A Very Vanuatu Census

Haos Gel Numba Two

About two weeks after I got back from New Zealand, I was sitting at the computer in the family room playing my very addictive computer game, Civilisation:  Call to Power.  Unlike today, when I have Pocahontas II playing in the background because Haos Gel Numba One and Two, Marie and Anais, are watching it, that day was a quiet one.  I heard a bus door slide open and then slide shut outside (remember Vanuatu buses are vans).  I wondered who that would be since Marie and Anais were here and very few other people arrive here in a bus.

Then a guy came walking down the path to the front door.  He was wearing a name badge and carrying what looked to be a questionnaire of some sort.  I assumed he was from the Census.

Vanuatu has been doing a Census.  Our house was marked in July or August with a little green post-it note over the front door.  When they came to put that up they asked how many people lived here and then we were told the numbers on the paper would identify our house for the Census being done in November.  This is needed because outside town the streets are not named and even in town the houses are not numbered.  At the time, I thought, “There is no way that little post-it note is going to stay there for four months.”

Race Day in Paradise

Fashions Arriving at Vila Race Day 2000

Melbourne has its Melbourne Cup.  Auckland has its Auckland Cup.  Louisville has its Kentucky Derby and not to be out done, Port Vila has its Kiwanis Fosters Cup.  Once a year for the past 13 years, a paddock surrounded by road, sea and jungle becomes the centre of Vanuatu’s racing scene.  Never mind that Vanuatu’s “racing scene” is a one-day wonder, thousands, including several international horsy people, turnout in force to watch the horses race and the people parade.  This year we were lucky enough to even have a full-blooded thoroughbred running in the race.

This event is the talk of the town for months before and after the race.  And, the week leading up to the race is full of events, including a swanky Race Ball and a Calcutta Night.  All proceeds from all events go to support various community projects. 

It was the morning after and Rob and I and some friends were sitting around a table in the fabulous Tamanu Beach Club dining pavilion.  We watched as one deep blue wave after another rose up out of the sea then flashed into a bright aqua blue just before erupting into white as it hit the dark table reef.  As the resulting foamy white and black mass of water surged over the reef toward the sandy white beach in front of us we reminisced about the event of the day before.

A Tale of Vanuatu Celebration

Turn of the Century Vanuatu Independence Day

The first volley was fired.  I flinched a bit and then the shots rang out again for a second and then a third volley.  I was still standing.  I checked for holes and then for blood.  No, none, thank god they remembered to load the blanks again this year.  We had survived our second Vanuatu Independence Day flag raising ceremony.

Surprising Santo

Vanuatu Flagged Ship in Luganville

My outer island experience is limited so when Rob arranged for me to head up to Santo with him on one of his business trips, I didn’t say “No”.

It worried me a bit that Santo is supposedly the place where the ancestors of the huge centipedes you find in Vila emigrated from on logs many years ago, but I decided it was worth the risk. These centipedes are the only land creature other than people and dogs that can really hurt you, but fortunately before Santo, and I am touching wood when I say this, I have only ever seen one of these long-ugly-leggy-disgusting creatures alive.  And, then it was only briefly, just before a waiter came and stamped its life out.  So, heading off to the centipede homeland was a concern, but I need to get over these things.  Right?

To get there in time for the meeting, we had to get up at the crack of dawn.  No surprise there,  I mean, whenever we go anywhere from Vila it is on an early flight.  I’m not sure why, but maybe it has to do with the fact that in paradise everyone rises with the sun.

Pekoa International Airport in 2001

We landed safely at Pekoa International Airport after a short 50 minute flight in the Dash 8.  The terminal is forties style and was built by the Americas during World War II.  It was one of three airstrips built on the island of Espiritu Santo as a staging ground to stop the Japanese advance into the southern Pacific.  At one point there were over a hundred thousand US, New Zealand and other allied troops stationed on Santo and the mark they left is still evident throughout the island.

Our rental car was nowhere to be seen, so we piled in the rental of a friend who arrived with us and headed into Santo.  Now, just so we don’t lose anyone, the island is called Espiritu Santo or Santo for short.  It is the largest of the Vanuatu Island group.  The main town on the island is officially called Luganville, but is referred to as Santo by most people I know.  And, just to add to the confusion some people, particularly the francophones, call the town Canal, which refers to the deep channel between the main island and some of the offshore islands.  It was that channel that attracted the American fleet to Vanuatu in the first place.  My personal preference is to use Santo for all.

Anyway, as we were driving down the main road to town – a very good road I might add, much better than Vila’s main road – Rob noticed a car with rental car plates heading to the airport on the opposite side of the road.  “There goes our rental,” he said.

Hotel Santo in Luganville, Vanuatu (2001)

A few minutes later we were checked in at the Hotel Santo.  Just as the key was being handed over our rental car caught up with us.  Stuff like this used to surprise me, but not anymore.  Santo is a small town, smaller than Vila.  The woman who manages the Hotel also handles rental cars and when she got to Pekoa International and it was less then a busy hive of activity at just after 8 on a Friday morning; she knew where we’d be.

As we headed up to the room, past the World War II memorabilia on the walls, we ran into some other friends, Michael and Elizabeth.  Michael was in town for the same meeting.  So, Elizabeth and I decided to do some site seeing while the partners were working. 

It was Elizabeth’s first time in Santo too, but they had arrived a few days earlier.  Since I had the car and she had the local knowledge we were set.  First we walked down the road to the market.  It was a Friday, but the market was almost dead.

With little to see there, we cut across Unity Park to the Women’s Handicraft Centre.  The centre was set up as a means of giving women some income and raising money for women’s development projects.  It is not huge, but there are some fabulous things from Santo and neighbouring islands to buy.  I bought two Pentecost mats and Elizabeth tried to clean them out of baskets.

After a cold fresh lime juice and some discussion with recently arrived British VSO volunteers at the Spot Café, we hopped in the car and headed for Million Dollar Point.  Million Dollar Point is so named due to a less than environmentally sound decision made my US forces as they departed Vanuatu. 

Million Dollar Point in Santo, Vanuatu

The Americans found themselves with millions of dollars worth of surplus supplies and equipment at the end of the war that needed to be disposed of before they left.  They did not want to take it all back to the States so they offered it to the British and French authorities who together controlled Vanuatu (then the New Hebrides). The surplus goods were going for almost nothing, but the colonial authorities dragged out negotiations hoping that the Americans would just leave it all behind for free. 

