Tuesday, July 20th: Kava, Lap Lap, Dance

The best laid plans 
Could I describe a truly regular sightseeing day to excruciating boring detail? Yes. If only I'd get a chance. It's 6AM, Blandine is still sleeping. Two fans rotate occasional shreds of coolness in the room, while I go over our day in my mind. The plan is to drive around the island, either by taxi, or by motorbike. Or any other way we can sort out for a decent price, really. Having spent all our time on Moso, it is high time we get to know the main island and we have just today and tomorrow morning to do so. Damn, this incessant downpour is raining on our parade. I turn over, thinking that a little extra sleep might clear up things.

We have breakfast on the villa's patio overlooking Port Vila bay. The Pacific weather gods have finished draining their main vein over this island, yet a stinging little drizzle inhibits a smile on our tourist faces. The locals passing by on the street underneath the patio don't mind: only a few people sport umbrellas, the majority of flashy T-shirts pass by without rain protection. The breakfast is good: all-you-can-eat fresh fruit, cheese or jam on toast and coffee. It's too late to sort out reasonably priced transport; anyways rushing around this tropical island while it's raining never inspired anyone.

It's decided, we'll take it easy: window shopping and looking for post cards in town must have its charm too, no? We walk down into town, drop off a week's worth of laundry, then make a first official stop at ....a travel agency, where we book a tour to a cultural village for tomorrow morning, and an island feast for tonight. Nope, we're not trying to compensate for anything. =p

We fill up on the latest news from Europe at an air-conditioned internet café, it's been more than a week since we've been connected! Funnily, the sun has come out now that we are in a curtained room. We rush out into the main street light and continue our shopping, hurrying from one shady spot to the next, holding hands until they get too sweaty for comfort.

My name is Mud
A nice lunch will help our feet recover from all that walking, The local mud crab in coconut sauce on the suggestion board of the Café du Village lures me in. We sit on a patio overlooking the harbour, from the wooden framework above us purple bougainvillea flower strings hang down in ample veils. A Vanuatu Tusker will keep my mud crab company. At 4400 Vatu (=EUR 36), the mud crab is far from cheap, but we're on holidays, right? Moreover, could I really leave this place without eating one of its most advertised gourmet treasures? Exactly.

This heavenly lunch finishes in style with a 1000 Vatu chocolate mousse Blandine manages to eat in record time. Why am I worried about what things cost? After yesterday's seriously steep bill for our exploits on Moso, we must at all cost do a better job not to ruin ourselves before the end of this career break. Bellies filled to the limit with happiness, we start heading back to the hotel. Along the way we decide to walk through the local market, curious to see what's on sale here. Coconuts, wood, unusual veggies like meter-long strings named snake beans, pineapples, bananas and fresh banana crisps all sold by smiling locals who still have most of their teeth. We can't buy a thing as we fly to Sydney tomorrow afternoon, so we take pictures instead. As we get back in view of the front gate of "Room with a view", a minivan stops across the street. Rats! That must be the van for our evening activity! We rush upstairs, drop off our shopping and bag with fresh laundry, storm down the stairs and into the waiting van.

Island feast
This is it; we've bought ourselves tickets to the culinary highlight of the week: a local feast with music spectacle and a cultural experience. Okay, it's a tourist's tour and authenticity will be missing, but with the time left in this place we have no illusion that we could befriend locals and get ourselves invited to one of their official functions instead. Arrived at the "cultural village", we look at a few caged parrots, geckoes, spiders, then I pose with a Pacific boa around my body while the park guide (cultural village guide?) in typical Pacific island-style uniform puts her tanned hands behind her back and explains that it's not a deadly species. Blandine kindly refuses to take over the vertebrate from me, snakes aren't her favourite animal, lets say.

The tour takes us to a cave with photos about some of the island's cannibalistic history, the occupation of the French and the English, and some of the local mythology. There's too much to read and twilight is turning into darkness. I rush through beds of local vegetables to catch up with the rest of the group, on its way to the festival area. The guide has us all seated on benches in a half circle, just before the sun has completely set, and states in an apologetic way that we can come back to the cultural village tomorrow on the same ticket. It's the first time she speaks with confidence, apparently it's not the first time this happens. The place is worthy of more exploration, but I imagine Blandine and I rushing back, from our morning tour to make it on time to the airport, so revisiting this place is not an option.


Kava, lap-lap, dance
A local music band keeps us entertained, under a setting sun, and in the distinguished company of voracious mosquitoes. The spray on our legs will hold off most of the mozzies, others have started scratching the minute they sat down. This doesn't discourage some of us to pull out our dancing shoes while the locals continue to cook our feast. While blandine and I slowdance, I get a closer look at the band and "darn", I seem to recognise the guys in the band, where have I seen them before? I dig deep into my Pacific music bands memory and then I remember: they're the same guys that entertained us when we arrived at the airport!

Then the park hostess invites us to drink kava. Kava is a bitter, milky drink made from roots of the pepper tree. It doesn't look appetizing, so why should we try it? It's the big hit all over the Pacific, used in all official ceremonies and is rumoured to have special properties. You'll find kava bars all over the islands, some have legendary status. It's mainly a drink for real men I'm told, so, after having verified it's not the drink that ferments with woman's spit, I give it a go.  Woow, within seconds my lips start numbing a bit, I get the tingly feeling of a sleeping limb, but on both my lips. I start laughing and rush back to Blandine, half a cocunut of lipnumbing liquid in hand. She doesn't share my enthusiasm and only after my insisting for 2 minutes she caves in an has a quick slurp. "Brrrwaaah, how can you drink this?!?" is all she can utter. It's a man's drink, I understand.


All this drinking and dancing makes us tourists rather hungry. Then, finally after a good 15 minutes, we're invited, to come and see our food being dug up. Yes, that's right. Our food has been wrapped in banana leaves and place over hot coals, then covered with earth. For hours it has slow-cooked to perfection. First we get to taste lap-lap, a Vanuatu delicacy that looks like a type of glutinous pudding. It's made from grated vegetables (such as manioc, taro or yam), soaked in coconut milk to form a paste. Our guide tells us that on special occasions, pork, beef, chicken, fish or even flying fox (a large fruit eating bat) may be added, or the paste may be sweetened with a few bananas. We taste the one with banana. Bummer, I could have had a bit of bat, really. We sit down and eat our heart's content of island pork and marinated fish while chatting with our Australian neighbours, who are impressed with our story about our upcoming volunteer job. The food is good, the company as well, and inevitably time starts moving faster than ever. Before we know it, the buffet is closed and the park guide points in the direction of the van. Stuffed like pigs we are returned to our tourist hotels. Mission accomplished, goodnight!