Three Little Words: Hot Hot Hot

That might as well extend to the tourism trade. Before the eruption, nearly 24,000 people a year visited the island, according to the Montserrat Tourist Board. Last year, the number had dwindled to about 9,500. It's not the same Montserrat, for sure, but once I finally control the urge to mutter "liquid hot magma" like Doctor Evil every time I see the volcano, I find that's not such a bad thing.

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Near an abandoned home that once overlooked Montserrat's only golf course, a sign rests on its side. That's an odd position, inasmuch as it's warning passersby of the potential dangers posed by being in this area. Sunny Lea, my 29-year-old guide and son of Clover, steps over it as we clamber down a goopy embankment and onto a vast plain of solidified volcanic barf.

For hours, we've been crisscrossing his gorgeous little island, all of seven miles wide by 11 miles long. He's been showing off empty black-sand beaches, hiking trails that wind through unblemished rain forest, a new housing development perched on a cliff side and a soccer field so meticulously groomed you'd swear it was faux turf.

But I've also seen the decimated airport, the buried remnants of what more than one local has called "our beloved Plymouth" and the steaming lava dome of the volcano itself. Nothing, though, has humanized the calamity more than this home in the path of the tyrant's haphazard fury.

Inside, shelves in the second-floor master bedroom are still strewn with wedding photos, paperbacks, toiletries -- and, oddly enough, a Montserrat tourism brochure. The front features shots of the Great Alps waterfall, the island's war memorial and a group of duffers teeing off. On the pages within, vacationers are enticed by ads for the Island Bikes rental shop, the Suntex Bakery, the Etcetera gift shop and the Montserrat Springs Hotel, all in Plymouth.

The date on the cover: 1993/94.

The waterfall, the war memorial, the hotel are now gone. The golf course -- and much of the home I'm exploring -- are entombed in layers of volcanic ash and other detritus, which turn into a torrent of muck whenever it rains heavily. As we scramble out of the house, I take another look at the brochure's cover and am suddenly struck by its message to would-be visitors.

Montserrat: The Way the Caribbean Used to Be.

If anything, these words are truer now than they were in the pre-eruption days. Translation: Montserrat may be an untouristed wonder, but it's not for everyone.

No resorts line the beaches, so if you insist on surf-side service and drinks served with little umbrellas, you're better off in Antigua, the much larger island 29 miles to the northeast. Roads are dicey (there are no traffic lights, few shoulders and an army of itinerant goats that pop up in unexpected places), and dining options are limited. The island's premier lodging is arguably the Tropical Mansion Suites hotel, which opened in 1999, but it's no Breezes.

Shoppers are likely to be disappointed once they step ashore. One of Montserrat's biggest stores is Arrow's Manshop, owned by local celeb Alphonsus "Arrow" Cassell, who wrote the soca classic "Hot Hot Hot." (You probably remember Buster Poindexter's version, which is hard to get out of your head once it gets in there.) It's more of a five-and-dime than a tourist-junk budget-buster, though. At the Art & Craft Association, unassuming even by this island's standards, there's a bounty of souvenirs with shamrocks, a testament to an influx of Irish Catholics in the 1600s. Sure and begorrah, Montserrat remains the only country outside Ireland where St. Paddy's Day is a national holiday.