Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [13]
As she absorbs the interior of my bungalow, her lips hitch into an “Ugh!” shape, and I know she's thinking exactly what I'm thinking: found the lever that lowers the roof yet?
Preempting her, I shake my head. “I was just looking for it when you arrived.”
“Looking for what? What are you talking about?”
Oh. Okay. Then she wasn't thinking what I was thinking. Sorry.
“My room is full of bugs. I'm so pissed,” she shudders. “They're everywhere. God, how could the office send us here during bug season?”
“Maybe they didn't know. Every season's probably bug season in Vanuatu.”
“Yeah, well, it sucks, and I'm going to tell them.”
“But how? How will you tell them? There's no pablik telefon.”
“No what?”
“Oh, I'm sorry.” Realizing she doesn't speak Bislama, I translate.
“I spoke with the owners of the hotel just now. The island has radio phones. Also, they have a satellite phone we can use. Like the one in Jurassic Park. It's not ideal, but I can at least call the office tonight, confirm that we got here okay, and th—” as she's talking, a fly lands on her bottom lip and rests there. “Ugh! Ugh! Yeuw!” She flaps it away with both hands. “YEUW!!! I can't bear it.”
For a moment or two we lapse into depressed silence, jointly surveying the stick furniture in the room, the rough stone floor, and the raised roof, which looks like it was made from glued-together Weetabix. Then she collects herself and explains what she came for.
“Tomorrow,” she says, “we begin shooting for real. We're aiming for an 8 A.M. call time. So be at the van in your show clothes by 7:50, okay? Right now, the boys and I are heading out to scout locations.”
“You're leaving me alone?”
I hate it when they do that—go off without me. Each time it happens, I notice they all bond just a little more, and I feel left out just a little more, widening the gulf between us.
“Well, you can't come, obviously,” she insists. “You're not allowed to see it. Don't worry—we won't be long. In the meantime, rest, chill, whatever, okay? I'll see you at dinner.”
With a cute little wave, she charges off toward reception at her usual brisk clip, thumbs hooked inside the straps of her backpack, mind already on to the next thing.
Shortly after, I hear van doors slam and an engine burst into life. Then, after a brief grapple with seat belts and some general disorganization, the hand brake is let off, tires scrunch across gravel, and everyone-but-me disappears back to the main road and away for their little afternoon excursion.
The main building of the hotel is a large, airy log cabin-type structure straight out of the Architectural Digest: Places You Think You'd Like to Live but Would Probably Regret Later On edition. En route to the deck, I find the same middle-aged man standing in reception …
“Alo.”
“Alo,” he says again.
… and begin quizzing him about the fake light switches in my room.
A lively conversation follows. Well, lively from my side at least. He just stares at me like I'm a moron. “They're not fake light switches, sir. They're real light switches.”
“But they don't work.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Mine don't.”
“Yes they do.”
“Then, sir,” I reply, “I invite you to come to my bungalow and try flicking them.”
“I don't need to come and flick them, sir. I know they work. Because …”
“Well, I'm sor—”
“… because we switch the generator off each day until 6:30 P.M.”
Ah. I see.
What I didn't know—How could I? Nobody told me—was that Tanna, despite its overall tendency toward the primitive, is, paradoxically, one of the most eco-advanced places on earth. The people strive in all kinds of ways to conserve their environment, including using energy resources sparingly, which, while enlightened and highly admirable, is nonetheless—and not to sound selfish or anything—a damned nuisance when you want to take a shower and can't heat your water.
“Oh, and another thing. If you could please send someone to lower the ceiling in my bungalow before nightfall I'd be most grateful. Your porter told me there was a lever