Life in the Ring of Fire Part 1: Welcome to the Beach Corps

OK, so, I'm getting so far behind in this blogging thing that I figured I'd better just skip ahead to Vanuatu for now and go back and catch up my AT stories when I have the time. So, sorry if things are a little choppy from here on out, but I figure that's better than having no blog posts at all.

Oddly enough, my Peace Corps experience was to begin in the greater LA airport area, where we were slated to have staging. “Staging” is a Peace Corps euphemism for “an excuse for us to get everyone to leave for Vanuatu from the same airport to save us some money.” Looking back, though I really can't complain. I got put up for 2 nights at a nice hotel and a hefty $160 to use at my discretion. My flight out of Austin was at 11am which put me into LA just a little after noon. I was told by the hotel receptionist that checked me in that I was the first one of my group to arrive and that I was to have a room mate named Evan. I used the opportunity to check my email, seeing as it had been a full 4 hours since I'd last done so, got bored with that and went exploring on foot. This ended in failure as the only thing in walking distance seemed to be other hotels. Finally I settled on passing the time by sitting in the lobby, looking at arriving guests, and trying to guess which ones were soon-to-be Peace Corps volunteers. The hotel had a steady influx of people in expensive business suits who didn't really seem to fit the bill and by dinner time I was starting to wonder if I'd accidentally gone to the wrong hotel. I opted for a meal at the hotel bar, as I didn't really seem to have any other option for food, and thus ended up spending $12 for a hamburger. I considered this an odd welcome to Peace Corps. However, realizing that my American money would soon become useless to me and that I might be living in a grass hut for the next 2 years, I decided to go all out. The bartender was from Texas and he mixed a passable margarita, which I had a couple of. He also seemed unaware that there was a Peace Corps event taking place, further increasing my anxiety that I had gone to the wrong place. A little later a girl took a seat next to me. In stark contrast to everyone else in the hotel, she was wearing quick-dry pants and a t-shirt. She ordered a vegetarian burger for dinner. That did it, she had to be Peace Crops.

I had guessed correctly, and we got to talking for a bit. Her name was Evelyn and was headed to Vanuatu for teacher training. Another group of volunteers found their way to the bar later that evening, bring our total to about 10 people. We all shared some beers, swapped some introductions, and talked about our upcoming departure for the South Pacific. The next day we checked in with the Peace Corps staff, met the rest of our group, and had to attend some very long lectures were we all grew increasingly frustrated by the fact that no one was giving us any specific information about Vanuatu or what we'd be doing there. That evening we all hit the hotel bar again to live up our last night in the states. Much later, we were kicked out of the hot tub because the pool area was closing and we were forced to call it a night.

The next day started early with some more lectures and finished at noon to give us time to get ready for our flight at 5. Me and several other volunteers decided that this meant hitting an at least halfway decent restaurant, and thus we all made our way to In-N-Out Burger for what was to be my first and as-of-yet only visit to the esteemed establishment. At 5 we were picked up from the hotel and deposited at the airport. The Peace Corps staff that had up until then been looking out for us said farewell and we were left on our own. There were 23 of us headed for Vanuatu in training group 20B. Our first adventure was not long in coming, as one of the volunteers instantly got their dress caught in the escalator and caused a massive pileup in which several pieces of luggage suffered casualties. We also had a few people who ran into problems fitting under the 80lb baggage limit, including one volunteer who'd brought (among other things) 2 surf boards, a spear gun, a guitar, and a ukulele. I slept through most of the flight to New Zealand. Upon deplaning one of our number somehow persuaded the NZ customs officials that we qualified as diplomats and thus could bypass the enormous immigration line and use the “Diplomatic Personnel Only” line.

The 6 hours we spent in the Auckland airport waiting for our connection to Air Vanuatu seemed like an eternity, but finally we were on our way. Flying over Efate (the island which is home to Port Vila, the capital of Vanuatu) on the approach was very exciting. The ocean and beaches were gorgeous and the interior countryside looked like some dense tropical jungle straight out of Jurassic Park or King Kong. We landed in Vila and deplaned to the tarmac where we were greeted by a bunch of current volunteers that had come out for the occasion. Kevin George, the Peace Corps Vanuatu country director, had even somehow gotten a pass through immigration and customs and was able to meet and talk with us while we waited in the immigration line and at baggage claim. Once we got out of the airport all the current volunteers decked us out in lava-lavas (kind of like sarongs), leis, and gave us each a coconut with a straw in it so we could partake of fresh coconut milk. Someone had even brought a machete to crack them open for us. As I was soon to learn, these were green coconuts, which Vanuatu is completely infested with. Unlike the meat of the dry coconuts that you're probably all familiar with from the US, green coconut flesh is thin and gooey with a consistency kind of like Jello. The novelty of being handed a fresh coconut which was then opened with a machete quickly wore thin as I realized that I really did not like green coconuts very much at all. Later on I would find out that they're part of almost every dish cooked here.

