Put on an appropriate record, and imagine, if you will. . . (Tiny bubbles, in the wine). . . Strolling barefoot along volcanic sand beaches in the fabled South Pacific. . . Nights spent in romantic thatched beach bungalows. . . Authentic local cuisine. . . Live entertainment. . . Exotic drinks. . . Private nude swims. . . Leisurely cruises through mysterious tropical islands. . . Expensively-appointed yachts. . . Gazing over tropical seas at volcanoes spouting red fire. . . (Make me happy, Make me want to feel fine) . . .
Yes, that once-in-a-lifetime tropical tour along the south coast of Malekula, in the Island Paradise of Vanuatu. Mind you, Holly alleges that a brisk walk for several hours a day behind Ni-Vanuatu guides, compounded by the difficulties of walking in ankle-deep soft sand, is not a stroll. She was barefoot because the blisters caused by her new thongs were infected, and walking was only possible with the assistance of 222's (a Canadian codeine - aspirin concoction). Our bush materials "rest house" at Hokai had a sand floor with only grass mats to sleep on (at least it didn't have a galvanized roof, from which our condensed breath dripped on us all night, like the one in Mbonvor). Our diet consisted of boiled taro with coconut cream or, when news of our impending arrival preceded us via pikinini, laplap prepared special for the honored guests. Local entertainment consisted of me swapping songs with the local guys on a well-abused and untunable five-remaining-string guitar. I overindulged on kava and had to lay about in a stupor, while she (having had only half as much) had a great time storianing with our host and wife. "Swim" in Bislama translates into "shower", and it was only private because I held a cloth over the open doorway of the bamboo stall as Holly washed (I waited until dark). Our "speedboat" trip of the last day was leisurely because the number of people in and on the five-metre boat matched the number of horsepower of the outboard (fifteen). Yes, we did pass someone else's big yacht anchored by a beach. And, our view of the volcano was from Lamap, which even I describe as the "armpit of Malekula", as it is the largely abandoned and decaying former French administrative centre. All I can say is that some people don't know how to have a good time! I also harbour a conceit that I may have a career ahead of me as the author of travel brochures.
Now for a more neutral description of our travels. I have been sitting around reading magazines and generally feeling kind of useless lately. I wanted to get out and see Malekula , and Keith had been promising a tour of the South Coast sometime in the vague future, which never seemed to get any closer. John and Kate (Australian volunteer Livestock Officer and his wife) have been going off here and there to all sorts of interesting places. So, Saturday, I finally got off my duff and just decided to fly to Wintua, on the Southwest corner of the island, on Monday and make my way to Lamap for the Friday flight home. I consulted a few people to ensure that a trail existed (there is no road) and got some approximate walking times from spot to spot. This doesn't really decrease the risk of a trip, since the Melanesian concept of time is a bit vague, as the definition of "trail" (I'll just mention that the Bislama word is "rod", which covers everything from a superhighway to the spaces between lines of coconut trees). John and Kate offered to take the kids, so Holly came along. We packed a daypack each with one blanket and a sheet between us, a change of clothes, and a bit of food (corned beef to supplement the exclusive local carbohydrate diet, crackers, and that essential - peanut butter.)
Monday, we flew the 15 minutes to Wintua. Lucky it was only 15 minutes, because it was a rough flight and I, of course, felt sick. The plane was a good old Canadian Twin Otter though, so I knew I was safe. One of the joys of making sudden decisions like this is that no one knows you are coming, so we got the Area Council Secretary up from his nap (it was working hours, after all), and we spent the afternoon with him talking with the providers of various government services (education, health, etc.) in town - well, large collection of bamboo shacks, anyway. After a while, he stopped being crabby, and we had a good session.
