Post-Vanuatu Vanuatu Post

And now, the final time I'll be blogging up your arteries, at least about this particular misadventure.

When I last left you, Jack, Kilv and I had been stranded on a small(ish) island in the South Pacific. This island did have about 8,000 people on it. And trucks. And three airfields. Nevertheless, we felt very, very stranded. The island was called Ambae (and it still is), and it was halfway between Pentecost (where we'd come from) and Espiritu Santo (where we wanted to go). Ambae had not been in our itinerary at all, but Vanuatu tends to treat itineraries like a drunk bitter stuntman might treat general health and safety guidelines, guidelines which had been written by his ex-wife, who just loved to nag.

So, after being thrown off the cargo ship, we stood on the beach in a place called Lolowai, complained and got everybody feeling very sorry for us. The fact that the boat's crew had actually told us they were full up even before we got on, well, that was something we all decided was pretty irrelevant, so we didn't really mention it. What we did mention was that we'd been thrown off the boat, and this was terrible, and we deserved lots of nice things. So, we ascertained that there was a plane leaving at about 4 that day, and we managed to get a free ride to the airfield, because we'd been thrown off the boat (!) We sat there for about two hours until the plane arrived and was full. There had been three places left, but a policeman arrived with a couple of criminals and for some reason thought he had some sort of precedence. And, inexplicably, the staff at the airfield agreed (maybe they hadn't heard that we'd been thrown off the boat.)

So, on Ambae we remained.

On a side note, we tried playing cheat, the card game, at the airfield, and it went horribly, horribly wrong. Nobody won quickly enough, and soon enough we all just knew what the other people had in their hands, and a ridiculous impasse emerged. We packed it in, cleared the cards away and quietly agreed never to betray shithead again.

We were told we could stay in a local guesthouse for the night, and a truck ferried us down to the main town, and the provincial capital, Saratamata, which, to us, was a surreal version of the villages we were used to on Pentecost, infused with a bit more commercialism and modern sensibilities. There were garden hedges, and a (sole) business enterprise. This time we had to pay for our truck, and the guesthouse turned out to be even more expensive than those in Santo or Vila. But we were tired and needed a base of operations, so we accepted it. There was a shower, and a flush toilet, and regular electricity, and these were things we had not had for a while. Also, comfortable beds, which Jack and Kilv went straight to and slept in for hours. I couldn't, for some reason, and got this weird cabin fever. I had no idea how we'd get off this island. The plane that was arriving the next morning was probably going to be full. One of the airport staff had told us that. My faith in cargo ships had been shaken, and there weren't really any other options. I felt hopelessly caged. So, I distracted myself with any activity I could find. I read some of Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie. I played solitaire, both on my iPod and with real cards. I went for a walk and asked about cargo ships. My findings were that nobody could really give me a consistent and definite answer, but some ships might be coming at some point. So I went home and played solitaire again.

EVENTUALLY, Jack and Kilv woke up, and we had some warm beer and whiskey. Mmmmm. Then we made dinner. And this dinner was important. It represented the beginning of us cooking for ourselves, which we then did regularly and with no sense of variety for the next eight days. That's a long time to live off combinations of rice, noodles, tuna and pork luncheon meat. This first meal was just noodles. We had a limited amount of material money with us, no way to get more without setting up our own guesthouse (it would have been a magical place...) and no definite time of departure. So: noodles.

The next day, we heard from the guesthouse manager (we so nearly became his competition: sadly, we would have run him out of town) that the plane was full up. He'd received a call from the airport. So, we decided to walk back to Lolowai and see if anyone there knew anything more concrete about the boats. It was here that we met Enos (pronounced anus) a local man who very kindly gave us all the information we needed. There was a ship coming today, the Makila, and it would be here about 4 in the afternoon. This was amazing news. But obviously, we weren't stupid, and we knew that, here, what sounded like amazing news could quite easily turn out to be amazing conjecture. So, we took it with a handful of salt, and asked a few other people. There was enough reiteration of Enos's claims, that we started to get a bit hopeful. A bit too hopeful, perhaps? (Yes, very much too hopeful).

So, because we were feeling hopeful, and because, actually, we were a bit stupid, we decided that it was basically a sure thing we'd be getting off Ambae that very day, so why didn't we splash out on some lunch? We went to a little cafe, and had some bog-standard food, paid too much for it, and watched the first half of Home Alone 3. Afterwards, back in our guest house, we just bumbled about for a while, until 2, when we went down to the waterfront again, this time with our bags. There, we met some lads about our age who told us the ship would be coming in about 5, but then would be staying there all night, because it was too small to travel at nights. Hmmmmmm. But, again, we decided not to take this as fact, and decided to play a game of football with the lads just next to the harbour, while we waited for the ship. Eventually it was getting pretty dark, so we left Lolowai, which had remained Makila-less, to go to another, closer, guesthouse. We were going to come back early the next morning, the next time the Makila might be arriving.

This new guesthouse was part of a school, or training centre. All of the students had left for the holidays, and it was only the headmaster, Willy, and his family who remained. Willy was a lovely man, who agreed to take us into Saratamata to get some food, with his brand new truck. A brand new truck he obviously had little idea how to drive. We learnt this pretty quickly, as the trip began with a hill-start. Actually, three hill-starts, a nd a lot of apologetic sounds coming from Willy's direction. I very almost offered to drive it myself. However, we didn't crash, and the trip gave us a chance to explain to Willy the many shortcomings of the crew of the Tina I. He was very, very sorry, and felt a need to apologise profusely for his countrymen. He even gave us a third off the guesthouse price because, by that point, we were such expert whiners. So, for the second night, we cooked for ourselves (rice, tuna, noodles), and then played a lot of shithead. Probably too much.

