Brett In the South Pacific (4)
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
Brett is a friend who, after 15 years without a break of more than a week, quit his high powered job at an investment bank to get a different perspective of the world.
This is part 4 of Brett's journey to the South Pacific.
23 August 2001
Subject: Hello from Vanuatu -
August 16 - Port Vila, Efate, Vanuatu - Vanuatu was not on my itinerary when I departed London a lifetime ago, but the more I read about the islands, the more I felt impelled to visit. And, as soon as I landed, I was sorry I would only have one week to scratch the surface of Vanuatu's many mysterious islands. Most of you, like me originally, will be tempted to declaim Van-where? Equally, if I tell you that until recent history, the islands were known as the New Hebrides, this will shed little illumination, particularly for geographically-challenged Americans. But Vanuatu, among other noteworthy distinctions, has a profound place in American military history. America based its Pacific Fleet in WWII on the islands of Espiritu Santo (appropriately enough since we were badly out-gunned and needed other-worldly assistance) and Efate, my present location, from whence we launched the Guadalcanal offensive in the Solomon Islands. If the Japs (Barry/Algis: Does Nomura internal email screen for this epithet?) had breached the New Hebrides, Australia would have fallen inexorably, and yet another nation would be thumping the English in clicket. But, alas, the good guys prevailed, and the airport on Efate goes by the name Bauer-field (and relation, Rich?) after the USAF Squadron Leader.
Sounding slightly more familiar, read on. An obscure US Navy messenger in WWII, James Michener, while stationed on Santo, forever immortalized the island of Bali Hai in his Tales of the South Pacific, on which the Musical South Pacific is based. It was Michener's first, and by far best, book, which still makes it only an average read. But the story of Bali Hai, on which the French relocated local girls to an all-women island to avoid US Servicemen, is the stuff of legend. In real life, Bali Hai is the island of Ambae in northern Vanuatu. If sources are correct, South Pacific is currently in revival on Broadway, so if Ambae is outside your near term plans, shuffle down to Times Square.
The people of Vanuatu, or 'Ni-Vans,' have also contributed to the world of extreme sports. The island of Pentecost, also in northern Vanuatu, is responsible for bringing bungee-jumping to the world. The annual Pentecost land-diving festival, which unfortunately did not coincide with my visit, is a ritual in which the men of the island prove their virility by jumping off a platform constructed of vines, which grow taut just as the jumper grazes his head on the ground and is hopefully snapped upright. Interestingly enough, the ritual, which goes back hundreds of years, was inspired by an abused housewife, who climbed a tree to avoid her not-so-swift husband, tied a vine to her ankle, and jumped when he followed her up the tree. The unhappy husband , without the benefit of an attached vine, head-planted. But the men of Pentecost have hijacked the ritual, which is strictly closed to women, who are permitted neither to jump nor even stand within twenty metres of the platforms as they are being constructed, and transformed it into a machismo event. Do I sense a collective sigh from the women-folk?
History has also dealt Vanuatu an interesting hand. When Germany eyed its agriculturally rich lands, the islanders turned to the British and French, who jointly ruled over Vanuatu for the better part of the 20th century. While nothing unites the British and French like a good bit of German aggression, once they took possession, the communication ceased. Imagine a country of 100,000 people with dual (and duplicitous) government infrastructure. Such was the folly of the Anglo-French pandemonium, that head-on collisions were commonplace since each insisted on driving on the 'correct' side of the road. It was settled by a coin-flip. The Anglo-French occupation did little for the islanders save for sparing them from the annual Oktoberfest, as neither country offered the islanders citizenship or residency, and it took some fifty years before either opened a secondary school. Ironically, post occupation, England now sends some 30 gap year students to the remote islands of Vanuatu to teach. I met three of them while travelling to the island of Tanna, and their enthusiasm and adaptability were enough to make an optimist out of anyone.
And this is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Vanuatu. Left with the least by its abusive foster parents when they hightailed it for home in the 1970's (the French actually trashed Santo), in many respects its capital city, Vila, is the most progressive in the South Pacific. Established as a duty free port, Vila is a tax haven peerless in the region, and structured under the British plc code (structured products group are you listening?). Vanuatu has also established itself as a non-politicized shipping registry domicile rivalling traditional yet more politically controversial Liberia and Panama. The common denominator for these industries is ideal for an island nation, low labour intensity, and high revenue. The problem is that revenues are driven into the public coffers, which has led inevitably to governmental corruption. Hey, even paradise needs the occasional scandal to keep the press busy. Who wants to read about the coconut crop, every day? Speaking of which, coconut plantations are neatly maintained by bulky Charolais cattle that roam the same fields, giving the natives little to look after between harvest and slaughter.
