Sign at Vanuatu airportVanuatu from the airVanuatu flights10 a.m. wine
I was somewhere near the intersection of the equator and the international dateline when I saw this sign at airport security.
Plis putum algeta samting we hemi metal insaid smo basket long ples eia befor yu go thru long machine.
Just passing through Vila, in the Ripablik Blong Vanuatu, a volcanic archipelago nation independent since 1980 (before that, it was called The New Hebrides).
If you’ve ever collected stamps, as I did as a kid, your favorites were probably from Vanuatu. I remember ordering them: huge, gorgeous images of flora and fauna and, if I remember correctly, some odd-shaped stamps—I think diamond-shaped, or at least large squares on a 45-degree angle.
In the tiny airport lounge (difference: air conditioned) we were treated to banana chips and some other tasteless fried things. It was 10:00 a.m. but Bob and I toasted with sauvignon blanc from New Zealand, as we were in some other, unknown time zone.
When travel is not glamorous, it is, at least, amusing.
Would a slathering of Dijon tempt the formerly (?) (supposedly) cannibalistic highland villagers? I couldn’t get myself to attempt the experiment. While on a visit to the north of Australia, Bob and I made a quick trip to Papua New Guinea. We were awed by traditional dancers from the highland villages. Only one of the men spoke English; he told me they are Huli “wigmen,” and that it took four years to grow his wig of human hair (presumably made of his own hair).
Though cannibalism and human sacrifice are reportedly no longer practiced here, Papua New Guinea does have a scarily high rate of crime and, just a year ago, Port Moresby was ranked among the top five murder capitals in the world. Hotels and local guidebooks warn of sudden, unpredictable, and violent eruptions of inter-tribal conflict.
“Papua New Guinea has a high crime rate. Numerous U.S. citizen residents and visitors have been victims of violent crime in recent years, and they have sometimes suffered severe injuries. Carjackings, armed robberies, and stoning of vehicles are problems in and around major cities such as Port Moresby, Lae, Mount Hagen, and Goroka, but can happen anywhere. Pickpockets and bag snatchers frequent crowded public areas.…Individuals traveling alone are at greater risk for robbery or gang rape than are those who are part of an organized tour or under escort.”
The U.S. Embassy in Port Moresby “emphasizes that there is no way to guarantee personal safety during a visit to PNG, only to minimize the chances of becoming a victim.”
Bob and I failed to do our homework. Had we read the above before wandering alone all over, we certainly would have changed our behavior appropriately. The fact that we traipsed back roads and the city center unmolested only proves that anecdotal evidence is not the whole story. We might have reported “we were fine!” But that doesn’t mean it’s safe.
As we explored the hilly roads of Port Moresby, Bob commented on the rolls and rolls of razor wire, the hefty security at housing complexes, and the number of security vehicles that followed residents into the complexes. Bob assumed the residents were high-profile mining executives, hence the security. After further study, it seems that these were simply foreigners working in the country, with the usual security detail.
A great number of the people we met, in the city as well, had the red gums and worn-to-stubs blackened teeth of the betel nut-chewer.
Betel nut, a mild stimulant, is sold everywhere in town, literally every few yards on some streets. It’s chewed with a pinch of lime (the mineral—in a jar in the photo below), a pinch of tobacco, and sometimes a favorite spice. Gutters are littered with betel nut shells and practically run red with spit juices.
As a great contrast to the ubiquitous promises of doom and crime to the tourist, Bob and I, in our naive wanderings, quickly considered Port Moresby the most friendly city we’d ever walked. Every single person, without exception, said good morning or good afternoon, and those we stopped to speak with immediately offered their hands, touched our arms, or both.
The Crowne Plaza Hotel in Port Moresby has a stunning collection of masks, some seven feet tall. I’m showing great restraint by posting only one mask photo.
I know what you’re thinking. This photo, below, looks fake, like we’ve stuck our heads through holes in a painted backdrop. Uh-uh. No. And the men’s faces are painted, not masks. Through an unofficial translator, a wigman told that the yellow pigment is dug out from “between the gas and the oil.” We’d asked because it looks so unnatural.
Yellowcake, uranium oxide
“What do they use for the yellow?” my mother, a painter, asked on seeing this photo. I explained what the wigman told me. “It doesn’t look natural to me,” my mother said.
