapu is
a belief, a notion that educates one to respect the
natural world as 'Māori things involve the whole
of nature' (Pewhairangi 1992).

In the past, Ngāti Rangi has taken advantage
of the active nature of Ruapehu as a means to
deliver specific kōrero (speech) and historical
knowledge concerning volcanic activity. Despite
the lull between periods of volcanic activity,
there is a continuation of internal iwi knowledge
sharing which extends throughout these periods
of quiescence. There are a variety of techniques
Ngāti Rangi use to share knowledge and histor-
ical experiences regarding the maunga, which is
not always specific to volcanic activity. These are
through wānanga (workshops) and rā wairua
(religious services or more specifically the Rā māramatanga—an annual event dedicated to the spiritual experiences of Ngāti Rangi). Knowledge and experiences are also transmitted via tikanga, iwi stories, karakia and waiata. The exchange of knowledge is also crucial to the understanding and sharing of cultural and scientific language on a bi-cultural level.

## 4.1 1945 Eruption

The eruption of 1945 had substantial impacts on the daily lives of those living at the foot of the mountain, largely revolving around ash and its resulting impacts: skin, eye and throat issues, crop failure, issues with stock feed, shearing blades dulling during shearing season, impacts on driving visibility and corrosive impacts on vehicles and machinery (Johnston 1997). A prominent Ngāti Rangi kuia recollected the eruption clearly ‘we were covered in ash’ (pers comm. 2014). Johnston (1997) sourced 13 separate references of ash fall within Ohākune in 1945 from July through to September with the final date of ash fall occurring over a three-day period. The tribal account of this event is also captured within a waiata ‘Moimoi Tahuarangi’ which pays homage to the prestige of the mountain and the celebration of eruptive events. During this time, the relationship between the tribe and their mountain was not really recognized by authorities, and cultural use of the mountain was nil due to his state of tapu (sacredness) or exclusion areas were defined.

## 4.2 Tangiwai Disaster 1953

The Tangiwai railway disaster of 1953 (where a lahar removed a rail bridge across the channel moments before a train crossed killing 151 people) is long held within the memory of Ngāti Rangi and is potentially the most memorable lahar, due to the present elder generation being alive during this time. Many whānau (families) hold stories about this night, as many were scheduled to

travel on the train, and others had a local dance interrupted by news of the event. Many families also contributed to the cleanup of the awa post-disaster and for some time Ngāti Rangi did not visit the Whangaehu River for their cultural and spiritual purposes. A cultural a rāhui (period of prohibition) over the area was implemented by the iwi until a time when it was deemed culturally appropriate. The communication of this event was predominantly by word of mouth. As a result of this event, the New Zealand Railways Department installed a lahar warning device upstream of the Tangiwai Bridge in order to detect any future rise in river level and acidity in existing stream flow due to the introduction of Crater Lake water which could signal an alarm to halt railway traffic until inspection (Neall 1976).

## 4.3 1995/1996 Series of Eruptions

The 1995/1996 volcanic activity initiated internal discussions within Ngāti Rangi around historical iwi kōrero relating to volcanic activity. This period was integral for iwi revisiting local knowledge and perhaps gaining a more scientific understanding of volcanic activity. This again would have fortified the iwi and their relationship with their ancestral mountain. Notwithstanding this, activity still stimulated practical questions regarding the safety of the iwi marae, homes and infrastructure from volcanic flows (leading up to the 2007 lahar). Many prominent key Ngāti Rangi leaders had belief in their ancestral maunga that he would look after the iwi, which is resounded throughout the iwi. This also contributes to the trust in the experience of Ngāti Rangi tupuna (tribal ancestors) in the placement of marae in the rohe.

## 4.4 Consultation and Involvement
Pre-2007 Lahar

The flow of communication between the Crown and Ngāti Rangi became an integral part of consultation following the 1995/1996 eruptions
due to the risk of an eminent Crater Lake dam break, which occurred on 18 March 2007. The consultation between Ngāti Rangi and the government (by way of the Department of Conservation, Minister of Conservation Sandra Lee and the Ministry of Civil Defence and Emergency Management) was viewed as successful. The success was due to the sharing of knowledge, communication and decision-making by Ngāti Rangi. Ngāti Rangi took a stance on the engineering solutions that were proposed and deemed them unacceptable on a cultural and spiritual level, as well as practically.

