VANUATU 2026

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AUGUST 2025

Jackson hatched the plan to go to Vanuatu. He sold to me like this; ‘there’s no Americans there. Actually, there’s no-one there.’ 

It sounded wonderful.

It’s late August 2025, we’re having beers after work. Jackson’s having withdrawals after his most recent trip to Europe, Qantas is having a flight sale and we’re both wanting something to look forward to, to prevent us topping ourselves during the Christmas/ New Year period. I didn’t need much convincing, I adore Jackson’s company and I was thrilled to be travelling with the quintessential ‘Airport Daddy’.

JANUARY 2026

It’s day five of eight days straight at work. We’re short staffed - Charlie, Annabel, Jackson and Penny are away so the restaurant’s being carried by the same skeleton crew every day over a two-week period. New Year’s day we did over a hundred for lunch with just four staff. I’m on shift with sweat dripping into my eyes, crippled with foot spurs. Each day I go home shattered, unsure I have the constitution to make it through the next.

Got into a fight with the Kings X constabulary last Friday because I passed out on the way home and didn’t know where I was. They were no help, hassling me without cause. I wasn’t hurting anyone or causing a disturbance so in the end I got annoyed and started giving it back to them, taunting them about how they must feel reallllly tough in that riot gear they wear whilst tasering 94-year-old ladies to death. Then I told them to fuck off and leave me alone before staggering home.

Overworked and over-stressed, it’s just another bog-standard Christmas/ New Year. But this year we have to keep grinning and bearing it into January with the Ashes fifth test at the SCG. 

Saturday I’m on a 9-5. Lunch wasn’t too bad but dinner was going to be busy. Paul asked me what I was doing after work. He asks not because he’s genuinely interested, but in the event I’d like to do him a favour and pick up a shift. 

‘I’m going home to wash my shirts.’

I make dinner, watch the news. The U.S. has started bombing Venezuela. I fall asleep in front of the T.V.

Arriving to work next day I find that Jackson’s back. Thank fuck.

Max and Jackson are bickering in the bar. Max is complaining about all the time Jackson’s had off; the week over Christmas, New Years Eve, several consecutive Saturdays.

Jackson bitches to me about it: ‘Last year I did Christmas, New Year’s Eve and New Years Day. Besides, Max only ever does 25 hours a week, he gets paid more when he does a supervisor shift, and he’s going away for six weeks at the end of February! And spending next Christmas in France! He can suck it up.’

Dinner shift is really busy. I keep getting called into the kitchen because the new section waiter can’t put a docket in without making a mistake, and she’s using my login. This is the same person who yelled at me because I used ‘her’ mise-en-plus.

‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t be doing service cutlery miss-en-plus when I’ve still got a section full of people who need to be set up for dessert?’

Now she’s not speaking to me.

Anyway, mid-service, Lolo’s doing his lolly, calls me into the kitchen and I have to keep telling him, ‘Not my table, not my section. People are using my login details to enter their orders.’ So every time someone fucks up, I get called into the kitchen. It’s a waste of my time, Lolo’s time and the guest’s time before the culprit can be identified and the problem rectified.

The fourth time it happens I completely lose my shit, because I haven’t put an order in for a while so 100% it’s not going to be a ‘me’ problem. This time it’s actually table 35 - Jackson’s table - and he’s off the floor doing restock. He hasn’t made it clear their mains are ‘to share’. I’ve had a gutful, and I walk off back to my section, leaving Paul to sort it out. Lolo’s so angry he calls the wrong table, telling the runners to go to 25 when it’s really 35. 

Another night, another clusterfuck.

After we finish work, Jackson and I go upstairs for a pint. Vanuatu’s fast approaching and we need to talk logistics.

I glance at my phone. A message from a guy who only texts whenever he wants sex. Merry Christmas, happy new year, I hope you’re out having fun.

Fun is a concept I find triggering, given I operate on such a deficit of it.

Sure, I’m having SO much fun, working long hours in a job I don't like, serving entitled cunts and turbo-charged arseholes, doing my best not to absorb their pointless, petty bullshit, going home alone, trying to stave-off soul-crushing loneliness.

