Over the weekend, a tropical depression had formed just north of Efate and had dumped rain by the bucketful on Mangaliliu, turning the village into one enormous mud pit. Although dirt roads do have a certain quaint appeal, especially in nice, dry, weather, I have to say that whoever came up with concrete certainly deserves a pat on the back. I longed for Texas’ soulless concrete highways as I squelched my way down to the community center Monday morning, immensely glad that I was wearing Tevas and opposed to flip-flops, as they are less likely to be suctioned off one’s feet by the muck.
We’d finished class last week and all we were left with now to do was wrap up some formalities. Chief among these was the establishment of our bank accounts so we could be paid during our service. Peace Corps had arranged for each of us to have a National Bank of Vanuatu (NBV) account opened into which they could deposit our living allowance. NBV’s slogan, “Vanuatu’s Own Bank” to me, is vaguely reminiscent of that “very first” line of toys you used to see at Toys-R-Us, as in “My Very First Camera” or “My Very First Microwave,” and seems to convey a sense of wonder and surprise that they were actually able to pull this bank endeavor off. There was, of course, a lot of paperwork to fill out, but Peace Corps had kindly done most of it for us, including marking down Texas as my “Home Village” and USA as my “Home Island.”
After we were done with banking, we had language proficiency interviews to ensure that we had successfully mastered the 25 words which make up the entirety of Bislama’s vocabulary. We were then free to participate in Vanuatu’s official national pastime: sitting around. By this point, we’d played so many rounds of Hearts, Spades, Poker, and even Bridge that the mere sight of a deck of cards was enough to induce a gagging reflex. Conversation too was somewhat tiresome, as it seemed we’d already talked into oblivion every conceivable topic of discussion. I wondered if this was how the ancient Greeks felt, so engulfed by boredom that they had no choice but to philosophize wildly about whether or not the world was just a bunch of dancing shadows on a cave wall.
On Tuesday we had exit interviews with our country director, preceded and followed by more sitting around. Having no particular concerns about my site, my interview was over quickly and the rest of the day was spent doing nothing in particular. Wednesday followed in similar fashion and a general feeling of sadness had fallen over the group as we knew we were approaching our last days together.
Thursday I awoke to my host brother banging on my window and ordering me to breakfast. I stepped outside to see a vast collection of biscuits (in the British sense of the word), bread, cakes, and fruit dotting the table and most of my extended host family waiting expectantly. Before I could say anything, I was doused in talcum powder, wrapped in various colorful pieces of cloth and drenched with spray-on deodorant. I’d witnessed a similar scene at the wedding I’d gone to in Malekula, and I’m still not entirely sure what significance of it is. I’ve asked several people about it and have simply been informed that it’s a custom. I, however, have a hard time picturing the ancient cannibals of Vanuatu’s history, adorned only in penis sheaths, celebrating special occasions by slathering themselves in baby powder and aerosol deodorant. But maybe my imagination is simply lacking.
After breakfast I was presented with my swearing-in garb, which was a wonderful mismatch of two of Vanuatu’s customs. In lieu of pants I was given a woven grass mat, about 6-inches wide and not *quite* long enough to completely wrap around my waist. With this, I was to wear an island shirt, the official costume of Vanuatu, being a completely preposterous Hawaiian-type shirt, heavy on the bright pink and yellow. Vanuatu simply abounds with shirts made with such similar fabric; in fact it’s really the only fabric that’s available for purchase on the islands. I’m not really sure how the retailers go about ordering these fabrics from the mainland (“Hello, I’d like a thousand rolls of your most ridiculous cloth please.”), or why they don’t have them ship over some, say, plain white fabric while they’re at it, but there you go. Unfortunately, as I was informed later in the day, not enough of the host families had gotten around to weaving grass mats for their volunteers and the uniform was changed to island shirts and pants, so we ended up looking merely silly as opposed to outright absurd.
Our swearing-in ceremony started out with water dancers from The Banks Islands (a group of outer islands in Vanuatu that are remote, even by Vanuatu’s standards), which was probably one of the most amazing things I’d seen since coming to country. A group of about ten women wandered out into the ocean and proceeded to use it as an instrument. Using their hands to manipulate and slap the water, they were able to create astonishingly loud and hauntingly eerie music. The whole thing had an inexplicably magical feel to it and I honestly expected that at any moment a huge sea monster would come crawling out of the depths and begin undulating in time with the dancers.