“Let me Daddle that,” I said. My sisters and I have always asked our brilliant chemist father whatever curiosity needed an answer. As he was already on the line, my father said it sounds like they use “yellowcake,” a kind of uranium oxide. “Can’t be too good to rub on the skin,” he added.
And the charges are: against him, breaking and entering; against his sister, poisoning by E.coli.
It started with a loud thud in the dead of night, immediately followed by heavy breathing. I jumped out of bed and looked out the window, but it was too dark to see a thing. The labored breath was right outside. I also heard a wet trickle.
Exactly one year ago, I spent a magical week in the Galapagos. My sister chartered the 14-passenger yacht Parranda for the family. Besides our two onboard naturalists, we were six adults and six teens. I was asleep in my stateroom when I heard the intruder. Our yacht was in motion, sailing from San Salvador Island to Bartolome Island, so I couldn’t fathom who could have come aboard, or how. The chef’s provisioner? The captain’s wife? Pirates of the Galapagos?
I learned in the morning that it had been an 800-pound sea lion that had launched itself aboard for a free ride. It wasn’t alone, either. Several other beasts had made the aft deck their lounge for the night. The crew hates their visits, as they leave quite a mess behind.
A few days later, snorkeling off the coast of Floreana Island, we were joined briefly by a penguin and a couple of sea turtles. Then a flock (pride? school?) of sea lions surrounded us, jetting playfully among us with speed and grace never betrayed on land.
Close, close encounters with wild animals are thrilling, and I’ve had more than my share. I held someone’s pet bat in Ponape. I wrestled with a pair of 14-week-old lion cubs in Johannesburg. I had my hand in a kangaroo’s pouch in Sydney. I swam with hammerhead sharks in Maui, stingrays in Cayman Islands, and giant clams in Palau. To visit wild animals in their own milieu, to feel a clumsy foreigner in their domain, like an interloper and a trespasser, is wondrous. Mind-blowing. Jaw-dropping.
Jaw-dropping. Joyous. Laughing while snorkeling gets one a mouthful of seawater. The giant sea lion was just inches away from Geri when it let loose an opaque cloud.
That night onboard, all six kids got seasick at once. By morning, they had all recovered except for Geri, who deteriorated slowly. It wasn’t until she saw her doctor back home that we realized she’d been poisoned ingesting sea lion turd.
I’ve never understood the logic of this neck contraption. It pushes the head forward—but for sleeping, wouldn’t you rather have your head back? If I had one, I’d wear it backwards. But I don’t want one. I wonder how many people try this thing more than once? Does it work for anyone, or is it just a scam, like the “throw your voice” gimmick I ordered off the back of a cereal box when I was eight? This guy eventually put it in his lap.
They really hang loose in Honolulu. This man, a former Minnesotan, told us he’s been “tropicalized” after living in Hawaii for 30 years. He works in Honolulu’s oldest bar. I took his picture with his permission.
Hong Kong’s famous skyscrapers are just beyond this hill.
Yuzu diver scallops at Pacific O, Maui
Chef McDonald had a farm, EIEIO. We had a gorgeous dinner in Lahaina last week, outdoors, on the beach, hibiscus blossoms in my hair (still attached to the shrub, which we were snug against, having begged the last outdoor table). A tacky tourist luau was taking place next door, but it was hard not to enjoy the music which visited us on the breeze. We’d only just arrived on Maui, and from the taxi, we watched whales spouting just offshore as the sun set. Lovely.
Our hotel receptionist, when asked for dinner recommendations, said “They’re all the same in town, and none are any good. The only place I eat here is Ruth’s Chris.” Then we found the quintessential local, a grown-up surfer on a bicycle, a food enthusiast. He pointed us to Pacific O, among other interesting options. Its chef, James McDonald, runs an organic farm for all the produce at Pacific O and his other restaurant, IO’s. We walked there and got a table right away, but it was under a roof next to the bar. Noisy, and not outdoors enough. I pushed hard and the manager created a spot for us on the patio out of nothing. We rewarded him with a hefty bill.
The following week we came ashore in Majuro in the Marshall Islands, by small boat. Only lightly touched by tourism, the jungle island was a delight in all its ineptness. The airport was mad with well-wishers, send-offers, and children running around as if it were the county fair. Almost every flying islander checked in an ice chest, and each ice chest (as each suitcase) was emptied, inspected, and repacked. The ice chests contained plastic baggies of frozen food, lobster, crabs, and frozen fish. Much of this was unwrapped. Just frozen and thrown in the chest.