The next morning, we returned to Lolowai, very early, and sat, awaiting the ship. There weren't really any other people about, and we began to think maybe the ship wasn't actually coming. Then, after about an hour, round the point, a massive ship emerged. Bigger than the Tina I, it sailed into view, looking fit to carry us all the way back to England. We were a little bit overjoyed. Finally some luck. We asked a nearby Ni-Van, so, is this the Makila? And he said no. This was the Serafena. And it was going the wrong way. Balls. Then, just as we were explaining to the Ni-Van that it was the wrong ship, and we'd really rather not spend the next five days on the Serafena before reaching anywhere we actually wanted to be, the Makila rumbled into view. And as it drew up alongside the Serafena, and looked, to us, like a rowing boat, one made of lego, pulling up alongside an aircraft carrier, we felt like we'd been kicked in the balls by the boot we were searching for.

But, it turned out to be quite nice actually. We landed a sweet spot: a sizeable stretch of walkway just in front of the bridge, where we could all lay out and relax the voyage away. We even had some breakfest, and someone had kindly told the ships crew that we weren't eating anything except noodles and fish, so they kindly obliged. The ship pottered along Ambae first of all, going from east to west, stopping at about five more ports. For us though, this period was mostly about Kilv getting texts from Enos checking we were safe, and us getting sunburnt. It all happened very quickly, and a bit surreptitiously, so that we didn't even realise we were getting a bit burnt, until we were already VERY burnt. It didn't seem to hit Kilv too bad, but that was alright, because he was busy getting ill again (of the occasions where he'd drunk kava on Pentecost, he'd thrown up more times than not).

At the westernmost end of Ambae, we headed out into the open ocean, where waters began to get choppy. This was much to the annoyance of Kilv and the pigs who had just been tied up and left on the lower deck, where water was sloshing everywhere. These pigs were shivering. Concepts of animal welfare are so very underdeveloped in Vanuatu. For us with sturdier stomachs, the rocky waves, which were tipping the ship at what seemed like 45 degree angles from its upright state, were exciting stuff. You could stand up, and maybe, if you were brave, you could let go for just a second. Wowza. What japes.

Eventually, we reached Santo, at about 6 that evening, and as the pigs breathed an oink of relief, we disembarked and settled back into Luganville drudgery. What came next were three haiku-worthy days, where the most exciting thing we did was book our flights away. We also met two Australians, at different times, and played too much shithead. I'm really not going to waste much more time on those dreadful three days.

So, on Monday, the first chance we had to fly out, we did. We caught a plane to Vila, waited there for only (thank god) an hour, then carried on to Tanna. This was done in a much smaller plane, where you could comfortably see inside the cockpit, and seats sometimes fell apart. We landed at White Sands airfield on the West of Tanna, one of Vanuatu's most southern islands, and quickly found a truck to the Eastern side of the island, where everything we wanted to see was. As our funds were now getting quite stretched (we'd even written a budget of everything we needed to spend money on, and the maximum amount each thing would cost, and found we could just afford it; we then had to remind Jack that it wasn't our responsibility to spend exactly this amount), we haggled with the Ni-Van, Philip, who'd approached us, and got us down to a reasonable amount. The deal was that he'd take us over to the resort where he worked, Jungle Oasis, where we'd stay in tents, the cheapest option as we figured. The first part of the journey was through typical Vanuatu landscape: jungles, bamboo houses and barefoot children. At one point we stopped in Lenakel, Tanna's big town, and the truck went off, with our bags to pick up someone else. We were a bit unnerved, but we did feel we knew Vanuatu well enough for this level of trust to be acceptable. And the truck came back, so it was fine.

Halfway through the journey, we began to go up a hill. The big hill that you tend to find in the middle of islands. And this was big. Bigger than Pentecost's central ridge. But as we reached the crest and began to descend again, mist enveloped us. It was all around us. We could see there was a drop at the side of the road, but nothing beyond that. Just a white expanse. It was more magical than scary. We were told that this mist was somehow linked to the volcano, at whose base we would be staying. It wasn't smoke though, as we weren't coughing our lungs up. There's no guarantee that what we were told was even correct.

But that fog was nothing. As we descended, out of the cloud, we found ourselves still in jungle surroundings, until suddenly, we emerged onto the ashplains...

...which were amazing.

From being on a dust track completely surrounded by trees, to suddenly and unexpectedly find yourself on one of the most breathtaking and individual landscapes in the world. It could sort of be described as being desert-like, but that doesn't quite get it. The word which would get you closest would probably be 'lunar'. An expanse of lifeless, serene, unbroken terrain , fringed on all sides by lush verdant life, and surrounding the towering presence of Yasur. Never has the colour grey been so beautiful.