The position Ngāti Rangi held and still hold was that no intervention would be undertaken on the maunga when discussions turned to a proposed engineering solution at the Crater Lake. An alternative was chosen with the creation of a bund on an apex of the laharic fan or Te One Tapu in consultation with neighboring iwi and the Crown. Emergency management preparation was central to the lead up to the 2007 lahar. The local Karioi Forestry and the timber mill of Winstone Pulp International (WPI) participated in planning for the event as the Whangaehu River meanders through the forest and both of their industrial sites (Karioi and the Timbermill) are located within a 1-2 km vicinity to the Whangaehu River and the Tangiwai Bridge.

The community at Karioi was involved as part of preparatory measures to ensure the safety of the community as the lahar made its way past the Tirorangi Marae bridge. Two community meetings were held for the Karioi residents largely to discuss traffic safety measures and the movement of stock. Pagers were the main means of communicating instructions, timeframes and—monitoring the lahar flow. The main concern for the residents was the safety of the bridge, as the potential impact from its ruin would have resounding economic and social impacts. The local community was empowered through the process of consultation and heavy involvement in the response to the lahar.

## 4.5 Current Communication

The Ngāti Rangi Trust website provides users with direct links via the internet to a variety of current volcanic surveillance and monitoring tools of Ruapehu, which are:

* Links to GeoNet for current volcanic alert levels;

* Link to Horizon Regional Council's maunga camera;

* and The Ngāti Rangi installed Te Wai-ā-moe (Crater Lake, Ruapehu) camera, which feeds directly to the Trust.

High-level communication occurs at the top level, among research and monitoring institutes such as GNS Science and Massey University, local authorities such as Horizons Regional Council and Waikato Regional Council and Crown entities such as the Department of Conservation and the Ministry of Civil Defence and Emergency Management and the iwi authority, Ngāti Rangi Trust. Through these interactions active involvement in current monitoring of culturally significant sites has been initiated by the iwi and supported by these organisations. The iwi initiated monitoring of Te Wai-ā-moe, Whangaehu River and potentially Lake Rotokura in the near future. The ongoing dissemination of information through these high-level personnel is crucial.

## 5 Discussion

Tobin and Montz (1997) describe natural hazards as the possibility of interaction between natural events and humans. Therefore, based on this description, a natural hazard is described based on its potential to impact people and property. It is clear that the use of the term 'hazards' to describe a volcanic eruption and its resulting impact on surrounding populations by scientists
and emergency managers in New Zealand and internationally is a subject of contention for Ngāti Rangi. Their relationship with Ruapehu expresses their acceptance and understanding of him as a powerful being of nature and awareness of their place within nature and te ao Māori (the Maori world). This recognition and understanding of Ruapehu ultimately means that Ngāti Rangi people accept him as an active volcanic entity and celebrate and welcome his volcanic processes. Ruapehu is Matua te Mana, the guardian of mana (prestige/authority) who uses volcanic activity to share part of his mana with the people, and to replenish and revitalise the land and Ngāti Rangi.

Traditional practices and cultural traits have allowed iwi to endure within New Zealand. Maintaining aspects of their cultural and spiritual traditions and oral narratives have also aided the ability for iwi to adapt to external changes such as colonialism. Ulluwishewa et al. (2008) and Harmsworth and Awatere (2013) maintain that iwi hold a distinct worldview that guides their daily lives. This worldview can be described as an outlook that is heavily embedded in the past but merges with the present; a combination of traditional and modern concepts and beliefs. This worldview is often used as a basis for future decision-making and involves looking to the past to better plan for the future. The teachings of ancestors are prominent in this worldview. There remains a close connection with the local environment, which is representative of a link to the wider holistic aspect of whakapapa (simply defined as genealogy) and whānau (family). Iwi also take this focus on and reverence of their history and fuse it with modern lifestyles. Thus this worldview demonstrates a mixture of both modern and traditional aspects that represent iwi and the Māori culture.

