It Drives You Mad

I turned the wheel and drove down the row of cars and turned into a parking space.  Christmas was over so there was plenty of room.  There was a car to my left and none to the right.  Something wasn’t quite right though.

I hopped out of the car and walked around the back and there saw the problem.  The front of the car was parked on the stupid white line, but the back was ok – well sort of…  As long as the driver of the car to the left could squeeze between the back of my car and the back of his, he would have no problem getting in the driver’s door. 

I looked around there were no witnesses to my poor parking skills.  I thought about leaving it, but since it was a friend’s car, I thought I better not risk it.  I got back in and tried again.  I backed up, pulled forward and managed to get it right that time, but I asked myself. “Why didn’t I get it right the first time.”  I’ve never had a problem parking before.  Staying on the correct side of the road was a problem, since I was now used to the opposite side in Vanuatu, but parking?

We were back in New Zealand and had been back for about a week having headed home for Christmas and New Year.  Rob had been doing most of the driving.  He’d been doing the same thing I had just managed to do and I’d been hassling him about it.  So, I made a mental note not to admit to having just done the same thing. 

I got out of the car locked it and headed for the mall entrance.  As I walked along, I noticed all the nicely painted white lines marking out the parking places on the nice freshly laid pavement to my left.  There were no cars parked there, so I got the full impact of the interesting, yet somehow strange design the lines formed.  And that’s when it hit me.

After 20 months in Vila, Rob and I were simply out of practice.  I should have got it earlier.  I mean, after about the fifth time he did it, Rob’s excuse for parking on the line was that “they were obviously making the spaces smaller”.

I guess that now that I was the one looking silly, I was better focused on the problem.  I mean, in Vila, there are no lines to worry about.  Let’s face it, white lines painted on dirt parking areas, wouldn’t last very long.  Would they? 

When you park your car in Vila, you are more focused on what’s in front of you and to the side of you.  You aren’t looking down to see where the little white lines are.  If there are no cars around you pull up to the wall, the palm tree, or what ever, turn the key to off, put the brake on and get out of the car.  If you park slightly askew, it doesn’t really matter since there are no telltale lines to prove you don’t know how to park and the reality is that everyone parks askew.

Well, to be honest, there is one place in town that I know of where those little white lines do appear, but it is no good for practising.  The Centrepoint Supermarket has attempted lines, but the lines are a bit confused to say the least. 

I watched them lay the lines there and that was an experience in itself.  One day I had stopped off to pick up something for dinner and the parking lot was covered in boards and string.  The string was for marking the lines and five or six men were using paintbrushes to paint the white lines on one of the few paved parking lots in town.  A few days later, I stopped in again and they were back – the boards, the string, the men and the brushes.

They had painted over the first set of white lines with black paint and were now in the process of painting new white lines.  The problem seemed to be that the first lot of lines was not painted on the right diagonal.  I guess no one thought to check how the strings were laid out before the painting started.  Anyway, for the next couple of weeks there were some proper white lines to practice parking, but then of course it rained.

The black paint appears not to have been as good as the white and it washed away, so now there are two sets of white lines at Centrepoint.  This as you might imagine creates unlimited ways in which to park the car and still stay in the lines. 

Anyway, after the revelation about the lines, I started thinking about how ‘alternative’ driving in Vila really is.  It is a whole different world and no doubt we are picking up some bad habits we are going to have to unlearn.

First thing you notice about driving is the roads.  When we first arrived, one may have asked what roads?  At the time people drove their cars over a series of connecting potholes rather than over roads.  Over the past year though, most of the roads in Vila have been tar sealed, which has been a tremendous improvement.  Unfortunately, the main road through town was not part of the project and it is still littered with potholes.  There is some kind of Vila logic about this, but I always fail to get it.  Anyway, until they get around to resurfacing the main road, the potholes get filled every couple of months.  Being a tropical paradise, however, it rains a lot.  So, soon after the holes are filled, it rains and the fill washes out.