The Americans weren’t about to be taken in that way, so one of their last acts was to dump the lot into the sea.  Trucks, Jeeps, construction equipment, spare parts, building supplies, food and vast quantities of Coca-Cola were tossed into the sea at what then became Million Dollar Point.

So, we were off to investigate.  Elizabeth had been there two days before on a tour, but they got there at high tide and there was nothing to see.  Since she had been there before, we were confident it would be fairly easy to find.  Boy, were we wrong.

Rule number one when driving on Santo, get a guidebook with mileage information and use it.  There are not many signs to tell you where things are.  We figured we would drive out of town and then just turn right at Million Dollar Point.  With no signs to tell us which right was right, though, it wasn’t long until we were lost.  All the intersections looked alike - dirt road surrounded on both sides by jungle.  So Elizabeth’s previous experience was of absolutely no use.

We drove for a while then just started trying all right turns.  The first was a sandpit, the second took us to a spot where they were clearing the jungle, the third got us to the beach, but it wasn’t Million Dollar Point.  When we got to the canning factory several kilometres North of where we were suppose to be, we knew we had missed the turn.  We turned around and started trying left turns into all the roads we had not tried before.  Well, almost all were roads we hadn’t tried before.  We kind of ended up back in the sandpit a second time.

We were looking for a little yellow building on the beach.  When we found that Elizabeth said we would be at Million Dollar Point.  After several wrong turns we tried a road that I wasn’t sure we’d get our little Toyota Starlet down.  It had deep ruts and broken glass all along it.  We made it down without bottoming out and then there it was – the little yellow building.  Finally, an hour after we started our 10 minute journey, we had found it and lucky for us it was still low tide.

US Army Truck Remains at Million Dollar Point

The building sits on the beach side of the remains of a wharf.  On one side you could see a golden sand beach with boats and finshing nets.  The other side, however, looked like it had just been bombed.  At first, you think it might just be exposed table reef, which is always a bit bleak, with some rusting metal on it.  On closer inspection, though, you see shards of glass and pieces of metal and china welded together by some kind of black stone.  Then you see where some of the glass has been melted and you realise that what they could not get into the sea they must have put on the beach, smashed it all up then covered with tyres (my guess, but something like that) and burned it.

That huge bonfire happened over 50 years ago and the evidence of it is all still there today.  The beach is ugly and you’d get some nasty cuts if you tried to sunbathe on it, but it draws the visitors.  Diving and snorkelling at Million Dollar Point is said to be fantastic.  From the beach, you get a pretty good idea of what lies below.  Just past the low tide mark you can see some beautiful blue and yellow corals and colourful little fish swimming about.  It is quite a contrast from what you see when you turn around.

Despite the environmental catastrophes, World War II did a great deal for making Santo a South Pacific dive Mecca.  Million Dollar Point is just one of the attraction.  There are also several shipwrecks to explore, the best being the 20,000 tonne luxury liner, the SS President Coolidge.  The Coolidge had been converted into a troop ship in 1942 just after the US entered the war.  It had 5,000 men on board when it backed into an American mine in the channel and sank.  I guess a sign may have helped there too?

Crane Bucket at Million Dollar Point 

Fortunately, though, only two lives were lost.  The wreck of Coolidge is there to be explored and it is basically still in one piece too.  Divers are lead into officers quarters and ballroom, past guns and into cargo holds filled with Jeeps and other equipment.

Of course, my shark phobia prevents me from taking the plunge even in the calm waters of Million Dollar Point.  So, Elizabeth and I stuck to the shore.  We conducted an archaeological investigation of the site and formed the hypothesis that the greenish shards of glass sticking out everywhere were from Coke bottles (the words Coca-Cola on pieces of the bottles were our first clue) and the brown ones must have been beer bottles.  The labels from the brown ones are long gone, so that’s a guess.  The china they used was white with blue around the rims and for some reason they were unable to get two buckets from a crane into deep water.

Million Dollar Point Rubble

As we were conducting our investigation, some kids from the local village came to undertake an anthropological investigation of us.  As ususal, they showed up the wussy expats.  We had been walking very carefully on the slippery surface to avoid falling and shredding various body parts on the very sharp shards of glass that protruded from every surface.  These kid, however, were walking around over the same sharp glass barefoot as if they were walking on pure sand. 

After Million Dollar Point we headed back to town for lunch.  We parked back at the hotel and had a very nice lunch at the Natangora Café.  That place is easy to find, since there is a sign on the wall.  Although, there is actually a bigger sign above it 
which said, “Santo Bakery”, which I’m sure would confuse some people.  Rob had said he’d be back around two so that was about when we headed back to the hotel.  As we turned into the entrance, I saw Rob sipping a can of juice and sitting on the life-sized carved wooden pig guarding the hotel's front door.  He’d been waiting there for an hour or so, oops! 

Natangro Cafe Luganville, Vanuatu in 2001

Elizabeth and Michael had plans to go look at orchids in the afternoon.  Rob and I headed North to meet some friends at the Matevulu Blue Hole.  Forewarned, this time, we opened up the guide book and started counting kilometers.  According to our Lonely Planet Guide, the blue hole was 20.5 kms from the Post Office.  At about that point, we came to a road on the left.  We stopped.  There were no signs, there was one of those grate things in the road to keep cattle in and there were cattle standing on the other side watching us.  One of them was a very big very mean looking bull.  That couldn’t be it, so, we drove on.

Just after that, though, we came to the turn off for Oyster Island Resort.  How did we know?  Well, it seems that at least one tourist establishment on Santo has some marketing nous.  There was a sign.  Now, Lonely Planet says that Oyster Island is 20.9 kms from the Post Office, so the road guarded by that bull must have been the one we were looking for.

We turned around and the cattle parted as we entered the gate.  Well, most of them did.  We had to drive around the bull, but fortunately he didn’t trample the little tin can we were in.  We were now driving up the runway of the US airstrip, Fighter One.  It’s been decades since it had seen a plane though, so it looked more like an extremely level field than an airbase.  Weeds and small bushes had colonised the runway, but there were still patches of tarmac scattered about.  There is suppose to be a plane wreck nearby, but we couldn’t find it.  To find the blue hole, the book said drive to the end of the runway and turn left.  Of course, not being one to follow directions, Rob took the third left, which was not quite the last left.  I thought, “Here we go, lost in the jungle.” 

Fortunately, this road brought us to the same honesty box that the other road would have.  The honesty box was a small wooden box that was locked with a very small padlock.  People can be very trusting.  The sign requested 500 vatu per entry.  The box and sign were placed in the middle of an intersection.  The question now was “Where’s the hole?”  