Both Durie (2005) and Walker (2004) describe Māori resilience to natural hazards, more specifically as endurance. They both discuss the struggles of Māori throughout the colonisation phase and the later stages of growth within Aotearoa/New Zealand. Their work highlights the endurance of Māori to survive and adapt specific cultural traits and practices to

flourish and be present in this day and age within Aotearoa/New Zealand.

## 5.1 Traditional Knowledge as a Tool for Building Resilience

To adequately prepare for hazards specifically with indigenous communities, traditional knowledge should be used to provide a unique insight into information on historical events, as well as previous response methods. It has long been acknowledged that communities residing in hazard prone areas over a number of generations understand hazard processes, and potentially some previous methods of response towards hazards (Campbell 2009; Cashman and Cronin 2008; Cashman and Giordano 2008). Traditional knowledge and oral traditions, which derive from oral narratives (Cashman and Cronin 2008), are valuable tools that represent an awareness and understanding of the locality. They provide an account of historical methods used to avoid, mitigate or reduce the impacts associated with natural hazards. In Iceland, historical accounts of ash fall indicated the level of severity and the resulting impact on visibility (Bird and Gísladóttir 2012), therefore demonstrating for example, what work needs to be done prior to the lack of visibility setting in. These historical accounts can provide local communities with moral support. In the study by Bird and Gísladóttir (2012) one participant said: ‘I just thought about the past, the stories. How good it was that we had heard the stories, I knew that it had happened again, I knew that it wouldn’t last forever’ (Bird and Gísladóttir 2012, p. 1271).

Recounting those stories from Iceland outlined a natural hazard event, its impacts on the local communities, mitigation measures to undertake and perhaps some indication of its duration. Place names also hold some merit in indicating further insight into a location and its history (King et al. 2007), as representative of an event that left an imprint on the landscape and the people. In contrast, there is still a lack of understanding on the nature of the hazards in volcanic zones, as well as a real understanding of
all possible hazard types. In Java, Indonesia, Lavigne et al. (2008) identified that there was little to no actual understanding of volcanic processes; therefore the local population was not aware of the entire volcanic hazard types, their associated risks and more importantly the areas they impacted. This research highlights peoples' perceptions of risks and the importance of bringing into account the human dimension with regards to natural hazard management.

It has been heavily emphasised of late how imperative the human dimension is to natural hazard management (Bird et al. 2011). Understanding the interaction and relationship local communities have with the land may describe the continued existence of people in the vicinity of volcanoes. Lavigne et al. (2008) supports this view by noting the rise in research relating to the human dimension of natural hazard management and more specifically, the behaviour of people in the face of natural hazards. They outlined three significant areas to further understanding the human dimension of hazards and the reactions to natural hazard events: (1) the perception of risk, (2) cultural beliefs and (3) socio-economic constraints.

Individual and community perception of risk is based on a number of differing factors, such as the nature of the hazard, its frequency, duration, past experiences and exposure to the hazard. These factors do contribute to risk perception; however, the lack of understanding of volcanic processes, their low frequency and duration combined with limited or no exposure to past events despite living in an active volcanic zone all contribute to lower perception of risk regarding volcanic hazards. Hazard knowledge and risk perception of Katla by locals in Iceland demonstrated the results of hazard knowledge inherited from their forebears (Bird et al. 2009). This study indicated that exposure to and experience of volcanic hazards was discussed and recognised by the younger generation and contributed to their level of risk perception. Gregg et al. (2004) note that, in some cases, hazard awareness is not an indication of hazard knowledge and does not carry over to preparedness or responsiveness. Limited knowledge of the threat

that Kona in Hawai'i has on the local population is mirrored with the low level of preparedness at the individual level (Gregg et al. 2004).

The cultural belief system of the human dimension as described by Lavigne et al. (2008) focuses on the ties that individuals and communities have with their local environment. These cultural beliefs can often dictate the decisions of the individuals regarding their residence in these hazard zones, and can also act as an avenue to describe the events.