We trucked across this scene, over a hidden river, before coming up alongside Yasur. The big ol' volcano of Tanna. We'd be seeing her more intimately later. First, it was back into the jungle for a short way before reaching Jungle Oasis. We haggled some more and managed to get a lower price for a room (there weren't ACTUALLY any tents) and access to the kitchen to make our own dinner. It had started to rain, but we still needed to go and buy our dinner. Philip gamely suggested we all take off our t-shirts, and run to the store. Stupidly, we agreed. So, we hurtled off through the downpour following the vague shape of Philip. Oh, it was also pretty dark by this point. We passed some Ni-Vans who all got pretty excited by three topless white men being idiots in bad weather. Kilv also fell into a deep, deep puddle. Then we got to the store. The storekeeper wasn't there. So, Philip enlisted me to run off into the jungle with him, leaving Jack to tend to the soaking wet Kilv (hey, none of us were exactly dry, Philip). We reached the storekeepers house, and he wasn't there either. There was a lot of chat in the local language which I didn't understand, before Philip and I ran back to the store. Then, Philip ran off again, while we waited outside. For about half an hour. Then Philip remembered about us and came back, with the store key. Dinner was then bought, cooked and eaten. Then, bed.

The next day, Philip agreed to take us to one of the John Frum villages. John Frum was this American man who allegedly came during WWII, promised the local population a load of cool stuff if they maintained their ways, so they then began to worship America by raising their flag and building fake runways. This is one of the many self-contradictory versions of the story that we'd heard, and would yet hear. So, after a bit of a walk, we reached this village. And, to be honest, it was pretty standard. There wasn't even any US paraphernalia lying about. Secretly, I wasn't impressed. We were here so Jack could do some research and I could take photos, for an article for some publications back in the UK. But I didn't feel there was anything particularly special or exciting about this particular place, or these particular people. I mean, I love Vanuatu, and all the culture contained within it, but everyone seemed to make a big fuss about this cult (and yes, they're a cult) in particular, and if anything, this place seemed flatter, more culturally lifeless, than dozens of other villages I'd seen across the country. There was an interesting dance where an old woman was supposed to be possessed, and did genuinely act so, occasionally passing on the spirit to others. But nobody else seemed that impressed, and so any idea of an 'atmosphere' vanished. It just felt like a bit of interpretive dance that everyone was a bit bored by. And it could so easily have been a lot more. I do want to express though, that these are just my own feelings about the place.

Later, we did kava, as prepared in the Tannese style: chewed by small virginal children, and then strained through a bit of cloth. Mmmm, sanitary. Nevertheless, Kilv and I both had two shells (Jack stopped after one), and were each a little bit drunk for the rest of the day.

Afterwards, Jack had his interview with a man who was apparently the right-hand man of one of the top guys, but who also worked as a security guard at our resort. The man didn't really seem to understand everything about the cult, and some of the stuff didn't add up, in the usual Vanuatu style. I'm not going to tell you what was said, because we've since found out a lot of what we were told was actually secret, and shouldn't even have reached our ears. Silly security guard/cult official. Always sticking your foot in it (probably).

We walked back home, grabbed some lunch on the way, and bumbled around for a bit. Then, at about four, Philip came to take us up Yasur. With us on this trek we had Andreas and Silva, two Estonians who were travelling around the world a bit. After a surprisingly short time, we'd walked through the jungle part of the journey, and Yasur stood before us. After another surprisingly short walk, we reached the top. What we saw was a massive crater with lots of smoke pouring out, understandably. Yasur, is, by the way, a volcano. I'm genuinely not sure if I've mentioned that yet. As the dark and the coldness came, a glow was added to the smoke emanating from Yasur's mouth, and the occasional eruptions became a lot more impressive. You could actually see bits of lava being chucked up. We spent a long time waiting, with our fingers on our camera buttons, for these eruptions.

At about 7, we agreed to leave. We were pretty cold, on the top of that volcano. On the way down, Philip told us a pretty galling story about a tourist who had got herself and her guide killed by being stupid. We'd also been a bit stupid, and we felt ashamed.

Dinner, shithead, bed.

The next day, the main thing we did was ashboarding. Somehow, this resort had ended up with a snowboard, and Philip took us all to the ashplains. Silva came along with us, but couldn't actually participate because of some dodgy knee. However, he kindly took photos etc. On the ashplains there was this sort of ridge. The idea was to board down it. There were no proper snowboarding boots, just your shoes. And no steering or anything. Just straight down. I was a bit rubbish at this. I kept sitting down halfway down the slope. Jack had a fantastic fall on his first attempt. His second was alright. Kilv, however, was the king. He put us all to shame.  There was something about strapping yourself to a piece of fiberglass and launching yourself down the lower reaches of a volcano that came so naturally to that Norfolk born farm lad.

And Enos text Kilv a few more times, to see if we were all getting along alright.

The rest of the day was spent lazing about. Kilv went on a nature walk with Philip. Jack and I didn't.

Dinner, shithead (with the Estonians), bed.

The next morning, our last on Tanna, we boarded a truck with Philip and the Estonians, to head off to another John Frum village, this one at odds to the one previously visited. There'd been some sort of fracture in the beliefs of what John Frum meant, or where he was from, or something. Something to do with a river. When we got there, Jack took another interview, and I went off to take some photos. It was a little more interesting than the other place, but only a little. When I got back, Jack had nearly caused an international incident, so we left sharpish.

Back in the truck, we headed back to the western side of the island, to catch our plane. Climbing the hill again, there was no mist. And it was breathtaking. You could see so far across this most beautiful landscape, with Yasur rising out of the scenery, and spewing out a pillar of clouds. I sort of had an idea not to take photos of it, to leave it as a purely transitory experience, as that would somehow make it more beautiful... I don't really understand those thoughts now.