In most of the South Pacific one eats more of necessity; however, the cuisine of Vanuatu merits particular mention as it boasts both unique and appetizing specialties. In addition to the beef, which is among the best in the world, a trip to Vanuatu wouldn't be complete without sampling coconut crab, lap lap, and the local ugly poulet fish. Coconut crabs are fierce, land-dwelling creatures strong enough to crack a coconut shell, the meat from which provides them sustenance. The locals say that if the crab gets it claw around your finger or hand, the only thing to do is go limp and hope it loses interest. This highly unlikely form of self-defence also seems lost in practice as I spotted several proffering a four finger salute. To complete the culinary picture, Vanuatu also boasts the best beer in the region, Tusker, and, one lasting remnant of the French, high quality imported wines. Per capita, Vila's restaurants for me outdistance London's.
A special mention is also required of the importance of pigs in Vanuatu. Pigs are, particularly on the outer islands, still regarded as mystical creatures, second only to man in importance. In fact, on certain islands, pigs are still the currency for big-ticket durable goods, like, for example, buying a wife. The importance of pigs is directly tied to the length of its tusks. In fact, the pig's upper canines are removed, allowing the tusks to grow unimpeded, and occasionally circular. On really rare occasions, the tusk will grow two full revolutions. The prized exhibits in the Cultural Centre are the pig tusks owned by notables including a 720 degree beauty presented to Queen Elizabeth (which she rather unsurprisingly has on permanent loan to the museum). These pigs are isolated and fed by hand, by one of many wives, whose importance within the harem is tied to the progress of the tusks under her care. The pigs are even occasionally used as collateral, with the enhancement to the tusks during the period of the loan constituting 'interest'while under care of the debtor. Having helped craft the 'Risk Factors' section for the Government of Pakistan's debut bond deal where it was illegal for them to pay interest under the Shariat Law, even I struggle how to quantify the repayment risk of tusk fracture. Perhaps that's why villages would probably go to war over such an incident, with the tusk-breaker likely to be killed.
But in Vanuatu they don't say 'I'll kill you (and your whole family' because for the most part they don't speak English. While many in the capital speak some English, the native language of Vanuatu is Bislama. Each of Vanuatu's islands itself has many dialects, so Bislama evolved in part to enable the islanders to communicate with each other. The dreaded missionaries also learned the language, and used it to spread the godspel. Bislama is a variation of pidgin English with many recognizable words. The tricky bit is that tense is virtually non-existent. So, for example, when the islanders ask me how many children I have, and I answer, 'None, but I would like to have two' they will ask me their names. You learn quickly to eliminate subtlety from questions, and boil down emotions to the very basics. After all, Bislama has less than 10,000 words while English has nearly four times that number. So instead of saying 'I'll kill you' it would be 'Em i kilim i ded'. Of course that is the easy bit. Where we have introduced foreign objects, for example a piano, Bislama struggles with 'Bigfalla bokis, yu kilim emi singaot' (big fellow's box, you hit it, it sings out). A bowl of kava helps to loosen the synapses which makes understanding Bislama easier.
And while no less ritualistic, the kava in Vanuatu is very different from elsewhere in the South Pacific. While in Fiji the root is dried and pounded into a fine powder, the ni-Vans chew the root while green, spit it out and strain it over water into a bowl. It used to be the purview of village virgins to chew the root, but supply and demand has necessitated broadening the chewing pool and many of the older generation are virtually toothless. But watching this ritual, one really has to gird oneself before indulging, not quite sure which evil among the unhygienic chewed root or village water (wota) is more likely to do harm, and hoping that the two somehow neutralize each other. Vanuatu is, hands down, the strongest kava. I'll leave it at that.