## 6 Conclusions

Ngāti Rangi have resided at the southern side of Ruapehu from time immemorial. Their exposure to volcanic activity throughout the generations has meant that they have adjusted their livelihoods and developed strategies and practices to live safely with a volcano. Subsequently, their traditional kainga and pā (traditional homes and fortified villages) are located in areas considered safe by the people. Ngāti Rangi are the human voice of their maunga, and they speak for him when needed but will watch and listen for the tohu (indicators) that will indicate to them their level of safety. Any precautionary measures against the potential impacts of volcanic activity and eruptions that involve alterations have the ability to distort their connection to their maunga. Therefore, Ngāti Rangi is adamant in their stance to protect Mt. Ruapehu against any human alteration. It goes against Iwi cultural constructs (or termed their tikanga) to demean the mana of Matua te Mana by altering his geomorphological nature. People chose to settle in areas along flood plains and along lahar channels, perhaps without prior knowledge and understanding of volcanic processes. People chose to position themselves on the landscape and therefore make the maunga and its natural processes hazardous. However, from the perspective of Ngāti Rangi, moving a mountain to protect their home is unacceptable; people should move their homes to protect the mountain. Finally, their belief is Ruapehu is their ancestor (tūpuna), their koroheke (most senior elder) and as such, he is the key to their cultural
identity, and history and the link to the realm of ngā atua through whakapapa. Matua te Mana provides strength to the iwi, who are strong in the belief that Ruapehu is a maunga and has the right to be able to erupt, shake, and express his emotions without restraint from humans.

The gap between western-scientific based hazard management/monitoring frameworks and mātauranga Māori adaption strategies can be bridged by determining mātauranga Māori-based cultural descriptors or indicators that are traditionally used to monitor volcanic hazards and plan for risk. Combined with the documentation of strategies of recovery/adaptation by Māori communities in volcanic landscapes utilising Māori researchers, Māori language/Te Reo and applying participatory research techniques, Ngāti Rangi has developed its own mitigation, response and recovery strategies to be applied in the future, alongside and in tandem with western-science based hazard management plans. The recognition and application of traditional knowledge and practices to act as a basis for future planning and decision making in volcanic emergencies will ultimately increase participation of the indigenous communities and contribute to increasing resilience of the community.

**Acknowledgements** We would like to thank the support of Ngati Rangi Iwi, Kaumatua and Kuia that contributed to this research and provided a valuable contribution to this work. We would also like to thank the various Ngati Rangi Marae that provided hospitality and a culturally appropriate venue to share knowledge. This would not have been possible without the support of the New Zealand Natural Hazards Research Platform or MBIE through the Vision Matauranga Capability Fund.

# Glossary

## Māori Term Description

**Ahi tipua** Fire demons who bought volcanic activity to Aotearoa 'Te Hoata' and 'Te Pupū' according to Ngāti Tūwharetoa tradition