Back in Lenakel, we ate lunch in a cafe, and then waved goodbye to the Estonians, who were staying on this side of the island for a few days. We then waited around for a few hours near the airport, before jetting back to Vila.

We'd arranged to stay with Ken, Kilv's adoptive uncle, who owned a kava bar, which was right next to his house. He didn't really have enough beds, so I had a very thin mattress on the floor. Before bed though, we walked into town, had dinner at a nice cafe, as a treat. However, this cafe was also showing Twighliught: Eclipsssssse. Which we watched. It was rubbish. There was also some Christmas celebrations going on, but they were a bit too gaudy, so we went back to Ken's, which was in the much more interesting and fun part of Vila. As Jack and I slumped in front of Chinese news, Kilv went and had some secret kava.

The next morning Ken came in at 6:30, carrying a beer and announcing that it was his thirtieth birthday. So, we went outside, and the next three hours were spent drinking beer, eating barbecued chicken wings and taking photos. There was a weird friend of Ken's who kept tickling Jack, with no inhibitions about venturing near the groinal area, and making Kilv dance for him. But, as far as we could tell, he'd bought most of the beer, so fair enough. At about 9:30, we headed into town for some internet usage. We all managed to lose each other a bit, and it was getting too hot, so, after we'd managed to all be in the same place at the same time, we went back to Ken's.

And Kilv received some more texts from Enos, checking how we were, which was...nice.

We'd heard news that Sue, our old Gap coordinator, and a bit of a legend for us, lived very nearby, so we went and had a chat. After a bit of a bitch with her about the general state of certain things, we headed over to the hostel where all the current Gappers were staying, so Jack could pick up something from Joshua. We hung out with them for a good few hours, trading stories and the like, and found they all thought David was a cock as well, while the cock himself sat, by himself, in the lobby, on his laptop. That was genuinely his choice of things to do. Afterwards, a quick dinner in town, before an early night, as we would be leaving the house at about 4am.

Which we did.

And then waited in the airport, doing airport things, until our flight out at 7, to Sydney. Our day in Sydney was spent doing fun things like stealing showers from Youth Hostels, walking around a whole lot, drinking beer and watching The Last Exorcism. Our night in Sydney was spent on a cold floor, with annoying Christmas tunes being played too loudly. It's the worst airport to spend a night in.

And Kilv received a text from Enos, instructing him to send out a new mobile as a present. What an anus.

Then began our big Korean Air experience. Firstly, eight hours up to Seoul, which was pretty uneventful. However, in Seoul, we had rooms, courtesy of the airline, at a swanky-arse hotel. Seriously, it was ridiculous. You walk into the lobby, and immediately someone comes up and asks you where you want to go! You needed to use your keycards in the lift! There were phones in the bathrooms! We each had our own rooms! The breakfast was a buffet, and not a rubbish buffet! An omelette chef, a pastry chef, and probably some other chefs! It was what we needed. In the morning I watched an episode on New Tricks.

Then it was back to the airport to fly away, back to the UK.

On our eleven hour flight back home, the air-hostesses thought Kilv was drunk, after two beers, because his face looked a bit red, so what Jack and I did was each order a beer, drink the beer, and then put the empty cans on Kilv's table. There was also talk of spilling beer all over him while he was asleep. Oh, Kilv.

Then we got home, and it was snowing.

I'm going to say Silva, the Estonian, won shithead overall. Because I suspect with a name like Silva, there's a lot of pressure for him to come in second place all the time.

So, it's goodbye from Jack 'Tari Lalau' Noble, Tom 'Kilv' Kilvert, our assembled Ni-Van friendship base, the people at Korean Air and me, Will 'Mr Wells' Bourdillon. Lookem yu bakagen!

The Bumper Birthday Blog

Okily dokes. It's my birthday, and I'm now laid up in bed (in the UK), with a foot wound, so I'll use the free internet, courtesy of Bernard Bourdillon and Frieda Schicker, to complete the massive update.

Right, we'd left it in Bwatnapne, on the second night of our walk. The next morning, we set off again, this time with Kilv, but pretty much straight away, as we were scaling a steep muddy path, one of my flip-flops broke, and I had to slow down quite a bit. I let the others go off ahead, and I trekked, barefoot through the jungle at a frankly embarrassing pace. I saw the guys once more that day when they waited at a junction, to make sure I saw the sign they'd made to show which way they'd gone... It started to rain at some point and I stopped in a village called Namaram. I kept hearing reports that Jack and Kilv were in another house, so I'd go to that house, only to receive a new report. I later learnt, from them, that they had been in the church. Nobody had even mentioned the church.

Out of Namaram, I got accompanied by a guy called Chris, who called me brother, and kept telling me at hourly intervals that we were nearly at the top of the hill. Eventually, nearing dark, we reached Singmwel, a village pretty near to Nambaranguit, and it was here I decided to spend the night. I was tired. My flip-flops had been fixed by Chris, but they were now tighter and dug into the gap between my toes. Singmwel was also the first sight I had of people I knew. A lot of the kids Jack and I had taught had come from Singmwel, our school servicing the whole surrounding area, and it was genuinely one of the biggest reliefs of my life to see them at that point. It wouldn't have felt right, stopping for the night anywhere before this point. We'd originally set ourselves the goal of reaching Nambaranguit this evening, and, from what I understood, Jack and Kilv had, or were about to, achieve this. But Singmwel was enough for me. I had the feeling of having returned, I had the familiar faces, changed by three years, swarming around me, cheering at my ever-strengthening Bislama, and I felt I had the criteria filled to take off my absurdly large counterweight of a rucksack and sit the fuck down.