‘Fun’ is a word Penny uses, steeped in sarcasm, when we’re getting rogered at work. ‘Are we having fun?’ 

We are not.

This guy appears in my DMs once every two or three months, like that’s a normal way to behave.

It’s neither normal nor respectful.

I know what he wants, but what’s he’s offering?

A ‘Happy Meal’.

Junk food.

Nothing substantial.

I’m at the limit of what’s being asked of me, and I want to tell everyone to get fucked.

Me: ‘I think I’m coming down with something. Head cold, sinus infection.’

Jackson: ‘I had that last week!’

Me: ‘I’m going to be so pissed off if I’m sick on vacation.’

International flights are booked. That’s as much as my mental bandwidth has been able to cope with. 

Jackson’s done the heavy-lifting booking everything else: internal flights, hotel for the first night in Port Vila, an Airbnb on a remote island for the remainder of the time we’re there. He’s forwarded the 27-page compendium for the Airbnb. It’s detailed but confusing as there are many islands and unfamiliar place names and ambiguously written directions. I’ve given up trying to understand the logistics and have faith things will work out. Anyway, Jackson seems to have things under control. Being a Millenial, he’s put 3D Maps to good use.

I focus instead on the things that do make sense; ‘remember to stock up on cocktail supplies at your last port as supplies are limited in Santo’, ‘bring cash in the local currency, the local people don’t have much change so make sure you have small denominations for transport’, ‘there is wi-fi and Starlink at the house’, and again, ‘it’s a great idea to bring duty free supplies when you come in’.

I'm glad our hosts aren’t wowsers. They’re as adamant as we are that alcohol will be a critical part of our holiday.

Apparently the way it works is we fly into Santo where we’ll be picked up by a driver who’ll take us into town to buy supplies, (supermarket, butcher, market) after which he’ll drop us at a wharf where we’re to take a boat across a channel to a house on an island.

No amount of detail can actually prepare you for this seemingly straightforward exercise however, because in Santo, ‘island time’ kicks in. And it kicks like a mule.

PORT VILLA

FRIDAY - DAY 1

The day prior we’d done the Sydney-Brisbane-Port Vila leg, bringing our 4.5 litre allocation of spirits from Brisbane. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if we’d taken twice that much, no one in Port Vila gave two shits, with customs asking - but not checking - how much we were bringing into the country, and a shrug to send us on our way.

We realised while we waited for our hotel shuttle in the arrivals lounge that fucks-given were much like air-conditioning and personal deodorant: minimal to non-existent. A young lady was coordinating the arrived passengers with their hotel busses. Depending on the hotels they’d booked, some of the guests received leis as a welcome-to-country.

We were not given leis.

Eventually we were shepherded outside where the bus drivers asked ‘Which hotel?’ for our luggage.

Jackson: ‘Ramadan?….Ramada?’

We were a month early and in the wrong country for Ramadan, so our minivan driver took us to the Ramada. The drive there was illuminating; roads are poor, buildings are basic, foliage is lush and there’s an incredible proliferation of hardware stores, none of which are Bunnings-affiliated.

Jackson reminds me Port Vila was struck by a 7.3 magnitude earthquake in December 2024, which goes some way to explaining the impressively pot-holed roads and the many buildings that seem to be in varying states of disrepair.

We’ve headed out of town on the Ring Rd, joined the Lini Highway, past the Port Vila Markets - which look like the most happening place in town - and made a pit-stop at the Grand Hotel and Casino, where some passengers left us, headed for Iririki Island Resort. We’re in a tourist hot-spot, yet the place has the feel of a suburban local shops. My brain is searching for a comparable point of reference: Jalan Raya Seminyak is the quintessential tourist-trap, but unlike Seminyak, this place has none of the glitz and glamour.

Shops with names like Bon Marché - my point of reference being the ultimate department store in Paris - and even The Grand Hotel and Casino give the impression of magnificence, where the reality on the ground is quite the opposite.

Me to Jackson: ‘Do you ever get the feeling you’ve made a horrible mistake?’

I don’t really think we’ve made a mistake. I’m just feeling acute culture shock.

By the time we arrive at the Ramada, perched high on the cliffs above Erakor Lagoon, I’m ready for some hotel air-conditioning and a cocktail by the pool after a nap. Just when I start to relax back into the comfort-zone of familiarity, a dwarf serves us welcome drinks.

