Getting Stoned With Savages - J. Maarten Troost [43]
“Land dispute,” he said. “The landowner wanted more money from the government. When the government refused to pay, the landowner destroyed the airport building.”
“And is this a common way of settling land disputes?” I asked.
“Very common.”
Gerard asked me about what I intended to do on Malekula. I mentioned that among the places I hoped to visit was the island of Vao, just off the northeast coast of Malekula. Vao was a kastom island.
“You cannot go to Vao,” Gerard said.
“Why not?”
“There is a dispute with the chief. No one is permitted to go to Vao.”
“And are there many disputes on Malekula?”
“Many. But do not worry. Peter will take care of you.”
Peter was the owner of Rose Bay Bungalows. Bungalow might be a rather extravagant word to describe the rudimentary shelters he had constructed, though they were certainly ingenious. It’s funny how accustomed one gets to electricity and running water, and as I contemplated the bamboo walls, the mosquito net, and the courtesy kerosene lantern, I marveled at what a different world Vanuatu was outside Port Vila. This wasn’t quite as primitive as the outer islands of Kiribati, but I still felt far away from the world beyond the reef.
“Is malaria a big problem here?” I asked.
“Yes,” Peter said. “It’s a very big problem. And now is the malaria season.”
Of course it was.
I immersed myself in a toxic cloud of mosquito repellent and followed Peter as he showed me around. There were several other Gilligan’s Island–style bungalows, connected by a series of stone paths that looped through the trees in an amusingly complex manner. Malekula is a remarkably fecund island. Some twenty thousand people live there, and on the drive from the airport, I had wondered where, exactly, were these twenty thousand people, until I peered a little more closely through the trees and realized we were passing through a village. Even the villages were difficult to distinguish from the lush growth that seemed just one rainfall away from swallowing everything. Within minutes of following Peter, I was thoroughly disoriented.
“Dinner will be at six,” he informed me. This left a little more than an hour to ramble about.
“I can hear the ocean, Peter. But I can’t see it. Could you point the way?”
The beach was just fifty or so yards from where we stood. The sand was an ash-gray ocher color festooned with driftwood and shells. A short distance offshore were two lush islets, Wala and Atchin, both inhabited. Strolling along the beach, I wondered if I could swim here. The air was still and humid, and after the excitement of flying Vanair I fairly ached for a plunge. Normally, I would have dived right in, but Malekula has a well-deserved reputation for shark attacks. Tiger sharks, bull sharks, even great white sharks were known to prowl its waters. About a half-mile farther, I noticed what appeared to be a group of women and children. Curiously, none of the kids were swimming in the ocean, which told me all I needed to know. There were sharks.
I walked toward them, and as I neared the women they waved hello encouragingly. Between us there was a swift-moving stream that emptied into the ocean. How to ford it, I wondered, without drenching my clothes? It was waist deep. Boys were swimming and diving into the freshwater, and the women, who had been fishing with hand lines, gathered with great smiles of amusement, beckoning me across. I paced back and forth, searching for the shallowest crossing point. Giving up, I marched in, and noticing the mirth and laughter of my spectators as I emerged with sopping shorts, I felt very pleased that I was able to provide the afternoon entertainment.
“Alo, alo,” they said.
Most of the boys were naked, and they stopped their play for a moment. “Whiteman,