Someone had had the forethought to put a sign up to ask for the money, but they neglected the fact that it might be helpful to know where the blue hole was too.  Just a little arrow pointing the way would have been a nice addition, but this is Vanuatu.  And, the logic goes everyone who lives in Santo knows the way, so why don’t you?

We looked around, but there was no sign of the people we were to meet.  We listened for the sound of people frolicking in the cool blue waters of the hole.  There was only the sound of insects and birds.  Obviously, our friends hadn’t brought a guidebook with mileage.

Matevulu Blue Hole 

It was raining now and we had three choices – left, right, or gaily forward.  Since we could easily have taken the car left or right, we decided the odds were it was forward.  The deep ruts in the road made the car not an option. So we left the car and hoofed it down the hill, up the next hill and along the road.  We had made the right choice and it wasn’t long until we came to the blue hole.  It was a beautiful little spot.  At least it would have been if it wasn’t raining.  We looked around didn’t see any of the huge fish we were told come up and try to kiss your face – or was that eat your face?  It wasn’t really the weather for a swim, so we went back to Santo.

That night we had a lovely dinner at the Bouganville Resort just outside of town and headed back to the hotel for some much needed rest.  We got back to the room.  I plopped myself onto the bed and the next thing I knew I was flying across the room.  I discovered that at the Hotel Santo, the floors are tiled and the beds are on very loose wheels.  I am sure it makes chasing centipedes and cleaning very easy, but when you sit on the bed, or worse plop into it like I did, it's not suppose to take flight.

Anyway, once we corralled the bed we had a good night’s sleep and the next morning after breakfast, we were back on the road.  The drive North is fascinating.  There are reminders of the war presence every where.  At Surunda, the road splits forming a boulevard with a divider studded with palm trees.  It is something like you would find in Los Angeles, but in this case instead of buildings lining the boulevard there are only palm tree plantations and cattle.  Further along there is a long concrete ruin, complete with furnaces, that was once a hospital.  The ruins of Bloody Mary’s brothel are supposed to be nearby as well, but we never found the turn-off. Surprise. Surprise.

We drove on looking for the famous Champagne Beach.  Fortunately, Rob had been there once before, because again there were no signs and we could easily have missed the turn.  Still it wasn’t an easy find.  Just past the Lonnoc Bungalows the road ends at a gate.  Rob was pretty sure that the bungalows were not on Champagne Beach, but there were no other roads.  So, we stopped for a Coke at the bungalows. 

We discovered that to get to the beach, we had to open the gate at the end of the road and drive through.  Another idea for a sign, perhaps?  We finished our Cokes and followed the instructions.  Half way in there is a sign.  It is from Chief Mr Obed asking that the proper fee be deposited in the box.  Again, a sign for the money, but no directions anywhere to be seen.  This time there was only one road though so we carried on down it. 

It turned out to be well worth the trip, once we got there.  Champagne Beach is a huge beach with beautiful golden sand, blue water and lush jungle.  What’s more, we had the whole beach to ourselves.  We were lucky though, since you have to pick your day if you wanted the privacy we enjoyed.

The 20 or 30 deserted fares on the beach were testimony to the fact that when the cruise ships come in the 1,500 people who descend on the beach make the place a little less secluded.  The remains of paper cups and the field of beer and soda cans that are hidden just behind the beach are the unfortunate evidence of visiting cruise ship passengers.

After a great day at the beach, we went back to the hotel to await our transfer to the Aore Resort where we were going to spend the second night.  We were supposed to be picked up at 5 pm, but were warned of a delay and didn’t actually set off until about 6.  It worked out fine though, because it meant that we were on the water heading to Aore Island as the sun was setting.  If it wasn’t for the sound of the ferry’s outboard, you might even have said it was romantic.

Rhino Beetle at Aore Resort

Aore Resort is by far the best resort we have come across in our time in Vanuatu.  It is in a beautiful setting, the bungalows are very comfortable, the food is wonderful and in Vanuatu terms, not over priced, and the service was spot on.  Doug and Clova are fantastic hosts and Samuel who was barman, waiter and concierge is an asset to the resort.  Oh, and the power stays on past 9 pm. 

Unfortunately, we only spent the one night.  So we didn’t get to taken in all the sights and activities available on Aore, but we got to do some sea kayaking which was great.  There is quite a bit to see and from a surface vantage point the coral and fish are spectacular.  It is easy to see why Santo draws so many divers.  And, we land lubbers really enjoyed our short visit too.

Oh, and as for those disgusting centipedes, my tally still stands at one.  Thank god!  Yes, I’m touching wood.  I did find a nice rhino beetle though.


[Note:  This tale was originally told in 2001]

Copyright 2001

A Vanuatu Christmas

 “Look I found one, but it’s not going to be easy to get.”

“Why not, what’s the problem?”

“Well, it’s in the garden of a house up by the hospital.  It is too public and it will be hard to get away with it.”

“Well, I’ve got a balaclava and some black fatigues.  Maybe we could do it one night this weekend, but then, Shari -- the chainsaw might give us away anyway don’t you think?”

“Yeah, you’re right, but a handsaw will take forever.”

I sat there listening to this conversation between Sonja, level-headed organiser extraordinaire and mother of two and the very enthusiastic yet sometimes less practical Shari, our friend and hairdresser, thinking, “it’s just too damn difficult to get a Christmas tree in Vanuatu”. 

Centrepoint's Snowy Santa Windows

Frankly, the whole “traditional” white Christmas thing just doesn’t work in Vanuatu despite numerous attempts to make it work.  When it is 33 degrees Celsius in the shade of a palm tree and afternoon tropical thunderstorms drive you from the pool on a daily basis Santa Claus in his big furry coat travelling in a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer seems just a little out of place.

Mobil Petrol Station's Snowy Santa Windows

Yet, as you drive down the dusty main road of Vila in late November you start to see the jolly little man in red popping up all over the place.  Centrepoint Supermarche has him painted on the windows, as does the Mobil station across the street.  They obviously used the same painter.  Bon Marche has him hanging over every aisle.  With no major department store or mall, there is nowhere to sit on Santa’s knee, but there is a Santa Parade.  Well, sort of, last year it consisted of some poor sod dressed up in a Santa suit on the back of a truck.  The truck went down the main street and Santa threw candy to pedestrians.  The dash to scoop up the tasty morsels nearly caused a riot. 

You had to feel sorry for Santa though.  It was sunny and about 35 degrees and the patches of darker red on the suit showed the poor man was slowing sweating to death.