Jackson’s performed the white-Aussie-in-another-country ritual and bought a carton of cigarettes at the airport. Down by the pool, he realises he’ll need a lighter to make them work.

Many many many many cocktails later we’ve made friends with Jan and John, a grey-nomad couple from Perth, and Edentulous Bob, who could tell we were interested in getting fucked-up local-style, so invited us to join him after work at the Kava Lounge.

‘Kava Lounge’, another misnomer. There are no lounges. It’s basically a beer garden with a few simple concrete buildings. One, a kiosk from where kava is served in bowls through shuttered windows, the other, a fluorescent tube-lit room with a pool table and toilets. The rest of the venue consisted of a garden with a large corrugated-iron roof shed. Tables, chairs and dingoes were scattered about. At one end of the garden close to the kava kiosk was a pony-wall with taps, reminiscent of a men’s urinal. One-Tooth Bob explains, ‘this is where you wash your mouth out after drinking the kava’.

Before I know it, Jackson’s burst through the connecting door into my hotel room, announcing a final call before we need to leave to catch our flight.

LUGANVILLE

SATURDAY - DAY 2

Climbing aboard Air Vanuatu’s Twin-Engine Otter bound for Luganville, a 45-minute flight north, I was receptive to the idea of the plane going down in a ball of flames, as it would mean an end to the hat-trick of horror; heat, humidity, hangover.

The provincial capital of Luganville on the island of Espíritu Santo is Vanuatu’s second-biggest settlement after Port Vila. We’re picked-up by a fellow who drives us into town, spruiking his services as a tour-guide as we go.

First stop: the supermarket. Jackson’s shown me photographs of the interior before we left Sydney. I think the point of the photos was to show how modern and well-stocked it is. Instead, I fixate upon a young white couple in the foreground, shown paying for their groceries by eftpos. The guy, wearing a blue t-shirt, is unattractively drenched in his own sweat, the image entirely unedited for marketing purposes.

Now here we are. It’s ‘open pantry’ time on Masterchef. They stock a legitimate Italian brand of dried pasta, promising. Jackson proposes pasta with pesto. There’s plenty of eggs, they’ll keep us alive. Shall we get sardines? Yes. Do they have tomatoes? No. Do they have parsley for spaghetti agilo olio? No. Mint for Dark and Stormies? Are you mad? Potatoes? Carrots? No, no. Carton of beer? Yes. There’s nasty white bread available and every kind of chip you can imagine.

Navigating the supermarket is confusing and we don’t have a tight game plan. Never mind, now we’re off to the market, where I’m sure we’ll find abundant arrays of fresh vegetables, herbs and other local delicacies. The market is the best place to go for food and to get a sense of what the locals are about.

I suppose this was true for Santo, too, even though it wasn’t what I was expecting. Santo’s market is small and incredibly limited. Every stall sells the same four things; a green leafy vegetable that looks like choy sum, bananas, pineapples and twists of tobacco. There’s the occasional banana flower and a few coconuts for tourists who don’t have the skills to climb a palm tree with a machete.

It had the feel of a market that had done the bulk of its trade early in the morning and was now packing up for the day, but it was only 9:30am. We bought a hand of tiny bananas and an enormous pineapple, threw them in the car with the groceries and headed to the butcher.

The compendium informed us Santo’s beef is renowned for its quality. Not like wagyu, but worthwhile if you eat red meat. The butcher’s located inside another, smaller supermarket. It’s old-school, you can see the bandsaws through the door out the back behind the PVC strip curtain. The aggressively pink neon lights of the display fridge fail to make the meat look vibrant and appealing. There’s an overpowering stench of dead flesh.

Jackson, overcome by the sights and smells, excuses himself to wait outside. His admission of weakness causes my sympathetic nausea and gag-reflex to engage. I assert my place in the queue, get four steaks and four sausages and get the hell out of there.

Our driver takes us to the dock out the back of Santo Hardware, where we rendezvous with our water taxi. Luggage, groceries and ourselves pile into the open fibreglass boat and set sail for Sails on Aore.

