The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
‘Tourists say it looks just like Jurassic Park’
Vanuatu is one of the world’s least visited countries, but with its white beaches and quirky traditions, it’s well worth the trip, says Mark Stratton
Apenchant for cannibalism that lingered until the 1960s. Brave inhabitants who hurl themselves from wooden towers. A cult that worships the late Prince Philip. If you know anything of Vanuatu, a sprawling nation of 83 volcanic islands between Australia and Fiji, it’s probably contained within these three sentences.
But I’ll wager you haven’t been. It’s among the world’s least visited countries, with only 20,000 people (or 0.00025 per cent of the global population), mainly Australians, heading to resorts on its dreamy white-sand beaches last year as the nation emerged from a long and strict Covid-era border closure.
It’s easy to see why the islands are so undersubscribed. Australians can get there in a little over three hours, but are spoilt for choice when it comes to South Pacific idylls. For Britons, the journey is a mind-numbing 36-hour schlep, involving at least two stops. Then there’s Vanuatu’s climate, which has seen it named the world’s worst country for natural disasters – hardly the stuff of holiday adverts – with tropical cyclones a major threat for half of the year (November to April). In 2015,
Cyclone Pam destroyed 80 per cent of the country’s infrastructure; earlier this year Judy and Kevin arrived within four days of each other.
All was languid when I arrived in Vanuatu’s capital, Port Vila on Efate island, however, keen to see for myself what makes this far-flung and little-known island chain tick. An unusual colonial entente cordiale existed between the British and French when they jointly administered Vanuatu until its independence in 1980. Boulangeries still juxtapose with British missionary churches, although these days much of the city (population 49,034) is Chinese-owned, from its casinos to its Cantonese restaurants.
My hotel, the Ramada Resort, is one of the swankiest in town, with balconies overlooking a bright blue lagoon. The first night’s entertainment was a faux Polynesian dance show. Yet outside of Port Vila I found authentic tradition and among the most welcoming and optimistic people I’ve ever encountered.
“There’s not a single traffic light on Vanuatu, and no speed limits,” beamed Patrick Berry as he drove me along the east coast of Efate. Cyclone Pam blew away his entire home and all his possessions. “But it taught me a valuable lesson,” he said. “Use screws and not nails to rebuild your house.” The roof stayed on during Judy and Kevin, although it was flooded by seawater.
Why remain in Vanuatu given such adversities? “I love my kastom [Melanesian culture],” he told me. “On my island, Malekula, we dance and wear traditional dress for some ceremonies, like circumcisions.” Malekula was also the venue for Vanuatu’s last recorded act of cannibalism – in 1969. “A man killed and ate his wife’s lover, and then consumed her,” he said. “There was a lot of sympathy in the community though, so the chief let it pass.”
Alongside kastom, the quickest way to Vanuatuan hearts is through their gardens and kava, a narcotic drink. I discovered this when, on another morning, Audrey Iliasa took me around western Efate. We visited a museum called Rust in Peace, which displays American Second World War paraphernalia. In the surrounding rainforest, the owner grows bananas, papayas, yams and cassava. Most villagers are subsistence farmers and make a little extra cash at road markets. I stopped for a snack of sticky yams soaked in coconut milk. “Everybody grows their own food.” Audrey explained. “That’s why we’re so resilient after natural disasters. We just accept this is nature, rebuild, and carry on.”
Western Efate’s coast is scattered with pretty islands, including Lelepa, a short boat ride into the inky-blue Pacific. It hosts Vanuatu’s only World Heritage Site: Chief Roi Mata’s Domain, dedicated to an important 17th-century leader who sought to end tribal warfare. Roi Mata’s body is buried on Hat Island, not far from where his 20 mourning wives drank kava before being buried alive.
“His enemies poisoned him, and he died here in this cave,” said Bradl Jimmy, a Lelepa guide. Felis Cave is adorned with rock art depicting whales, birds, and a pig – the last of which is highly symbolic and used in ceremonial feasts and for resolving disputes. I spotted graffiti reading: ‘SMITH JUNE 1943’, etched by an American serviceman stationed here to resist potential Japanese invasion.
Kava is omnipresent. All the islanders grow this plant, which in Latin translates as “intoxicating pepper”. Its root is pulped and strained into a murky liquid. It was once drunk only by chiefs but now everybody, at least every man, imbibes it much of the time.
Audrey took me to one of Port Vila’s many kava bars. Unlike Fiji, where it is highly sociable to pass around coconut shells of kava and laugh, in Vanuatu it is a more reflective experience. Vanuatuan kava is pressed green and the most potent in the Pacific region. “Kava symbolises peace and welcome,” said Audrey. Tradition dictates I stand, tip a little of the liquid to the ground to share with my ancestors, then gulp it down in one. It’s bitter and, I’m told, best drunk on an empty stomach to maximise its impact. Snacks such as watermelon chunks are provided to temper the bitterness. I downed three shells and felt quite relaxed, but still compos mentis.
Kava drinking starts around 3pm on Tanna Island, as village men sit around ceremonial sites, or nakamal, under banyan trees to trade stories. I reached it via a short seven-seater Cessna flight south to the Tafea Island group to visit Vanuatu’s most popular excursion: Yasur, one of the world’s most active volcanoes. It’s an experience that, if better known, would make most travel bucket lists.
Tanna is undeveloped, bar a few guesthouses and resorts. The island is also where the Prince Philip-adoring village is found. The drive to Yasur passed thatched villages and tree-fern forests before reaching an ash plain weathered sublimely into feldspar-coloured swirls and brown pumice crusts. Yasur’s 1,200ft ash cone puffed away nonchalantly.
Max Berry, an island guide, expected my Spielbergian comparisons. “Every tourist says it looks like Jurassic Park,” he laughed. So much for my descriptive prowess. You can drive almost to the summit and thereafter it’s a brief walk to the crater rim, where Yasur has been erupting continuously for 870 years. Captain Cook reported it smoking away in 1774.
With the wafting ash plumes, a guttural roar like an artillery bombardment and the smell of sulphur, like cordite, it felt like being in the trenches at the Somme.
As darkness fell, the molten orange vent below turned the billowing plumes blood red. “Yasur means God, and islanders sacrificed pigs and chickens here to pray for good fortune,” Max said. They even tossed in their precious kava.
I beseeched Yasur to return me to Vanuatu. I hadn’t had time to see Malekula, where the last cannibals roamed, to dive its coral reefs, or to witness Pentecost’s land-divers hurling themselves from 100-foot wooden towers, their ankles bound by vines.
It’s a long way from Blighty, in more ways than one, but if you’re already holidaying in Eastern Australia, Vanuatu is tantalisingly within reach. And this fascinating archipelago, where islanders face cyclones with stoicism and a smile, will blow you away.