You enter a village with thatched roofs and no indoor plumbing.  It is strangely deserted.  The homes and stores are locked up.  You pass someone and ask, "Where's everyone?" 

"If I've said it once, I'll say it again -- it's the Volcano Festival!" he says. 

Then he hurries off to the east, where the volcano is belching ever greater plumes of smoke. 

You head west, toward farmland. 

You head northwest, toward a forested vale. 

You head north, toward the lake. 

You head northeast, toward green rolling hills. 

You head east, toward the volcano. 

You head south, toward a sheer drop of thousands of feet.