With only a week, I bracketed a trip to the southern island of Tanna with two spells on the main island of Efate. On Efate, I stayed at two different places, both slightly removed from the mainland; first at Iriki island, a short par four from the Vila marketplace, and subsequently at the somewhat more remote Erakor island. Upon signing the Anglo-French accord, the British promptly occupied the pre-eminent spot of Iriki island and declared, right mate, we're here, you can have anywhere else. The islanders reclaimed it after the British withdrew, and a group of Australians has turned it into a resort. It re-sold while I was there to another group of Australians whom I met while I was resident. Erakor island, surrounded by a lagoon, is somewhat more picturesque, but the day I stayed there was marred by cold, windy, and wet weather (a shock to the system at this point). Erakor has also recently changed hands, selling to an American, Troy Neel, who some may remember as an Oakland A's baseball player. Troy and his wife stayed there on honeymoon, and decided to buy it. He now plays his baseball in Japan, but wearing recognizable Bay Area team-ware will surely get you noticed on Erakor.
After a few days of relative luxury on Vila, I was somewhat unprepared for the dramatic difference of the outer islands, where tourist infrastructure is virtually non-existent. And that infrastructurestarts with the airplanes. My fright from Vila to Tanna came to an abbreviated halt when the 'open door' indicator light lit up as we reached full throttle for take-off. I knew this because I saw it at the same time as the pilot. The twenty seat aircraft has no partition between cockpit and cabin, and I happened to be in row two, overlooking the pilot's shoulder, so had a too good look at the aborted take-off. After taxiing back to the terminal, the pilot turned to the cabin and announced that he suspected a switching problem, rather than an actual open door, and proceeded to exit the craft and slam each door shut as you would a car. He also informed the shaken passengers that this was an over-rideable fault provided the Captain was satisfied. However, shortly before again lifting off, he turned to the co-pilot and asked to see the manual to 'make sure [he] wasn't speaking a lot a bullshit'. Sometimes there are things you would just rather not know.
Landing on Tanna, whew, I discovered that my airport transfer was an hour and a half drive across the top of the mountain on something that occasionally passed as a road while seated on a bench in the back of a pick-up truck. I shared this tail-bone bruising experience with a couple from New Caledonia, who are decided it was better to stand in the back of the truck until he was nearly decapitated in succession by a low-strung wire and fallen palm tree. Arriving at Friendly Bungalows, chosen in part because the food was supposedly good owing to French expat ownership only to discover it too had re-traded, but to a British private detective, I had just enough time to settle down to a warm beer (British influence already seeping in) before commencing an evening hike to Tanna's active volcano, Yasur. The volcano is one of the reasons I decided to visit Tanna of the more accessible of Vanuatu's outer islands that you can visit in a week's stay. Yasur is surrounded by an ashen plain spoiled by occasional boulders that have spewed forth from the volcano. Somewhat surprisingly, you can climb right to the rim of the volcano, and the views at night are breath-taking. Unfortunately, lava flows do not provide sufficient light for my camera, so you'll have to take my word for it.
Tanna is also home to many of the custom (kastom) villages, relatively untouched by the outside world. While I was left with no doubt that it would be awesome to coincide a visit with one of the villages real festivals, particularly the annual Nekiar in which they slaughter 100+ pigs with a club, even a staged visit provides a glimpse into the difference of daily life. Among some of the villages, you will find so-called Nambas villages, so-named because the male inhabitants wear only penis-sheaths. There are both Big Nambas and Smol Nambas Villages (no prizes), and as with short men in history, it is the Smol Nambas who are the aggressors.
In addition to the Kastom villages, Tanna is also home to the John Frum Cult. According to legend, some American by the name of John Frum will return to the villages and bestow them with material wealth. As such they disavow all existing wealth and lead a fairly grim existence. The John Frum movement on Tanna took off during WWII when the locals saw Black American soldiers presiding over significant war materiel, as it was the first time they had seen wealthy people of their own skin colour. Since John Frum is allegedly American, some of the villages fly American flags, which when you think about it, is rather bizarre to stumble across in the middle of the jungle in a remote island of the Pacific. But it happens.
Returning to Vila from Tanna for one night, courtesy of an airplane with a door separating the pilot from the passenger cabin, I was also treated to the weekly performance of the Wan Smolbag theatre. This troupe seems to be unique in the South Pacific in attempting with seriousness and levity to explore a range of native myths, relations and issues including slavery, the effect of the missionaries, and issues such as population control in an island economy. I was pleased to see that the author agreed with many of the premises I have reached during my travels.
And so bye bye Vanuatu. After a brief stopover in Fiji, my next port of call will be Tonga, the only monarchy in the region, and the home of the world's largest monarch (400+ pounds), and the mating season home to the immense humpback whales. There must be a word-play here, but alas I have missed it.
