Under the volcano

I came ashore in Banda with paints, a stack of paper and one change of clothes. The volcano stands across the water from the harbour. By four o'clock its shadow reaches the boats.

Nutmeg is everywhere. It dries on racks under the eaves, split open, the red mace laced over the brown seed like a net. A woman sorting mace showed me how to tell good from poor: the good pieces bend before they break. I painted the fruit closed, then open, then the racks themselves. The island smells of warm nutmeg and clove, sweet at noon and sharp by evening.

A trader from Ternate came in on Tuesday with sacks of clove. He let me hold a handful. They were still warm from his roof, and smoky from the fires he dries them over when it rains. In the margin I wrote: pepper, tobacco, smoke, then something like honey. That page became the clove of Ternate.

A passenger from Yogyakarta wore jasmine strung through her hair. When we parted she gave me a strand for my sketchbook, and its scent stayed in the pages for a week.

We sail for Malacca on the morning tide.