We were loaded onto buses and taken for a tour of Vila, and then taken to our hotels. Our group was split into three and I stayed with 3 other guys at a sort of bed and breakfast which is basically just this Korean guy's house that he lets people stay in. It was actually pretty nice, we had a TV and air-conditioning, although all of the settings were in Korean. We dropped off our bags in our room and were immediately escorted to a Nakamal by a group of current volunteers. A Nakamal is literally just a gathering place, a hang-out, if you will, and a beautiful one it was. We got there just at sunset, and we were situated on top of a hill overlooking a small bay, so we were all treated to a wonderful view of the sun taking a plunge into the ocean. We marveled at the beautiful place to which we had been sent for 2 years and considered ourselves to be infinitely more lucky than, say, those joining Peace Corps Ukraine.

In addition to being a great place to chill, the Nakamal that we were taken to (as is often the case of Nakamals these days in Vanuatu) also served kava, and so we all had our first encounter with this most pervasive of Ni-Vanuatu traditions. Kava, in a word, is disgusting. Drinking kava is kind of like taking down a bowl of grassy mud into which you've accidentally sprayed mosquito repellent. Kava is sold in units of “shells” which, traditionally, are coconut halves but these days are more often cereal bowls, and cost about one dollar. For obvious reasons, the custom is to drink your shell as fast as humanly possible. This is usually followed by a lot of drinking water and spitting. In fact, most kava Nakamals have designated spitting areas so you don't accidentally spit your kava refuse on someone's feet. Why would anyone put themselves through such an ordeal, you may ask. A couple of shells of kava has a noticeable calming effect that makes it significantly easier to sit around and chill, talk, and stare into space, which is more or less the national pastime. In Vanuatu, business of almost every variety is conducted at a Nakamal. Need to get someone to vote your way on an upcoming piece of legislation? Break out the Kava. Caught in a land dispute with your neighbor? A few shells will do wonders to smooth things out. To be quite honest, I'm not entirely sold that the pros of kava entirely outweigh the fact that you have to down a few mud slurpees to experience them. Regardless, kava abounds in Vanuatu. Port Vila alone has 143 kava Nakamals for a population about as large as my sub-division's in Austin. Interestingly enough, kava used to be reserved only for special ceremonies and was not downed regularly. According to what I've heard, alcohol used to be a major problem in Vanuatu. People would drink to get drunk and would generally not be held responsible for things they did under the influence. Violence and sexual assault were not uncommon as a result. Noticing the problem, a shrewd businessman suggested that kava bars be introduced as an alternative. The idea soon took off, with the vastly cheaper kava quickly surpassing alcohol as the narcotic of choice, dramatically reducing alcohol related-problems. Not that kava doesn't cause problems of its own, mind, but all-in-all I'd have to classify it as a good move.

After Kava, we went to a French restaurant that was supposed to be “just around the corner” which I guess in Vanuatu translates to a 45 minute walk. I had pizza, which was surprisingly good. I didn't eat much, however, as kava is also an appetite suppressant. The next day, Sunday, we had off. On the recommendation of a current volunteer, we took a little ferry to an island resort just off the coast of Vila. It was quite beautiful, with nice beaches and 4 swimming pools and they let us all use their facilities for free. We spent the day hanging out by the pool and playing beach volleyball. By the end of the day, most of us were feeling like we were on vacation, which left us all wondering when the other foot was going to fall.

The answer came the next day as we started training. I've talked to a few volunteers here in Vanuatu from Australia and Japan, who both have programs that offer almost no training before beginning service, and I definitely appreciate the lengths to which Peace Corps goes to prepare us for service, but the timing of some of the training could definitely be done better. Take, for example, the fact that we would not receive our first lesson in Bislama, the local language, until almost a week after our arrival and so would be forced to wander Vila tourist-fashion trying to find people who spoke English. Given this, being cooped up in a classroom watching PowerPoint presentations when I wanted nothing more than to go explore the city and hang out at the beach was quite frustrating. However, there were definitely some highlights, including our first medical session which we later renamed “All the Ways in Which This Country Can Kill You or Make You Incredibly Miserable.” These ways include Malaria, Dengue Fever, slug-borne vegetable parasites, giant killer centipedes, and Cigautera -- some disease contracted from infected fish which is impossible to detect or kill via cooking and which leaves you feeling more or less god awful for anywhere from a couple of days to a couple months.

