Pacific Voyage: Espiritu Santo Island, Vanuatu

Vanuatu, formerly known as the New Hebrides, means "our land". Vanuatu has three official languages - Bislama, English, and French. Bislama is a type of Pidgin English spoken by over 70 % of the population.
Espiritu Santo is the largest island in the chain. This island has 49 species of orchid, and the richest bird fauna, with 55 species including all 7 of the country's endemics.
The nearest neighbor to the Vanuatu chain of islands is the Solomon Islands, 170 kilometers to the north.

Today we visit Nekar Village in Espiritu Santo. A lovely woman, dressed in a reed outfit, greets us. Soon, we hear the 'ominous' tock-tock of a slit-gong drum, and muted war cries - the men and boys jump out at us from the vegetation, carrying spears. Their laughing faces belie any threat, and we visitors good-naturedly play our part by responding with cries of horror and fear.

We enter the village through a receiving line of the warriors. Inside, the women greet us. I go immediately into the store (a dirt-floored open-walled hut) because I am trying to find a good example of the seed pod ankle bracelets used in dancing. I find them, and make friends with Cecilia. It turns out we are almost the same age - she is 56, I am 54. Her mother is with her; also her sister, daughter, and grand-children. I am struck by this in most of the villages we visit - most of the population is definitely related, and everyone does everything together, so the children are inculcated into the culture almost by osmosis. So different from our American culture, where the children are shunted off to school and activities separate from the parents, and our houses have separate rooms for each activity, and for the people who live in the house. Most of the huts we see here have one room for everyone, and everything.

The villagers urge us to sit on benches, shaded by a thatch roof. They treat us to a men's dance - again the warriors approaching slowly, silently, out of the vegetation; spears raised, black charcoal on their faces, some wearing coconut hats with the reddish fiber mimicking hair and obscuring their faces. One man holds a leaf in his mouth - later we learn he represents the dead, who cannot speak, but are still with us. All the men and boys dance together - again the unison of the dancers to the beat makes the ground shake. It is marvelous choreography.

Then the women dance, and it is very circular. The oldest woman stands in the middle and makes an amazing noise - a sustained note, very low, very deep, very ancient. The other women circle and protect her, and then begin to dance. The youngest toddlers, finding the movement too slow, run quickly around the perimeter of the circle. These are beautiful people, and several in this village have blond hair. One of our anthropologists has told us this is simply a local genetic trait, and has nothing to do with any European genes.

Then we are invited to see a very special dance. We walk to a rectangular pool of water, set in the trees. About ten of the women are in the water, and proceed to make several dances with their hands, the water, clapping, and the sound of the hands hitting the water. It is unique, and we don't see anything like this anywhere else. I forgot to say that, unlike the woman who greeted us, most of the women are wearing costumes made out of banana leaves. I note that these do not fall apart in the water. The ubiquitous banana leaf is used for clothing, shelter, and food.

Then we are invited into the "bar", a leaf hut with a real bar and benches. A man is making kava, what I have come to learn is the national drink. It is made from a particular grain mixed with water. People drink it all day long, and it is supposed to give you energy, while making your lips numb. I have been told it tastes like dirty dishwater, so have not tried it yet. Today though, our anthropologist, Mike, says this village is known for the quality of its kava, so I try it. It's tasty, kind of like non-alcoholic beer, but it does not make my lips numb. It does other people's though.

While we sit in this hut, my friend Cecilia comes to me with her grand-daughter and gifts me with a lovely sarong in bright coral and orange colors, which has the word "Vanuatu" batiked into it. I feel I must reciprocate, and give her what I have, which is a necklace my daughter made for me years ago, with wonderful African beads and a maroon colored fish. I hate to give this up, as it has special meanings for me, but I feel it is the only thing I have to give which is equal to her gift.