**Ahi-kā-roa** Burning fires of occupation

**Aotearoa** New Zealand

**Atua** Godsdeities

**Hapū** Sub-tribe

**Haungaroa** Sister to Ngātoroirangi (Ngātoroirangi—tohunga of the Te Arawa waka)

**Hawaiiki** The ancestral homeland of Māori

**Iwi** Tribe

**Karakia** Incantationprayer

**Kawa** Protocols

**Kōrero** Speakspeech, narrative

**Koroua** Eldergrandfather

**Kuiwai** Sister to Ngātoroirangi

**Mana** Prestigeauthority

**Marae** Term used to describe the traditional meeting house and entire complex of Māori

**Mauri** Life force

**Mouri** See 'Mauri'

**Ngā atua** 'The gods' but refers to the gods in Te Ao Māori (the Maori World)

**Ngāti Turumakina** Hapū of Ngāti Tūwharetoa

**Ngāti Tūwharetoa** Iwi in the central North IslandNew Zealand, of the Te Arawa Waka

**Ngauruhoe** Mountain of the central North Island

**Paerangi-i-te-Whare-Toka** Paerangi's house of stone (Paerangi—the eponymous ancestor of Ngāti Rangi)

**Papatūānuku** Earth mother

**Pareitetaitonga** Shelter from the southern winds. Peak on Ruapehu

**Pēpeha** Proverb

**Ranginui** Sky father

**Ritenga** Customs

**Ruapehu** Mountain of the central North Island

**Rūaumoko** God of earthquakes

**Tane Mahuta** Son of Rangi and PapaGod of the Forest

**Tangata Whenua** People of the land

**Tangihanga** Funeral

**Tapu** Sacred
**Tawhirimatea** God of the Wind

**Te Ao Marama** The world of light

**Te Arawa** Waka and iwi of the Bay of Plenty

**Te Ika ā Māui** The big fish of Māui (also known as the North Island of New Zealand)

**Te kore** Nothingness energy, the void

**Te po** The night

**Te reo Māori** The Māori language

**Te Wai-ā-moe** Ruapehu's Crater Lake

**Tikanga** Customs

**Tohu** Signs

**Tohunga** Spiritual leader

**Tongariro** Mountain of the central North Island

**Tupuna** Ancestor (Tūpuna = Ancestors)

**Tūrangawaewae** Place to stand

**Uri** Descendants

**Waiata** Songs

**Waka** Canoeor rather, the large double hulled waka that journeyed from Hawaiiki to Aotearoa

**Wānanga** Specific gathering devoted to learning and sharing knowledge

**Whakapapa** Geneology (simple translation)

**Whānau** Family

**Wharepuni** Meeting house of a marae

**Whenua** Land

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<figure><img src="image_159.png" /></figure>
# Fostering Participation of Local Actors in Volcanic Disaster Risk Reduction

Jake Rom Cadag ID, Carolyn Driedger, Carolina Garcia, Melanie Duncan, J.C. Gaillard, Jan Lindsay and Katharine Haynes

## Abstract

Studies of recent volcanic crises have revealed that official evacuation and contingency plans are often not followed by communities at risk. This is primarily attributable to a lack of long-term coordination and planning among concerned stakeholders, and in particular, a lack of participation of local populations in disaster risk reduction (DRR). A lack of participation suggests the prevalence of top-down approaches, wherein local people are disengaged or even excluded in the development of DRR plans. It is not surprising, therefore, that existing plans are often non-operational, nor acceptable to the people for whom they are intended. Through an investigation of case studies at Mount Rainier (USA) and Bulusan (Philippines), and references to volcanoes elsewhere, this chapter aims to determine the key principles and important considerations to ensure peoples' participation in volcanic DRR. The chapter discusses key factors that encourage local empowerment, engagement, influence, and control in development of plans and actions. It adds information to the existing literature about how participatory approaches can encourage contributions by both local and outside actors, the latter providing knowledge, resources and skills when unavailable at local levels. Such approaches promote dialogue and co-production of knowledge between the community and outside actors. Contributions from multiple and diverse stakeholders

J.R. Cadag (✉)
University of the Philippines Diliman, Quezon City,
Philippines
e-mail: jdcadag@up.edu.ph

C. Driedger
U.S. Geological Survey, Reston, USA

C. Garcia
IU Colegio Mayor de Antioquia, Medellin,
Colombia

M. Duncan
UCL/CAFOD, London, UK

J.C. Gaillard · J. Lindsay
The University of Auckland, Auckland,
New Zealand

K. Haynes
Risk Frontiers, Macquarie Park, Australia
further enable all groups to address the underlying social, economic, political and cultural issues that contribute to the vulnerabilities of local people. Consequently, DRR becomes more sustainable because local actors are not fully dependent upon outside actors and resources, relying instead on local capacities.

# 1 Introduction

Volcanoes, especially active ones, are generally perceived as sources of hazards by outside actors of disaster risk reduction (DRR), particularly scientists and government authorities (Cashman and Giordano 2008). For local inhabitants, however, volcanoes often hold deeper meaning because they become emblems of a homeland, often with long lived and deep cultural significance; and are a source of livelihoods and spiritual strength (Donovan 2010). This duality also explains, to some extent, the different perceptions and understanding of DRR between local actors (in particular local authorities and people), and outside actors (e.g., scientists, government agencies, and non-government organizations).

In development and disaster studies, local actors often refers to individuals and groups of people occupying or attached to a specific community and/or territory which include but are not limited to inhabitants, officials, local organizations, and different social groups including the most marginalized (e.g., Gujit and Shah 1998; Heijmans 2009). Here, we refer to local actors as a “collection of people in a geographical area” who “share a particular social structure”, “have a sense of belonging”, and whose “daily activities take place within the geographical area” (Abercrombie et al. 2006, p. 71). It is important to note, however, that a community can also be “relational” referring to a “quality characteristic of human relationship, without reference to location” (Gusfield 1975, p. xvi). This also suggests that ‘local actors’ cannot be used to refer to a set of homogenous groups in different contexts.

