Mary and Rod’s Adventures in Vanuatu
We've enjoyed our days thus far which have been consisting of a leisurely rise and breakfast overlooking the bay (difficult), decisions regarding visiting the pools, a visit to Port Vila for some comestibles and lunch or going on excursions around the Island of Efate. This hectic and energy sapping schedule has seen us, so far, do a town tour and history lesson about this tiny South Pacific republic and this morning's junket along the eastern coast and inland to the staggeringly beautiful rivers and lagoons dotting Efate. The people are charming, smiling and welcoming and as they've only just recovered from Cyclones 'Judy and Kevin' which hit In the first week of March (yep…two in 48 hours) we understand staff shortages, food shortages, poor Wi-Fi, etc, but are also getting used to island time and a very laissez-faire approach to questions. I doubt the hospital here is full of stroke or heart attack victims!
Some of the friendly folk of Vanuatu
Our tiny island home was once the British High Commission or whatever it was called, and the residence commanded the highest point with 360° views of the harbour. The New Hebrides islands, (its old British name but now Vanuatu), was named by James Cook, as the islands reminded him of the Hebrides near Scotland! Not sure whether he'd been drinking seawater that day, but I doubt these islands are anything like a freezing, sheep-ridden set of rocky outcrops in the North Sea.
Captain Cook arrives in Vanuatu with gifts of sticks
Anyhoo, in 1887 the islands became administered by a joint French‑British naval commission and there are still remnants of that time in French street names, a French gaol and a British gaol, a boulangerie etc, but no pubs!! Apparently, there was no love lost between the Frogs and the Poms (hard to believe), but in 1980 the country achieved independence and the archipelago of eighty-three islands became Vanuatu. its original cartography was done in part, at least, by a Portuguese explorer in 1605 and some island names reflect that heritage, such as Espiritu Santo and Pentecost Islands.
We take the constantly running punt across the bay whenever we feel the need. lririki Island Resort provides a 24/7 service which takes about three minutes to cross the bay where someone holds out a helping hand for the aged (me...white hair is such a giveaway), and then you toddle down a broken and cracked concrete lane to whatever you're doing for the day. You can do this a hundred times a day if needed.
The Irikiri ferry
The cyclones wreaked havoc, but they've done a mighty job in rebuilding the seafront walls, destroyed restaurants and other buildings. Water surges were up to people's waists in their homes and as houses are very basic there wasn't anywhere much for them to go! Terrifying stuff.
Today we took a local tour, and it was just us, so we had a full four hours of driving to seemingly remote and inaccessible rivers and waterholes. Our trusty guide took the pot-holed and rutted roads very sedately and we visited Eton Creek and its glassy, tumbling waters as they rushed to the sea. The sand apparently filters the water and its translucent aquamarine hue, fringed by coconut palms, is a beautiful and serene sight. From here we visited the famed Blue Lagoon and it is just that; the river widens and becomes a perfect swimming hole, with tall trees big enough to hold a sturdy rope and so we watched the kids being tutored on the finer points of swinging out over the water before jumping, bombing and belly busting into the neon blue below. Adults of varying ages and intrepidity (not us...technically I'm not swimming much due to stitches in my back from a BCC removal) took their turn, exhibiting some interesting and contorted moves.
Repairs from the cyclones to surrounding infrastructure were underway and I could imagine it a very busy scene in peak time. Apparently, the Fijian and NZ army were there the day before because they've been here on manoeuvres. No sign of Princess Mary of Denmark, which was extremely disappointing. Apparently, she's princessing her way around the South Pacific and it might've been a real hoot watching our Mares take her turn on the rope swing, avec la waterproof tiara of course.
Dammit - just missed Princess Mary by 5 days!!
From here we headed to Eden River cascades, a secret spot, a very secret spot, judging by the road conditions. As we bumped and lurched our way along a dirt road between lushly overgrown paddocks, inventively fenced with various sticks holding the wires, we spied beef cattle and were told there's even a sheep farm! Eventually we made our way down a set of steps to the cascades - rushing and tumbling over polished boulders and clear enough to see the bottom in parts. We gingerly stepped down the rocky path and positioned our backsides on a rock for our graceful entry into the river. Just as well David Attenborough wasn't around or else we may have appeared in some weird wildlife doco!
Eden Cascades
However, we lolled like baby hippos in the Zambezi until we thought to investigate the criss-crossing suspension bridges we spied looping across and over the river. Indiana Jones would've whipped us into doing it, but our Indy moment was short lived as we looked across those extremely narrow and swinging planes of timber. Our grandsons would've skipped jauntily across; we would've been on our hands and knees within seconds. Thankfully no one was around to see our gutless response to adventure, and we just ventured along a few planks and took a pic instead.
