Life in the Ring of Fire Part 38: A Guest

Monday I began to wonder if I'm the only human being on the planet who thinks that, when you get right down to it, finding the perimeter of a square isn't all that hard. This was brought on when I introduced perimeter as the new subject of study in my class and asked if anyone could tell me what perimeter means (a topic which, in the US at least, I believe is first introduced during a child's fourth month in the womb). As usually happens when I ask a question of my class, everyone switched into robot mode and monotonously droned “length times width.” I patiently explained that “length times width” is not the generally agreed upon, Webster's dictionary, definition of perimeter, but rather a formula for calculating the area of a rectangle. Nonetheless, I congratulated them on producing an answer that at least came from the same general area of mathematics (namely, shapes), as opposed to, say, something learned in French class (I like to use positive reinforcement whenever possible). I then wrote the definition of perimeter on the blackboard in big letters, translating it from English to Bislama to ensure that there was no language confusion, underlined it about a billion times and told my students that please, if they remembered nothing else from that day's lecture, to please try and remember what a perimeter was, as it's a concept generally assumed to be understood by most mammals who've progressed beyond the fetal stage of their development. Tuesday I once again got up in front of my class and asked if anyone could tell me what a perimeter was. In the same robot voice that I'd received the previous day, everyone droned “length times width.” I wondered if Duncan had managed to purchase more shotgun shells for his ten gauge yet and, if so, he could be convinced to shoot me in the face.

Tuesday afternoon my headmaster called a teacher's meeting, which worked to further erode my faith international development efforts. The previous week the headmaster and the assistant headmaster had attended a workshop on teaching methods in Lakatoro and now wished to share what they'd learned with the rest of the school staff. Given the content of the meeting, the only thing that had been taken away from the workshop was that it was now necessary to fill out a new kind of lesson plan form before each class. Now, granted, I didn't actually go to this workshop, but I'm pretty sure that this was not the main bullet point that its organizers where hoping the attendees would take home with them. Or maybe it was, I don't even know what to think anymore. After about two hours or so, it was finally decided who would be responsible for photocopying the new lesson plan sheets and in what folder in the school office these photocopies would reside. At the end of the meeting, I was placed in charge of overseeing the implementation of the new teaching techniques we'd all just learned (which, I guess, amounts to making sure that said folder is always well stocked with crisp, warm photocopies) on the grounds that I was the only white person in the room. I tried to picture a time, not so long ago in Vanuatu's past, when these islands were home to fearsome cannibals, bane to missionary and explorer alike, ready to defend with their lives their god-given right to eat each other from the meddling Europeans; people who had no problem meeting unwelcome visitors to their beaches with spears, bows, cooking pots, and seasoning salt. I wondered what had happened in the intervening centuries that had made things go so epically downhill; what had caused the transition from a fierce, warrior-based society, to a passive, useless-paperwork-based one.

In another humorous development, the Vanuatu government decided, based on some sort of recommendation from the UN or something, to ban smoking in all public places. This is strange for several reasons. First of all, the idea of the government attempting to ban anything is inherently funny, as Vanuatu is a country that boasts a grand total of eight law-enforcement officials who, of course, are related, in some way or another, to everyone else in the country and would never dream of doing something as rude as forcing their relatives to obey some law. Second, basically all of Vanuatu is a public place, as illustrated by the fact that kids have absolutely no problem having their faces plastered up against the windows of my house as they watch me go about such mundane tasks as, for example, writing this blog entry. I mean it's not like there are a lot of restaurants or bars or museums, or even buildings, really, which can fill up with secondhand smoke because of inconsiderate smokers. There's usually not a hostess stationed at the entrance to the bush asking you if you'd prefer to shell out copra in the smoking or non-smoking section of the coconut plantation. Finally, the only people in Vanuatu who don't smoke are those who have already died of smoking-related illnesses, so banning smoking is kind of like banning breathing. Despite all this, everyone is very supportive of the new law and, as the police commissioner explained to McKenzie at the nakamal one night whilst chain smoking a pack of Peter Jackson cigarettes, the first round of enforcement is going to focus on making all nakamals smoke-free environments. I wish them the best of luck.

Friday was one of the most exciting days for a while as McKenzie, Laura, and I awaited the arrival of Elin and her real honest-to-god biological father (as opposed to the plethora of random Ni-Vans that all of us volunteers have amassed over the months who, for some reason none of us can comprehend, insist that we call them “tati” -- Bislama for daddy, I think – or “papa”), Randy, who was visiting from the States and would be our first US guest in Malekula. We were all excited to meet Randy because, as someone fresh from the US and as-of-yet uncorrupted by the Vanuatu lifestyle, he could offer an unbiased opinion on whether or not we'd all gone totally, bat-shit, insane. As an added bonus, he came bearing gifts in the form of alcoholic beverages. Friday night we all enjoyed White Russians for the first time in many months. Saturday McKenzie and I were anxious to take Randy to a nakamal for his first kava because we were curious to see if he would gag and vomit. He turned out to be a good sport, however, and kept pace with us, shell-for-shell, although I doubt he would recommend the stuff to future visitors. Sunday he and Elin headed up to her village, Lavasal. The two of them were scheduled for an early flight the following morning and so wanted to be back in Lakatoro that night. Given that it was Sunday, a day when trucks usually don't run, McKenzie, Laura, and I considered this unlikely to happen. Despite all odds, however, they made it, which we considered to be sufficient cause to break into the Tequila that Randy had brought. Me being me, of course, I wanted to make margaritas, however, I had no triple sec. Trying to improvise, I purchased a bottle of orange juice syrup, and hoped that it would make a reasonable substitute (these juice syrups are really gross. Think concentrated kool aid: lots of sugar and artificial flavors). Using this, I mixed up drinks and brought them out. Elin, Laura, and McKenzie accepted them and started drinking without a word but Randy said "What the hell are those?" You see, the syrup was dyed bright orange and so, as a result, our margaritas were neon orange in color. They tasted good though. At least that's what we thought, although we've been away from actual margaritas for so long it's hard to judge. Still, there's nothing like an orange glow-in-the-dark margarita on a fine Sunday afternoon in Vanuatu, if I do say so myself.