AORE

Two locals skipper us to our destination, a stretch of beach on the Eastern side of Aore Island. We jump into the turquoise water, pulling the boat up into the shallows. Naomi the housekeeper and her two young boys, Thomas and Leo, meet us along with a couple of welcome-party dogs. They help carry our things along the beach to the house. This is the final 100m obstacle-course (coral, crabs, coconuts, low-growing trees) to scramble over, wearing inappropriate footwear and even more inappropriate (when wet) linen trousers. This completes today’s travel hexathlon (Golf buggy, taxi, Twin Otter, open-pantry challenge, water taxi, beach scramble) after which we finally earn our leis.

It’s 10:30am.

Jackson makes a batch of over-proof cocktails and pasta for lunch. We’re passed out on the deckchairs by 1pm.

The next 24-48 hours is a bit blurry.

Jackson goes exploring the aquatic world with his mask and snorkel. Beyond the neatly-manicured buffalo-grass lawn, beyond the gabion wall where little green crabs live is the sea; light-cabochon in the shallows for 200 meters before a distinct band of emerald. Out yonder the water is deep, sapphire blue. 

The water is so clean, the visibility extraordinary. Little fish are plentiful and diverse; schools of silvery shimmers, a tiny, elegant, white ribbon-eel gracefully tries swimming away whilst trailing a long, impractical train, she turns and bares tiny fangs. There are fish, darting, skittish, relaxed, cruising. There’s blue sea-stars, turd-like sea cucumbers and glimpses of shadowy rays moving in warp drive like UFOs. Here in the shallows the coral reef is dead, like an ancient city laid waste. Yet there’s activity even here in this liminal tidal zone, threshold to Neptune’s vast domain.

It’s Beer O’Clock. Jackson cranks some tunes and gets to work on more cocktails. The sun goes down. Time for shit-talking and dancing. Olivia Dean’s Man I Need’s on such high rotation you’d think we were manifesting him. There are creatures outside the house, there are creatures inside the house. Something’s eating the bananas. There are geckoes everywhere. Swallows swoop by day, micro-bats swoop by night.

About nine o’clock I take myself off to bed. Naomi’s only opened one of the three Queen sized rooms available in the house, assuming we’re a couple. Ever-so-politely, Jackson sleeps on the couch, citing concerns he may snore.

There’s a wild storm. Torrential rain thrashes the house. I briefly wonder if the roof is going to blow off before passing out.

SUNDAY - DAY 3

Sunday we’re joined by the boys, Leo and Thomas, and the less-shy dog, Pingu. The dogs on the island are smaller and less rabid-looking than the dingoes in the kava bar. Pingu seems well-behaved (she doesn’t come inside the house) until we see her bullying the smaller, shyer dog, who’s still unsure of us.

The boys want to show us their island. They bring a machete, climb the dwarf palms in front of the house and hack down coconuts for us to drink. Leo opens them, artfully chopping a paddle ‘spoon’ from the coconut so we can scoop out the meat. They hang out on the lawn with us, Jackson shows them his iPad and lets them watch Bluey which they seem to like. Suddenly there’s terrific excitement. Leo spots a sea cow. The tide is in and the dugong’s swimming not five meters from the sea wall. The boys gather rocks to throw at her as she comes up for air.

I want to go in and swim with the mermaid.

‘NO!’ Say the boys. They bite!

This is utter frogshit, sea cows are gentle creatures, but the boys put the fear into me with their excitable yelling and while we all go for a swim together, I don’t pursue it. A mammal under siege is a concept I can relate to.

The boys spot sea turtles, and point out the shy moray eels hiding amongst the rocks in the shallows. I like the fearsome looking morays but Jackson’s not so keen on them, recalling the time he was bitten as a 7-year-old. I try to get Thomas to stop pitching rocks at every sentient being he sees, but I’m fighting a losing battle. What is it about boys that makes them hell-bent on destruction?

Hair unwashed since my Friday-night swim at the Ramada, I decide it’s time to clean up my act. The compendium states ‘no hair dryers or irons’, as the house is on solar-power. Nonsense, I think. Should be right if I use them in the morning. That way the solar panels will have all day to make more electricity.