It is not just Santa either.  The attempts to re-create snow are sometimes even more out of place.  You wouldn’t believe the number of shops that have “snow” sprayed on their windows, then again I guess it might be condensation… 

No, I’m pretty sure it’s that snow in a spray can stuff.  The snow obsession is not just for shopkeepers either.  Friends of ours told us that a few years ago, a guy decided to have a white Christmas and covered his house and garden in some kind of white confetti stuff.  It didn’t look much like snow apparently, but every one came to have a look anyway and a frolic in the winter wonderland. 

Centrepoints Christmas Cheer

I must say, I understand the desire to have a white Christmas. Having been raised in the colder regions of the Northern Hemisphere, the plummeting temperatures, the long dark nights, the hint of snow in the air are all signs that Christmas is just around the corner.  I mean, even in Arizona and California darkness falling at 5 in the afternoon gave you some hint.  I guess I should be grateful for the little reminders, because, if it weren’t for all this stuff popping up around town, I would probably completely forget Christmas was coming.

The Southern Hemisphere has none of the signs.  Christmas falls in the middle of summer, it’s hot even in New Zealand.  The days are long and the nights short.  Digging the car out of a snow bank to go to grandma house for Christmas dinner is replaced by packing the car for a barbecue at the beach.  It just doesn’t work for me, I’m afraid.

Last Christmas, our first in Vanuatu, we decided to go for a less traditional type affair.  It really worked and we proved it could be done a tropical way.  We had 13 people including 3 children to Christmas lunch.  The event had originally been planned for the beach, but our usual beach spot was not available and our house had a pool for the kids – big and small.  So, it was at our place.  There wasn’t an evergreen in sight and not one flashing fairy light either.

Everyone brought something so it was not a big cooking thing and fortunately the farce of a hot roast dinner in the middle of summer as many families in New Zealand suffer through was foregone.  Everyone agreed to make it tropical and make it simple.  Many of the dishes, like the mussels, were served cold.  Except for the napkin rings it wasn’t beginning to look a lot like Christmas at all, at least not at our place.  Which was fine with me.  I don’t mean to sound a grinch and I was looking forward to the gathering, but with the sun shinning, the temperature pushing the top of the thermometer and the palm trees swaying in the light breeze it was a nice day, but not Christmas.

Being a Southern Hemisphere boy, however, Rob sees all the current signs of Christmas as normal, and he really got into the spirit.  He went for special, which means complicated, of course.  He made Christmasy napkin rings – two versions one toilet rolls covered in Christmas wrapping which he decided against and other using gilded cherubs which he went with in the end.  He designed a beautiful centrepiece for the table complete with gold and silver spray-painted pineapples and ferns placed around a gold coloured pedestaled orb.  He said the orb was to signify “the coming the new millennium”.  Yeah, I know… 

The table was set beautifully.  He made chocolate pecan fudge.  The fudge, together with nougat, was divided up, wrapped in clear cellophane with a holly print and tied off with red ribbon (in a small bow of course).  He found someone who imported salmon for the dish he was creating, etc., etc.  Let’s just leave it at he loves Christmas.

Christmas morning started with a champagne breakfast at our friends Tony and Julia’s place.  They had a tree and air-conditioning, so with the drapes pulled I could almost imagine Christmas morning. 

After ‘breakfast’, it was back to our place.  After more champagne, we sat down to the first course.  First entrée was prawns, scallops and calamari done in a cognac cream sauce.  This was served with cooked bananas.  Next was marinated green-lipped mussels in a chilli sauce.  The THIRD entrée was crayfish followed by a lime sorbet.  Then we took a break before the mains.  Most of us went outside on the deck.  Some swam, some chatted and everybody drank more champagne.

Rob and Julia stayed in the kitchen and created the mains.  A little while later we returned to the table still full from the entrées.  The mains were salmon stuffed with Chinese cabbage, roasted peppers and pinenuts by Rob and baked ham contributed by Julia and Tony (ok so we didn’t give up all the traditional fare).  And if all that was not enough we had Pavlova and cake for dessert.  The meal itself began at 2:30 and finished up at about 6.  I don’t think I’ve ever eaten and drank so much.

The next morning we got up to another brilliant day.  We had been invited to spend Boxing Day, Family Day here, at a bach (cabin) up the coast at Havana Harbour.  We arrived just before lunch was served still full from the day before.  We were introduced, had the obligatory glass of champagne, a look around, some conversation and then got into lunch, again.

Lunch consisted of a huge plate of whole crayfish, a pork roast, sweet potatoes, bananas roasted in their skins on the grill, French bread and lots of French red wine, nicely chilled as always in Vanauatu.

Needless to say, it was a fabulous two day event that most found to be Christmas in a Southern Hemisphere kind of way.  While it didn’t seem to be all that Christmasy to me, I liked the fact that it suited the environment - hot pudding, heavy food and Santa squeezing down the chimney were no where to be seen.  So, why the obsession with ‘traditional’ Northern Christmas stuff?  You would think that people down this part of the world would have adapted symbols to better fit the environment.

Vanuatu's Christmas Tree

I mean, take the tradition of decorating everything with red and green.  It is a bizarre tradition that has been transplanted to Vanuatu and it is out of place.  Against the bleak winter background of lifeless trees, dead grass, patches of white snow and dreary grey skies, red and green livens the scenery up a bit.  But, who needs green and red when you’ve got green jungle bursting with colourful summer flowers.

We’ve got “Christmas trees” all around us.  The flame trees with their fiery orange flowers are in full bloom at the moment punctuating the green hills around town.  Then there are the trees with lemon yellow flowers that hang like grapes and next door to us there is a big tree bursting with hot pink flowers.  Gardens are flush with pink, red and rich purple bougainvillaea.  Hedges of red hibiscus line driveways and roads.  Who needs fake green and red Christmas decorations when all this is about?

Neighbour's Hot Pink Tree

I have to say that one “traditional” decoration that does work very well is the fairy lights.  I’m not talking about the red, green, blue and yellow ones that light up the fronts of businesses in town and I’m definitely not talking about the ones that drive you mad flashing all night.  However, the plain white ones that currently bathe Port Vila in a cool white glow really work.

UNLECO, the local electricity and water company that thrives on monopoly pricing and would make a fabulous poster child for antitrust law campaigns, does put some money into the community at Christmas and works wonders with white fairy lights. 

Christmas Lights on Lini Hwy

They have taken strings of lights and made sheets of white light that hang over the main road through town.  Every 50 meters or so another one of these sheets of light spans from building to building across the road.  The seafront trees and trees around the market are also covered in white fairy lights.  It is absolutely beautifully done.