The evening was spent in the nakamal, a sort of mix between a town hall and a kava bar, although kava is free here. I had some kava, and spent about an hour talking to an ex-student, Amon, about how the school had changed, He was no doubt bored shitless, but the kava and the fact that so much had actually seemed to have changed made it the hottest topic on this weary walker's numb lips. It turns out a lot of the teachers we'd taught with had now left, including the infuriating but dependable head-teacher, Alfred, and his wife Vivian, probably the most sensible Ni-Van we ever encountered, who were at the head of our support structure back in '07. I also learnt for certain what I'd been hearing scattered rumours about on the walk up: there were two new Gappers in Namby. Joshua and David. Fucking David. What an arse he would turn out to be.

The next morning, after a night in some random Ni-Van's house (this is also how Vanuatu works), I set off for Namby. I spent about an hour reaching the hill above the village and another hour struggling down it. It was very rocky, and i now had to go barefoot, my flipflops having entered the rare space in my mind reserved for things I genuinely HATE (as they are also the reason I can't really walk now, they still occupy this space, and I doubt they'll be evicted soon). But I reached the bottom soon enough and a large-scale repeat of yesterday's welcome was staged. Children everywhere. Some I recognised, most I didn't, but pretended to. They didn't care that it didn't make sense that I apparently recognised them, as they'd only moved to Pentecost from another island last year, and had never met me in '07, because I recognised them. I was Mr Wells. I could do anything.

Oh, yes, in Vanuatu, I'm Mr. Wells, because of a general and widespread inability of native Ni-Vans to hear me pronounce Will and not subconsciously alter the vowel sound and add an 's' on the end. I love it.

But then, wading through this crowd of excited, recognised children, came two white people. Joshua and David. We shook hands and they tried not to look too annoyed we'd shown up. Jack and Kilv showed up just after, and we retired to an empty dormitory that would become Jack and my house for the next few days. Kilv set off pretty soon after, to go and stay in his old village Labultamata, which was a couple of hours walk further north. So much of this trip involved us not spending time with Kilv. We don't even hate him or nothing.

We stayed in Nambaranguit for a good few days. Those days comprised an almost perfect revisit for us. There had been a bit of worry about going back for too long, or not enough time, or realising that coming back had just ruined our memories, but none of this turned out to be the case at all. The village had changed just enough. It still definitely felt like Nambaranguit, and that was important, but what was also equally important was the fact that there were new additions, or things missing, that meant that this new experience didn't impinge on the old one, which was in danger of becoming extremely fragile.

One of the things that had changed so dramatically was the fact that EVERYONE had mobile phones now. I mean, like, even the kids. Back in the good old days, nobody had them. Alfred, the head, got one once, and he kept asking us how to use it, and would spend hours walking along the beach whenever he wanted to make a call searching for reception, which I don't ever remember him finding. Also, we're not really sure who he was calling. Maybe he didn't either. Maybe he thought that people with mobile phones called each other every so often, whether they knew one another or not, and he could join this technological elite, this telecommunicational freemasons, if only he could find that elusive signal. He was probably plagued by nightmares of high-society get-togethers where everyone would sip cocktails and compare Snake scores, and to which he wasn't invited!

But now, EVERYONE had them, because of some company swooping in and setting up loads of aerials all over the place, then the original company getting annoyed at losing their monopoly and realising they'd probably have to start providing the service they promised. So now, the new company, Digicel, and the old company, TVL, are in an eternal struggle to have the most coverage (charmingly spelt 'kaverej' in Bislama). This struggle doesn't actually affect most Ni-Vans though, as a lot of them seem to have a Digicel mobile and a TVL mobile, because why not?

Something that happened while we were there was a kastom ceremony. This ceremony involved some dancing (for 12 or 13 hours) by local women, before two men due to ascend in the ranks of chiefdom, came and battered a load of pigs to death. It was graphic, and brutal, and I didn't particularly enjoy it. Jack, Kilv and I had all killed pigs on our previous stay, to receive honour and respect, and become chiefs. But there was something about this ceremony that was too harsh, too savage, too gratuitous. I watched one of the actual killings, so that afterwards I could say I had seen it, then refrained from watching the others, because what I said afterwards suddenly didn't seem as important. I heard them all, though.

One of the best parts of returning was getting to see my family again. We each got an adoptive family back in 2007, and mine were my mother Geneva, father Silas, brother Stewart and sister Sonia. They were a fantastic bunch (Jack was on slightly shakier ground with his), and it was a bit of a shame that it was actually only my mum and bro who were actually still around. My sister had gone to the next level of education, on another island, and my dad had gone to New Zealand. To pick apples. Without telling my mother. This, unfortunately, is also how Vanuatu works. But Geneva and Stewart invited us up to their house, and we had some cockerel for dinner, and played pick-up-sticks, and Stewart invited us to mess about and take photos all over someone's grave.

