A Tale of Vanuatu Jungle and Sea

La Piste Bleue Finish Line, Port Vila Vanuatu

It was pitch black when my eyes cracked open in response to the annoying screech of the alarm.  Rob leapt out of bed and headed for the shower.  I rolled back over and tried to go to sleep, but my mind kept working trying to figure out the time.  It was dark.  The birds hadn’t begun their dawn chatter.  Rob was wide-awake.  The wondering and the shower made it impossible to get back to sleep, but the alternative - rolling over to turn the light on to see where the hands of the clock were - was simply not an option.  I’d have been wide-awake myself then and I knew that on a Saturday morning that was just not suppose to be.

Rob came out of the shower and got his running gear on in the dark.  I finally brought myself to a point of awareness where I could talk and made the gesture of offering to drive him to where he was going.  I was more than pleased to hear that he was being picked up.  I really couldn’t bear the thought of getting up and driving him to the starting line.  I asked what time it was.  He said he wasn’t sure, but had set the alarm for 4:30!

He finished dressing, said goodbye and headed off to the kitchen.  As the bedroom door closed I mumbled a half-hearted “good luck” and was back to sleep in no time.

I rose at the much more respectable hour of 9 o’clock.  It was a brilliant day.  The sun was shinning, but there were huge fluffy white clouds that covered the sun from time to time just enough to keep it from getting excruciatingly hot.  I thought that would be good for Rob and his team on their 25 km walk through the jungle.

Every year the local electricity and water company, UNELCO, sponsor La Piste Bleue.  For those not familiar with Vanuatu’s other official language, La Piste Bleue translates as The Blue Trail.  Blue and white are UNELCO’s colours and the trail is marked with blue markers so people can find their way.

Well, most people can find their way.  Every year until last year when the requirement of doing the trek in teams was introduced, at least one person got lost.  In 1998, about 5 people got lost – one for several days – so that put an end to the individual competition.

This year a record 534 people including 81 children – they had a shorter course, of course – started out on the jungle trek.  I say started out, because not everyone makes it.  There are several check points along the way that teams must check in at.  It makes it easier to decide where to send the search parties this way.  The checkpoints are manned by the military police and at some you have the option of dropping out. 

Anyway, at 7am sharp teams with names like Cinnamon Girls, Les 40%, the Bull Dogs and the International School Scorpions headed off into the jungle behind the UNELCO’s new generating plant. 

Climbing Jungle Paths

Rob had done La Piste Bleue last year and of course could not resist doing it again this year.  I met him at the finish line last year.  He and his team had finished at about 3 in the afternoon and were covered in mud and soaked through from the river crossings and sweat.   The stories of the adventure and the fantastic scenery were very enticing and I briefly entertained the idea of doing it this year, but the reality is it’s not me – too many mountains and hills.  Rob sees a mountain and he wants to climb it.  I see a mountain and I look for the easiest way around it.  I love to walk, but only where it’s flat.  Beaches are good.  So, needless to say, when it was suggested I join the team, I declined. 

So, while Rob and his team were climbing Mount Bernier that morning, I was pottering around the house.  I had said I would catch up with them at the finish line and when I got to the kitchen that morning, I found a note instructing me to bring the champagne in the fridge and three glasses.  The “three glasses” instruction irked me a bit considering it was a three person team and with the champagne carrier that made FOUR!

Anyway, Rob had suggested they would be finished by 1 o’clock, but since I was told the same last year and had to wait around for two hours for him to finish I decided 2:30 would be more reasonable.

I loaded the champagne and THREE glasses into the cooler and headed out to Hideaway Island.  Hideaway is a great little resort, a resort in a Vanuatu sense that is.  It is known for its diving and snorkelling.  The reef around part of the island is a designated marine reserve so it attracts all kinds of fish and sea life.  The coral is spectacular at least from this novice snorkeller’s point of view.  It has a few bungalows for overnight guest and a rustic little restaurant right on the beach, which makes a beautiful fish curry.

Hideaway Island,  Mele Bay, Vanuatu

The first time we went out there, I thought that had the producers of “Gillian’s Island” paid a bit more attention to detail, they would have filmed it here rather than on a soundstage.  Everything about the place just screams Gillian – the bungalows, the “wharf”, everything except I guess the people, the boat to the mainland, the bar and the restaurant.

It is a great little place to get away from it all, but not too far from town to mean I would fail at my job as champagne carrier. 

Hideaway Island Resort is run by this Kiwi bloke from Auckland, named Bruce. Bruce is quite a character, one of the many who make Port Vila so quirky. He is well tanned and about 40. Bruce came here 14 years ago after a stint in Bouganville. He is one of the many who tell you they came here for six months, a year or a weekend holiday and are still here 14, 20 or 30 years later.

He has blondish hair with one of those little short tail thingies at the back. I suspect the hair may be disappearing, but it is hard to tell since he is never seen without his baseball cap. He smokes rollies and is uncomfortable wearing anything but shorts, T-shirt and jandals (thongs, flip-flops or any of the other names you might call those little pads of rubber you attach to your feet by slipping the rubber strap over the front of your foot and between your big toe and whatever the next one along is called - your index toe?).

When we first got to Vanuatu you would often see Bruce in one of those long oil skin coats you see the Marlboro Man in. At the time, his jeep was without a roof and it got a bit wet when it rained.  Fortunately, a year and a half on he has finally got a canvass top on it.

The Snorkeling is great in Vanuatu.

Now, I know, this picture is not what you would picture as a wonderful host, but on the contrary Bruce has to be one of the best hosts in town.  He is always a step a head of you on what you need... beer, coffee, cake, snorkelling equipment.  He is very witty and never short of a tale of his own.

