Uliveo

Having the one you love row your boat is romantic. It doesn’t matter if you’re in Central Park or Vanuatu. He trusts you to guide him through the quiet water. He pulls away; you instinctively lean in. Then, he comes back—magic. Over and over again, until you arrive at your destination together.

This time, our destination was Port Villa. It’s hard to believe we were in this very immigration office just two weeks ago, completing our clearance to enter the country, and now, we are preparing to depart. We’ve lived a lifetime of adventures in a short time.

The snail-kabobs. That was the thing that gave us pause—a reminder that we had sailed a long way to see things and meet people that were different than us. How could we have forgotten? Well, that was easy. Because the Maskelyne Islands of Vanuatu felt comfortable to us.

Just the day before, we had walked Uliveo Island, curious about so many things as there were few people out and about to answer our questions. Where did the villagers go? Saturday church—who knew? No matter because by the end of the day, Philip had answered all of our questions.

Why are those women carrying so many leaves? What’s this coconut roasting machine for? Does the ocean ever rise enough to flood the houses? Is there a hospital? Enough medicine? Why have all the trees been cut down over there? Who put these street lamps up and why don’t they work? And the dormant electric meters? The pigs are so fat, do you eat them? What about those crabs in front of us, scurrying into their holes— are they food for the taking? Do the children live at the school? Do people travel by ferry? We heard about the ferry that sunk—did you know anybody? Do the women drink kava here? How many villages are on this island anyway? Have you ever heard of New York—because it’s come to our attention that not everybody has.

“Come for a potluck dinner tonight with my family,” Philip insisted. We barely knew him—this entrepreneurial ni-Vanuatu man who established the Lavrisi Yacht Club on the island of Uliveo—but we couldn’t refuse. When in doubt, say, yes.

They made rice, fish in coconut sauce, ramen noodles, and snail kabobs over an open fire inside their thatched-roof kitchen.

I made cupcakes and chilli with yellow rice on our boat.

A gift—a purse, woven by the women from the leaves of the pandanus tree—was given to me. Then, we layed out big mats, homemade of the same material. The children came to sit, five in all. The women, four. And finally, the men, two—Philip and his son. Make that three, an uncle. I mean four, no, five, actually six. Three more uncles. Two more children. Another woman. I lost count. 

Family members came from every direction to join us. The children sang—head, shoulders, knees, and toes. Then, we did the hokey pokey.