It’s ludicrous to think I could achieve Japanese glass hair under these conditions, particularly with my gutless travel dryer, never mind the fact we’re in and out of the sea every couple of hours.

This is not a place to be precious.

Sunday evening vibes: cold beers, steak frites and tunes. Jackson’s whizzed up the pineapple in the Nutri-bullet so the cocktails have a new silky-frothy dimension. Genius move, taking a barman on holiday.

It’s peaceful here. No screeching parrots, no garbage trucks, no news cycle. Very few planes overhead, just the odd blast from a departing cruise liner in the far distance. There’s a TV but it never gets turned on. The sea is constant white noise in the background, heartbeat of the planet. We’re subject to nature’s whims; calm mornings and sunny days followed by mental category three cyclones.

It’s wild again tonight, Prosperoesque. Hell is empty and all the devils are here… It’s a little bit over the top, like the special effects team are working overtime. Deafening thunder claps and terrifying magnesium flashes of bright white light, as wind whips through the open-louvered windows. Experiencing the storm is not unsettling. Tranquillised by alcohol, we hear chaos all around, yet we remain safe inside our sturdy, cyclone-proof shack.

MONDAY - DAY 4

The following morning we discover we’re without power. Jackson, who’s managed to force open the lock to one of the other bedrooms, suggests my hairdryer is somehow responsible. Naomi pays us a visit and tells us power is down across the island due to lightning strikes in the night. I doubt my hairdryer could do that much damage.

Naomi and her husband try to reset the solar power control board. They’re doing everything they can to fix the problem. Meanwhile, there’s a generator in the shed they can switch on for a few hours.

Now we have to get strategic about drinking. Don’t open the fridge unless absolutely necessary. Conserve the ice cubes, and fill up the ice trays as soon as the generator starts.

Monday’s spent coming to terms with the news we’ll be without electricity until Wednesday at the earliest, when a guy will come to the island to fix the problem. Naomi sets about changing the linen and opens up and cleans the third bedroom, as the room Jackson busted into is occupied by a rodent, most likely our banana-eating furry-friend.

After surviving a languid day doing bugger all - swimming, drinking, napping - Jackson books a day trip to Espíritu Santo for Tuesday. We’ll get to see the sights and it means we can stock-up as we’re running low on booze.

TUESDAY - DAY 5

Unbelievably I’m up at the crack of dawn. Sunrise is a foreboding shade of red, which isn’t promising for our 7am boat ride. Before long, torrential rain is hammering down from the heavens, the noise as it drums on the roof is deafening. Can we cancel the trip? Maybe we can reschedule?

Jackson’s still asleep, I have no answers so I go back to bed.

When Jackson emerges, he’s as confused as I am. The tour company’s debited the money from his account, but he’s not received any confirmation. He also tried messaging Naomi to see if the boat is still coming in this weather, but the text messages didn’t appear to be going through. It seemed insane to go but too difficult to rearrange, so we buckle up for the ride.

What happens next is a mini-nightmare. We’re full-steam ahead, the boat’s coming to pick us up and Naomi’s hitching a ride with us because she needs petrol for the generator. We pile into the boat with the gerry cans and Naomi hands out umbrellas.

Seriously?

Yes, seriously.

There’s no point fighting it. Rain pours and the wind whips the brollies to shreds. We may as well be holding cocktail umbrellas. Jackson, Naomi and I are laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the situation. I don’t know if skipper found it quite so funny.

ESPÍRITU SANTO

We scramble off the boat at the dock - sopping wet - parting ways with Naomi, who’s going to get fuel and do her shopping then wait around for us to catch the boat back at 4pm. We head through the hardware store looking for raincoats but nobody seems to have any, so we walk around town until the heat overwhelms us, then we find a cafe to wait for our guide to rendezvous.

Me: ’Jesus Jackson, You gave me the impression that linen is God’s gift to fat people in hot climates.’

Jackson: ’Not when it’s wet.’

Being dumped on Aore and left to fend for ourselves provided the opportunity to experience embodied observational learning. Slowing down, incapacitated by heat, watching clouds on the horizon, literally watching the weather, the shadows, the tides, the animals, was all that was necessary over the course of any given day.

