{"type":"rich","version":"1.0","provider_name":"Transistor","provider_url":"https://transistor.fm","author_name":"The Disappearance Diaries of an Apprentice Hermit","title":"At The Volcano: Season 6 - 1995.","html":"","width":"100%","height":180,"duration":694,"description":"ONE  Wholly beautiful, this is a remote withdrawn  unsaid place;   knowing nothing,   wisdom held unaided.   The volcano, burst, blistered,  blasted before time,   rises above savannah, autonomous.    Nothing of what I have left behind has followed me here:   no bars, or clubs, or safari parks swarming with mutinous animals;  there are no buildings here,no cables, no pylons, nothing.  There is nothing,nothing;  there are no roads even, nor walls, bridges, hospitals,barbers, butchers, pharmacies;  museums are absent; and shops,and markets selling fruitand sentimental knick-knacks.    TWO Even the ruinsaround this place have still to be built,lived in, fought for, destroyed by monsoon rains,  by dead and dated wars,and rebelshiding from the recent defeatsof old conflictsthat never end; there are just trees; just podo treesrising like citadelsaround the titanic flanksof the volcano; trunksthirty feet round; their branchesforking low,twisting,archinginto artless beams,hewn lintels,giant joists; a stronghold,spontaneous, animate,built in a high lapsed land, soaringabove bordersthat have worn into wasted lines,pale snaking imprintswoven invisiblybetween every spur and stream, climbing the sides,between ridges and peaks,vents, conduits, lakes –  the crater, cloistered, limitless: every inch of every borderremembered in old, disputed books in archives in Nairobi and Kampala; in the stories the tribespeopletell each otherevery breaking dayin villages far, far away.  THREE Mostly though, there are no people here:no trippers; no travellers, tourists, not even residents; just me, and one bemused young driversmoking through a packof Marlboro lights. Especially, there are no houses,no homes or gardens; no streets or settlements. In this place -in this place here –  no cars soundno buses blare their loud exhausted horns; there are no windowsto openfor music to escape from; conversation to drift from no drilling, grinding, crashing, crunching,no barking dogsor phones, no people...","thumbnail_url":"https://img.transistorcdn.com/y_cYTZLY_554KjVwlUcuZrlxRcBDrk22LfvZgAeolVg/rs:fill:0:0:1/w:400/h:400/q:60/mb:500000/aHR0cHM6Ly9pbWct/dXBsb2FkLXByb2R1/Y3Rpb24udHJhbnNp/c3Rvci5mbS9iZmRk/MTYzM2EzNjc5ODZl/M2M4MGEzZGY1MzNm/NGU1YS5wbmc.webp","thumbnail_width":300,"thumbnail_height":300}