Tales from the South Pacific: Part II

It never ceases to amaze me how many people go on fabulous holidays to exotic destinations and then never venture further than a 10 mile radius from the airport.  People will happily spend nearly an entire day and hundreds if not thousands of dollars to transport themselves to this wonderful place - and then barely venture beyond the confines of their resort. They return home and tell everyone that they've 'done' (insert Bali, Thailand etc. here) and ramble on about the authentic, trans-formative cultural experience they had without ever leaving the confines of the local Hilton. This experience usually involves the trials and tribulations endured whilst explaining to the completely non-plussed local waiter that they are 'like, totally gluten-free'.

I get it, sometimes you just need room service and a good concierge, but on the whole I find this a bit perplexing, I can get those things without the hassle of leaving Sydney.  Anyway, those less adventurous than ourselves do us a great favor by leaving us in peace to ditch the crowds and get off the beaten track. Vanuatu is primed for this sort of travel - the tourists come in droves and never make it beyond greater Port Vila. This is a missed opportunity.

With the pilot who safely got us from Tanna back to Port Vila

Lured by the promise of an active volcano, cargo cults and remote island paradise we set our sights on Tanna. There is at least one flight a day from Port Vila down to Tanna, sometimes two. If you're lucky Air Vanuatu will be running the 'big' plane an old French ATR turbo-prop which carries about 50 crew and passengers.  If you're unlucky, like we were, you'll get downgraded to an 8-seater prop plane that to my horror was roughly the size of our car and looked significantly less sturdy. 

The day before our departure I dragged Ian to the local Air Vanuatu office to see if there was a larger plane operating and if we could change our flight. The man at the Air Vanuatu office snickered at my request, but dutifully looked up the flights and let out a soft chuckle. 

No, there most certainly was not a larger aircraft operating that day, the only other plane on the route was smaller still. I asked him how old the plane was, he said it was probably from the 1960s. Seeing the horror on my face he assured me that the engine was quite new and the pilot knew the way. We left and I congratulated myself for packing a small stash of Valium.

I've seen some pretty sorry airports in my day, but the airport at Tanna almost certainly takes the top prize. 

The immediate area around the airport and main village at Lenakel have mains power and running water - venture much beyond and you are plunged into total and complete darkness after sunset. We arrived just as the sun was starting to fade and despite having re-confirmed with our 'accommodation' our flight number and arrival time just the day before; there was no one at the airport to greet us. Our fellow passengers dispersed quickly and it was clear the airport was about to shut for the evening and we had nowhere to go. 

Sensing our dilemma a local man approached us and we explained the situation. Without batting an eye (or asking is friend), he assured us that his friend would take us where we needed to be and if we stayed much longer we'd be sleeping on the tarmac. 

Now there may not be much in the way indoor plumbing or electricity on Tanna, but there is a damn good mobile phone signal and by this time Ian had managed to get ahold of our accommodation who were (rightly) hugely embarrassed that they had forgotten to collect us.  We put our saviour on the phone with the proprietor and lacking any alternative option we hopped into the well-worn pick-up truck and were on our way.

Tanna is tiny, just 25 miles long and 12 miles across yet the drive from the airport to the other side of the island takes nearly 2 hours. This is true 4-wheel drive territory, rarely going more than 10 miles an hour it is a stunning, if bone-rattling journey to the other side.

Not ten minutes into our journey the truck pulls over and our saviour jumps out, assuring us that his mute friend would get us to our destination. Ten minutes later we pull over again and pick-up a band of rag-tag locals, most of them settling into the back of the truck with our gear and a rather alarming-looking man with ashy skin and horribly blood-shot eyes slid into the front seat and began chatting away to us. (We later learned that these are the tell-tale signs of a serious kava addiction).

After several more phone calls, a few scary reversals down steep tracks, fording a small stream, and driving across the ash plain of an active volcano we turned down a nearly invisible path in the pitch black, our junkie friend announced our arrival.

Now, I'm not going to lie, it did briefly cross my mind that this might be a sticky end to an adventure gone horribly wrong. We were certainly about to be robbed and hacked to pieces with blunt, tetanus-riddled machetes never to be heard from or seen again. 

No sooner had this horror story crossed my mind than a few flashlights came bobbing through the darkness. I had a few choice words that I'd been rehearsing on the drive for the manager but he was so apologetic and kind that my irritation quickly melted and I chalked the whole mishap up to an 'experience.'

We were shown to our room, a tiny bungalow with just a bed and mosquito net. Ian fished out our flashlights and battery packs, I fished out the bottle of wine that we had so wisely stuffed in the suitcase and we sat on the stoop of our bungalow, sipping wine out of plastic cups enjoying a crystal clear view of the Southern Cross without the slightest idea of what might lie ahead.