A guy dropped in at the house one day, asking me to fill up his water bottle. He was on a mountain bike exploring the island, and he’d stayed at Sails a few years ago. Now he was staying on the other side of the island on a diving holiday with his wife and kids, although he lamented the kids were more interested in their iPads.

I didn’t really blame them. It’s insane attempting anything too physical in this heat.

That font of all knowledge, the compendium, mentioned a resort on Aore. Apparently it’s possible to go there, have drinks at the bar, go to the restaurant, get massages. I’d anticipated doing all this, but in reality it wasn’t practical. Although it sounded nice, I lost interest in doing anything much. It was like being under a spell.

But now here we are, back in the big smoke and we’re meeting a guide who’ll show us around Espíritu Santo and hopefully explain some of the less obvious aspects of this place. Jackson booked and paid online last night, so there’s a bit of communication SNAFU, but eventually the driver gets in contact and tells us where to meet.

He’s apologetic when he arrives, alluding to booking-office SNAFU, as the company’s located remotely in Port Vila and not exactly efficient. The main thing is he seems like a nice fellow and pretty switched-on.

We agree on a rough plan for the day, working within our time limitation.

The Santo East Coast Road traverses Luganville in the south to Port Orly in the north. The distance is 63.3Kms. It takes us roughly three hours to drive what should be a 1hr 20 min drive - with a half-hour stop at Champagne Beach - due to the poor condition of the roads.

From what our guide tells us, China’s been a major aid provider, but since Covid there’s less evidence of infrastructure investment. With the areas frequent seismic activity, combined with cyclones and high annual rainfall, roads and buildings are no longer being repaired. France’s interest in Vanuatu dried up owing to the lack of extractable resources, in contrast to their neighbours New Caledonia where France maintains an active interest.

Our guide provides easygoing commentary - sometimes as response to our remarks, sometimes as general background - while we sit in the back trying to control waves of hangover nausea. I’m glad it’s not some rote info-dump, rehersed and rehashed.

‘There’s a Noni plantation. Noni is a plant cultured for medicinal uses. The plantation was established by the Chinese. You can see it’s enormous, but you never see anyone working there…’

There are vast coconut plantations, cattle ranches, little shacks at the side of the road. He stops at one and buys a bunch of fresh peanutty-looking things, a folded banana leaf containing nangai nuts and a hand of bananas for us to snack on.

The landscape is verdant, chickens roam freely. Areas of thick jungle are choked by invasive creeper vines. Mile-a-minute (Mikania micrantha) and Big Leaf (Merremia peltata) were introduced by the world’s most invasive species - the American military - during WWII for camouflage.

We turn off the main road and head to the coast. There are more domestic dwellings, people, little babies outside playing with small striped piglets. A woman stops the car to collect an entry fee. A couple of hundred meters later, we arrive at exquisitely beautiful Champagne Beach.

It’s all but deserted, save for a few locals on the beach raking up the natural detritus left by nightly storms. Please for the love of god don’t take the name literally. There is no Champagne on offer at Champagne Beach, despite the best efforts of Megan Singleton’s awful promotional video on Santo Heritage Tours Facebook page, and what she’s drinking looks like prosecco anyway.

A surprisingly chilly onshore wind was blowing, which made a nice change from the relentless heat. The pristine water, though mostly warm, had cold patches brought in by tidal currents. We didn’t stay in the water long before heading for the bar for a couple of Tuskars and a packet of cheese Twisties. That’s more the vibe, Megan.

Idyllic as it is and peaceful (because we’re here in off-season, so there aren’t boatloads of tourists and resultant locals selling souvenirs) the wind is annoying, so we head off after about half an hour, hitting the road for Port Orly.

I will confess I literally imagined Port Orly as a port, complete with sailors, the result of not doing any research. 

When we pull into the carpark under a giant Banyan tree we see the now familiar bungalows made of beach hibiscus, wild cane and natangura palm leaves along the shoreline, white-sand beach and placid azure water.

There are a few people here, Aussies with kids, their tour guides hanging out in one of the bungalows. One of them approaches us and says hello. He was the guy who picked us up from Luganville airport. Small world.

