The most wonderful thing about campervan travelling and having time, is that you end up in the most unexpected places. There is a huge population of grey-haired nomads roaming foreign territory and doing it in a way that is self sustaining financially; renting out their homes, living off their pensions and living cheaply. At times it seems as if the whole world is populated by 0ver-60's!

We have arrived in Germany and know about ten words of German between the two of us. Our prime objective is to stay off the beaten track as much as we can, however some larger towns and cities definitely deserve a side trip.

Our first stop is Kassel in the Hesse District. Nearly obliterated by 400,000 bombs in October 1942, the town managed to rise from the ashes and today is a vibrant, creative community.  We came in search of the Grimm Brothers as  part of the Fairy Tale Route but arrived in time for one of the world’s most famous contemporary arts exhibitions. “Documenta 14”. “What? You’ve never heard of it?” Neither had we! But tens of thousands of other people had and the city was swamped.  The festival takes place every five years, the chosen artist kept a carefully guarded secret until the event. It is highly organized and deeply meaningful. I managed to locate an outline of Documenta 14 written in four languages but it was so artistically intense with purpose and clarification there is no point in me trying to describe it. I’ll leave that to Google.

Needless to say on a balmy summer evening we stroll with others along greenspaces and public venues seeking meaning and understanding of many of the huge art installations which have begun unfolding during the 100 days of the exhibition. I’ve always loved installation-art. The fact that one can dream up an idea and have it created in the most fancival sizes and constructed in whatever medium fits. I once had the opportunity to be a part of an art installation called “The Queue”. I was one of thirteen people who queued in the most unexpected places and then waited for a code word on which we would disband and reassemble at another obscure point over three days.

I am, of course, in awe of the huge Pantheon with pillars constructed of tens of thousands of books preserved in plastic wrap. The sky above is stormy and daggers of lightening flash. The on-coming rain will be a real test of how water tight the structure has become. Nearby what appears to be  huge terracotta piping is housing assorted homely objects. A speaker on a trolley is set on full-volume and repeats a haunting phrase over and over. People crowd around it discussing it’s artistic merits. I just want a translation of it’s words. All of this deep thinking creates a thirst and we are soon eating and drinking in the temporary pavilions set up in one of the plazas and discussing the meaning of life...and art.

Pantheon of books at "Documenta 14" Kessel

Close up of a tiny part of a column

Five Must Do Activities in New Zealand's Northland for Walking, Cycling Grey-Haired Nomads.

Five Must Do Activities in Northland for Walking, Cycling Grey-Haired Nomads

I never thought I’d even have grey hair let alone join the thousands of. New Zealanders who now are part of a movement generally known as “The Grey-Haired Nomads”.

There is no official membership but many of those belonging to this group generally range from mid fifties to late seventies  are semi or fully retired, have free time, are trying to avoid being trapped into supporting adult children, own a mobile home of some sort, either caravan, campervan or the salubrious fifth-wheeler, and most probably belong to the New Zealand Motor-Home Association.

In saying all that, I only fit into the age category but have been fortunate enough to team up with a friend who has all of the above qualifications. So, letting my hair go grey, (not a requirement to belonging, just a convenience) we set off for the far north.

It's a big rig. No wonder we needed bikes and boots to get us close to the action.

 Goat Island-Walking

New Zealand’s first marine reserve, established in 1975 the area has developed in the kindest way to protect not just the marine life but the entire surrounds with heavy planting of native trees, information plaques and carefully placed walkways designed to enhance the area without dominating the scenery. The gentle coastal walkway which can be accessed right beside the University of Auckland Marine Laboratory is a gentle and enjoyable meander with only slight inclines but excellent views of the offshore islands. When you’ve worked up a sweat, dive into the water for a snorkel with some of the area’s most endearing marine life and take time to visit the marine centre. The exhibits are fascinating.

Goat Island taken during a hill-top walk

Matakana-Cycling

This small settlement has pulled out all the stops to attract passing traffic.  You can’t miss the public toilets, an instant indication that art is an important aspect of what Matakana has to offer. Have a coffee and carrot-walnut muffin at Plump Café then hit the cycle trail. The 14 kilometre trail passes through country lanes and farmland. Directions are found inscribed on a series of ceramic pipes stacked like totem poles. The hieroglyphics demand out-of-the-box thinking to follow and we find ourselves lurching from pole to pole as it crosses roads and lanes. The path, although mostly a well- laid gravel track, becomes a gut buster at one section. Just as I give in and begin to push my way to the top I hear a squawk and look behind me. My companion’s bike has come to a halt.  He falls over in a slow motion ballet. Struggling to unclip his cleats from his pedals he disappears down a small bank. Only the waving flax leaves indicate anything is amiss. Bruised pride soothed we compete the ride then head towards Whangarei.