Going through town on a dark summers night the white light really makes the ground glow, you almost feel as though you are driving through a winter wonderland.  That is, of course, until you open the door of your air-conditioned car and step into a wall of heat and humidity.

Fairy Lights on Vila's Seafront Palms

Anyway, the trees that I find most amazing covered in lights are the palm trees.  UNELCO has wrapped the trunks of those on the seafront and outlined each palm frond with fairy lights.

Anyway, as I turned around to pick up my yellow plastic Christmas crown that I got from my Christmas cracker, my mind wandered back to the topic at hand and I saw the solution to the Christmas tree dilemma.

Sonja, Shari, Rob and others were in deep discussion over what they were going to do about a tree for their Christmas lip-sync competition fundraiser.  Shari had decided to go ask the people who own the house near the hospital if we could chop the top off it.  Rob was on to putting a gold star on top of a Christmas tree created from overlapping sheets of white cloth hung on the wall.  It all sounded way too difficult, not to mention traditional, but the trees on the seafront provided a solution - or at least I thought so.

Rob's Brilliant Idea

I suggested getting a big potted palm tree and covering it in lights.  The Christmas traditionalists looked over the fake little green Christmas tree in the centre of the table and gave me that what-a-silly-idea look.  Rob ignored the idea as he does and continued sizing up the wall for his white sheet Christmas tree.

As the week wore on and the ideas all got too complex, though, it was decided that a fairy lights on a palm tree was a brilliant idea.  A small group went down to the local nursery and picked out three nice sized palms that were put up in the Rossi Restaurant for the big night.

As usual, everyone is now saying what a wonderful idea Rob had to use the palm trees.  Story of my life! Anyway, the palms looked tremendous fitted out in gold and red and it was nice to see something a little more Vanuatu developing.  I’m not getting my hopes about any major progress to a real Vanuatu Christmas though.

Because, the day after, as I was cutting the fishing line we had used to hang the red balls, gold stars and red icicles (ok, so sue me, some one did get the snow thing in) while preparing the palms for transport to a new life at the golf club, I noticed a 13 foot Norfolk Pine walking into the Rossi.  It was placed in a pot and sat there waiting to replace our Christmas palms.  I guess the traditionalists win again.

Copyright 2001

[Note: This tale was first told in December 2000 and a few days later I got an email from a former nurse at the hospital who was then in living Scotland, but knew exactly which tree Shari was eyeing up for the chop – small world, eh?  And, alas, the Rossi is no more.]

Malakula Waiting

Taxi Hey Taxi

George Our Wala Guide

Finding a taxi on Malakula Island's jungle roads is not an easy task.  We had waited about an hour and a half with our guide, George, before the revelation.  We were sitting on an old cement roadside drain on some banana leaves - the kind that don’t stain your clothes- that George had cut.

George put the banana leaves over the fern fronds used by other jungle passengers.  There were more disposed of fern and leaves rotting in the culvert opening.  This was obviously the bus stop/ taxi rank for Wala.  Others had waited here before.

We were headed up the coast on a fine Saturday morning to catch a boat out to one of Malakula’s most culturally rich islands, Vao.  Our taxi, the pick-up truck that had taken us from Norsup to the Wala landing the day before was supposed to meet us at 9 am.  We came across just after nine.  It wasn’t there.   George wasted no time in suggesting he walk to the road and bring back a taxi.

This should have been our first clue to a problem since it would not be odd for the taxi to been late.  Anyway, we insisted on walking out to the main road with him.  It was a nice day for a walk and I certainly needed the exercise.

We sat there by the road taking in the scenery.   We said “Allo” to a young couple heading off to the gardens.   George and I chatted about the usual Vanuatu small talk topic- family.  A family of five walked by – Dad with his bush knife, Mum carrying a sack on her back and a smouldering quarter coconut shell in her hand and three boys ages 6 – 10.   They too were off to work in the gardens.  The embers in the smouldering coconut shell would be used to start the garden fire for cooking and cleaning up the cuttings.

After about 45 minutes we heard a vehicle in the distance.  As it rounded the corner and headed down the hill toward us we saw that it was a taxi and noticed only the driver inside.   Our ride was here or so we thought.  It carried on right past us as the driver waved hello.

Island Time 

I recalled our discussion from the night before with the only other guests at the Wala Island Resort, a young Australian couple.   A traditional meal cooked with hot stones had been prepared for the four of us. 

Wala Island Resort 

The banana leaves in which the meal was cooked had been folded out and red hibiscus flowers had been dotted around the “platter”.   A whole chicken, the same chicken I had seen being plucked behind our bungalow just a few hours earlier had been cut into portions and placed in four separate piles.  Laplap and sweet potatoes where scattered around the bowl.  In the centre, coconut cream now filled the bowl-like cavity in the laplap where the chicken had been cooked.

As we sat on the mats devouring the feast by taking pieces of chicken or rubbery laplap in our hands and dipping it in the coconut cream, the Australians told of their stay on Wala.  They had loved it.  They told us of their visit to the Small Numbus cultural group and their experiences paddling a traditional dugout canoe.  They had sunk it off shore and had to swim back dragging the canoe.

Traditional Wala Canoes

Their good-natured explanation of the wait they had had on the beach next to Norsup Airport was what I was remembering now as I sat on my banana leaf on the side of the road.  When they arrived earlier in the week they waited two hours while the Wala Island Resort people tried to find a taxi.  Coming from Sydney’s winter they hadn’t minded a bit waiting on the beach in the Malakula sun, but I began to wonder. 

As I wondered, a slim-lined bird with a longish beak landed on the top of a coconut palm across the road.  George pointed it out and said, “Bird ia hemi kilim ol snek.”    It looked pretty harmless, but it was actually quite the killer.  Apparently, it dispatches snakes by stabbing them in the head with its beak and then carries them off to be stored hung on trees for later consumption.

An old man walked by wearing a blue baseball cap.  George greeted him in the local language.  A truck and a taxi passed going in the wrong direction.  According to George the truck had come from Vao and maybe we would get a lift on its way back from the market.

We knew we were in for a wait, when I asked what time the market closed and was told 12 noon.  Rob walked off up the road to see what he could see.  I stayed and chatted with George wondering if we’d ever see Vao.  I started to wonder if maybe this was the Wala Island people’s way of keeping us from going on their competitors’ tour.