Living in Malapoa, though, we hardly notice those tiny little potholes in town.  We’re driving through craters up here.  Malapoa is owned by the people of Ifira Island, which is a small island in the harbour.  The Ifira Trust has responsibility for maintaining the roads.  Of course, they don’t. 

There have been a couple of attempts.  So they get a “C” for effort, but the craters currently grow with each rain.  The closest they came to dealing to the problem came with an attempt a year and a half ago.  Some workmen turned up and filled the potholes with sand.  Finally, we had crater free roads.  The joy didn’t last long though.  It rained a few days later and all the sand washed away.  Surprise.  Surprise. 

Then a grader turned up several months ago, but before it did anything it got a flat tyre and sat along the road for along time with one wheel off.  The grass and vines were starting to grow over it, and then it disappeared without getting its blade dirty.

Malapoa’s roads would probably not be that bad if they hadn’t been paved before Independence, but 20 years later there are still bits of pavement on them, which make the potholes a lot deeper.  You literally drive over little mesas surrounded by small dry riverbeds.  The mesas are formed where small bits of pavement hold the road together and the riverbeds not always dry, I should point out, get deeper and deeper as the rains wash out the road where the pavement has crumbled.

When driving in Malapoa seat belts are a must, because they keep you from smashing your head on the car roof.  Along some sections of the road, there are actually new roads forming on the edges where cars and trucks trying to avoid the bumpity-bump of Vila’s answer to the Grand Canyon in miniature by driving over the grass.

According to Marie, our “hous gel”, there are buses and taxi’s which refuse to bring passengers up here for fear of damaging their vehicles.  Then again, there are probably some taxis and buses it would be safer not to get into anyway.

Vehicles are another hazard on Vila roads.  Well, I guess they are in any country, but here it is different.  Most cars, trucks and buses are in pretty good shape, but since there is no regular inspection of vehicles there are also some real disasters on the road as well.  Dump trucks with tyres devoid of tread, cars with shattered windscreens, cars with no windscreens, they are all here.  There is a car that looks like it was built in someone’s back yard using scrap metal.  There are cars with holes where the headlights should be.  There are cars with bent axles.  There are trucks running on two different sized wheels.  You name it.  You see it, but somehow they manage to keep going.

There are two vehicles in particular that I avoid like the plague.  One is an old pick-up with a twisted chassis that as it drives toward you on a straight road you can actually see the back wheels off to the left of the front of the truck.  I have no idea how the driver keeps it on the road.  I get very nervous when I see it headed my way. 

The second is a truck called, “Master Shit.”  That is not my name for it.  It is the name plastered across the front of the truck.  Master Shit is an old tank truck that is used to clean out septic tanks.  I always stay well away for fear that it will pick a moment I am stuck behind it to fall apart leaving me stuck in the middle of a river of sludge.

When behind that particular truck I have been known to stop at the nearest shop for a drink or something – any excuse to get off the road.  You wouldn’t think it that in a town with a population of 45,000, you could just slow down and leave a lot of distance between you and Master Shit.  That is not the case, however, as it is way too easy to get stuck in traffic. 

You never know when the line of traffic in front of you is going to come upon the taxi driver travelling at 20 kms per hour.  They do this for miles sometimes, but I’ve never figured out why.  In town, it’s obviously because they are looking for fares, but they still crawl along on roads with no one in sight.  So, who knows?

‘Buses’ (vans that operate like airport shuttles) are another traffic stopper.  They stop just about anywhere to drop off or pick up a customer.  They stop in the middle of the road.  They stop in an intersection.  They stop in the middle of a driveway.  They stop just about anywhere, except appropriately marked bus stops of course.  That is a rare sight indeed.  Your every day driver tends to be no better, so traffic jams form regularly on the main street.  This is particularly true around lunchtime and all afternoon on Fridays and there is no way I’m spending minutes stuck behind Master Shit in a traffic jam. 