Mount Manaia-Walking

The distinct craggy outcrops of Mount Manaia define the skyline of Whangarei Heads and just beg to be conquered.  The two-hour walk is described as “easy” in the brochures, don’t believe it. Mount Manaia rises 420 metres from the calm inlet of Whangarei Harbour and is summited by way of a well-defined path and 1000 steps flanked by imposing Kauri trees, Nikau Palms, silver ferns and other native plants which twine together to create a cramped and dense forest. Piwakawaka flit about waiting to feast on tiny insects disturbed by dislodged ground litter. Above us tui call and croak, drunk from the berries plucked from branches above. I start steadily but soon hold up my overly active friend.  He decides to run, yes…run on ahead, running back to check on me every ten to fifteen minutes. He’s still bouncing up and down steps two at a time on his fourth re-run. I feel the pressure and I feel stupid. I insist he goes ahead and waits at the top until l eventually arrive at the final steps. Grasping the hand rails I haul myself onto a rocky outcrop flanked by spectacular views. Thankfully, authorities haven’t felt the need to fence off the area which makes it even more special.

View from the top of Mount Manaia

Pahia to Russell to Opua to Raruru-Cycling

Paihia is on holiday. There’s a laid back lazy feel to the place, and I like it. We purchase a ticket and ride the White Ferry, one of three companies transporting tourists the 10 minute ride to Russell. We’d decided to cycle from Russell to Opua, unfortunately I forgot to check how many hills were involved. Uphill hills that is! There were too many and they were mammoth. The gap between passing cars and cyclist was minimal, the effort needed to sustain pedalling was massive, and the only thing that kept me pedalling was the thought of a stop at Opua Marina Café.

The ferry from Okiato to Opua is large enough to carry any type of vehicle. Needless to say, we had the only bikes. We paid our $1 and used the five-minute crossing to recover. However, even a great coffee wasn’t enough to summon the energy required to tackle the hills between Opua and Paihia. The cycling sequence became predictable, pedal as far as I could, change to the lowest gear, little legs going round and round but the bike staying virtually still, wobble wobble, dismount, push, summit, free-wheel down and slightly up the next incline, then repeat the process. By the time we reached spectacular Haruru Falls with its gold-coloured droplets coloured by the setting sun I was too tired to appreciate it.

For a much gentler ride try the new but not quite complete Pou Herenga Tai Twin Coast Cycle Trail from Opua to Kawakawa. The gentle gradient traces an historic rail line, a section of which is still used by the vintage steam train which runs from Kawakawa to Taumarere. The cycle trail follows estuaries and inlets, through a tunnel, over bridges and ends in Kawakawa where the distinctive ceramic columns, garden roofs and mosaic and tile work of Austrian artist Friedensreich Hundertwasser define the town.

Bikes at rest-Opua Wharf

Haruru Falls

Whatuwhiwhi on KariKari Peninsula-cycling and walking

Just 23 kilometres further along the stunning coastline, past Maunganui, Coopers Beach, Cable Bay and elegant Taipa Beach is Whatuwhiwhi, a place I had never heard of. Nestled on KariKari Peninsula this area must be one of New Zealand’s best kept secrets. With butt and calf muscles now used to daily torment I even felt slightly enthusiastic about our next ride, to Matai Bay.

This time it was only a short pedal…uphill with head-on wind then a slight downhill run. Matai Bay. Is a double cove with calm water and pocked with small rocky outcrops, a camper’s, walker’s and snorkeler’s dream. We locked the bikes to a pole and walked the length of the bays until the start of the Fig Tree Track. The trail was poorly signposted and we alternated between blue ribbons on trees, orange arrows and the occasional DOC sign on a stick. An hour into it and my enthusiasm had wained. The manuka provided a thick canopy and a view was illusive but there was no disputing the beauty and spiritual solitude of this special place. It was time to stop walking and cycling. It was time to find stillness and peace, leaving the physical exertion behind and focus on emotional and spiritual reflection. What better place than here.

