Writer’s Note: Yes, it’s been some time since I’ve put up a post. I sort of fell off a writing cliff for a while there. Sorry folks! I think I’m back on track!
We rounded the corner to find a beautiful beach before us, just as promised by Eddie. It sat just outside the village of Lutes on the roughly southeastern side of the island. On the way over, paddling his dugout canoe and we our kayaks, Eddie regaled us with stories of whitewater rafting in his home of Tasmania. Though the ni-Vanuatu had teased him for his paddling technique, he actually had a lot of experience. John liked him instantly, of course, but the fact he was a whitewater boater truly sealed the deal. His descriptions of the rivers in Tasmania were interesting enough for us to make a mental note on the possibility of travelling there in the future.
Upon arriving at Kalmat’s bungalows, we saw a man raking the sand of leaves and debris, just as Eddie had told us they would. They were proud to have us there and Kalmat, the owner of the bungalow, was standing by waiting for us. He was a quiet, shy man who could hardly bring himself to look us directly in the eye. But John engaged with him separately, one-on-one, and explained to Kalmat what we were hoping for…..a beach to pitch our tent and access to the shower and toilet. Kalmat named his price and we agreed to stay for two nights.
The view from our beach was stunning—the great wide open of the Coral Sea to the southeast . With no other land masses to interrupt the prevailing winds from that same direction, we could see an infinite number of gentle wind waves. They advanced toward us, breaking over the coral reef just a stone’s throw from our beach, their energy dispersed to the point the water only lapped at the sand at our feet.
It was nice to have a bit of privacy, but I also missed the curious eyes of the villagers. Their infectious smiles, the laughter of the children, had all become a part of our daily experience and it seemed quiet without that. If I’d actually said those words out loud, I would have eaten them only a few days later. But that’s a story for one of the upcoming posts.
Eddie explained to us that there were several “tour” offerings available, but said he would defer to our ni-Vanuatu tour guide to explain them to us. He said that Stewart, from the village of Lutes, would drop by shortly to discuss our options and the associated prices.
Stewart was a small, slight man with a quiet voice, a somewhat shy manner. He was secretary of the local tourism council, formed primarily through the efforts of Eddie and the Australian Youth Ambassadors. We had just begun preparing our dinner of pasta with cheese sauce when he arrived at our beach. He introduced himself to us, then squatted down to watch us as we cooked, helping periodically by offering to stir. He told us a little about his family. He was married with two children. Then he asked us about our jobs and our own families.
Up to this point in our trip, Avi had a couple of “cover stories” going and John, Sarah and I were complicit partners in this scheme. Avi has travelled all over the world. In many third-world countries, when the locals learn you are a physician, they proceed to lay out every ache and pain they experience, asking for advice or requesting you render care to them. Avi didn’t want that dynamic in play during his vacation (he does plenty of medical missions in his travels), so we all agreed that for the sake of casual conversation with the locals, Avi would be a school teacher.
So it surprised us very much when, in response to Stewart’s question about his occupation, Avi casually told him, “I’m a doctor.” The other three of us glanced at each other, wondering why the change of heart. Only later did Avi confess that he was tired of being a school teacher. “I wish I’d chosen a more glamorous occupation,” he told us, “an astronaut, maybe.” In the end, Stewart’s reaction was fairly nonchalant. He did not proceed to lay out his list of ailments. The reception was safe enough that Avi decided he could admit he was a doctor again. Only in one village did anyone ask him to render care. And it was the village chief, no less. But that was only because the chief saw Avi’s amazing medical skills in action as he sewed up Sarah’s hand for the second time on our trip. But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s a story for another post.
The other ruse we had going was related to Avi and Sarah’s relationship. In the ni-Vanuatu culture, where marriage is so central to their way of life, the fact Avi and Sarah were “just friends” would have never flown. It would have created more questions than it answered. The reaction from the locals in the very first village we visited, when Avi and Sarah tried to explain their friendship, was one of absolute bewilderment. So for the rest of our trip, Avi and Sarah were married. When Stewart posed the inevitable follow upl question, “Do you have any children?” Avi’sr esponse was, “Not yet,” spoken with a lilt in his voice and a mildly leering glance at Sarah. It was our own little inside joke that made all of us laugh every time.
Once dinner was prepared, we got to the business of our tours. We invited Stewart to join us in our meal and he happily accepted, even taking seconds when offered. Our pasta with cheese sauce likely had novelty appeal, if nothing else. The typical ni-Vanuatu diet did not include pasta or packaged sauces.
