There is something about a wild south Pacific island that plucks at the most primeval strings of your DNA. Black sands & black magic, cannibalism & cargo cults, volcanoes & village life … the very human desires of exploration, discovery and curiosity are aroused by such attractions. The writer Paul Theroux calls Tanna "the oddest island" because of its mysticism, geography and cultural oddities. For me, it is adventure travel at its very best!
Tanna Island lies at the southern edge of the Vanuatu archipelago. We flew via Port Vila to White Grass Airport on the western side of the isle, where we accepted Tony’s ride to the east. The road was potholed, muddy and bumpy but the evocative sights, sounds and smells along the way kept our minds off the gluteus whackimus. I’d found online references to a rustic, though oh-so-romantic, banyan treehouse at the Jungle Oasis bungalows and this was our home for the next few days. Our hosts Kelson & Joyce welcomed us warmly while chef Cherry whipped up a lovely lunch of beef, rice and spiced choko. We wandered around the nearby kastom villages during the day, learning to make fire without matches and hearing stories of the regressing traditional beliefs of dark spirits and human sacrifice. Nearby Port Resolution had some wonderful beaches to comb and hot springs to soak in. We played football and Frisbee with the local kids and talked about the differences between our lives and theirs. But the highlight of Tanna is a trip to the Mt Yasur volcano. Vanuatu lies at eight o’clock on the Pacific Rim of Fire and Yasur is its most famed pyroclastic factory. It is a hermaphroditic entity to the islanders: it is “the old man” in its quieter, rumbling guise but “the angry hag” in its more tempestuous and violent state. Each night, we walked to the crater rim and watched the best fireworks on Earth. A big, volcanic explosion is a truly awesome thing to behold. Look real careful and the pressure wave comes first. It displaces and shudders the immediate atmosphere above, akin to the bullet parting the air in that scene from The Matrix. The sonic boom hammers you hard, you feel like your internal organs are given a shake. And then the lava bombs fly, swirling hundreds of metres into the night sky with a trailing jetstream of molten red. It goes on for hours, mesmerizing, perpetually shocking, a natural show of infinite wonder and humbling power. Even when we managed to pull ourselves away from the rim each night, we’d sit on the balcony of our treehouse before going to bed, staring at the crimson glow and listening to the booms and bangs. When the hag is angry, she’s a real bitch. But you can’t take your eyes off her, nonetheless.
Tanna is also known for the intriguing Jon Frum cargo cult. In decades past, the mystical Mr Frum emerged from the sea at Green Point and espoused to the locals that he would return one day and bring all the modern technologies to the backward and primitive isle. A few years past and his words turned out to be truthful. His prophets, in the form of WW2 American GIs, came to the south Pacific with cigarettes, Levis, radios and Coca-Cola. The cargo cult of Jon Frum, the USA deity, was galvanized into the dominant religion of Tanna and remains strong to this day. It is a hybrid and pliable faith, mixing ancient Tanna beliefs with elements of Christianity, Americulture and the individual interpretations of its followers. Each Friday night, the Jon Frum village gathers in the nakamal, or village meeting hall, to sing songs, dance and take the odd sly sip of kava till the wee hours of the morning. The songs are many and varied and we asked our local friend, David, the meaning of them. “Oh, this one is about the power of America and Jon Frum” while the next one was “about the planes landing at the airport”. The songs are unwritten but if they were penned, the hymn book would be an eclectic tome! Jon Frum’s contemporary missionary seems to be the Digicel corporation, who is bringing mobile telecommunications and internet to the faithful Tannanese. The locals still await the second coming of the main man and the seas at Green Point are always watched for his return.
We had a few hours to kill before our return flight to Port Vila and we ventured back to the western side. Lenakel-Isangel is the dusty, offbeat capital of Tanna. We’d driven through with Tony on our arrival and stopped to pick up supplies. While walking the streets, we were welcomed and waved to by many. A little girl named Wallis was our impromptu guide, latching onto my hand and babbling incessantly in excited Bislama. No idea what she talked about but it was a wide-eyed, happy and engaging conversation. So, on the Sunday morning of our return to the town, we spent a few hours on the town beach. A group of teenage girls welcomed us to Tanna with fresh papaya and stories of island life. Wallis found us again and the conversation was relived, accompanied by sand drawing and cartwheels in the shallow waves. A bunch of other kids, who had walked 4 hours to the beach to wash their clothes, skipped their chores to build castles and play tic-tac-toe in the sand with us for an hour (we offered to help with their laundry afterwards but they said we'd be hopeless at it). It’s the kind of gorgeous life experience that leaves an indelible imprint upon your mind.
That afternoon, we flew north to Espiritu Santo in a nine-seater Air Vanuatu turbo-prop via the grassy runway at Erromango and Vila’s Bauerfield terminal. Our remaining time in Vanuatu was spent diving the SS President Coolidge and exploring the blue holes of Santo. Or snorkeling the lagoons and sampling the markets around Port Vila. But it was Tanna that touched the soul. I can’t wait to return one day and relive the wild island life.
Postscript: Bislama is a Pidgin language & the national tongue of Vanuatu; kastom means ‘traditional custom’; a choko is a vegetable I’d hated as much as brussel sprouts until chef Cherry told me how to cook them properly (braised, with just salt & pepper); kava is the liquid intoxicant popular throughout the Pacific. And Gluteus Whakimus is known by many travelers who journey the back roads - it is alternatively called Numb Bum or Sore Arse.