Taking Learning out of the Classroom

Suddenly the year seems to be speeding away on me. Weekdays are full with teaching followed by coffee and socializing on the water front and weekends are also full with sailing, paddle boarding, market shopping and Sunday morning swims at Mele Beach followed by a big breakfast which takes us through to lunch and sometimes dinner. There is not much to complain about and life is good.

Evening sail on Skye-Rose.

School trips are an interesting event. My first ‘outing’ was taking my class to the inter-school Beach Cricket Competition. Buses were ordered and the kids were organized and ready. We waited and waited. Half an hour later we managed to contact the bus drivers “oh, very sori, weels, they fall off bus”. After another half an hour we finally get two more vans. The students pile on board these beat-up roadsters, packed in with no seatbelts, windows wide open, kids hanging out and we head off. We don’t get far and we come across a street parade for the university open day. The bus stops. By now the cricket competition is, or should be well underway. We finally arrive one and a half hours late. Never mind, half the other schools haven’t arrived either. Island time”! The wind, which never blows onto the beach has decided to come in full force. We were sand blasted and hit full-on with horizontal rain. The kids were still happy, at least it was warm.  They lost all their games. Not a surprise. The girls only learned how to play the day before and guess who taught them. Yes, I took a five minute look at a book and for the first time in my life learned how to play.

The Girl's team trying to look fierce.

After the shambles of this trip it was with some trepidation that I took them to Parliament the following Monday. It was the opening session. The MP’s arrived with police escorts, there was a lot of serious business and I threatened my students with all manner of punishment if they dared play up in the Gallery. There was a lot of pomp and ceremony and the kids were fascinated. Parliament lasted for twenty minutes then the MP’s retired until later in the week.  We headed off to the Cultural Centre, a run around the park and anything else I could add to delay returning to school too soon. I feel like I can tackle anything now!

Sand drawing demonstration at the Cultural Centre. Mesmerizing stuff!

The staff highlight for this term was The Amazing Race which Susi and I organized. I’d forgotten how competitive teachers are. It was absolute carnage with staff either ripping off or swimming in their clothes during the paddle boarding, forming roadblocks to wave down buses, jumping on the back of trucks they had waved down and literally ‘throwing’ pots at Wan Smol Bag Art Centre. Activities which Susi and I had spent days organzing and hours putting into place were completed or demolished in minutes. It was hilarious.  Now they all want to know when the next event is. Needless to say there were many weary bodies at school today.

My wonderful teacher-assistant Naomi trying to make a kava bowl during the Amazing race.

But life is not just school. The harbour is always a scene of mystery and intrigue.

Not the drug boat or the Russian launch. Just a nice evening on the waterfront.

 

 This week’s big news was the seizing of 32 billion vatu (72 vatu to the NZ dollar) of cocaine cemented to the hull of a yacht which has been sitting in the harbour for years. A search was carried out two years ago after tip offs but nothing was found. I wonder how hard they looked! We watch all manner of boat come and go. The latest was an enormous launch complete with helicopter, submarine and grenade launcher owned by a Russian billionaire who flew in on his private Lear jet for a spot of big game fishing for a weekend and then departed again.

There are so many stories that could be written here. I’m just too lazy and too busy enjoying myself to be the one who writes them.

Until next time. Lukim Yu

 

 

 

long taem no blog

 

There is never a dull moment at school and two events in particular are worth a quick blog mention. The first is the school athletics day, not for the Olympian style events or the incredible distances our Ni-Van students manage to throw the javelin, but for the behind-the-scene action which fortunately didn’t result in death. Our Ni-Van grounds man had been instructed to cut and prepare the fields for this annual event. Unfortunately, he spent three weeks carefully cutting and grooming around the oval but omitted to spend any time within it! Finding the discus and javelin after each throw was somewhat of a mission impossible!!!

My special teaching friends Carla, Susi and Naomi my TA.

The dilapidated stadium at the sports field was originally built for the Pacific Games  but for many years now, has been left unmaintained and is a real earthquake hazard. Only the brave would dare sit on the seats to watch events and our students were banned from going anywhere near it. Not so for our grounds man who, with a few spare hours at hand happened to notice a large fuse box hanging loosely from the wall. The protruding copper wire was enticing. Here was a chance for him to make a few extra dollars. He returned to school to get a hacksaw and promptly proceeded to saw through the copper wire. Unfortunately, he forgot to check if the fuse box was live!!!!! The first we knew of this was when he arrived at school on school a few days later with a bandana tied around his face. “Oh? What’s wrong with you?” our principal asked. “Mi hav wan bigfala cold” he said.  “You can’t walk around school like that” she replied “Take it off. You look like a ganster.”  