Over dinner, Stewart pulled out his “tour menu.” It was a simple, 8-1/2 X 11 piece of paper with the different options listed, along with prices. He reviewed them with us. “We have a walking tour of the three villages on the island, including a visit to our local soap factory, for 500 vatu. We have a snorkel tour on the coral reef for 2,000 vatu. Also for 2,000 vatu, we can take you on a tour to a mangrove pool where a man sings to the turtles and they rise up from the sea.” This one seemed particularly intriguing and exciting. In our minds, all of us pictured the same thing: a small pool, perhaps ten feet wide, deep in the mangrove thicket; an old man with a deeply-lined face and a sing-songy voice calling to the turtles; and the turtles, all at once, rising from below, the pool filled with their bobbing heads and peering eyes and us, right there to witness it. This one was a “must do”. And finally, he indicated he could arrange for the local villagers to perform a “kastom dance” for us, also for a price. This was another “must do” as we’d attempted to see a custom dance in Ambrym and weren’t able to due to the copious amounts of rain we experienced on that island. (Custom dances typically involve ornate costumes and extremely complicated footwork, both of which can be compromised with heavy rain.)
We agreed to the village tour, the custom dance and a trip to see the sea turtles. Eddie had already mentioned to us the possibility of snorkeling with the villagers the following day and had implied it would be free if we were willing to help them with their reef restoration project. One of the priorities of the Maskelyne island natives is preservation of the ocean ecosystem. With rising sea temperatures in the area, an invasive species of starfish had latched onto the local reefs. And these weren’t any starfish. They were “crown- of-thorns” starfish with a particular penchant for the taste of coral. They were literally eating through the coral reef, laying waste to everything in their path and killing off the once lush and beautiful reefs. Eddie was organizing a snorkeling dive to remove crown of thorns starfish from the local reefs and had invited us to join in the efforts. So we knew that was on our agenda as well. It would be a busy day.
As we lingered over the last of our dinner, Stewart told us a bit about his own life. He’d been serving on the local tourism council for some time. We asked about the frequency of tourists to the area and he proudly proclaimed that the previous year, they had a total of 63 visitors, most of them yachters who came ashore in their dingys. But, he explained, those numbers had dropped off a bit since his VHF radio died. He explained he once used the radio to hail the yachters who came into view, inviting them to visit the local villages. But it was useless without a battery, he explained. Then with a somewhat sheepish look he said, “Do you maybe have a new battery I could use?” He’d seen our VHF radios and was hoping against hope we might be able to help. We attempted to explain the integrated rechargeable batteries. He didn’t quite understand our explanation, but knew enough to realize our ultimate answer was that we could not help him. He then seemed almost embarrassed at having asked. “It’s ok. It’s ok,” he said. “Never mind.” And he quickly changed the subject. It was the only time during our entire trip that anyone directly asked us for anything. Though we weren’t offended at the inquiry, Stewart very obviously realized he’d crossed some kind of boundary line and was anxious to move on to other subjects.
We talked about the children of Vanuatu, the fact they were somewhat shy but full of smiles at all times. He told us that white people were referred to, in their native language, as “umbat.” He said the children wanted to see what “umbat” looked like, what kind of food they might prepare, what their boats looked like. “And,” he said, “they stay close by because maybe they hope umbat give them a small piece of candy.” We could only assume this was unique to the Maskelynes based on the yachting tourist who came through. We’d not heard anything like that in any other villages. In fact, we’d never gotten the sense the children expected anything from us at all, though they were always delighted to see a picture of themselves on our camera displays.
By the time we stopped talking, it was pitch dark outside. It was just about the time of the new moon and it had not yet peeked up over the horizon. Stewart stood to leave, letting us know he would be back in the morning to lead us on our walking tour of the villages. “I have something for you before you leave,” John told him. He went to the kayak, rummaged through the front hatch and returned with a solar flashlight. John held it out to Stewart, then pressed the button to turn on the four bright LED bulbs. “Oh!” Stewart exclaimed. John then showed him the small solar panel and Stewart understood immediately. They are very familiar with solar lights in Vanuatu
David Stein is an American ex-pat who lives in Vanuatu. He served as a Peace Corps volunteer in Vanuatu and has stayed in the country, establishing a non-profit organization focused on delivering solar lights to the rural villages of Vanuatu. David recognized that Vanuatu was uniquely suited for solar lighting. As a tropical locale, they see plenty of sunlight. Because the country is situated so near the equator, their daylight hours are fairly uniform year-round, with darkness setting in no later than 6:00 PM during their summer months and closer to 5:00 PM in the winter months. A significant portion of their waking hours are spent in darkness. Solar lighting, then, could help with things as simple as allowing children to work on the school-work after dark or assisting the women, who are primarily responsible for the preparation of food, to cook by light rather than in darkness. By offering solar lighting at relatively affordable price (and with no real profit margin built in), the rural communities are able to improve their quality of life. In fact, we saw several of the products available through David Stein’s solar initiative in use out in the villages.
Stewart was duly impressed and appreciative of our gift. It was as if we’d given him $1,000. He smiled broadly upon receiving it and we could see his bright, white teeth flashing at us in the darkness. He thanked us profusely, then turned toward the path back to his village. We watched as he disappeared into the coconut forest behind us, the beacon of his solar flashlight bobbing along in the darkness before him.
