“It is but machiney, Sahib” — 21 Sep 2014

We left Lamen Bay on Epi just before midnight last Friday for a supposedly light-air sail down to Efate, some sixty miles to the south.  “Light air” turned out to be about fifteen knots.  At least it wasn’t right on the nose, just a one-legged beat to weather.  So, I drove her hard, harder that ever before, full sail, rail down, smashing through the seas at six knots.  Fun for a few hours, but it was getting pretty old by the time we reached the lee of Efate and ran out of wind.

Starting the engine, we found that there was no cooling water flowing out of the exhaust.  Uh-oh!  Not good.  Shut the engine down to investigate.  Can’t find anything wrong.  Checked the sea-strainer for blockage; nothing.  Start the engine again; still no water; shut it down.  Pulled the hose off the nipple where it injects the cooling water into the exhaust gases.  Started the engine briefly to check the flow; good flow; shut down again (the cooling water was going into the engine room at that point).  Put the hose back on; restarted a third time; ran normally!  Go figure.  This is the sort of thing that gives me nightmares.  Without the engine, under the current conditions, it would have been difficult and time-consuming to make it into port.

By the way, the title quote comes from an old mountaineering book where a truck in India, broken down on the way to the Himalayas, is being worked on by an Indian mechanic.  Unable to fix it, he turns to the European passenger, shruggs his shoulders and says, “It is but machinery, Sahib.”

Well Met, Indeed, at Lamen Bay, Epi — 17 Sep 2014

We dropped anchor late yesterday afternoon here in Lamen Bay on the island of Epi.  There were three other yachts here, one American, one British, and one without a flag.  Next morning, we thought we’d row around to meet the neighbors, as we haven’t had much of any for some weeks.  First off, the American boat.  Nice people, and they mentioned that the boat without the flag was also American, from Port Townsend, Washington.  We obviously had to go meet them next.  They looked awfully familiar to us, and we to them, and it took but a few seconds to recognize each other.  We have close mutual friends in Seattle, at whose house we all met once some years ago.

No Volcano, 12 Sep 2014

One of our goals here in Vanuatu was to climb the volcano on the island of Ambrym.  This is about a four-hour hike up about four thousand feet, partly through jungle and partly over an ash plain.  You reach the crater rim on the north side, and, hopefully, the prevailing southeast wind blows the smoke away, letting you look down into Dante’s inferno.  Day-to-day weather is also a factor, of course.  If the mountain is socked in, no views at all.

We arrived at Ambrym last Friday, and found the guide in the village the next day.  Sunday’s weather didn’t look good, but we tentatively arranged a two-day trip for Monday and Tuesday.  The plan was to stay at a hut below the rim Monday night, get a view of the crater at night — this is supposedly the best time — and hike back down on Tuesday.  Monday’s weather turned out rainy too, so we rescheduled for a one-day trip on Tuesday.  This would have been a long day, but we were running short of days before we needed to be back in Port Vila.  Alas, Tuesday also saw the mountain socked in, so we sailed on south to Epi, the next island enroute back to Port Vila.

So, we’re batting five hundred right now.  Our first goal was the festival on Vanua Lava, which we raced north to attend, and which was just great.  We struck out on our second goal.  Our third goal is to visit the volcano on the island of Tanna.

Tanna’s volcano is billed as the most accesible volcano in the world.  You can drive to within a short walk of the crater.  Tourists fly in just to do that.  We, on the other hand, would have to sail upwind some hundred and thirty miles from Port Vila — that’s a fifteen-to-twenty-knot beat in eight-to-ten-foot seas, not fun for more than an afternoon, if that.  Either that or wait in Vila for a lucky break in the Trades.  Don’t know yet how that’ll turn out, but we’re determined to get there.

Hunting Water Prawns in Asanvari -- 8 Sept 2014

We arranged with Barry, the local that guided us to the Bat Cave last Saturday, to take us, along with another yachtie couple, into the bush to show us how he catches freshwater prawns. So, with mask and snorkel, and miniature pole spears, we followed him a short way into the jungle to a small stream.

We waded upstream, hopped from rock to rock, climbed over small waterfalls, stopping at pools along the way to hunt. Donning mask and snorkel, we lay down in the pools looking for prawns. There were many all around, but most were too small to bother with. The spear consisted of a piece of bamboo about a yard long, tipped with splayed points salvaged from the ribs of an old umbrella, and powered by a strip of rubber seized to the opposite end. This is exactly what I've used for many years hunting fish, except much smaller, so I immediately got into the game, bagging several prawns. Barry was the expert here, though, and it was just as much fun watching him. He knew every hole along the way, and came up with prawn after prawn. Several times, he disappeared under the water into some dark hole for a surprising length of time, making me think of Gollum in the Hobbit.