I mean Wala Island had some amazing things of its own to see and we planned to do that later that afternoon.  At one point George mentioned that sometimes tourists go from Wala to Vao by boat.   A little light went off in my head.

Island Safaris in Vila from whom we had booked the tour had said we were going to Vao by boat, but when we got to the Wala Island Resort they arranged for the taxi.  We had played along as you do when you have no other way of knowing how to get there yourself, but George’s comment about the boat signalled what a friend of mine labelled circle-talk. 

Ni-Vanuatu rarely take a problem on in the most direct manner.  They will bring things into conversations and talk all around it.  For them it works and everyone knows what is being said even though it is not being said.  For the “white man”, however, it is often a real test to figure it out.

Once you recognise an issue is there to be discovered you have to play Twenty Questions to try and get to the bottom of what a Ni-Vanuatu would have understood in seconds.  So, I started to ask about the boat.   Where does it go from?  How long does it take? 

Now We Get It!

Rob came back from exploring and announced he’d found a Catholic shrine along the road.  He wanted me to go see it, but I wasn’t that bored.  I explained about the boat.   How long would a boat take?  George thought about 2 hours.  Just then another taxi went by in the direction of Vao.  Again, no passengers, again it didn’t stop.  We had been waiting an hour and a half at this stage.

At this point George decided to drop the final clue on us.  He explained that members of the Seventh Day Adventist Church had a virtual monopoly on public transportation on Malakula and they do not work on Saturdays.  Since today was Saturday they would not stop – of course, how stupid of us not to know.

This explained why the boat had made its way into the conversation.  George wasn’t going to tell us directly that our wait by the road would be in vain, so he had started to hint of a solution.  Because we had insisted on going with him, he had hoped that maybe one of the few taxi’s not owned by SDAs would come by, but none had.

It was all too clear now.  I asked if the taxi driver from yesterday was SDA.  Sure enough he was.

I didn’t bother to ask why the driver agreed to pick us up at 9 if he knew he would not be working.  That would have been pointless, but it explained why George did not wait for the taxi at the landing. 

Friends Helping Us Wait

We walked back to the landing to catch the boat back to Wala.  George was going to set up the boat to Vao for after lunch.   Of course, at the landing the saga continued. Because he hadn’t expected us until close to one, the boat’s owner had gone to tend his gardens in the jungle.  Various people took off to find him.

We waited and chatted to villagers who were there.  We waited and waited.  An hour later the owner returned.  We made it back to the resort just in time to have lunch at the time we had planned to be back from Vao - 1:30.  The Australians were in the restaurant and anxious to hear about our visit to Vao.  They showed no surprise that we had not made it there yet.

Finally Vao

After lunch we piled in the boat with the Australians who were on their way to the Airport to head back to Vila.  They were a bit distressed by now that the taxi situation would mean they were stranded, but the resort manager assured them that the transportation was arranged.

However, as we left Wala we could see that there was no taxi at the landing.  We off loaded them and as we set off to Vao we saw the two Australians and two resort staff wading, baggage on shoulders, across the stream that emptied into the bay.  George said they were off to the Mission a mile or so away to see if they could use their truck.  Rob and I were sure we’d see them again tonight, but we never saw them again.

We were now on our way to Vao in the same boat which had taken us across to the landing that morning to catch the taxi to Vao.  I tried not to think of how much time we would have saved had we just gone by boat in the first place.  Wala Island was getting smaller and smaller and I knew we would not be taking any jungle walks there to investigate the rich culture of that island, at least, not this afternoon. 

We would not be visiting Wala’s ancient nasaras, ceremonial-dancing grounds that contain the ceremonial stones of eight chiefly generations of Wala Islanders.  At one nasara it is said that the earliest stones, which are granted during the ngamege, pig killing ceremony were first erected over 400 years ago.

We would not be visiting the coastal caves where devils hide or the battlegrounds where the people of Wala fended off invaders from the neighbouring island of Rao.  The tour of ceremonial and medicinal uses of plants was off too.  It would have to wait.

The trip up the coast to Vao was fascinating, yet nerve racking - for me anyway.  I’d never travelled in seas with metre high swells in a 13-foot aluminium boat.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to now either especially in a boat with an outboard motor that you had to take the cover off to start.  Rob being ever so helpful tried to calm my nerves by telling me not to worry until the swells were so high that you could no longer see land.

We landed just below the mission just 45 minutes after we had left Wala.  We were taken first to a carvers house to see some of the wooden masks Vao is famous for.  There was no one there when we arrived.  His workshop was under a tree.  The half-finished masks, tools and shavings were strewn all about.   

A few moments later and a woman came in off the reef in a dugout canoe.  She was the carver’s wife.  She laid out the masks that were available for sale.  A dealer had been through the day before and cleared most of them out, but there was still a nice selection.  Business before pleasure had been forced upon us and we bought three very nice masks further depleting the carvers inventory.

Then it was off to see the nasara.  We walked through the village along paths that were lined with knee high coral stone fences.  The fences were there too keep the pigs out of people’s living areas and to make it easier to get the pigs to the nasara for ceremonies.

Pigs play an important part in many ceremonies in Melanesia and Vao is no exception.  We followed the “road blong pig” up a hill.   We walked into the Nasara and stood on the dancing ground made perfectly level by centuries of use. 

Taken For A Ride

Huge banyon trees blocked out the sun. Three tamtams with carved faces (drums made out of tree trunks) stood in the centre of the nasara. You could almost feel the spirits of the Vao ancestors watching us.  Not wanting to offend any spirits, I asked permission to take a photo of the tamtams and was told my our guide, “Oh, no.  Sorry, it is tabu.”

The tabu warning was quickly followed by, “It is tabu, but if you pay 200 vatu per tamtam, then it would be ok.”

I hesitated and the price quickly dropped to 100 vatu per tamtam.  George, the boat owner and the Vao guide climbed into the photo one at each tamtam.  They each asked for a copy later.

Vao Nasara with Tamtams

I related this story to our ‘haos gel’, Marie, back in Port Vila.  She is from Malakula and when I mentioned the money she looked at me with that knowing look she has that says – “You really are a sucker.  Aren’t you?”   She said it would have been ‘kava money’, that is money that would have gone to purchase Vanuatu’s mind altering drink of choice – kava.  I had suspected as much, but I had my photo.

We moved on a few hundred feet to look at the Nakamal or men’s meeting house located just behind the nasara.  It was tabu for the “white man” to go inside the nakamal and this time there was no doubt that that was true. No amount of money was solicited to lift the tabu.

