With slight variations, this conversation was repeated at nearly every encounter my wife, Nina, and I had with local islanders during our sea kayak expedition around the small Pacific island nation of Vanuatu. A kayak is more than a means of conveyance; it is a statement that vulnerability is embraced, motors not needed, speed and comfort inconsequential, possessions few; and it always provokes curiosity. Indeed, during my thirty years and 10,000 kilometres of sea kayaking, from Melanesia to Greenland, people have marvelled at my mode of transport, questioned my sanity, invited me into their homes, and fed me warm reindeer brains, Pop-Tarts, papaya, or whatever else was available or deemed a delicacy. I’ve done well by my sea kayak, but this time around Vanuatu would reveal a treasure chest of surprises.
Vanuatu consists of eighty-three volcanic islands that rise out of blue tropical seas. On my first visit, in 1994, while teaching school on the island of Nguna, I told the class that geological forces beneath the ocean floor would continue to raise the islands for millions of years. Then the islands would cool and contract until they sank beneath the waves. Another teacher didn’t comprehend the time span involved, but assumed I was a white shaman, putting a hex on their island, to make it draon and swim with the sharks. The news spread. I left town in a hurry.
Some 50,000 years ago, Stone Age people in Southeast Asia began building boats and going to sea. Over the millennia, these brave mariners explored a third of our watery planet — south to Australia, east to Hawaii, and, according to some anthropologists, north to Alaska. Archaeological evidence indicates that the Lapita people settled in Vanuatu more than 3,000 years ago. These migrants were ancestors of the more modern Melanesians, a black-skinned people who now live in the western South Pacific.
Ever since the days of Ferdinand Magellan, sailors have depended on trade winds to propel them gently and reliably across tropical oceans. So when Nina and I launched our kayaks from the modern city of Port-Vila, we expected a southeastern zephyr to waft us along. Instead, sharp gusts fired out of the north, building an ugly chop and a relentless headwind. After crossing Mele Bay, we looked for a campsite, but a falling tide created ominous surf that pounded against the coral reefs. We found an opening and turned north into calm waters. A short distance from the city, we landed at a seaside restaurant. The proprietor helped pull our boats to shore, and I asked if we could camp on his lawn, provided we bought dinner at his establishment.
“Why not?” he answered.
As Nina and I set up our tent, a shiny black Buick limousine with a red G1 licence plate drove in, followed by an entourage of late-model, lesser vehicles. A heavyset man who looked as if he had been strong in his youth but had become flabby with age stepped out of the Buick and approached me.
“Who are you? How did you get here?”
“My name is Jon Turk. My wife, Nina, and I came here by kayak.”
The man extended his hand: “Hello, my name is Ham. I am the prime minister of Vanuatu.”
The restaurant owner neglected to mention that we had stumbled into a vip party honouring Ham Lini’s son, who was leaving the next day to start a four-year scholarship at a prestigious engineering institute in China. (Later, I read in the local newspaper, the Vanuatu Independent, that the scholarship coincided suspiciously with the granting of a permit for a controversial Chinese fish processing plant in Mele Bay.) Never having spoken with a prime minister before, I was somewhat at a loss for words, but managed to ask him about his son and the gathering that was soon to erupt around us. He suggested we drink some kava before the rest of the guests arrived.