After the performance, the speeches began. In such a laid-back country, I find it odd how seriously everyone takes speeches. There we were sitting on the beach, in front of a stage constructed entirely out coconut-tree products, sheltered from the rain by a series of ragged traps flapping wildly in the wind, wearing outfits best suited for a beach-themed college frat party, and listening to a speaker delivering a speech with all the solemnity of the Pope addressing a congregation at St. Peter’s. After a few hours of this, we all shared a shell of kava (no ceremony is complete without kava), and ate. I’d been hoping that our swearing-in was a big enough event to warrant the roasting of another pig, but apparently it was not, so I had to make due with chicken. After dinner the party began. It’s something of a tradition in Peace Corps Vanuatu that the night of swearing-in the volunteers stay up absurdly late dancing and making fools of themselves while all the villagers watch and laugh at us. It being Vanuatu (and due to the fact that most of us had already sent our stuff to Vila in preparation for moving out), we only had one CD at our disposal, which we played on infinite loop for most of the night. In addition to a few numbers that those Princeton people in the audience would have recognized from The Street, the CD included a couple gems from a band called Blue Lagoon, which I suggest checking out as they’re quite fantastically bad and have kind of become the theme music of our service. All in all, it was a fun time but, for reasons that I will not go into, I did not stay for the whole party. I do know, however, that when I was woken up at 6am the next day, the music was still playing.
Dazed and half asleep, I stumbled down to the community center for the last time for our final goodbye to the village of Mangaliliu. My fellow volunteers soon emerged in similar condition and we all stood by while the population of the village lined up to bid us farewell. Goodbyes in Vanuatu are always tearful and the scene probably could have been confused with a funeral. One by one, each of us walked down the line and was tearfully hugged and kissed by each of the villagers. Afterwards, we all boarded buses and were driven to Vila. Nominally, the plan was for us to get into Vila early in the morning so that we could have time to start shopping in preparation for site. However, due the events of the previous night, most of us were in no condition to do anything except collapse on the floor and go to sleep. This I did until lunchtime, when I ventured down to town with McKenzie and Laura, who were to come with me to Malekula, to get a burrito and a beer-making kit, which, I decided was my top priority. The burrito was delicious, as always, and I bought the store out of all their beer-making supplies.
That night we decided to celebrate our first night in Vila by going to Vanuatu’s only sushi restaurant. This turned out to be a bad call as, like everything else in Vila, sushi was ridiculously expensive and I ended up dropping around $30 for a meal that left me aching to go to Burger King afterwards in order to get something more filling. Saturday I had planned to do some shopping, but this was quickly abandoned in favor of going to Iririkki, an island resort, to go swimming and buy mixed drinks. I’d heard rumors that the resort also sported a game room with both foosball and ping-pong, and I longed for some quality fooz Princeton style. Unfortunately the game room was a trifle disappointing as the foosball table was apparently built with midgets in mind, being about two feet tall, and thus forcing you to squat in order to play. The humidity had gotten to the ping-pong balls as well, which bounced about as well as an over-ripe tomato.
Sunday I tried to make up for my laziness the previous day by browsing Vila’s plethora of Chinese shops (the only stores in Vila which, sometimes, are open on Sundays). Fortunately, a cruise ship had just come in, and so most of the stores were open to cater to the sudden influx of tourists, who would probably spend a grand total of two hours in Vila before returning to their mobile island. Cruise ship patrons are a frequent sight in Vila, and they always seem excited to be visiting the city, but, quite honestly, I can’t imagine why. Vila has all the charm of a Florida retirement community, except with fewer good restaurants. One group of tourists, noticing my large collection of shopping bags and mistaking me for a ship passenger, asked me where the good shopping was. “Well that depends on what you’re looking for,” I replied “if you’re looking for some quality Tupperware, I’d try the store down the street. There’s a place just at the end of the block to the right with a good selection of machetes, but if you’re in the market for a bucket you’re gonna want to go to the store at the top of the hill.” I can’t decide whether it’s a good sign or not that I’m finding it increasingly easier to have a pleasant conversation with the Ni-Vans in Vila than with the tourists. Given the large number of white people to be found in the city, it’s a nice feeling to almost always be picked out as, and well-regarded as, Peace Corps by the locals. People on the street we’ve never seen before stop to strike up conversations, shop keepers offer us discounts. Villagers from Mangaliliu in town for the day shout greetings from passing buses and dash across busy streets to shake hands.
After enjoying my new found celebrity, I called it a day and headed back to the Peace Corps Office to use that marvel of modern technology, the internet. I’d put off a lot of my shopping and packing in favor to goofing off, and so I had a busy Monday slated for the next day.
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