We didn't stay in the local rest house. You know, I always had this vision of the missionary in Vanuatu as some martyr who escaped being eaten on the beach and wasted away in an old shack suffering from various tropical diseases. Not in Wintua. We stayed with the local Presbyterian Elder in the former missionary house - a large, well appointed western-style house, wired and plumbed (of course now you have to haul in a bucket of water from the standpipe in the yard to flush the toilet), with a magnificent view of the sunset from the expansive veranda. (Lakatoro is on the east coast of Malekula; we couldn't see sunsets from there. I still remember that sunset in Wintua; it was the first tropical sunset I saw, and it was glorious - black coconut palms against a bright orange sky, just like on the shirts. The ever-present volcanic dust from the Ambrym volcano made every sunset orange.)
The Secretary and a Chief asked if I drank kava, and off we went to make it. They asked me why I had ditched Holly, and I learned that Southwest Bay is the only area that I know of where women are free to drink kava. This is because kava is really only traditional to a few areas of Vanuatu, and the others made up their own traditions when it was introduced to them. So, I got Holly, and we sat around and storianed as the kava was prepared. The Secretary came up with a bunch of roots that he had had around for awhile and which had dried out. Everyone told me that this meant that it would be really strong, but I thought that it was the usual "our beer is stronger that the other country's" B.S. (Sorry, generator just quit, so I'll have to save this on battery-power and continue tomorrow. It isn't easy to type, you know, with a flashlight cradled between your chin and shoulder.)
Saturday, August 8
Here I am back again, after having gone to market with Heather (hunched under umbrellas in the back of an old pickup), eating breakfast, doing the dishes, and going to the store. I have "Brothers In Arms" turned up in the background to drown out the gang next door practicing for tomorrow's "Malekula For Jesus Christ" rally. I thought it had been a while since the last one.
Anyway, instead of coconut shells for the kava, they had glass bowls, so I had just one, in accordance with my moderation policy, and Holly had a half-bowl. After a while of storian, I... started... to... talk... real... slow... and... figured... out... that... they... weren't... just... kidding... about... the... kava... being... strong. It didn't help that one bowl must be equal to about two shells. When dinner was announced, I staggered back to the house, but just didn't feel like eating for some reason. I sacked out in a stupor on the bed for an hour while Holly chatted away gaily with the Elder and his wife.
The next morning, Tuesday, we hopped into the local Agriculture Department "speedboat" (anything with an outboard motor - this 5.6 meter number was under-powered with 8 HP. I think anything with an inboard is classified as a "sip"). After 2 hours, we were deposited at Melip on the south coast. This place had a two-way radio, and the Secretary had radioed ahead that we were on our way, so a guide was ready. We had been warned that guides would be needed, and it was true. Although there was a trail the entire way, there is a whole network of trails going to gardens, copra patches, etc., and it would be real easy to get off on the wrong one. They need some Germans over here to get them organized with a system of little symbols at every trail junction, with corresponding markings on the maps.
Beach of a bay east of Melip, South Malekula, which we crossed on our way to Malfahkal. Photo ©S. Combs, 1987.
We trotted off after our guide, Ambol, and after 2 3/4 hr. and 8-10 miles, came to Malfakhal (or Mbenvat). I had heard about a vocational school here that had been set up solely by the community. The Marven Training Centre was set up by the local Presbyterian Church to convert the local heathen (their word) as they came down from the hills and to teach agriculture and management. We spent the afternoon looking around and talking with the manager. They offer a two-year course of instruction interspersed with the students applying what they learned at home. The current class started out with about 20, and is now down to 8 as the rest "made mistakes in life, wanted to go home",etc. The Australian Gov't just gave them a generator and a few electric hand tools and they want to set up a furniture factory. Why they need power tools and where their market is, I don't know. The LGC just gave them a few sheets of roofing iron so they can build a shed for the generator and collect water for their new rainwater tank (built by the national NGO aid agency - controlled by the governing party, as is everything - without any iron roof in sight, as is their policy. Note: an iron roof, as opposed to thatch, is required to collect rainwater to fill these tanks.). Their fondest wish is now for a chainsaw. Their budget is about $1,200 per year, and I don't know where they intend to get gasoline for the generator, let alone a chainsaw. Chainsaws here have a life of about 1 year, which kind of leaves the Marven Training Centre out in the cold when it breaks. Community-defined development is a great thing.
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©S. Combs, 1987