The original plan for leaving Pentecost was to catch the Tina I, a cargo ship, out on Tuesday, headed back to Vila, the week after we originally arrived. However, throughout our stay, we'd been getting reports that the Tina I had had it's schedule conveniently rearranged, and it wouldn't actually be going down to Vila until the following Friday. That was okay, but not great. We had business to attend to on another island, Tanna, and given that the cargo ship would take a few days to reach Vila, it was cutting it a little too close. It was around this time that Vanuatu stopped accommodating for us. On Monday, the day before our original departure date from Pentecost, we'd decided to go to Labultamata to see Kilv (Kilv was actually with us, as he'd brought some kids to play football against some of our kids. I'm not going to tell you the score, because I'm not someone who actually cares about football, and, hence, this isn't a blog about that. If you care you can ask Jack (search for Jack Noble on facebook and his profile picture will probably be of him wearing sunglasses in an indoor setting)). So, we set off on the two hour walk up North we'd done plenty of times back in the glory days. Part (most) of the reason for going back to Labultamata was to do this walk again. Labby's not a great place. There are too many hills and the water tastes like soap.

The town just next to Labultamata is called Loltong. It's something like the administrative centre for the area. It's a pretty big place. They even have semi decent roads (though not to Labultamata: that's a muddy path). We got chatting to some old guys, and they told us that the Tina I was probably coming next Monday. Shit! That was far too late. The agent for the shipping company walked over, with a baby, and confirmed the story. Then the baby pissed all over him. Then he looked down at the baby, and the piss. Then he just stayed where he was, and continued to talk to us. Afterwards, the three of us had a bit of a summit with some cheap Vanuatu fizzy drinks (Splashe!) and cheap shortbread (Scotch Fingers!). There had been a mention of this ship called the Alice, that might be coming on Wednesday, headed for Vila. It was potentially our salvation.

So, we continued on to Labultamata, a bit worried. We decided to go down one of the many hills, to the beach. Halfway down the hill, we managed to get though to the shipping company (we'd been trying for the last hour or so). The news was promising. The Tina I would be passing Pentecost the next day. It would be heading to Santo, so all that chat about a messed up schedule was right. But Santo was okay. We could get a plane from Santo. Santo, we could work with.

The downside of all this was that Jack and I had to go back to Nambaranguit that same day, to pack up and get ready. So, we went down to the beach, had a good wallow around, found out Kilv was a bit of a 'player', Jack wanted us all to cut each other's hair, and I can't throw for shit. We then set off back. And here it's probably prudent to mention another thing about Vanuatu: if you're doing a lot in a day, going to many different places, and spending time with lots of different people, you sometimes forget to eat. This is what happened that day. Remember those Scotch Fingers? Well, them, and some (like 1 and 1/2) scones in the morning were basically the sum total of my food intake since I'd woken up many hours previously. I'd also been walking a lot. Four hours worth of walking. Basically, when we got back, I went to bed, feeling absolutely knackered. But then, Jack came in and told me there was a leaving ceremony for us. Well, this was a quick turnaround. We hadn't even known we were leaving 'til a few hours before, and we hadn't told anyone in Namby 'til a few minutes ago. But hey man, they do sort of love their ceremonies. It all got a bit awkward when we got to the classroom and it turned out it was a leaving ceremony for Joshua and David... But, we were invited to join, and were given half the gifts that were meant for them, and I probably didn't feel quite as guilty as I should have done (David really was a cock). Afterwards, there was food, and it was good, and I felt alright, and I went to sweet, sweet beddikins.

The next day was a day of walking about the village, saying our farewells, taking photos of people, and things, like these weird ducks they have there that look like their wearing Mexican wrestler's masks. There was football with the boys and gossiping with the girls (yeah, that's right), and sooner than we thought, the boat arrived. It actually arrived. Thank god. We were getting off Pentecost. Not that we don't love Pentecost, but, you know, we'd said our goodbyes now, and it's like at a party, when you say goodbye to everyone and its all sweet and nice and you say, oh, we must catch up soon, and I'll call you, and we should go for coffee down at the Nunty Rooms, and you've walked out the door, and then you realise you've forgotten your coat. And you have to go back in. And it's awkward. We didn't want that.

But it came, and that was good. But oh. There was some chat from the boat boys. The chat was that they were full up. But we told them we booked, and Norah, our sort of grandmother got all imperious and terrifying at them, so they agreed to take us as far as Loltong. Now, we didn't really want to go to Loltong. We could walk to Loltong. We'd done so the previous day, twice. But we got on the boat, because then at least we'd be on the boat. We got to Loltong, and thankfully, not only did we not get off, but Kilv also managed to get on. This was going well.

We found some space on the corrugated iron roof, had one of our cigars, and lay down, in quite uncomfortable positions for the nioght. When we dozed off, at about 11, we were just at the northernmost tip of Pentecost...and when we woke up, at about 5, we were still there. Hmmm. We sort of thought the ship would keep going overnight, because that's what all previous ships had done, and that's what ships were supposed to do. Lazy, lazy crew. But no matter, we were on the ship. Jack and Kilv went to sleep, and I stayed up. It was at this point that the Sabrina was pointed out to me. It was coming down from Maewo, the island north of Pentecost, and it would proceed along Pentecost, down to Vila, i.e. the exact route we originally wanted. I sort of thought oh well, we're okay now, why bother worrying what could have happened if we'd waited. Given what happened afterwards, I decided not to mention this to Jack or Kilv, and if they actually bother to read this admittedly gargantuan blog post, this will be the first they learn of how we could have got to Vila a lot quicker than the actual six days it was about to take us.