Of course, there is an upside to the potholes, the slow drivers and the traffic jams; they do keep the speed down.  I am not sure what the speed limit is since I have only ever seen two speed limit signs – one erected by the people of Mele Village as you enter the village and one out near the athletics stadium.  I reckon it is about 50 kms per hour in town, but one rarely can get up to that speed, unless it’s late at night.

Then you have other obstacles to deal with.  The first is people walking on the side of the road.  Most people do not have cars, so there are a lot of people walking at certain times of the day.  Sidewalks outside of town are rare, so when people walk they walk on the side of the road.  During the day, you have to watch for kids mostly, but at night all that changes.

As a kid, I grew up in a neighbourhood in Northeastern Pennsylvania where there was a lot of walking, at least during the summer months.  I think it may have been the times.  Cars were obviously there, but people walked to the corner store, walked to visit friends, walked to meetings, or just went for walks.  I get the impression all that has changed now, but I remember it was drilled into us as kids that when walking at night you had to wear light coloured clothing so drivers could see you.

A similar education programme has certainly not been done here, because people seem to wear the darkest clothes possible for night-time strolls.  You can’t keep the high beams on all the time because you blind people walking toward you, but if you don’t you run the risk of not seeing that person dressed in black from head to toe until it is too late.  So, when driving along roads outside of town at night, you find yourself driving slow and flashing your high beams on and off.  You put them on.  You take a quick look to see who is in front of you and then switch them off just as the hands of those people walking toward you (and now blinded by your lights) reach their eyes.

Then, of course, there are the kava drinkers in cars, another night-time driving hazard.  Kava is Vanuatu’s national drug of choice.  Alcohol comes second.  The kava bars get busy around 6 or 7 and then by about 9 or so, you need to watch out.  You come across them as you are cruising at 50 kms per hour enjoying the fact that there aren’t so many cars about.  Then you come up behind someone doing about 10 kms per hour.  When this happens, it’s a good bet that that person has just left a kava bar.  Kava slows you down, way down.  It is frustrating, but not really dangerous, because if you can’t get out of the way of someone travelling that slow, you’ve got a problem yourself.

I could go on and on, but let’s just say driving in Vanuatu can be an experience.  You never have to worry about going through a red light.  There aren’t any.  You never have to worry about getting caught for speeding.  One it’s hard to do.  Two there are no speed cameras and the radar guns donated to the police years ago don’t work anymore.  And, you never have to worry about passing a vehicle inspection, but you do have to worry.

You do have to worry about people walking on the roads.  You do have to worry about damaging your car by hitting a pothole at speeds of greater than 5 km.  You do have to worry about trucks falling apart in front of you.  And, of course you do have to worry about returning to New Zealand with rusty driving skills that mean you can’t park your car between those damn little white lines.


Note:  This tale was written in January, 2001.  Perhaps, driving is less chaotic today.

Copyright 2001

Colourful Characters

“What am I going to sing?  I can’t sing,” was the thought going through my head as I sat at the huge outdoor table covered by a colourful tablecloth and banana leaves and littered with red and pink hibiscus and fangiapani flowers surrounded by 19 other people.  One of Vila’s top lawyers was standing on his bright yellow chair with its legs firmly planted in the sand, singing an old Australian camp song about “climbing up Sunshine Mountain.”  As each chorus was completed another person was picked to stand on his or her chair to join in climbing the mountain.  When that was finished, each person was to sing a song of his or her own choosing.

