In 1943, a Mexican farmer named Dionisio Pulido watched his cornfield crack open and birth a volcano. Within a year, Paricutín grew 336 meters tall. Within nine years, it buried two entire villages under ash and lava. And here’s the thing—people came back. They always do.
Why Anyone Would Plant Tomatoes on a Geological Timebomb
Volcanic soil is absurdly fertile. We’re talking about rock that’s been pulverized and enriched with minerals like potassium, phosphorus, and magnesium—basically plant steroids. Mount Etna in Sicily has been erupting for roughly 500,000 years, yet its slopes produce some of Italy’s finest wine grapes and pistachios. The 2002 eruption destroyed ski facilities and nearly swallowed a town, but the vineyards? Still there. Still producing.
It’s a Faustian bargain written in basalt.
The Ash That Feeds and the Lava That Takes Away
Indonesia’s Mount Merapi erupts every two to five years on average, and it’s one of the world’s most active volcanoes. The 2010 eruption killed 353 people and displaced 350,000 more. Yet within the danger zone—the area scientists literally beg people to evacuate—over a million people farm rice, vegetables, and raise livestock. The volcanic ash creates andisols, some of the most productive agricultural soils on Earth. Farmers here can harvest three rice crops annually instead of the usual two. Turns out, you can’t argue with yield per hectare when your family’s survival depends on it.
When the Mountain Decides Your Crops Get a Mineral Bath Whether You Like It or Not
The 1991 eruption of Mount Pinatubo in the Philippines ejected 10 cubic kilometers of material into the atmosphere. It cooled global temperatures by 0.5 degrees Celsius for two years. The ash—gray, gritty, and about as welcome as a plague—actually improved soil fertility in the long term. But first, it buried everything. Farms, homes, entire ecosystems under meters of tephra. The locals call volcanic mudflows “lahar,” and they kept flowing for years after the eruption, rewriting the landscape every monsoon season.
Wait—maybe that’s the point.
Volcanic farming isn’t about ignoring risk; it’s about calculating whether the risk is worth the reward when your alternative is marginal land elsewhere. In Japan, farmers cultivate daikon radishes and wasabi in volcanic soil near Mount Fuji despite it’s proximity to one of the country’s most iconic stratovolcanoes. The last major eruption was in 1707, which sounds reassuring until you remember that volcanoes operate on geological time, not human time.
The Paradox of Betting Your Livelihood on a Mountain That Could Explode Tomorrow
Rwanda grows some of the world’s best coffee on the slopes of the Virunga volcanic chain. The soil is rich, the altitude is perfect, and the volcanic minerals create flavor profiles that specialty roasters pay premium prices for. Never mind that Nyiragongo, just across the border in the Democratic Republic of Congo, erupted in 2021 and sent 500,000 people fleeing. The lava flows reached the outskirts of Goma, destroyed 3,000 homes, and left a fissure that could reopen anytime.
Farmers returned within weeks.
That’s the thing about volcanic regions—they’re simultaneously the best and worst places to grow food. The minerals that make the soil fertile are the same minerals that were once molten rock capable of incinerating everything in its path. It’s geology’s cruelest joke, and millions of people worldwide have decided the punchline is worth sticking around for. The ash settles, the lava cools, and someone always plants the first seed in the debre.