This is because before going to Santo, we stopped at an island called Ambae. And at Ambae, they got everybody off, but it was okay, they said, because we'd be able to get back on, when they'd unloaded the relevant cargo. And after they unloaded the relevant cargo, and pulled up their anchor, and sailed off, we felt pretty lied to. So we were stuck on Ambae. The ship, apparently, had been full up. There were some new fines and regulations going about. It was nobody's fault really. They had told us, originally. But we were still stuck on Ambae, which was like being stuck on Pentecost, except we didn't have anywhere to sleep.

And Three Weeks Later...

Right...

So, basically all the interesting parts of the trip have happened now. I've either been too poor, too rushed, or too far from any internet to update this, and I do regret this. Firstly, I fear I've probably lost the interest of many of the followers I've accumulated. There were quite a few of you. I'm not sure why.

Secondly, I wanted this blog to accurately track the ups and downs, the catharsis of this trip. Partly, the blog was to hopefully remove the problem of summarising, generalising, and ultimately trivialising the ebb and flow of this excursion. But, now, I'll have to summarise, generalise, and, I fear, trivialise, so much of what we did (and we did so much).

So, after I last left you, Jack and I did one final dive down to the Coolidge, as Kilv was still dying, and this time, we visited the Lady, an old wooden carving (of a lady), and we kissed her, because that's how this sort of underwater thing works. We both ran out of air. She took our breath away. She riodes a unicorn. What a lady.

In the afternoon, Kilv was feeling better (his eye is still bloodshot now), so we headed off to Lonnoc beach, with our driver Jackie (the one who showed us ALL those rivers). This time, we expressed a liking for a certain song from the Solomon Islands about shining stars and being happy. Now, Jackie does seem to be the sort of person who, if even a passing interest or liking for something is indicated, will facilitate as much of that thing as possible. We heard no other song that entire car journey. And we heard a LOT of music. So...

The next morning, we departed for Pentecost Island. Now, for those of you who don't know, Pentecost is the island where we spent our six months, teaching children in a very haphazard way, jumping off waterfalls, and having the dormant form of malaria secretly released into our bloodstreams. This time, we'd decided to land in the south, and spend a few days walking up it, to our village, Nambaranguit, before catching a boat back to Vila (eurgh). We wanted to see more places, and chat with random passers-by, as this is really what Vanuatu (but not Vila, or Luganville really) is about. Kilv hadn't managed to get a seat on the flight, because he's lazy, and forgot to come to Vanuatu on time. He was getting a cargo ship into Pentecost and meeting us on the second night.

We set off from the airfield, Lonorore, after a hurried exit from Santo, and, after three hours walk, and some minor regrets about not getting on the truck that offered us free passage (But NO! We had to WALK! Because we were not TOURISTS!), we reached Ranwadi. This was the school where some of our friends, Amy, Rachel, Sarah and Selena (?), were teaching. We'd been here before. We'd watched a mass baptism here. We'd angered our unexpected host, by sort of destroying his house, and eating a lot of his food, and bringing a cat into said house, when we KNEW he didn't like cats. We'd got freaked out by a simple concrete path with stripes, when we were a bit...erm...intoxicated...on...erm...mari...erm...juana. This time, we just chilled out and waxed cynical with our far more amiable host, Katie, who was very much bored of her overly religious companions. We had our first Pentecost kava of 2010, and continued to expand our lapsed understanding of Bislama.

The next day we got a truck out of Ranwadi (we felt LAZY!) and after a little of walking, got another one up a hill (it was STEEP!), and then down the hill (we still felt LAZY!) into Bwatnapne, our base for the second night. this was also where were meeting Kilv off the ship. We were staying with a guy called Roger Tari, a man so nice and generous, Jack almost wept (he was TIRED! Riding in trucks is TIRING!).

We went for kava again, this time on the beach, where Roger Tari continued to just give us things. The boat was due at about 6. It arrived at about 11. This is, for the most part, how Vanuatu works. Jack was pretty kava'd up by this point. For a long time, Kilv didn't get off, and we thought he was a) asleep; b) still in Santo; c) asleep in Santo. But no, he got to shore eventually (oh, and it was raining), and we all retired for the night.

RIGHT. This is where I stop. I'm still not very far through. We haven't even got to the part where we were stuck on Ambae for DAYS (3 days). But I thought I'd try to re-pique your curiosity, before writing a massive update tomorrow in Sydney airport, because internet is free there.

Also, we've played a lot of shithead, with lots of Estonians and Australians, and I'm confused about the scores. But let's just say that Kilv's winning. Well done, Kilv. Very well done.

For Your Consideration: Kilv

This blog comes courtesy of an Australian lady's laptop, because internet stops at 11.30am on Saturday (it doesn't even start on Sunday), and we missed it because, frankly, we were underwater. So, thanks Australian lady. I may even ask you your name when this is done.

Well, as you're no doubt all shouting at your screens: What about Kilv?! I'll tell you what about Kilv: he's here, as of last night, and he brought us whiskey and cigars, so it's chill. We went to the market for dinner. he told us that the guaranteed job prospect that had led him to miss a week had now been downgraded to a tenuous job prospect. Oh, Kilv...