All the best.
Nem blong me Brett
This is part 4 of Brett's journey to the South Pacific.
23 August 2001
Subject: Hello from Vanuatu -
August 16 - Port Vila, Efate, Vanuatu - Vanuatu was not on my itinerary when I departed London a lifetime ago, but the more I read about the islands, the more I felt impelled to visit. And, as soon as I landed, I was sorry I would only have one week to scratch the surface of Vanuatu's many mysterious islands. Most of you, like me originally, will be tempted to declaim Van-where? Equally, if I tell you that until recent history, the islands were known as the New Hebrides, this will shed little illumination, particularly for geographically-challenged Americans. But Vanuatu, among other noteworthy distinctions, has a profound place in American military history. America based its Pacific Fleet in WWII on the islands of Espiritu Santo (appropriately enough since we were badly out-gunned and needed other-worldly assistance) and Efate, my present location, from whence we launched the Guadalcanal offensive in the Solomon Islands. If the Japs (Barry/Algis: Does Nomura internal email screen for this epithet?) had breached the New Hebrides, Australia would have fallen inexorably, and yet another nation would be thumping the English in clicket. But, alas, the good guys prevailed, and the airport on Efate goes by the name Bauer-field (and relation, Rich?) after the USAF Squadron Leader.
Sounding slightly more familiar, read on. An obscure US Navy messenger in WWII, James Michener, while stationed on Santo, forever immortalized the island of Bali Hai in his Tales of the South Pacific, on which the Musical South Pacific is based. It was Michener's first, and by far best, book, which still makes it only an average read. But the story of Bali Hai, on which the French relocated local girls to an all-women island to avoid US Servicemen, is the stuff of legend. In real life, Bali Hai is the island of Ambae in northern Vanuatu. If sources are correct, South Pacific is currently in revival on Broadway, so if Ambae is outside your near term plans, shuffle down to Times Square.
The people of Vanuatu, or 'Ni-Vans,' have also contributed to the world of extreme sports. The island of Pentecost, also in northern Vanuatu, is responsible for bringing bungee-jumping to the world. The annual Pentecost land-diving festival, which unfortunately did not coincide with my visit, is a ritual in which the men of the island prove their virility by jumping off a platform constructed of vines, which grow taut just as the jumper grazes his head on the ground and is hopefully snapped upright. Interestingly enough, the ritual, which goes back hundreds of years, was inspired by an abused housewife, who climbed a tree to avoid her not-so-swift husband, tied a vine to her ankle, and jumped when he followed her up the tree. The unhappy husband , without the benefit of an attached vine, head-planted. But the men of Pentecost have hijacked the ritual, which is strictly closed to women, who are permitted neither to jump nor even stand within twenty metres of the platforms as they are being constructed, and transformed it into a machismo event. Do I sense a collective sigh from the women-folk?
History has also dealt Vanuatu an interesting hand. When Germany eyed its agriculturally rich lands, the islanders turned to the British and French, who jointly ruled over Vanuatu for the better part of the 20th century. While nothing unites the British and French like a good bit of German aggression, once they took possession, the communication ceased. Imagine a country of 100,000 people with dual (and duplicitous) government infrastructure. Such was the folly of the Anglo-French pandemonium, that head-on collisions were commonplace since each insisted on driving on the 'correct' side of the road. It was settled by a coin-flip. The Anglo-French occupation did little for the islanders save for sparing them from the annual Oktoberfest, as neither country offered the islanders citizenship or residency, and it took some fifty years before either opened a secondary school. Ironically, post occupation, England now sends some 30 gap year students to the remote islands of Vanuatu to teach. I met three of them while travelling to the island of Tanna, and their enthusiasm and adaptability were enough to make an optimist out of anyone.
And this is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Vanuatu. Left with the least by its abusive foster parents when they hightailed it for home in the 1970's (the French actually trashed Santo), in many respects its capital city, Vila, is the most progressive in the South Pacific. Established as a duty free port, Vila is a tax haven peerless in the region, and structured under the British plc code (structured products group are you listening?). Vanuatu has also established itself as a non-politicized shipping registry domicile rivalling traditional yet more politically controversial Liberia and Panama. The common denominator for these industries is ideal for an island nation, low labour intensity, and high revenue. The problem is that revenues are driven into the public coffers, which has led inevitably to governmental corruption. Hey, even paradise needs the occasional scandal to keep the press busy. Who wants to read about the coconut crop, every day? Speaking of which, coconut plantations are neatly maintained by bulky Charolais cattle that roam the same fields, giving the natives little to look after between harvest and slaughter.