He did so, only to reveal his nose, lips and surrounds burned black. Shocked she questioned him further until she got the whole true story.  On further inspection she noticed a badly bandaged hand. Our deputy principal, who has the  stomach for dealing with medical disasters carefully unwound the bandage revealing a black, rotting, stinking hand.

 We all waiting anxiously while he was taken to the doctors, convinced that the outcome would be an amputation. Fortunately, luck was on his side and the hand could be saved. Any longer and this would not have been the case. I don’t think he’ll try stealing any more copper wire!!!

From solemn commemoration to Celebration

The school curriculum says to teach Australian history but it seems irresponsible not to be teaching the history of the country I’m teaching in. Especially as Vanuatu was gearing up for the first commemoration of the atrocity known as Black-birding. So, armed with three volumes on Vanuatu history, I set about trying to understand the political journey of these islands and  how they progressed from being The Sandwich Islands then The New Hebrides to finally in 1980, being renamed Vanuatu.

If New Zealand Maori have grievances, they almost pale in comparison to what the Ni-Vanuatu have endured. In the 1800’s generations were torn apart as islanders were taken to Queensland to work on the sugar-cane plantation, slavery more commonly known as Black birding. It had taken 150 years to acknowledge what the people endured and the commemoration which marked the start of Independence Week was emotionally charged with speeches with many moved to tears. Thank heavens for the energetic dancing, songs and entertainment which followed to lift our spirits!

 

 

 

 

 

Vanuatu was settled by the French and the British, enemies for years,  and their relationship in these islands was no less harmonious.  Trying to create a lawful society, they first tried to be governed by a Naval Commission but without success. This was followed by establishing a condominium where both countries governed simultaneously. Imagine...own languages, own schools, own airlines, own police departments. No wonder the condominium soon became known as pandemonium. The indigenous people were virtually ignored and powerless. Neither government took responsibility for the islanders,  they had no country of citizenship,  and identity cards were the only form of identification.  It wasn’t until the 1970’s-1980 which were fraught with demonstrations and bloodshed as the islanders fought for recognition and the French and British fought to keep what they had taken, that  a constitution was written, the New Hebrides became independent and were renamed Vanuatu. Big breath. END OF HISTORY LESSON!

 

As you can imagine, this history led to a lot of debating and drama in the classroom as the kids came to grips with all of this, especially....the French, the British and the Ni- Vanuatu students. It’s a wonder that I didn’t start a civil war in my class room (although it sounded like it at times)!!

After the colour and drama of the commemoration I was keen to follow the Independence Day celebrations and was not disappointed. The weather was sweltering and when you packed about ten thousand people into the park the heat was overwhelming.  You cannot ignore the colour of these islands. With the woman wearing colourful island dresses (Mother Hubbard Dresses as they are known), umbrellas in the Vanuatu colours and the blinding whiteness of the troops it was a sight to behold. The pomp and ceremony of colonialism was still evident with the marching, brass band, speeches and flag-raising, but, even amongst the ceremony there were many light-hearted moments. 

 

 

 

By the afternoon, even though entertainment was in full swing all over Port Vila it was time for a little light recreation. So, it was off to Mele Beach and the Beach Bar with friends for a swim and our own celebrations. A great day.

Lukim Yu



The way I see myself (Left) and the way one of my students sees me.

 

 

 

 

Pentecost

“Would you rather crash in the jungle or the sea?” asked the intense foreigner as she leaned across the aisle trying to take photos out of the window on my side of the plane.”Neither” I replied.“So could you climb back into your own seat!!!” I asked.  She did. A few minutes later she pulled a soft toy rat out of her bag and started trying to cello tape it to the plane window. The rat wouldn’t co-operate and kept falling off. Eventually, the rat stayed attached long enough for a quick photo and I snapped one as well. While I was wondering what was going on she  started rummaging through  the seat pocket.

 

 “Do you have a sick bag?” she asked. “For you or the rat?” I replied. While all the time thinking “If you don’t sit still and stop leaping all over this tiny plane we are all going to need one!.”

I’m not a nervous flyer...but it doesn’t take much to unnerve me on a small plane. And as we made our way to Pentecost Island to watch  the famous land diving from which bungee is said to originate, I was feeling just as nervous as any jumper.

