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
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