“Bensin i aot,” the boat's driver
muttered to no one in particular. I say “driver” because I don't
think the title of “captain” can really be bestowed on a man who
pilots a boat into open water with 15 people on board and utters such
a phrase. What's more, he made the statement with such indifference,
I might have missed the significance of the phrase if the engine
hadn't suddenly sputtered—and died.
I didn't know if I wanted to look or
not. From the Bislama I have picked up to this point I knew we had
not run out of fuel (bensin) because the operator would have stated,
“Bensin i finis.” But if the bensine had left (aot), where had
it gone? My curiosity got the better of me and I looked aft to see
the pilot of this fine craft keeping the engine from dropping into
the sea by holding it with his prehensile toes. You see, the fuel
line had popped out because the engine was missing one of its clamps
and was seconds from joining untold treasures on the sea floor.
Nifty, huh?
Fortunately, the waves were only about
a meter high. Unfortunately, this is about 3x the height of our
dingy. We had been traveling in a direction which took us
perpendicular to the waves but, without power, our boat was coming
around and feeling more “tippy” every moment. I looked to the man
who has served as our guide and friend since we arrived here in
Vanuatu. My hope was that Falau would have some reassuring words for
us. Maybe he would even regale us with some salty tale of how this
very captain had once completely lost an engine, jumped overboard,
and pulled his passengers to safety while battling great whites,
giant squid, and radioactive seaweed. Alas, none of these things
would come from Falau. I truly did not know a man with an ebony
complexion could loose all color in his face. Since he is from an
island nation I assumed he loved the sea. Quite the contrary. He
loathes the sea. He was, at that very moment, wishing to be
ashore and trying to do everything to keep his morning meal from
becoming fish fodder. I would receive no encouragement from him.
Looking back to the captain and his
efforts to secure our motor—and therefore our safety—provided a
bit of comfort. He had fully reclaimed the engine, put the fuel line
back into its spot and was now attempting to restart the engine. Our
window of opportunity was quickly decreasing as our boat began to
rise out of the trough. With the tiller fully to one side the
captain employed the help of one of our hosts from Atchin to yank on
the pull cord. The engine came to life and the bow of the boat swung
into the wave and we crossed the crest at almost a perfect 90 degree
angle.
Mer used the breath she had been
holding to utter, “I want off this boat, now.”
I'm all for adventure and a good plot
twist in life every now and again but, the thought of having to
rescue 3 drowning kids and a pastor from the clutches of an angry (OK
mildly annoyed) sea kind of pushed the limits. I wanted off that
boat, too.
Our captain guided the boat past
another tiny island called Wala. Being closer to shore and having
the island between us and open ocean lightened the mood on the boat
considerably. The sea which had looked so dark and openly hostile
minutes earlier was now quite docile. Deep blue gave way to insanely
clear turquoise waters—we were back in paradise. Dozens of people
on shore came out to watch us pass. We are finding more and more
that we are passively watched, much as Americans would sit and watch
a television show. When we first arrived here in Vanuatu, it seemed
as though we were being glared at. Ni-Vans have no problem staring,
expressionless, as we walk past within inches of them. It isn't even
as if they are trying to figure us out—they're just watching. No
malice. No joy. No hidden intent. Just watching. I should start
carrying bags of popcorn to hand out so they can enjoy the show even
more.
Waving as we passed seemed to jolt the
onlookers from “White People Variety Hour”, changing bland
passivity to warm greetings.
Our destination island of Rano was in
sight as we left behind Wala. Our captain slipped the boat close to
shore. I lept into ankle deep water, reaching back to assist Ethan,
Ella, Merissa on to shore. Daniel, who had slept through the entire
ordeal from Atchin to Rano, began to rouse from his nap still
securely strapped to Merissa.
“Oooohh...fatfat!” One of the women
of Rano cooed in Bislama.
Fatfat. Yup. It's pronounced just
like it looks. And it means just what it says. This is a common
reaction to our third born child wherever we go in Vanuatu. This
proclamation of his chubby adorableness is often accompanied by a
strong, but affectionate, pinch to the cheek or thigh. Daniel once
again paved the way for us to interact among the people we were
visiting.
We veered right down a well worn path
with the sea to our right and the interior of the island to our left.
A continuous archway of trees kept us well shaded from the peak
intensity of the sun which had begun to break through a thin layer of
low level clouds. The purpose for our time here was to visit the
outstation which our Atchin hosts wanted to show us. In the U.S. I
think we would consider an “outstation” to be similar to a church
plant. The congregation is led by an elder on most Sundays and the
main pastor visits from time to time to preach and encourage. This
outstation on Rano was one of six started by the pastors on Atchin.
While the main path continued about 50' from the shore line our
hosts took a smaller path to the left and we began to feel the
tropical heat now that the thickening jungle hid us from the gentle
sea breeze.
Thick random natural jungle flora gave
way to purposeful rows of a Ni-Vanuatu garden. Villagers walked
about and began to congregate once they noticed us. What affections
weren't immediately won by our “fat baby” were gained by the
handing out of candy. Nothing says, “I care,” like handing a
bunch of sugar to people without accessible dental care. Looking
around I noticed something here which I had seen in Atchin as well.
Close to a number of homes were rectangular blocks of concrete. Most
were about 6'-7' long, 3' wide, and 2' high. The tops of these
blocks were gently sloped in some cases and had flowers and an
inscription placed at one end. When I asked for clarification my
suspicions were confirmed that these were grave sites for loved ones
who had passed away. What was even more interesting to me was that
plenty of people used them as benches and tables. Just hangin' out
with Uncle Moe, I guess.
We had just settled in to conversation
about ages of children and such when we were hurried along by our
hosts toward the outstation.
The building was similar to most of the
huts in the village: woven bamboo walls, leaf roofing, and a concrete
floor. We stood for a time, looked at a creepy artist's rendition of
Jesus hanging at the front of the chapel and headed back the way we
came. How did the idea ever start that Jesus had, not just a fair
complexion, but a pasty one, perfectly waved silken hair, blood red
lips, and slender delicate fingers that had never seen a hard days
work? Man, that's not my savior.
Walking back to the boat, we passed by
a bench where some freshly caught box fish, whose faces were frozen
in operatic expressions of surprise, had been placed. Within ½ hour
of stepping on shore, our party was headed back out to sea. Ugh.
The return trip was a lot less exciting
and almost, dare I say, enjoyable.