In most of the South Pacific one eats more of necessity; however, the cuisine of Vanuatu merits particular mention as it boasts both unique and appetizing specialties. In addition to the beef, which is among the best in the world, a trip to Vanuatu wouldn't be complete without sampling coconut crab, lap lap, and the local ugly poulet fish. Coconut crabs are fierce, land-dwelling creatures strong enough to crack a coconut shell, the meat from which provides them sustenance. The locals say that if the crab gets it claw around your finger or hand, the only thing to do is go limp and hope it loses interest. This highly unlikely form of self-defence also seems lost in practice as I spotted several proffering a four finger salute. To complete the culinary picture, Vanuatu also boasts the best beer in the region, Tusker, and, one lasting remnant of the French, high quality imported wines. Per capita, Vila's restaurants for me outdistance London's.
A special mention is also required of the importance of pigs in Vanuatu. Pigs are, particularly on the outer islands, still regarded as mystical creatures, second only to man in importance. In fact, on certain islands, pigs are still the currency for big-ticket durable goods, like, for example, buying a wife. The importance of pigs is directly tied to the length of its tusks. In fact, the pig's upper canines are removed, allowing the tusks to grow unimpeded, and occasionally circular. On really rare occasions, the tusk will grow two full revolutions. The prized exhibits in the Cultural Centre are the pig tusks owned by notables including a 720 degree beauty presented to Queen Elizabeth (which she rather unsurprisingly has on permanent loan to the museum). These pigs are isolated and fed by hand, by one of many wives, whose importance within the harem is tied to the progress of the tusks under her care. The pigs are even occasionally used as collateral, with the enhancement to the tusks during the period of the loan constituting 'interest'while under care of the debtor. Having helped craft the 'Risk Factors' section for the Government of Pakistan's debut bond deal where it was illegal for them to pay interest under the Shariat Law, even I struggle how to quantify the repayment risk of tusk fracture. Perhaps that's why villages would probably go to war over such an incident, with the tusk-breaker likely to be killed.
But in Vanuatu they don't say 'I'll kill you (and your whole family' because for the most part they don't speak English. While many in the capital speak some English, the native language of Vanuatu is Bislama. Each of Vanuatu's islands itself has many dialects, so Bislama evolved in part to enable the islanders to communicate with each other. The dreaded missionaries also learned the language, and used it to spread the godspel. Bislama is a variation of pidgin English with many recognizable words. The tricky bit is that tense is virtually non-existent. So, for example, when the islanders ask me how many children I have, and I answer, 'None, but I would like to have two' they will ask me their names. You learn quickly to eliminate subtlety from questions, and boil down emotions to the very basics. After all, Bislama has less than 10,000 words while English has nearly four times that number. So instead of saying 'I'll kill you' it would be 'Em i kilim i ded'. Of course that is the easy bit. Where we have introduced foreign objects, for example a piano, Bislama struggles with 'Bigfalla bokis, yu kilim emi singaot' (big fellow's box, you hit it, it sings out). A bowl of kava helps to loosen the synapses which makes understanding Bislama easier.
And while no less ritualistic, the kava in Vanuatu is very different from elsewhere in the South Pacific. While in Fiji the root is dried and pounded into a fine powder, the ni-Vans chew the root while green, spit it out and strain it over water into a bowl. It used to be the purview of village virgins to chew the root, but supply and demand has necessitated broadening the chewing pool and many of the older generation are virtually toothless. But watching this ritual, one really has to gird oneself before indulging, not quite sure which evil among the unhygienic chewed root or village water (wota) is more likely to do harm, and hoping that the two somehow neutralize each other. Vanuatu is, hands down, the strongest kava. I'll leave it at that.