To think this was all because a demanding guest had insisted that the real music had to be changed and when it was the stereo broke, was a worry.  Apparently the sound of the waves crashing on the reef was not music enough.  We had to have music, so we had to make it ourselves even if few of us could sing.  As we were the guests of honour Rob got called upon early on, but as the partner, I was left for toward the end.  When it finally got to me, I stood on my chair and after one of the more helpful among us suggested I sing “Jingle Bells” on a tropical summer night, I sang:

Well, I stuck my head in a little skunk’s hole and the little skunk said well bless my soul.  Take it out, take it out reeemooove it!  Well I didn’t take it out and the little skunk said…

Clearly this was not the scene I was expecting when Rob and I were invited to our first dinner party in Port Vila, but as we have come to learn we should not have expected less from Nicolai Michoutouchkine and Aloi Pilioko, our hosts that evening.

I finished by embarrassing debut on the Vanuatu music scene and then it was my turn to pick.  Being the bitch that I am, I had long ago picked my victim - Brian, the man who took over the MC job.  He seemed to think he was going to get out of singing because he was the MC.  So, just before I stood to sing, I said I didn’t want to do it.  I didn’t, but I also knew Brian would say “everyone had to”.  He’d been saying that since the “fun” had begun.  So, having finished my song, I promptly chose Brian as the next singer.  He refused, as suspected, but after I reminded him that “everyone had to sing”, a vote was taken and he lost 19 to 1.  So, he sang. 

It was a truly memorable evening and we have enjoyed the company of many of the people we met that night on many occasions since.  It was also the beginning of our friendship with Nicolai and Aloi.

Nicolai and Aloi are two well-known Pacific artists.  As Nicolai puts it, they have had “an association of over 40 years” and most of that time has been spent here in Port Vila.  They are icons of the Vanuatu scene and everything they do has a certain flare.  For example, rather than have name cards on the table that first evening, Aloi painted a picture of everyone and where they were to sit at the table.  It was laid out on a grand lounge chair, which we all consulted to find our seats.

Where Aloi is quiet and the more colourful in his art, Nicolai is big and colourful in personality.  When Nicolai is in the room he is more often than not the centre of attention.  His not quite French, not quite Russian accent is not one you’d expect to find in Melanesia and the flamboyant and commanding voice puts him centre stage. 

Born in Eastern France to Russian parents exiled following the October Revolution, Nicolai left France in the mid-50’s.  He travelled extensively through the Middle East and India and eventually found his way to New Caledonia.  Michou, as he is known to friends, arrived in the Pacific in 1956, met Aloi from the Polynesian Island of Wallis and they have lived here ever since.

Nicolai is an intricate part of the tapestry of Vila characters that make this place such a lively part of the Pacific.  When he is not travelling to exotic destinations such as Thailand where he buys his trademark red shoes, Morocco, or Cuba, you can find Nicolai at his shop in the centre of Vila.  The shop is in Pilioko House, a building adorned with Aloi’s famous 3-D murals, across from the French Embassy. 

It is here that Nicolai holds court.  Most days, he can be found sitting at a makeshift desk behind the spiral staircase surrounded by his and Aloi’s artistic and fashion creations.  On the mirrored wall in front of the desk is a myriad of snapshots given to him by friends and “historic photos” he has taken himself.  Nicolai insists he takes only photos of historic events and people.  I guess this should concern me since Rob is on the wall and I’m not, but oh well.

I was in there the other day with a visiting friend from Australia and we were required to take a seat and have some discussions.  Having just had a coffee at the Au Peche Mignon Café down the road we passed on the offer of a drink, but the conversation was eaten up.

Like some other characters about town, Michou is never short of a story and his stories range from who has been up to what, to what happened to him on his latest trip abroad, to his famous stories with a punch line.  I don’t know where he gets them all, but he often has some pretty funny stories to tell.

On this occasion it was a story of the blue variety that he had picked up somewhere on his recent travels to Australia.  He started telling the story of this woman who went to her doctor and the doctor thought she was lovely and …

As he neared the punch line, he looked at Judy, the friend with me who is a grandmother of two.  I could see the realisation in his face.  He was not going to be able to finish this particular joke.  I could see where the story was leading, as could Judy I’m sure and I had been waiting to see how long it took Nicolai to come to this conclusion, because Michou’s manners are nothing if they are not perfect.

