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 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.
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.
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