We finished the day with the four yachties on Mintaka for Thai curry with prawns. 

Bat Cave and Laundry Day in Asanvari, Maewo, Vanuatu -- 6 September 2014

We were well past due for washing clothes when we arrived here in Asanvari yesterday. But we had a higher priority today. There is a cave high on the mountain near here called Bat Cave, which, as you can imagine, is home to countless bats. Actually, some birds ("pijin") also nest inside the cave. Anyway, a local man here guides visitors up to see it for a small fee. Some friends of ours who visited it a number of years ago considered it a "don't miss" activity. So, we arranged yesterday to meet the guide, Barry, on shore this morning at eight o'clock.

Barry doesn't speak much English at all, nor French which is also a possibility here, only his local language (one of many here) and Bislama. But we've been working hard these few weeks on Bislama, and we had a great time conversing completely in it. A little stilted, perhaps, but still quite enjoyable.

We knew it would be a long hike up a steep, muddy trail -- I use that word loosely here -- for an hour and a half, or so. It was, indeed, both steep and muddy. We came to these islands with no footwear save flip-flops, so we found some sneakers to buy in Vila just for hikes such as this one. It wasn't long, though, before I was wondering if flip-flops might not be better here. Barry was wearing them, or occasionally going barefoot, and he was not slipping and sliding nearly as much as us. But we persevered for a couple of hours, Barry pausing to show us some plant, or an old village gravesite, or to chat about something ("samting") in Bislama. Actually, he couldn't seem to walk and talk at the same time, and I was beginning to wonder if we'd get there and back in one day. But we did, of course.

Bat Cave was cool. Just inside the entrance, there are some human bones and a partial skull from antiquity. Stepping further inside, bats flying all around us, we scrambled along with flashlights. About the time we lost the light from the entrance, we began to see a glow from another opening. Reaching that second opening, we saw it was a giant hole in the cave roof, extending down into an equally giant hole in the cave floor, descending into an abyss. Barry said that no one has ever gone down this hole, but that it apparently connects with a lower cave accessible from another entrance. The cave was interesting, and was of course the motivation for this hike, but it was the hike itself and the interaction with Barry that I enjoyed the most. He, like so many ni-Vanuatu, has an infectious smile and a warm, open personality. He seems to really enjoy the contact with visitors, showing them something of his island and its ways. As we have so often found, he also responded enthusiastically to our attempts at his language.

Slipping and sliding down the path ("smol rod"), it began to rain, not making traction any better. After a drippy beginning, it gained momentum, setting in to be an all-afternoon tropical downpour. We hadn't brought rain jackets, and were soaked to the skin with warm rain, but that was preferable to being soaked to the skin with warm sweat underneath rain jackets.

So, that leads into laundry day. Considering that fresh water is a valuable commodity on a boat -- we have to either make it, fetch it, or catch it -- and laundry takes a lot of it, we rowed back to Mintaka quickly to set buckets under our rain-catchment hoses. Within minutes, both buckets were full and emptied into our laundry basins. Robyn -- bless her soul -- sat out in the rain scrubbing and rinsing two weeks worth of clothes, sheets and towels. Then, she strung our clothes lines, hanging things up for a further rinse before taking them down again, lest they blow away. No chance of drying them today; that'll have to wait till tomorrow. 

Vanua Lava Days Festival, 1 - 4 Sept 2014

We had heard about cultural festivals in Vanuatu, where one can see "custom" dancing, and other traditional arts or events. Most of these festivals were already over for the season by the time we arrived in Vanuatu, however. The only one remaining with enough lead time for us to reach was in Vureas Bay on Vanua Lava. Vanua Lava is in the Banks group, far to the north, but there was just enough time to get there if we hurried. We don't usually hurry like that, but this time we did, stopping only one or two nights in any one place along the way.

The goal of attending this festival soon after entering the country did work well with the prevailing winds, which blow along the island chain from south to north. The resulting strategy then was to shoot north to the festival with the prevailing winds, then use the occasionally different winds to work our way slowly back south to Port Vila and maybe Tanna, even further south, before leaving for New Caledonia in October. So, with very little idea what to expect, we set off to the north.

The first leg, to the southern tip of Malekula, was a great overnight run. We spent two nights there (another blog entry), then a great daysail up to Port Stanley. Only one night there -- a real shame -- then a nice day sail again to Vao Island (also another blog entry). Two nights there, another great day sail, another one night anchorage, and a final great overnight sail. All of this sailing was downwind, and I couldn't help wondering all along if we were going to pay dearly, with a long upwind slog back.

