"That water contains sulphuric acid, hydrochloric acid, gold and probably a bit of iron," explains our guide Rachel.
"How'd it taste?" she laughs.
A bitter metallic tang zings around my mouth. I scrunch my face in displeasure.
Had Rachel not suggested I try it, I would be alarmed at what I'd just ingested.
In fact, come to think of it, had Rachel not suggested it, I wouldn't have sipped from a stream on a live volcano!
This is White Island, New Zealand's only live marine volcano, where nature reigns supreme.I can see it in the great cauliflower clouds of steam that roar from gaping fumaroles; feel it in the acidic condensation that sprinkles down, pricking at bare skin; smell it in the thick reek of sulphur on the humid air.
Rachel backs up my assumption with a horrendous tale of 10 sulphur miners, killed (or in fact, obliterated, as no trace of them was ever found) by a lahar that spewed down from White Island's crater in 1914.
"The only survivor of that tragedy," tells Rachel, "was Peter, the camp cat". After surviving the wrath of White Island, Peter transferred to a cosy home on the mainland and whiled away his days producing kittens. The bloodlines of 'Peter the Great' are still proudly touted by many cat owners in the Bay of Plenty.
Lethal landslides are exactly what I expect when I think of a live volcano. On our 80 minute boat journey to White Island from Whakatane my mind reeled tauntingly with visions of viscous orange lava racing down rumbling hillsides, billowing ash, voracious craters and insidious, swirling gasses.
Although White Island is New Zealand's most active volcano, the chances of an eruption here are actually low. Sitting on the central North Island's Taupo Volcanic Zone, White Island only ranks at a level one (out of five) on the national volcano alert scale, and it's been eight years since the volcano's last major eruption.
My nerves begin to calm.
Then I'm handed a gas mask.
As we disembark our grand 73ft launch 'Peejay V' and zip across to White Island on inflatable boats, there is, thankfully, not a billow of ash to be seen. Instead, we crunch across an arid, rocky landscape spattered with patches of dandelion yellow sulphur crystals. Thin, milky streams of (poisonous) water zigzag their way towards the ocean. In all directions, crater walls rear upwards, rippled, coppery and mottled with crevasses of yellow and pink.As we walk, my throat becomes dry and stinging. A burning sensation tickles my nostrils. I put on my gas mask.
"Almost nothing survives here," says Rachel, shouting above the roar of surrounding fumaroles. Peering out across the barren, moon-like landscape, I'm not surprised. Aside from the native ice plant - horokaka - that grows on the island's highest outer edges, a spread of pohutakawa trees and the gannets and muttonbirds nesting on the north face, White Island is void of life.
"If you were to stay here, the sulphur in the air would turn your teeth black and disintegrate your cotton clothes," says Rachel.
Yet, unbelievably, a sulphur mining operation was established here in the late 1800s. Bands of men, lured by the promise of work on a 'tropical island off the coast of New Zealand', lived on the island, wearing wool, brushing their teeth thrice daily and mining the island for its sulphur.
One man enjoyed it so much he stayed for eight years. Another, on arrival, tied himself to the mast of the ship and refused to come ashore.
There are still remnants of the miners on this island. The dilapidated, corroded remains of White Island's last sulphur factory sit staidly near the water's edge; a distorted pile of broken pine beams and tarnished stone walls. And then there's the eerie legend of miner Donald Pye, whose empty boots were found beside a deep, steaming pool, and whose disappearance is shrouded in mystery to this day.I've already learnt that you don't mess with the water on White Island. So as we approach the volcano's crater lake, I tread carefully. Peering timidly in, I find the crater filled almost to the brim with vivid jewel green water and crowned with a rolling mist of steam. Like the trickling streams that criss-cross this landscape, the water in the White Island crater lake comprises a deadly concoction of minerals. Rachel tells us the lake sits at a toasty 57 degrees Celsius, and with a PH level of -0.1, it is one of the world's most acidic lakes. I inch slowly back from the crater edge.
Although 5km square in area and 321m above sea level, the space we wander across on our tour is but the very tip of the volcano. Beneath the ocean, she plunges another 439m down to the sea floor and is secured there by her 288km square base.
Called Whakaari by Maori (which translates as 'that which can be made visible') White Island is thought to be around 200,000 years old. The visible tip, however, only appeared in its present form around 16,000 years ago."White Island is a continually changing landscape," says Rachel. As well as the thousands of inquisitive tourists that visit each year, White Island is frequented by scientists from the Institute of Geological and Nuclear Sciences (GNS) who monitor the volcano's gas emissions and unpredictable mood swings.
Their records show that prior to 1976, the current crater wasn't in existence. They've noted that during the 1970s and 1980s, parts of the island that are now white and cold were constantly glowing red hot at temperatures of 600 - 800 degrees Celsius. They know that prior to the year 2000, the whole island was covered with a light layer of ash, which disappeared that year during the volcano's last major eruption.
It's not until we arrive safely back aboard Peejay V that I realise I've been on tense high alert for the duration of our tour, anticipating the worst. But now, with a giant magma chamber no longer beneath my feet, and with stringent sulphur no longer scratching at my nostrils I finally relax and bid farewell to White Island, where nature reigns supreme.
Amelia visited White Island courtesy of White Island Tours, Tourism Bay of Plenty and www.fourcorners.co.nz.