The runway soon appeared among a sea of jungle green, bordered by the clearest water I have ever seen. A string band plucked up a welcome song to the delight of the group. (When you’ve lived in Vanuatu a while, string bands are no longer exciting, in fact, you usually try to avoid them.)

We were welcomed with a grass necklace and wait quietly for a number of other planes to arrive. It was a beautiful day but the thick mud we glug our way through on our way to the tower made me think that we were lucky.

It was only a short walk to the tower and one is probably right in thinking that this, only one of five towers on the island, has been built close to the airport for convenience. Never-the-less, the first sight is intriguing.  A number of Ni-Vanuatu were climbing over the tower doing last minute adjustments to the rudimentary structure  fashioned from wood and vine.

At first the men were barely noticeable as their sinewy brown bodies blended into the wood and twine.

A massed group of grass-skirted women and children gathered on one-side while men clad only in penis sheaths began jumping and stamping to a hypnotic chant. The anticipation was palpable. The heat and stickiness of the day left me wondering if the gleaming sweat coating their bodies was from heat or fear.

The tower has four layers of planks. The youngest boys began at the lower level and so forth until the final, most experienced jumper leaps from the top.

As we waited the chanting grew louder. There was not a sound from the onlookers. The first jumper looked no more than about 11 years old. He joined in chanting with a voice that occasionally cracked.  Finally when the feverish chanting reached a crescendo, the boy leapt. There was a loud crack as the plank snapped and within seconds the boy hit the ground.  Two older men, whose job  was to dig the mud at the base of the tower to keep the earth soft, rushed over and lift edhim to his feet, helping him limp back to the main group. I wondered if we are supposed to clap but no-one moved.

 

And so it went on in the sweltering heat.  I find it hard to describe how I felt, part voyeur of an ancient ritual, uneasy at the eeriness of the atmosphere, disbelief that I was actually watching it.

 It was, without doubt, one of the most disturbing cultural rituals I have witnessed but strangely enough no-one else felt the same as me.

I looked across at the woman I had met on the plane. While the islanders are jumping she was trying to get the rat to stand up on a log. The log was too damp and the rat still wouldn't co-operate. The ritual continued in front of her while she battled with the rat. What funny creatures we are.!!!

 The flight back to Port Vila was also very memorable. When the weather is good the flight path takes you directly passed Ambryn, one of Vanuatu’s most active volcanoes. As luck would have it the clouds had parted leaving us a clear view of the volcano. The terrain was like nothing I had ever seen before, acres and acres of puckered, pleated and scoured ridges, grey rivers of ash and then two most gigantic vents with rims of yellow and of course the deep red glow of the lava at the bottom of the pit. I’ve never been so scared as I was as we flew directly over the crater. And all the time the rat-woman tried to clamber over me to get ‘the shot’.  I expected her next question to be “Would you rather crash in the jungle, the sea or the crater of a volcano” cos I sure as heck thought that was what was going to happen if she didn’t sit in her seat!!!

 

This would have to be the most exciting one-day trip I’ve ever had. I arrived home exhausted but also knowing that these special adventures are the very reason I chose to live in this country. (For a short time anyway!!)

Lukim Yu

 

 

 

 

Searching for a Social Live

It is 3am and the thunder, lightning and torrential rain has been continuous for hours. I lie awake in the comfort of the house I am looking after for three months and think of the villagers down the hill. Their make-shift homes constructed of corrugated iron, thatch and whatever timber resources they have managed to find, must be nearly floating away. The floor would now be a sea of mud. Everything they own would be soaked. They would be huddled together trying to stay dry. The only concession is that it is warm. Perfect breeding conditions for mosquitoes and disease which much surely follow. This is not a one-off occasion. This is the tropics and they don’t call it Rain Forest without reason. However, this is their life. And yet they will clean up, smile, sing and carry on. What resilience!!!

Life continues to be good to me. I’m in a lovely home. Have the most delightfully intelligent dog to look after and a not so friendly tortoise shell cat that is nearly blind. The house comes complete with gardener and house help. I don’t create much work but I will sure be challenging them with my bad attempts at speaking Bislama. It should be the easiest language to learn as it’s only pigeon English but there are lots of ‘blongs’ ‘longs’ ‘ems’ ‘ums’ and ‘ims’ and I sure do get them muddled!

