Dateline: Vanuatu.
I don’t know a single other person who has been to Vanuatu. It is true, most Americans are ridiculously ignorant of world Geography, but I got lots of “Is that in Mexico?” – or even worse – from some pretty well traveled people when I announced my itinerary. From the moment we got off the plane in Efate, ten minutes from the main city, Port Vila which is one of two ports of foreign entry – the other is on Espiritu Santo at Pekoa – people automatically assumed that we were either Australian or from New Zealand. This is their playground. These islands and their numerous resorts are analogous to Hawaii for the U.S. except we were smart and annexed Hawaii as a state, whereas Vanuatu is an independent country, as of 1980. The Aussies “own” Vanuatu, but they don’t own Vanuatu.
James Cook was the first European to map the 83 islands in 1774 naming them “New Hebrides”. The original settlers are thought to have migrated here from Papua, New Guinea some 3000 years ago. The French and English tussled over the place until a formal agreement was made in 1906 to give equal governing mojo to the British crown and the French President. People from Vanuatu are currently known to the world as “Melanesians”.
These days it’s impossible to imagine these warm, friendly, “totally chill” people boiling up a fresh pot of human being, but they will tell you that the practice of cannibalism was only abolished completely in the 1960s. Cannibalism is one of the things that Vanuatu is known for and the practice of having your neighbor for dinner as opposed to having your neighbor over for dinner has given the place a unique rep among South Pacific Islands. A rep that they willfully nurture and promote. Present day references to cannibalism are usually delivered with a chuckle and a display of the special kind of indigenous humor that pokes fun at gullible tourists and lets you know that they know they are being a bit naughty. The Bureau of Tourism probably doesn’t encourage acknowledgment of the fact that many present day Vanuatis have first degree relatives who remember a day when typical protein sources dried up and the chief of any village could designate some poor soul as an entrée item. (Visitors were preferred (tastier?) over tribal members and cannibalism on Vanuatu was generally only practiced to supplement the nutritional pyramid, so if you had other meat, Human was off the menu.) Unlike on Papua, New Guinea, the consumption of your neighbor was never a matter of religious ceremony; on Vanuatu it was only dinner. One conversation about cannibalism that took place in an actual tribal village had a distinct overtone of reminiscence for the good old days, a little like how Californians talk about abalone steaks. “Ah, remember when?” Followed by the big sigh.
Another uniquely Vanuatian experience was the drinking of kava, a substance that tastes like I imagine dirty wash water might taste. It is always taken from a coconut cup and three cups minimum are recommended.
One does not savor kava. One belts it down as quickly as possible while one’s friends loudly and rhythmically exhort one (I suspect) to keep it down. It is decidedly a social venture. One doesn’t sit alone and suck down the kava. It put me in mind of a fraternity drinking party and I guess the end goal of the enterprise might be similar. Kava marketing and distribution questions somehow never got answered and the Vanuatians were a little unforthcoming when queried about the ubiquity of “kava huts”, (designated by certain colored light bulbs burning outside). Kava drinking is universal but only certain people make it and sell it. Like bootleggers. The locals told us that it is perfectly legal and even exported but they discussed their kava consumption with an air of naughtiness exchanging knowing, guilty glances before answering any question. In that way the kava experience reminded me of how Argentines are fond of mate. It tastes godawful, nobody does it alone and everyone giggles like a weight watcher caught with a twinkie in hand when you ask them why they like it.
So, yes, in the interest of anthropological research, and for that reason alone, both Pablo and I partook of the kava. I was not aware of any state of consciousness change. No “high”, no dis-inhibit ion, no anesthesia. This was virtually as promised. “It is not at all like alcohol.” But, that night and the night following I had dreams that were unquestionably hallucinogenic. And, not in a good way. In the first night’s dream I was responsible, (by virtue of my negligence as a house-sitter), for the death of our neighbor’s pet cat. The neighbor’s child could not be consoled. All the dream’s participants accused me of the most heinous insensitivity. I protested, citing the wonderful, well known quality of self-sufficiency in felines but nobody was buying it. Somehow (and instantly) a condemning jury was assembled from my past that joined a group of mind boggling randomness. Old clients, disaffected lovers, in laws who never liked me on a good day, and the spouse of a friend who I had once counseled would make an excellent ex. And they were unanimously pissed. Things went downhill from there. The second night’s dream featured a less boisterous cast, (only me and Pablo), but again I was responsible for animal cruelty. (Wtf?) In this one I throttled a coyote to death (but, only after the little bastard bit the shit out of my hands). The most disturbing thing about this dream was that every time I squeezed his neck, blood with the viscosity of water gushed from the tooth punctures in my hands. Needless to say, I was a bloody mess by the time Mr. Coyote gave up the ghost. (Again, wtf?) So, wait, that wasn’t the most disturbing thing…the most disturbing thing was Pablo’s callous response to my predicament. I woke up completely pissed at him for “not being on my side” and instead showing much more empathy for the coyote. I did have one more night of, shall we say, odd, dreams, but no living things were sacrificed in the making of those dreams. Nevertheless, spirit of adventure, my ass. No. More. Kava. For me.