Our first stop on Vanua Lava -- we arrived on a Saturday, and the festival was to begin on Monday -- was in Waterfall Bay, just a few miles to the north of Vureas bay. A twin waterfall plunges scenically, directly into the sea here. There is a no village, but several families live along the shore in the area. One of the two paramount chiefs of the island lives here, Chief Kerely, who welcomed us, and soon became a friend. Snorkeling along the shore here, we also found one of the best displays of coral we've ever seen -- great diversity and extent, along with a fascinating topography. Chief Kerely grew up in the village in Vureas bay, and took the opportunity the next day to ride with us down there for a visit. Besides enjoying his company, having him introduce us to the other paramount chief of the island, Chief Godfrey of Vureas Bay, was a good start there.

Chief Godfrey is seventy-five years old, a small, wiry man with regal presence. Like so many people here, his infectious smile and warm, open welcome made us feel immediately at ease and at home. We came to regard him with great affection in just a few days.

The purpose of this annual festival is twofold, to commemorate the loss of an entire village here by an earthquake, landslide and tsunami on September 1, 1945, and to revive and teach traditional customs. Striking in the night, over seven hundred people, all but a lucky few, were lost in that tragedy. Chief Godfrey was one of those few, carried by his parents uphill into the bush in the dark. We visited the ruins with the Chief, just a short walk down the shore. The earthquake lifted the land there, so it is now a bit inland. During the war, the Americans landed on the beach by the village. Now there is a section of jungle between it and the beach. Incidentally, the Americans are remembered well here. Apparently, they treated the native people well. One man told us he still has a tea kettle that was given to his father back then. Little is left there now, but we did see the ruins of the church and the baptismal font (made from one half of a giant clam, a Tridactna gigas) where the Chief was baptized as a baby.

The cultural part of the festival mostly consisted of traditional dances, each of which told a story, which of course was lost on us. We did enjoy the exotic dances, though, with the dancers dressed in grass skirts, various flowers and feathers, and accompanied by local percussion instruments. One of these instruments is called a tamtam, or slit drum. It consists of either a section of bamboo or a hollowed log. In either case, there is only a single narrow opening, resulting in a resonant chamber. The other instrument is a heavy round wooden disk, perhaps a yard in diameter. It is set over a hole in the ground, also creating a resonant chamber, and is rhythmically pounded by men with heavy poles, vaguely reminiscent of a mortar and pestle. Besides these two, most dancers had seed-pod rattles secured around their ankles.

Most of these dances were performed by men, a few by women, but never mixed. There were quite a few of these traditional dances over the several days, but there were also two "public" dances, where anyone could join in. These both quickly became joyous mobs, prancing, shuffling, circling the drummers. The few yachties in attendance gladly mixed in, even me, who has always maintained, "I don't dance."

Besides the dancing, Chief Godfrey's youngest son took us for a long walk in the jungle to see a Megapode, an almost extinct flightless bird that lays its rather large eggs in warm volcanic soil, and also to see how they catch freshwater prawns. After several kilometers, we came to a native homesite, several thatch-roof structures with woven bamboo walls and rough plank floors. A man and two small boys, dressed in grass skirts, and painted even blacker than natural -- I was quite taken aback -- led us further into the jungle, all the while drumming lightly on a small tamtam, chanting and calling his semi-tame bird. After a while, we hear the bird answer the call, and eventually the bird came close enough for us to get a good look. Next, the man showed us his cleverly woven trap which he had baited with grated coconut and left in a stream the day before. It contained about two dozen prawns, which he gave to us, and which we cooked and ate later that day. Only upon arriving back at his homesite did the man speak any English, or for that matter Bislama (there are a multitude of local languages here; the only one in common is Bislama, a relatively recently invented creole language). Only at that point did I recognize him as Frank, Chief Godfrey's eldest son, whom I had met him the day before, dressed neatly in tee shirt, shorts, socks and sneakers. The change was so dramatic, and so unexpected, that I didn't recognize him. This was no act, though, rather a different part of his identity, one he grew up with, and which was just as comfortable to him as western dress.

The last morning before we left, a group of women from a neighboring island performed "water music". This consisted of the women, wading in waist deep water, slapping the water in such a way as to create a rhythm with several different sounds. Unique music, to be sure, and they have taken it as far as Europe.

We had gone to this festival not knowing what to expect. What we found there were wonderful people celebrating their heritage, much like an American-Indian powwow. What struck me most was that, even though their customs are radically exotic to me, they are just people, not much different than anywhere else. Actually, they are different. They are polite, shy, and warmly welcoming, far more so than I've ever seen anywhere else, and it is their national character.