With Judy sitting there next to him there was no way he would be able to finish.  So, how would he extricate himself from the little dilemma he was creating for himself.  He continued on never the less and as he reach the punch line he created a very censored version, mumbled it quickly, so neither of us had any real idea of what he said and laughed loudly.  Judy laughed politely and I laughed a lot more, but I wasn’t laughing at the story, of course.

Nicolai invited us to his Fashion Show that he holds weekly at Le Meridien Hotel.  Rob and I had never been to it and Judy seemed keen so we said we would be there.  Later that day, to give Judy the full flavour of the Michoutouchkine experience, I took Judy out to Nicolai and Aloi’s property on the road to Pango Village.  It is a fabulous setting with lush gardens and several buildings on it.  The buildings are their houses, the staff houses, a museum and a workshops and storage areas.  They have a large collection of artefacts from Vanuatu and throughout the Pacific.  The wonderful tapa collection and books are stored away in a temperature controlled storage area.  Much of the rest of the collection is on display in the museum or in the main house, which has become a museum.

A couple of months ago, Nicolai summonsed us to the house on a Saturday afternoon.  The house is a three level house over looking the entrance to the First Lagoon and Erakor Island.  It is a great location and from the third floor you can look over the palm trees to the open sea.

The house has been the scene of many memorable dinner and lunch parties for a variety of people from visiting Russian Ambassadors to interesting people Nicolai meets in the store and decides to introduce to his friends.

Anyway, Rob and I arrived at the appointed time to find the whole ground floor of the house transformed into a museum.  Nicolai had decided that it was time the 500 or so artefacts they have collected over the past 40 – 50 years came out of their crates and went on display. 

Over the years, Nicolai and Aloi have organised over 30 exhibitions of their art and the collection.  The collection has been seen in France, Russia, Japan, Malaysia, Australia, Sweden and many other locations, but for the past several years, most of it has been stored away where no one could appreciate it.  Some of the collection has been on display in the “museum” at the front of the property, but that collection paled in comparison to what we found hanging from the ceiling and on the walls in the house when we arrived at our private opening.

The collection is mainly of things that people from around the Pacific use in everyday life.  There are fish traps, hooks for hanging baskets, baskets, food storage boxes, knives, bowls, walking sticks, flutes, and many many other items. The collection spans the South Pacific from Melanesia through Polynesia and seeing it all together is quite amazing.

Since that day, the house has become a part of the tour we give visitors.  I parked the car and Judy and I headed down the pathway surrounded by green leaves illuminated by brilliant sunlight to the house.  Aloi was seated outside the front door working on some T-shirt designs.  He was using black ink to outline the wide-eyed figures that adorn his work. 

I introduced them and we made our way inside. To appreciate the collection you have to see it with Nicolai or Aloi there.  None of it is labelled, but anything you want to know about the collection is stored in Nicolai’s or Aloi’s head.

They can tell you where it is from, what it was used for, how old it is and anything else you’d care to know. Looking at it all together in one place you can start to see the connections between the designs and even which islands were influenced by which cultures.

We spent quite some time inspecting the collection and even took a peek at the Indonesian furniture collection on the upper floors.  We said our goodbyes and as we walked back down the path to the car, Judy asked what would happen to the collection in future.

It is a good question and I know Nicolai has been giving it some thought.  I told her what he had told us when Rob asked him a similar question on the day we went to see the collection for the first time.  Michou said that now that it was all out of the boxes and displayed on the ground floor, he and the collection could be washed out to sea together in a cyclone or tidal wave in the years to come.  I guess that is the dramatic end you’d expect from Nicolai, but I think a museum might be a better option.

Note: This tale was written in October 2000.  Sadly, Nicolai passed away earlier this year.  He will be missed.

Copyright 2000