Now that the foreign is becoming familiar my life is settling into a new rhythm. The emphasis is less on how to shop, travel and communicate and more about finding a social scene which will give me contact with people outside of school. However, in a city as small as Port Vila, there is no escaping parent of pupils and being  aware that anything you say and do will quickly become the next ex-pat coffee morning topic.

Monthly social events at the Australian High Commission seemed to be a safe way of meeting others. There is a procedure of being greeted by the security guard at the entrance, signing your name and signing the name of the person who invited you. When you actually haven’t been invited this can cause a problem. The choice is to try to write the name of the person on the list above you, provided you can decipher it, or ask around before you go so that you  find out the name of someone going. After a few drinks no one really cares.

I’m more than a little reluctant to sample the kava after watching everyone rinsing their mouths out with alcohol to get rid of the taste. Then there’s the hoiking, spitting and clearing of the throat...sounds that will haunt you forever! I’m assured that the Port Vila Kava is unlike the Tanna Kava which is made by first chewing the kava root then spitting it into the bowl for further brewing.

I’ve now been to baby showers, book club, dancing and dinner parties and I can confirm after an evening of wine-tasting that New Zealand and Australian wines are favourable to the French. I am also proud to announce that I can drive safely on the right-hand side of the road!!

They say that ex-pats in the tropics are either mercenaries, missionaries or misfits....there is certainly an enormous range of people. Types that I have never meet before.  Honestly...you could write a book about them...but I won’t.

I met a wonderful woman who appears to be the key to knowing about every social event.  She has put me on ‘The mailing list’ and I am in awe of the amount of stuff happening.

This New Friend (whose name I shall not mention due to Port Vila being so small) insisted that we go dancing at the WaterFront Restaurant on Friday night. The band was fantastic. The local dance instructor was flying around the floor with his beautiful dance partner. (A scene from ‘Dancing with the Stars’ ).  New Friend decides that we should join them. It’s amazing what you can be persuaded to do after a drink or two.

 Picture this, dance floor with prize-winning couple and two over 50’s shimmying  and sweating while everyone else watches. Six very tall, elegant Tahitian travel agents arrive. Average age 20+, legs up to their armpits and wearing crowns of exotic flowers. This should have been my cue to leave the floor but realise that everyone will be looking at  prize-winning dancer and exotic Tahitians  NOT flapping over- fifties covered in a film of sweat.

We carry on. “Look!” says New  Friend “There’s (he- whose- name- shall- not- be- mentioned) he’s single and got lots of money’. She races over to the bar. An elderly French man turns and gives me a little wave. I sink into my drink. She brings him over, introduces him, grabs my left hand, waves it under his nose and says “single, single...look single’. He kisses me on both sides of my ever-so-sweaty face, takes my hand, kisses it and mumbles in French. (One can only guess what he was mumbling...I didn't understand a word of it!) New Friend disappears leaving us to carry on an awkward conversation! Actually, I was the one trying to carry on a conversation...he spent the whole time gazing at my chest and the tiny...ever so tiny peek of cleavage!

Minutes later, on the dance floor, picture this .... exotic Tahitians, prize winning dancers and Frenchman flinging me around the floor trying to control my erratic....I said ERRATIC...moves, there was definitely nothing erotic about them! I managed to get flung towards the dance instructor, leaned back and gasped as loud as I could .. “private lessons, need them urgently....” but before I could make a date I was flung the other way.

I finally spotted New-Friend and as soon as the band stopped, quietly thanked my partner and headed off to seek a much needed ride home to mop up and recover. I last saw the French guy patting the bottom of a botox blonde about 40 years younger. Much more his type I think J.

 

I really must start to take some more photos or get some with me in them! Hideaway Island is my regular weekend hideout. The snorkeling is fantastic. I've been for some dives but missed the mother and baby dugongs in the harbour and the Whale shark at the entrance.

 

I’m off to Pentecost Island next weekend to watch the land-diving. I hope I don't end up like this guy.

 

 Next blog should be much more educational for those interested in the real Vanuatu.

Lukim Yu

Ange

 

 

March Update

Two months into living in Vanuatu and life is finally settling into routine. The alarm rings at 5.30am. I get up, waste too much time checking email and face book, find myself late, throw any leftover food into a sealed container for lunch, have a shower and walk as fast as I can (snail’s pace) to the bus stop.