He's now lying somewhere, with eyes like a thirsty man's lips and blood cascading from his nasal cavities, because his diving this morning went a bit awry and we think he's probably dying. Essentially, his eye mask began to fill with water, and because he had a basic but important misunderstanding of what he should do in this situation, he just let more water in. Jack and I had no idea what was going on, so when the divemaster held his hand because he couldn't see, we just thought they were on an impromptu date.

Jack, meanwhile, struggles on with his addiction to steak.

But yes, diving. We have gone absolutely mental over this shit. Basically, just off the island we're on, there's this massive American warship under the water, and I can assure you, if you haven't done it, there's no way you can imagine how amazing swimming through a rusty old colossus can be, with skeletons of the previous luxury it offered, caked in coral and rust, emerging through the water before you. It's amazing.

OH! And also, I tried to make this blog interactive, so you could join in and maybe feel like you were here with us, having fun and NOT being cold. But, hey! It didn't work! Not one of you posted about my Kilv welcome idea thing! That's it! I'm not going to make this blog interactive any more! You've ruined everyone's fun, but especially Kilv's!

Shithead scores:

ROUND ONE: Jack: 5 (2), Will: 1 (2)

ROUND TWO: Will: 10 (3), Jack: 7 (2), Kilv: 2 (0)

Rivers? RIVERS!!!

We left Luganville again yesterday, and this time managed to get much further, because a taxi man was with us, and he'd kindly brought his taxi. We were headed to the Blue Hole, a famed pool of water, to take photos and frolic about. However, the taxi driver, called Jackie, mistook a question about whether the blue hole was formed by rivers to mean that we were really, really interested in rivers, and promptly stopped at every one (they were remarkably clear, like seriously).

Soon enough though, we found the Blue Hole, and Christ was it blue. Like, not even murky turquoise, that you could think was blue, because its nice to think of it as blue. This was proper blue, the colour of a child's crayon with the word 'blue' on the label. There were some other tourists there, and I impressed EVERYONE with my sexy diving. We also tried to use the rope swing, but the whole setup was designed so that you were just swinging down into the water. I even climbed a tree. It didn't work.

On our return to Luganville, Jack had his eighth steak of the day, and we talked about his controversial understanding of the role of a Fluffer.

Right, I've decided to make this blog more interactive. It's an experiment. Kilv arrives today; he's in Sydney at the moment. Now, Jack and I still harbour some irritation about his general delaying of our getting out of these godforsaken 'cities'. On the flipside, we'd like to see his cheeky grin and the difficulty he has over making decisions. So, fans (?), write on here, or my facebook wall, what should we do to welcome Kilv back into the bosom of Vanuatu? I guarantee we'll adopt at least one idea, as long as it's legal and doesn't cost more than 500 VT (about 3 pounds).

Also, the Shithead scores from last night were:

Round One: Will: 5 (2); Jack: 4 (0)

Round Two: Jack: 5 (1); Will: 1 (2)

Also, remember Shithead fans (?), from tonight, it will be a three horse race.

The Prodigal Sun

Our first proper day on Santo, and the terrible weather was in decline. There was sunshine about, and we decided to actually leave the city on our own two feet. We wanted to go to a beach, and in a summit between us and various representatives of the Luganville taxi driver community, all mediated by a man whose name could quite possible be John, some pretty big numbers were being thrown about. After a few hushed words, and furtive looks about the place, we withdrew our offer from the table.

We kept the shore on our right, and to save us from somehow ending up in the middle of the island (it's what we do), we committed ourselves to taking very right turn available to us (a tactic which had, on our first Vanuatu residency, almost ended the life of Jack and Kilv, and this time took us to an industrial port and someone's garden). Eventually we found a turn-off which didn't breach some no doubt lazily upheld trespassing laws (but they're still laws!), and wound up on a nice secluded little beach. Over a little hill we found an even littler, even more secluded beach and it was here we settled.

We waded out into the perpetually shallow sea, and just floated around for an hour musing on the subjects of marriage, how drunk it would be acceptable to get at the wedding of our friend Jess, and how much more drunk than that we would actually get.

On our return to the city, we went to the Natangora cafe. Now we love the Natangora. We love it up. It was the place of our first meal during the Easter holidays of Vanuatu '07, and it didn't involve taro, yam or f*cking island cabbage. It had burgers and fried breakfasts and f*cking MILKSHAKES! Yeah, boy! You can't imagine how much the quality of a milkshake will increase, exponentially, for every slimy strand of island cabbage you are encouraged to even consider eating beforehand. We sat, we had our milkshakes, we ate our burgers and, after agreeing how much the current moment reminded us of The Trip, we argued over who was Rob Brydon and who was Steve Coogan. It was settled thus: Will: Brydon; Jack: Coogan.

We lazed the rest of the day away, chatting to a woman from Pentecost who, rather too late, warned us off kava, and then had supper at the market, sat around picnic tables each with their own dedicated kitchen.

Also, as this seems to be becoming a longstanding feature of this trip, I'm going to start including the scores from our nightly Shithead championships (first to five):

Will: 5
Jack: 2

If my blog were an album, this post would be the filler track

(I've committed to writing a post a day on this blog, so if this one seems particularly boring or unnecessary, or like I've had so little to say I've decided to arrange it into a haiku, you know...DEAL!)

Vila abandoned,
we await Kilv in Santo.
Our bathroom: doorless.