I’ll never forget our second or third trip out there.  We had some visitors in town and had gone out for the afternoon.  Bruce came over to our table on the beach, while we were having lunch, to have a chat. As he often does, he told us a story. I don't quite remember why this particular story, but it fit into the conversation at the time for some reason.

A couple of years ago a group of four older women, old friends from high school, were at Hideaway on some sort of reunion. Their husbands were off some where and they were going snorkelling. The water at Hideaway is very shallow for quite a ways out, maybe only a foot or two deep, and there is a lot of coral rubble you have to make your way through to get to the reef. Anyway, just as one woman was starting out into the deeper water she started flailing, splashing and screaming. Bruce said everyone ran down to the water thinking something was terribly wrong – shark, sea snake, jellyfish?  Next thing they knew she stood up in the shallow water, topless, "with her tits hanging down to her navel" as Bruce put it and she said "Oh, Thank God!!" and was fine.

It turned out that as she had pushed off, her top had got snagged in the coral rubble and come off.  As she got into the deeper water (3 or 4 feet), her breasts came up into her face.  Through the goggles, tough, which I am told magnify things by about 25%, she didn't quite recognise them and thought she was being attacked by some vicious sea creature.  Hence, the panic attack that drew everyone to her aid.

Anyway, as luck would have it the comedy routine got even better that particular day. A little while after lunch, Rob and the others had gone for a snorkel. I sat at the table reading my book, because the night before I had had a shark dream and decided not to risk it (no, it wasn't funny but it figures, right?).

Bruce saw I wasn't going in so, being the good host, he brought some coffee over for me and a lemon tea for himself and sat down for a chat. During this chat this very large nicely dressed older man with a thick German accent - Sgt. Schultz type - came over asking if Bruce had seen so and so. Bruce hadn't and the guy went off back toward the bungalows.  The guy was staying on the island.

Well a little time passed and back came Sgt. Schultz, but this time he was wearing nothing but a pair of speedos and carrying his snorkelling gear. Jesus, was that a sight to be seen. From the front, his stomach hung down so far that you couldn't tell he was wearing speedos, but it wouldn't have mattered if he wasn't because 'it' would have been well hidden by the one large roll. From the side, you could see a thin wisp of black speedo and from the back, well that was large and black. The rest, however, was white as white could be.

He waved hello and went down to the water to put the snorkelling gear on.  Most people wade in to where the water is about 2 feet deep, sit down and put the flippers on. Not this guy.  He sat down just at the water line in about 4 inches of water, 6 inches when a wave came in off a very calm Mele Bay.  He put the flippers on, adjusted his goggles and snorkel, moved slightly forward into the water, stretched his arms and legs out and started swimming.

I say swimming, but it was only the motions of swimming really. His flippers were still resting on dry land, his stomach, well you can imagine, in 4 to 6 inches of water was resting firmly on the sand and coral rubble bottom, his butt was in the air, but his head and arms were in the water he thought he was swimming.  It took a few seconds, but eventually he worked his way out into the deeper water and was off.

It was one of those Kodak moments. Bruce and I sat there watching this spectacle and you could see both of our minds heading rapidly down the same track. We looked at each other, both about to speak, but Bruce, as he does, got there first.

"Thank Christ Greenpeace weren't here! They'd have been down there trying to push the poor bastard out to sea," he said with the smoke from his last drag on the rollie escaping from his mouth with those words.

Unfortunately, Bruce was nowhere to be found on the day of La Piste Bleue.  So, I had to look elsewhere for entertainment.  I had a drink, had a bite to eat, read a bit of my book and just before two made my way back to ferry.  It was a nice day and it sure as hell beat dragging my butt up mountains, over rivers, through the mud and back to civilisation.

There were cars all along the road outside the entrance to the UNELCO plant when I got there.  Half of the road was blocked off and teams, muddied and wet, were powering home to cross the finish line.  I drove up to the airport to turn around and then parked the car under a tree along the road.

I walked into the grounds looking around to see if I could see Rob and the team.  I hadn’t really expected them to be there.  I was walking the same path as the trekkers and as I neared the finish line a guilty flash of embarrassment shot through me as a group of spectators started cheering.  I mean, why me?  I wasn’t muddy.  I wasn’t soaked with sweat.  How could they possibly think I’d managed to finish La Piste Bleue looking like that.

I sheepishly looked over in the direction of the cheers and realised they weren’t cheers at all they were just calling me over to where the team had plopped down after finishing.  Rob was propped up against the chain link fence drinking a Coca-Cola.

I sat down in the crowd as this was a crowd that was not standing and got the run down.  It was not as hard as last year’s.  There was no climbing up waterfalls and no river crossing this year.  Climbing Mount Bernier was the most gruelling part, but the twist, and there is always one, was the climbing a ravine using ropes to make your way from rock to rock.

La Piste Bleue Gathering

I heard who passed whom.  Who drove whom up a wall along the way.  Some people are quite full of themselves and strut there way along putting others down.  The first man to cross the finish had done the whole trek without shoes.  This meant I knew the winner was a ni-Vanuatu because as I looked around the group New Zealanders, French and Australians around me all rubbing their feet freshly removed from their shoes, there was no way any of them could have done it without shoes.

After a good 15 or 20 minutes, I mentioned that I had remembered to bring the champagne and asked if I should go get it.  A load chorus of “Yes” ensued.  Apparently, the only thing that kept Vickie, one of Rob’s team members, going was the promise of champagne at the finish.   So, I went back to the car and carried the cooler and THREE glasses over.  Considering there were a lot more than three people around that was a bit awkward, but we made do.

Maybe next year, I will walk La Piste Bleue, then again… 

[Note: During the decade that has past since this tale was first told, I have never done La Piste Bleue]

Copyright 2001