The buses are hundreds of privately owned vans with a ‘B’ on the number plate and pass every few minutes. If I catch one as close as I can to 6.30am I’ll get a direct route to school “Mi go long PVIS plis?” If I’m five minutes late I could go anywhere (including a lot of places I do not want to go) and the ten minute ride can take up to 40minutes.

My students still continue to amaze me with their mature attitudes, world views and consideration of each other. Yes, they can still be kids but to be honest the worst thing they do is talk too much however if I analyse their talk it is mostly valuable discussion. I’ve decided to harness this vocal energy into weekly debates. I have about eight outstanding speakers who need real competition to move them ahead. We will compete against our own high school students soon but I’d love to see these kids perform in an international debate. For those teachers reading this; I’ve also been giving them the NZ Lit Quiz Sample Questions and the group scores are all eight to ten. I’d score a three or four! They are veracious readers.

We all run an After School Programme to earn a bit of extra money and to cater for students who need extracurricular activities. You guessed it, I run a drama class for years 6,7,8 and 9. It is an absolute delight. They are so clever and funny. If I run an extension class next term I’ll need to call upon TPHS drama teachers for some advice!

Weekends have also settled into routine. Saturday morning I’m up at 7.30am and catching a bus to paddle boarding fitness. I no longer spend the hour sweating and wanting to throw up but actually find some enjoyment in it, I’m also meeting some new people. Maybe I’ll stick to it after all.

Then it’s back to the Kaiviti for breakfast, market for fruit and veges, Numbawan Cafe for a decent coffee and whatever the rest of the day brings. I’m careful to avoid town when the cruise ships are in. Honestly, I think you must be tested on size before you are allowed on a cruise! I’ve never seen so many overweight people wobbly down the street. Yesterday it was like Teletubby Town and nearly every one of the Teletubbies were smoking!!!!

Sundays are for exploring, this usually involves heading off to one of the islands for a lazy day with a bit of snorkelling and reading.  I was really lucky to tour the whole island with my friend Suzy  and her family last week. This really made me realise what a magical wee island Efate is. It’s very easy to get caught up in the whole busy, noisy, fume-filled city and forget that a gentle life exists away from the pot-holed main drag.   Circumnavigation takes three hours but with beautiful bays, hot springs, blue holes etc one could spend days slowly meandering around....and I will.

 

Bislama lessons (local pidgin English) continue to be a heap of fun and more often than not Suzy and I get into giggling fits which won’t stop.  We are a small group, a Dutch photographer, who has an interesting Facebook site called ‘Human Faces of Vanuatu’, a French university professor, a Canadian volunteer, Susy and I.

 

There is much talk here at present of the workers who are heading off to NZ to workthe kiwifruit season. After listening to Ni-Vanuatu speak of their experiences I have to question the worthiness of such a scheme.  Is NZ really providing opportunities for island workers or are they simply generating a pool of cheap labour?  The families and villages suffer; the women work harder, there is no-one to keep teenage boys in line, and no male role models left in the villages.  Troubles brew. The islanders who leave, do so with a specific goal in mind. For many it is to pay for their children’s education which they see as a link to a better life. Most return with only the few hundred dollars which remain after they have repaid their airfares, accommodation and food. If the weather is bad in NZ they don’t work therefore don’t get paid but still have overheads. For some, there have been very bad seasons and they return with nothing.  At times I have felt ashamed as I have listened to their stories. I’m going to dig deeper as I know there is some valuable writing material here.

On a brighter note, every day I learn something new. This week’s lessons: 1)Put glasses on before eating food, those miniature brown ants take only seconds to completely smother any food left alone for the shortest time. 2) Empty the kettle as often as possible. The tickle in my throat after I drink is caused by calcium. When I empty the kettle at the end of the day what comes out looks like huge chunks of blackboard chalk.

I’m always on the lookout for social events that might lead to meeting new friends. Yesterday was International Woman’s Day and Alliance Francaise held a exhibition of art by local women. The food was exquisite, the punch had a real kick, the Ni-Van Women’s’ string band was entertaining (although rather a repetitive sound after a while) and the people interesting to watch. However, watch was all I could do....everyone was young, chic, smoked and spoke French!  I spent an hour  mastering the art of eating delicate finger food, drinking and nonchalantly  looking like I belonged when I totally DID NOT, then wandered home. I hear the Australian Embassy has a monthly fund raiser. Maybe I’ll go to that!!

I’ll be back in NZ early April for a few weeks and hopefully catch up with a few people. Until then, keep in touch.

Lukim Yu