We walked further into the jungle.  At a junction in the path our guide said good day and headed off home with the 300 Vatu that would get him 3 shells of kava.  He left us in George’s capable hands for the rest of the tour.

Circumcision House

The four of us carried on to the next Nasara.  Off to the left there was a small hut.  It was here that village boys who had completed the circumcision ceremony lived for a month following their circumcision.  On most islands in Vanuatu, young men are circumcised when the reach puberty.

George asked us to look up and above us in the banyon tree we could see several arrows stuck into the branches.  When they complete their month in the boy’s house, the men who emerge shoot an arrow into the tree as the final step in the initiation. Before they lived with their mothers.  After they live with the men and take their place in the nakamal.

We continued down more paths, past more huts, past more pigs on the road and entered a small family settlement where another carver lived.  After stopping to look at more masks and carvings, including some very nice stone carvings we headed back to the boat.  Vao is amazing and was well worth the wait.

Search for Petrol

We loaded into the boat and shoved off heading toward the Vao landing on the ‘mainland’.   This was not the way we came, but George explained we needed to get some petrol.  On the way we passed families in dugout canoes heading home to Vao from the mainland.  Some of the canoes were stacked high with bananas, taro and yams from the gardens. 

When we reached the beach George jumped out with a small plastic petrol can and disappeared into the jungle.  He came back several minutes later with an empty can.  No petrol available.

I started to wonder if we would spend the night adrift at sea or spend it on the road waiting for the SDA sabbath to end so that we could get a ride back to Wala.  It was decided we would stop at the next island, Aitchen. 

We could see rain on the horizon.  The sky to the north and east was purplely black and a fuzzy grey rain squall was visible between us and Malo Island 20 or 30 miles to the north.  The swells were bigger.  George assured us the rain was not headed our way.  We carried on toward Aitchen skirting the coast this time.

We motored past more people in canoes.  We waved to people on the beach of a village on Aitchen.  It became clear that we were not going to stop as we were now going parallel with the beach past the village.

I looked at George curiously and he said, “The people here are SDA.” 

 “Oh, so, the shop will be closed”, I said.

“We will go back to Wala,” was his only reply.

We went very close to a guy in a canoe who was setting his fishing nets.  George and the owner thought this was funny and so did the guy with the net.  As we came around the Western tip of Aitchen we came upon a mission.

I asked if it was an SDA church.  I was really just making conversation.  I mean if the people there were SDA, it had to be an SDA church, right?  “No, that is Catholic mission,” George said.  I didn’t bother to follow that up and still have no idea why we didn’t stop for petrol.

Back to Wala

The trip back to Wala was wrenching.  Each time we got to the top of a swell the boat banged down sending shock waves through the bottom of the boat, into the wooden plank we were siting on and then into our spines.

When we finally got back at about 5 o’clock we headed off to our bungalow to rest up before dinner.  The rain that “was not coming our way” arrived at half past five.  It poured.  Our bungalow made of bamboo with a pandanus leaf roof kept us nice and dry. 

It didn’t last long, so George was basically correct.  We headed off our flashlight in hand to dinner at the restaurant.  Our one choice of meal that night, they don’t even pretend to have a menu, was chicken curry with baked breadfruit and more sweet potatoes.  Again it was basic but very good. 

We talked to Charlie the manger for quite some time and then headed back to the bungalow.  There was only a kerosene lantern for light so we were in bed under the mosquito net by about 9 o’clock.


Wait Some More

Wala Island Ancestoral Stones

The next morning we awoke to sunshine and the sound of chickens and pigs searching the grass outside the bungalow for breakfast.  After our more civilised breakfast, we met up with Loren, a Cultural Centre Field Worker, charged with studying, promoting and protecting the culture of his island.  He gave us a great but short tour of Wala’s ancient cultural sights and fascinating information on the local plant life.

The red ginger flower, “loklok” in the local tongue, for example, is used to adorn only the highest-ranking men on the island.  Lower ranking men must use the pink ginger flowers in their costumes. Wala Island offers quite a few things to see for such a small island.

After lunch we headed over to the landing.  The taxi driver who had brought us up on Friday was there at the landing waiting for us.  Rob and I crammed back into the front seat.  I got to sit almost on top of the gearshift this time and we headed back down the road to Norsup.

For our departure we were two hours early.  There was not a soul in sight, but the doors to the airport were open.  We sat down and waited once again.  You can’t win really, but we had a great time and will certainly be heading back before we leave Vanuatu.

[Note: This tale was first told in July 2000]

Copyright 2000

Just Let The Kava Sing

My first experience was memorable.  Rob and I were invited by another couple to share in some of Vanuatu’s best.  We’d never done this before, but we trusted the intuition of these new found friends and decided to give it a go.

We drove down the hill and met them just behind Wilco Hardware and then followed them up the hill on the other side.  We had been in Vanuatu a couple of weeks and we weren’t quite sure where we were headed.  We ploughed through potholes, the size of bomb craters.  It was before the Toyota Prado.  The low clearance of the car we were driving meant it grounded a few times on the deep ruts caused by Vila downpours cutting into the steep coral surfaced roads.

We turned a corner and our friends parked along side a tall hedge.  It was a beautiful night.  The only light apart from that coming from the billions of stars above was from a single naked red light bulb on a pole sticking out from a tree just opposite us.  We followed our friends across the road, through the gate and down the path towards the glow of the dim light coming from the window of a small traditional hut just ahead of us.

With the light bulb now on the other side of the hedge and the tree canopy blocking out the sky, we were enveloped in darkness.  As we walked along the path I became aware that we were not alone.  You couldn’t see them, but you knew they were there… in the darkness – silent, but definitely there. 

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that the garden was arranged in a way that formed these little alcoves all along the path.  There were people in them, but it was only the occasional shuffle or mumble that gave them away.

We carried on toward the hut.  Just before we entered, though, a horrendous noise erupted from the bush behind us.  It was the deep guttural sound of a man preparing to hoick.  Then he spat, followed by a few “peh, peh” as he tried to get out the last of whatever the terrible thing was that he had in his mouth.

This gave me no confidence that I would be able to go through with it.  Let’s face it this was not my scene.  We entered the door.  There was a woman behind the bar, but no one else inside.  We took a table.  We chatted the typical small talk of those who had just met and then it was time.

Thomas asked if I wanted a 50 vatu or a 100 vatu.  I chose the cheaper since I still wasn’t sure I wanted to do this.  Rob, being Rob, jumped in boots and all and ordered a 100 vatu.  We went up to the bar.  The woman ladled the appropriate amount into the glass bowls and we headed out the back door into the darkness.

