Megapodius eremita is not exactly a beauty. When you think of Papua New Guinea, birds of paradise, colourful butterflies and all kinds of other exotic species come to mind. The Melanesian scrubfowl has none of these. Its feathers are dark brown, its beak a dull yellow, its stature stocky, its feet huge. In contrast to the bird of paradise, which spends most of the day in the tropical rainforest, the fowl ekes out a modest existence on the sparse bushes at the foot of the Tavurvur volcano. However, the animal has developed a unique breeding technique: It does not incubate its eggs itself, but has the volcano do this for it. They are coveted as a delicacy by the locals.

A man stands at a sandy pit at the foot of Tavurvur. His body is covered in a brown crust of sand, pumice and sweat. Chris Simon is scratching like a mole in a three metre deep hole. Tropical heat is building up at Tavurvur. The sulphur vapours sting his eyes. It is well over 30 degrees. It’s even hotter in Simon’s hole in the ground. “You can feel the heat from the volcano,“ he says. Simon is an egg collector. For generations, the local Tolai, an ethnic group of around 120,000 people, have been digging the eggs of the animals, which they call ‘ngiok’, out of the warm volcanic sand because they are considered extremely nutritious. They mine them almost like gold.

During the breeding season between May and October, the men set off every morning in their boats from the nearby Matupit peninsula to the Tavurvur volcano, as only the inhabitants of the peninsula are allowed to search for the scrubfowl eggs. They gather on the beach. Then they climb up together to the sand field at the foot of the volcano, because the egg hunt is dangerous, especially when a collector is alone. The sand is powder-soft, none of the pits are secured and there is no protection against collapse. “Men keep getting buried,“ says Simon. “That’s why we call the place a cemetery.“ The men also breathe in the breath of the volcano every day: Ash, dust and sulphur. Many suffer from lung and eye problems, and even more have back problems.

44-year-old Simon is now lying on his stomach in the pit. He works his way into the ground with surgical precision. Centimetre by centimetre, he shovels volcanic sand out of the hole. Again and again, sand trickles back inside. But Simon knows that it can’t be much further, because the sand is as soft as if it had just been dug up. The fowl must have just been here. After half an eternity, thick beads of sweat now rolling down Simon’s forehead, the 39-year-old holds something slightly pink in his hand. It’s about the size of an avocado, but it’s clearly recognisable as an egg. “We Tolai prefer the eggs of the Melanesian scrubfowl to any chicken’s egg,“ says Simon.