Outside actors, unlike local actors, do not exemplify a sense of community and/or identify themselves as part of a set of relationships within a specific geographical area. Sometimes, outside actors unknowingly insist on implementing actions based on plans and policies that are at times contradictory to local actors’ views and needs. During times of crisis, these plans may fail. Programmes initiated and maintained solely by outside actors can result in an ineffective DRR process, loss of local knowledge and deepening mistrust between the different actors of DRR (Haynes et al. 2008; Mercer and Kelman 2010). There are, however, stories of success of communication between local and outside actors despite the great complexity of a volcanic crisis. During the reawakening of Mount Pinatubo in 1991, local people, unaware that they lived on the slopes of a volcano noted steaming and ground cracks. This information was relayed to authorities, who found it necessary to initiate a rapid top-down education campaign with the eventual valuable inclusion of local actors (Punongbayan et al. 1996).

Reducing disaster risk requires the participation of local actors in many aspects and stages of volcanic DRR (Wisner et al. 2012). During a crisis, volcanic activity contingency plans created only by outside actors can become non-operational due to being unacceptable or unfamiliar to local actors. Some well-recognized examples of disasters that resulted in great human casualties due to lack of collaboration between outside and local actors include the eruptions of Nevado del Ruiz volcano in 1985 (Voight 1990) and Merapi Volcano in 2010 (Kusumayudha 2012; Mei et al. 2013). To foster the participation of local actors in volcanic
DRR, community-based and participatory approaches have been employed by scientists, government agencies, and NGOs.

This chapter provides a rationale for the inclusion of local actors in reducing disaster risk and reaffirms the importance of integrating bottom-up and top-down actions in the entire DRR process. Some questions that this chapter aims to address are how local actors can be integrated in components of volcanic DRR. What are the key principles and important considerations for policy and practice to ensure peoples' participation in volcanic DRR?

## 2 Participatory Approaches to Volcanic DRR

Fostering local actors’ participation through bottom-up and community-based initiatives is an alternative to isolated technocratic, top-down, command-and-control approaches to DRR. Participation refers to “a voluntary process by which people (...) influence or control the decisions that affect them” (Saxena 1998, p. 111). It is often defined along a continuum, ranging from total lack of control to self-mobilising initiatives where local actors own and control decision making (Arnstein 1969; Chambers 2005). Participation therefore refers to a process, rather than an outcome, and includes sharing and redistribution of power among stakeholders of DRR.

Since the 1970s, Civil Society Organisations (CSOs: non-state actors such as non-governmental organisations (NGOs), non-profit organizations (NPOs), social and religious organizations, among others; Kaldor 2003), have been promoting a shift in power relations to the benefit of local actors who face volcanic risk. In a few countries, such as New Zealand, the USA, and recently, Colombia, national and regional governments promote and even mandate participatory engagement, but the majority of volcanic regions around the world are still subject to top-down mitigation approaches. The practice of community-based and participatory DRR was widely promoted in the 1980s as Community-Based Disaster Risk Reduction (CBDRR), through the creation of national and international networks

of CSOs involved in grassroots activities (Heijmans 2009; Delica-Willison and Gaillard 2012). Proposals of CBDRR advocate that local actors are better placed than a central government to implement DRR actions as, in addition to considerable local knowledge and cultural understanding, their lives and livelihoods are at stake, therefore providing greater incentive to plan and take action. Both the scientific and practitioner literature acknowledge the capacities of local actors in responding to volcanic hazards on their own, as long as they are empowered with adequate organizational resources (e.g., Quarantelli and Dynes 1972; Delica-Willison and Willison 2004; Bowman and White 2012).