In order to combat all these myriad of threats to our well being, we were equipped with humongous medical kits filled with more medical supplies than I even knew existed. It felt quite odd to be handed about seven or eight prescription drugs in little baggies and to be told to use them at our discretion. As if we needed further reminders that we were not in the US anymore, we were given malaria slide kits so we could make our own samples out at site to be sent to a lab. The process includes pricking your own finger and dripping blood on a glass slide. This was demonstrated for us by our medical officer and then all of us had to do it. People were spilling blood on the floor and on desks. The word “glove” was never even mentioned. Those of you who have had medical or first aid training can imagine just how weird this felt. Granted, the likelihood of contracting a blood-borne disease from spilled blood is quite low, but in the US people would definitely have a hissy-fit about it. We also all started taking our anti-malarial meds, mefloquine. According to our medical officer, mef has a history among volunteers of causing very bizarre dreams: either really intensely sexual or gruesomely bloody and violent. So far, I have yet to experience either variety, which I find to be vaguely disappointing.

Towards the end of our week in Vila, the Vanuatu cultural center hosted a music festival. The first night was reserved for local music and the remainder of the festival branched out into “international music” which basically means Reggae. All Ni-Vanuatu music sounds the same. It's called string band, and more or less every string band is made up of about 6 guys all wearing bring Hawaiian shirts. Now, when I say all local music sounds the same, I mean it literally. The tune of every string band song is exactly the same, the only difference between the songs is the lyrics and, since we don't speak Bislama, this means that we really have no way of telling songs apart. I actually heard one notable exception to this the other day on the radio. Some artist had taken the lyrics from 50 Cent's “In da Club” and set it to string band music. I was laughing so hard I almost cried. Anyway, the first night of the festival was fairly uneventful, but the second night a fairly famous Australian Reggae band was playing. The outdoor venue packed, but it was funny because all the Ni-Vans were sitting on the grass staring stoically at the stage. They didn't really clap or whistle or shout or respond to anything the bands said. At one point, some Peace Corps volunteers broke the mold and stood up and started dancing. We all joined them and after about half an hour basically every single white person on the island was up front dancing while the Ni-Vans all continued to sit stoically and occasionally point and laugh at us. It was a lot of fun. As an added plus, after the band finished a local dance group went on started in on some intense roboting. All in all, quite the night.

As my first week in Vanuatu drew to a close we were handed a packing list for things to take to our training village, where we would be spending the majority of our next 9 weeks. One of the items mentioned was a “bush knife.” I asked what this was. “Bigfala knife” responded one of my trainers, a machete. Sweet. As I'd already gleaned, the machete is the accessory of choice in Vanuatu. I generally try not to be racist, but there's just something about seeing a big crowd of black people idly carrying foot-and-a-half knives while strolling down the street that would make any American initially uneasy. However, while in, say, Chicago, you might start running for your life, in Vanuatu the thing to do is stop, shake hands, and maybe linger for a while discussing the weather and answering questions about America. A few days before departing Vila, I headed to the hardware store with some other volunteers to purchase my own bigfala knife. Choosing a machete is kind of like choosing a wand in Harry Potter. You don't chose the machete, the machete chooses you. And so I stood in the hardware store picking through a variety of differently-sized machetes and taking practice swings at the nearby wrenches. I selected one with the best feel and headed for the checked out. I passed on the offer to wrap my newly purchased blade in newspaper, preferring instead to hack idly at low-hanging limbs on my way back to the Peace Corps office. My first swing severed a twig protruding from a nearby fence with a satisfying hum. I later learned that it's actually illegal to wander Vila with an open blade, but I sure wouldn't have guessed that from the responses I got. Most Ni-Vans seemed to think it a marvelous joke to see a white person hacking wildly at bushed around town. The door man at the hotel I was staying at even gave me a thumbs up.

We departed Vila for our training village of Mangaliliu, about a 40 minute drive away, on Sunday, and, quite honestly, I was glad to be going. Vila was nice, but all-in-all not THAT nice, and if I was going to be roughing it, I wanted to go whole-hog. After all, it sounds much more impressive to tell people that you spent two years living in a straw hut than to relate how difficult it was to try and decipher the Korean-language settings on your air conditioner. So, day pack on my back and bigfala knife in hand, I was ready to face the hardships of village life. I had packed light – only what I needed to survive: a couple changes of clothes, a selection of cookies and snacks, hot sauce, a frisbee and Uno deck, and, of course, a laptop complete with battery-op speakers and solar battery charger, because I'd be damned if I was going to let the fact that I was in the middle of the jungle prevent me from munching on potato chips whilst enjoying a showing of “Nacho Libre.”