With only a week, I bracketed a trip to the southern island of Tanna with two spells on the main island of Efate. On Efate, I stayed at two different places, both slightly removed from the mainland; first at Iriki island, a short par four from the Vila marketplace, and subsequently at the somewhat more remote Erakor island. Upon signing the Anglo-French accord, the British promptly occupied the pre-eminent spot of Iriki island and declared, right mate, we're here, you can have anywhere else. The islanders reclaimed it after the British withdrew, and a group of Australians has turned it into a resort. It re-sold while I was there to another group of Australians whom I met while I was resident. Erakor island, surrounded by a lagoon, is somewhat more picturesque, but the day I stayed there was marred by cold, windy, and wet weather (a shock to the system at this point). Erakor has also recently changed hands, selling to an American, Troy Neel, who some may remember as an Oakland A's baseball player. Troy and his wife stayed there on honeymoon, and decided to buy it. He now plays his baseball in Japan, but wearing recognizable Bay Area team-ware will surely get you noticed on Erakor.
After a few days of relative luxury on Vila, I was somewhat unprepared for the dramatic difference of the outer islands, where tourist infrastructure is virtually non-existent. And that infrastructurestarts with the airplanes. My fright from Vila to Tanna came to an abbreviated halt when the 'open door' indicator light lit up as we reached full throttle for take-off. I knew this because I saw it at the same time as the pilot. The twenty seat aircraft has no partition between cockpit and cabin, and I happened to be in row two, overlooking the pilot's shoulder, so had a too good look at the aborted take-off. After taxiing back to the terminal, the pilot turned to the cabin and announced that he suspected a switching problem, rather than an actual open door, and proceeded to exit the craft and slam each door shut as you would a car. He also informed the shaken passengers that this was an over-rideable fault provided the Captain was satisfied. However, shortly before again lifting off, he turned to the co-pilot and asked to see the manual to 'make sure [he] wasn't speaking a lot a bullshit'. Sometimes there are things you would just rather not know.
Landing on Tanna, whew, I discovered that my airport transfer was an hour and a half drive across the top of the mountain on something that occasionally passed as a road while seated on a bench in the back of a pick-up truck. I shared this tail-bone bruising experience with a couple from New Caledonia, who are decided it was better to stand in the back of the truck until he was nearly decapitated in succession by a low-strung wire and fallen palm tree. Arriving at Friendly Bungalows, chosen in part because the food was supposedly good owing to French expat ownership only to discover it too had re-traded, but to a British private detective, I had just enough time to settle down to a warm beer (British influence already seeping in) before commencing an evening hike to Tanna's active volcano, Yasur. The volcano is one of the reasons I decided to visit Tanna of the more accessible of Vanuatu's outer islands that you can visit in a week's stay. Yasur is surrounded by an ashen plain spoiled by occasional boulders that have spewed forth from the volcano. Somewhat surprisingly, you can climb right to the rim of the volcano, and the views at night are breath-taking. Unfortunately, lava flows do not provide sufficient light for my camera, so you'll have to take my word for it.
Tanna is also home to many of the custom (kastom) villages, relatively untouched by the outside world. While I was left with no doubt that it would be awesome to coincide a visit with one of the villages real festivals, particularly the annual Nekiar in which they slaughter 100+ pigs with a club, even a staged visit provides a glimpse into the difference of daily life. Among some of the villages, you will find so-called Nambas villages, so-named because the male inhabitants wear only penis-sheaths. There are both Big Nambas and Smol Nambas Villages (no prizes), and as with short men in history, it is the Smol Nambas who are the aggressors.
In addition to the Kastom villages, Tanna is also home to the John Frum Cult. According to legend, some American by the name of John Frum will return to the villages and bestow them with material wealth. As such they disavow all existing wealth and lead a fairly grim existence. The John Frum movement on Tanna took off during WWII when the locals saw Black American soldiers presiding over significant war materiel, as it was the first time they had seen wealthy people of their own skin colour. Since John Frum is allegedly American, some of the villages fly American flags, which when you think about it, is rather bizarre to stumble across in the middle of the jungle in a remote island of the Pacific. But it happens.
Returning to Vila from Tanna for one night, courtesy of an airplane with a door separating the pilot from the passenger cabin, I was also treated to the weekly performance of the Wan Smolbag theatre. This troupe seems to be unique in the South Pacific in attempting with seriousness and levity to explore a range of native myths, relations and issues including slavery, the effect of the missionaries, and issues such as population control in an island economy. I was pleased to see that the author agreed with many of the premises I have reached during my travels.
And so bye bye Vanuatu. After a brief stopover in Fiji, my next port of call will be Tonga, the only monarchy in the region, and the home of the world's largest monarch (400+ pounds), and the mating season home to the immense humpback whales. There must be a word-play here, but alas I have missed it.
All the best.
Nem blong me Brett