Our last jaunt for the day was a quick trip to a turtle hatchery run by the government, which of course aims to replenish the sadly diminishing Hawksbill turtle population. These delightful critters are brought from their nests nearby and so they're all brothers and sisters. Tiny six month turtles flapped vigorously around their pool looking for all the world like a wind-up toy as they crashed into my feet or each other. They're released at five years when their shells measure a dinner plate size.
The Hawksbill Turtle hatchery at the Turtle Sanctuary
Of course the day wasn't complete without a massage. We opted for a local Thai business which cunningly included a Thai restaurant next door. We didn't think to ask if one gave the other a discount. Damn! Booking ourselves in (no immediate alarm bells rang that there was no one else booked just then) we were ushered into a back room and asked to remove shoes. All good. Then we were guided by rather grimly smiling Thai ladies (on reflection, that grimness was probably more resignation at massaging fat white people again) into what seemed to be an extremely poorly lit set of curtained cubicles, but which I was certain harboured raddled, mumbling opium addicts. It was so dark, the brown curtains adding a sepulchral note to the ambience, that when my masseur indicated the clothes on the bed and the receptacle for glasses and watch etc, I felt around like a blind mole in its burrow and demanded 'Why is it so dark?' in quite worried tones. By now I was convinced we'd stumbled onto either an opium den hidden in plain sight in Port Vila or we were embarking upon some strange, ancient ritual which demanded dark, silence and complete submission to tiny Thai ladies with ridiculously strong hands.
She indicated the clothes again and in the dark I struggled to don a shirt made for very svelte people. By this time, my patience was waning and I called out that the shirt didn't fit and so I was given a towel and, through sign language, told to keep my pants on. This last instruction was a tremendous relief, as you may imagine. She began the torture with a big leg workout; stretching and pulling, bending and contorting, pushing and slapping. One of my feet was lodged in her abdomen and then she kneaded muscles long dormant. Boy did they wake up! By now I was starting to giggle inanely for no reason other than that we'd willingly submitted ourselves to this procedure and the realisation there was no getting out of it. Pushing my arthritic left ankle into positions it hadn't seen since the womb, I uttered a faint protest as bones began to crumble. 'Ah, sorry, sorry' she murmured as I feebly smiled. 'It's alright' I assured her, inwardly cringing at what future x-rays might reveal.
I knew that massage wasn’t going well
Eventually the leg massage section came to its merciful end, and I was inelegantly turned over to have the back section attended to. By this time, I had assimilated new pain levels and this last half hour was a relative doddle. Even when she climbed aboard and straddled my newly displaced hips, I felt renewed strength in my limbs; new ability to combat pain but most of all, a deep respect for the strength contained in those tiny hands. We staggered outdoors after an hour, congratulating ourselves on being upright and mobile. Returning to our room, we further punished ourselves with Scrabble and a beer before returning to town that evening for a lovely Italian meal. We felt we'd earned it.
Today, as I finish writing this, I am seated underneath spreading and drooping bleeding heart trees, on a remote beach on Pele Island, part of this archipelago, and a tiny South Pacific idyll. It's part of our package and we're the only ones here ... who are not locals.
We'd been driven right around the other side of Efate Island (where Port Vila is) to a distant point by Timothy who informed us in broken English about sights along the way. For example, he drove across to the other side of the road suddenly, leaned out the window and pointed to a square, concrete structure with stagnant water which had been constructed for the American troops as a swimming pool during WW2 when Efate and Espiritu Santo had been US bases.
Makeshift pool used by the US armed forces during WWII
We arrived at our jetty after an hour of infrequent bursts of speed halted by considerable potholes or missing road bits, traffic snarls and stops for petrol and water. Expecting some type of larger boat to transport us to Pele, we were introduced to Manu who helped us aboard the SS Tadpole, a small runabout with an outboard motor and plywood floorboards. Expectations sank. However, Manu guided his tiny boat with a sure hand, and we skimmed across the emerald waters and arrived at the beach where we nimbly hopped out. Yes, nimbly.
As I write, Rod sits in front of me on a daybed reading. The sand is white and a little gritty from decomposing coral but the breeze blows cooly and lapping waves provide the soundtrack. We have wandered to the local school, about 400m up a rough track and talked with two of the staff of this little outpost of education. There are no fans, no air conditioning, and only recently, electricity supplied through solar panels. It was oppressively stifling in the classroom where I chatted and read a kid's workbook. Sweat gathered in runnels down my face and stained my shirt. One classroom is out of commission due to the roof being ripped off by the cyclone, and the cyclones wrecked their internet connections. Of course we must try and help them and so we'll hopefully be contacting the Principal when she's back to find out whether goods or cash would be the best path forward.
Vanuatan primary school children
I sign off from here in this seemingly idyllic setting which, like most picture perfect scenes, has its darker side.
Mary and Rod’s Adventures in Vanuatu (holiday travel)
Written by Mary Zabell and collated by Rob Landsberry, last modified 23 June 2023