CBDRR consists of self-developed, culturally and socially acceptable, economically and politically feasible ways of coping with and avoiding disasters (e.g., endogenous resources, skills and local knowledge) (Maskrey 1984). This does not necessarily exclude external support, but provides access to external knowledge about hazards and risk, and educational and preparedness resources where needed, without perpetuating a cycle of dependency. CBDRR thus requires the participation of outside actors. In CBDRR, participatory approaches are frequently adopted for hazard, vulnerability and capacity analysis and the subsequent development of strategies and actions, for example to assess risk, raise hazard awareness and develop community-based warning systems. In some localities CBDRR evolves, with the occasional guidance of outside actors. Lessons drawn from practice are always considered to improve CBDRR, thereby ensuring it is flexible and adaptive to adjust to changing physical and social environments. It ultimately aims to empower people, which requires “transformation of existing social, political and economic structures and relations in ways that empower the previously excluded or exploited” (Hickey and Mohan 2005, p. 238).

Fostering people’s participation in CBDRR requires innovative and flexible methodologies such as those featured in the Participatory Learning and Action (PLA) approach. PLA is “a growing family of approaches, methods, attitudes and behaviours to enable and empower
people to share, analyse and enhance their knowledge of life and conditions and to plan, act, monitor, evaluate and reflect” (Chambers 2002, p. 2). Outside actors do not dominate the process but provide support to initiatives of local actors who know local issues best. CBDRR is thus a means to flip power relationships and encourage more meaningful participation through downward accountability towards local actors (Chamber 1983; Cornwall et al. 2000; Breett 2003).

Unfortunately, as Cornwall (2008, p. 269) states, “participation’ can be used to evoke—and to signify—almost anything that involves people. As such, it can easily be reframed to meet almost any demand made of it”. In many instances, participation is in fact seen as an outcome, rather than a process (the ‘tyranny of participation’, Cooke and Kothari (2001)). In cases where CBDRR is driven exclusively by outsider interests (White 1996), and that marginalized groups and “disadvantaged individuals” remain “excluded from participatory decision-making” (Pelling 1998, p. 484). Projects and activities are pre-designed by outsiders who make sure that enough local actors take part to report alleged “participation” upward to funding agencies (see Bowman and White 2012). This skewed approach to participation is evident in the many assessments of vulnerability and capacity that provide statistics based on standardized frameworks (demographics, gender characteristics, incomes, resources, health, etc.), from which plans are made and imposed upon local actors (Twigg 1998; Heijmans 2004). In many instances, although potentially useful on a governmental level for rapid prioritization of resources, these alien frameworks do not make much sense to local people in the context of the reality of their everyday life (Bhatt 1998; Delica-Willison and Willison 2004), and thus discourage participation, especially when concerns for survival take highest precedence (see the case of volcano Cerro Machin, Colombia Chap. 16).

Participatory approaches can rely heavily on the skill of one or more facilitators, who play a key role in the process (Duncan 2014). Challenges for the facilitator include ensuring the inclusion of the most marginalized people, managing the

community’s expectations of the process and balancing their role as a facilitator and as educator (e.g., Cronin et al. 2004). CBDRR has also been criticised for reinforcing the interests of the already powerful within communities, as it often proves difficult to reach the less powerful, more marginalised people that it is meant to empower (Cooke and Kothari 2001). This concept is balanced with the recognition that there is value in working with local actors who possess leadership qualities and who are opinion leaders within the community.

The following sections address the issues mentioned above in the context of volcanic environments in two different regions of the world: Mount Rainier, USA and Bulusan Volcano, Philippines. These cases were selected because they respectively provide accounts of long-term and short-term participatory approaches to CBDRR in disaster preparedness and crisis management based on first hand in-depth research from some of the chapter authors. The two case studies are not meant to be compared. They are considered examples of good practices of participatory volcanic DRR in two different contexts—disaster preparedness and crisis management. They also serve as a means of exploring the strengths and limitations of CBDRR in fostering disaster preparedness and crisis management.

## 3 Disaster Preparedness at Mount Rainier, USA

Mount Rainier is a 3392 m high volcano in the Cascade Range and the highest mountain in Washington State, USA (Fig. 1). It is recognized as one of the nation’s most hazardous volcanoes (Ewert et al. 2005), with 78,000 people residing in the lahar-prone Puyallup River Valley (Wood and Soulard 2009). In some localities, the next lahar could reach communities with only about one-half hour of warning.

During the 1990s, a series of new publications (Scott et al. 1995; Scott and Vallance 1995; Hoblitt et al. 1998) highlighted Mount Rainier’s hazards, especially its severe lahar hazard, and it motivated scientists to inform local officials and the public