The liquid ladled into the bowls looked like it had just come from one of the many potholes we had passed through on the way.  It was a greenish muddy brown and certainly didn’t look like something you would want to drink, unless of course, you were into drinking from sewers.

Out back and facing a chest high hedge, our hosts explained it was the custom here to drink it all in one go.  So, I tilted the bowl back and immediately thought, “What the hell am I doing?  Am I completely mad?”  The taste was foul and what was worse was that I couldn’t take it all in one gulp.  I had to gulp two, three, four times and with each gulp another wave of that taste went over my tongue.  And, I had the half size!

I now knew exactly why the guy behind the bush was hoicking.  There is no way to describe the taste of kava.  Some people say earthy.  Others say it tastes like mud, but then can you really trust the opinion of someone who has recently been eating mud? No, the taste is indescribable really.

Although the mud analogy is not a surprising one considering the kava here is green kava, that is straight from the ground.  Kava is found through out the Pacific, but generally it is dried and later mixed with water something like a tea.  In Vanuatu, the fresh roots are ground up – in places like Tanna that grinding was traditionally done by chewing and spitting, but we won’t go there – then placed in a piece of material and squeezed into a bucket of water.  The resulting liquid muck is sold in half coconut shells in measures of a full shell or half shell.

All everyone can really agree upon is that it is not a good taste.  So, one might ask why is the national drink of Vanuatu such a foul tasting concoction?  Well, it is not for the taste.  It is for what follows after you manage to keep it down.

Kava produces a mild high.  By the time we got back to the table to gobble up the peanuts that were there to kill the taste, my lips and tongue were going numb already.  The world kind of slows down with kava.  You mellow and life just happens around you as you sit in your own headspace.  It’s not alcoholic.  So, you don’t get a hangover the next day, although it makes some people like me very groggy in the morning.

For ni-Vanuatu kava is a tradition.  It played and still plays a big part in custom ceremonies and its traditional uses are as varied as the 100 language groups that make up the country.  In most localities kava was for men only and even today in the outer islands its use by women is frowned upon.

Following independence in 1980, kava came out of the solely traditional role and entered the popular culture.  Kava bars, like the one we went to for our first kava experience opened up and today there are well over 100 kava bars or nakamals just in Vila.  Kava has replaced alcohol as the drug of choice in Vanuatu and since it mellows you out rather than hypes you up like alcohol can, street violence on a Friday night has really dropped off over the past 20 years.  Of course, I wasn’t here then so that is second hand, but I feel a lot safer walking the streets of Vila on a Friday night than I do the streets of Wellington or Auckland.

For the typical expat kava drinker, kava is viewed more or less as legalised marijuana.  Don’t get me wrong, the ni-Vanuatu treat it as a social drug as well, but with a long tradition of use it’s nothing new, it’s just there.  Expats treat it like a drug.  This is probably best illustrated by the lingo.  In Bislama, ni-Vanuatu will say some one is “drong long kava” or drunk on kava, where expats are likely use the word “high”.  Where we say, “Did you get a hit yet”, ni-Vanuatu will asks, “yu harem kava”.  “Harem” means feel or hear, which leads to some asking, “If you can hear the kava singing”.  The expat kava culture has also added the word, “kavahead”.

Probably the best example of the expat drug culture approach is to go into one of the stores that sells dried kava on a day when the cruise ship is in town.  The yabbos that arrive here from Western Sydney and Queensland head straight to these stores.  They pick up the tourist packages of dried kava in little decorative baskets and ask the nearest staff member if “this is good stuff”.  Wanting to make a sale, the staff member says, “Yes, of course.”  The tourist makes the purchase, looks around for the coppers and discretely slips the little pink or blue basket into his bag.  You can just see him going back to his cabin with his mates, locking the door behind them and then trying to smoke the stuff.

For ni-Vanuatu, kava is just something to do with the boys on a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, … night.  That is the pub scene I’m talking about, its not the kind of thing you’d do sitting in front of the telly watching a rugby match.  Although, thinking about it, it might not be a bad idea.  For those of us that don’t see the point of getting all excited about little people running back and forth across the TV screen, life would be a lot quieter if the couch potato fans were zonked on kava.

Speaking of zonked, kava can zonk you big time.  Generally, one or two shells will get the kava singing to you and smart people stop there.  Experienced drinkers can go on to three or four shells. 

The place is full of stories of over zealous expats on kava.  One friend of ours loves to tell the story of her first experience.  Since I don’t have a Haitian-Miami accent I can’t really do the story justice, but she tells how she went to her first kava bar.  She is one of the few people who say they liked the taste, Rob is another.  So, she had her first shell and loved it.  She said, “Whao, this is great.  Give me another.”  She had another and then another.  Her story usually stops with four shells, but her husband says it was more like six.  Completely legless she was taken home and put to bed and there she stayed for four or five days.  She was so sick she could not get up and she hasn’t had another shell since.

Fortunately, Rob and I are a bit more moderate in our kava drinking.   We go to kava probably only once a month and it is much more for the social setting than for the “hit” or to hear the “singing”.  It is a very social event.  Kava is taken in the evening and loud music and bright light are definite no-noes, so you have your kava and then sit down and have a chat with whomever. 

When we first arrived we tried a few different kava bars, like Mickey’s, Ronnie’s, and The Northern Light.  All have different atmospheres and different types of kava.  Depending on the island it comes from and how it is made, kava can have different strengths.  In my experience Maewo kava is the strongest, but ask any ni-Vanuatu which is best and he or she will tell you it is the kava from their island.

Over the past two years though, we have settled on two particular kava bars, Bob’s and Friday night kava at the University of the South Pacific (USP) Campus.   Bob’s is on the lagoon and you have your kava over at the bushes, rinse your mouth out and then sit on the deck over the lagoon.  The sun sets behind the hills on the other side  and it is a fabulous setting for the end of the day.  The sky glows in oranges, yellows, pinks and purples as the palm trees turn to shadows.  It is a great place to take visitors

USP has a different ambience.  It is an end of the week work thing, but friends of employees and students, like us, are welcome too.  We go there largely to catch up with a few friends who are pure kavaheads.

I can’t say I’ve ever really gotten into the stuff, but that will save me from the kidney stones, dry skin and slow mornings associated with the heavy kava drinkers.  It’s a great social event, though, so we will keep going occasionally. 

Hey.  Yeah man, how’s it goin’…  Yeah, I hear it singin’ tooooo….

[Note:  This tale was first told in early 2001.]

Copyright 2001