The beach runs the length of a huge, open bay - Baie Arouboubé - the shore drops into deep water quickly. It’s nevertheless far more sheltered than Champagne beach, making it the most pleasurable swimming spot yet. I’d be happy to stay there all day, but we’ve got pruney fingers from being in the water so long and lunch is long overdue.

Jackson has it on good authority that the food at the beach shack is good. He orders grilled fish and chips, and I look for the most expensive thing on the menu (it’s nearly impossible to spend money in Vanuatu I’ve discovered) which happens to be coconut crab. Coconut crabs are a formidable species of terrestrial hermit crab that can climb palm trees and have been known to eat humans, including, allegedly Amelia Earhart. Eat or be eaten, I say.

A few more Tuskers to accompany lunch, then we start our journey back.

We’ve been beach-focused but our guide insists we stop at a blue hole. Along the drive, we’ve crossed several rivers, and he’s mentioned it’s possible to go rafting down them and end up in a blue hole. Mere words can’t prepare you for the otherworldly beauty of a blue hole.

They’re the outside-version of Mexican cenotes, gateways to the underworld, genuinely magical places. I was so excited, terrified - literally awestruck - when I experienced a cenote, the feeling I have when I think about it is still overwhelming. 

Riri bluehole is a little more domesticated - way less terrifying - but nonetheless breathlessly enchanting. In a densely forested glade is is hidden this vibrant blue freshwater waterhole, it looks like someone’s thrown in some Acid Blue 9 bleach tablets. The water is startlingly clear, you can see right down to the fourteen-meter bottom, fishes suspended, seemingly frozen like a snow-dome, and all the stupid shit people have dropped - sunglasses, hats, vapes.

Not to say this, or any of Vanuatu, is polluted. It absolutely isn’t. It’s a massive contrast to places like Indonesia, where it’s tricky to frame a photo without single-use plastic featuring. That’s partly because Vanuatu cracked-down on single-use plastics, phasing-in bans back in 2018.

Jackson and I spend a great deal of time at the water’s edge, taking in the immensity of the beauty. Jackson was apprehensive of the enormous blue moray eel guarding the entry steps. We overcame this obstacle by jumping in from the deck.

What paradise we’ve found ourselves in.

Back in Luganville we stop in at the supermarket, or rather the ‘stupor-market’, because that’s how I felt every time I walked through those doors. Brain fog was real in this weather, we joked about being on ‘island time’, but the supermarket was something else, a twilight-zone where it was impossible to think straight.

We pick up another case of beer, some white rum, bacon and a few other bits, as well as colouring books and bubble-blowers for the boys.

Jackson’s given most of his cigarettes to Naomi and her husband for helping us with the generator, and for opening up the other bedroom. He wants to buy more as a gift for chef Lolo. We find a shop selling them, it’s run by a Chinese lady. Her very young daughter - coincidently also named Lolo - is operating the till. Bizarrely, Jackson buys a packet of cigarettes from a 6 year old.

Then we head for the wharf. Our ferryman jokes we’ll find Naomi at the kava bar, on the shore not far from the wharf. I thought he was joking.

Turns out he wasn’t.

No wonder she was cool with spending the day in town.

As we wait at the wharf for everyone to get their shit together, I spot a banded sea snake in the water near the pylons of the pier. Nice to see the wildlife quotient off the charts.

Back at Sails we relax in familiar surrounds. I make carbonara (pasta basically kept us alive) and we enjoy another evening of freedom. We’re looking forward to getting the power back on tomorrow as promised, although truth be told, the lack of power isn’t the worst that could happen.

The following day however the weather doesn’t look great. Naomi tells us the guy who’s coming to fix the power isn’t coming due to predicted storms. But are you serious? Remember the rain we endured on the boat yesterday? Who is this pussy that’s afraid to get wet?

It ended up being Thursday that the power was restored. Three and a half days. The system just needed a hard reset, but Naomi and her husband had never done one before.

It wasn’t a deal-breaker for us. We were just happy to be there.

We watched Naomi’s boys spend the whole day out on the reef, spearfishing. Don’t their fingers prune? They were even out late into the night. Jackson started to panic, thinking it was drug runners out with torches, shining them back at the house. No, just the kids out night fishing.

Jackson ventured out beyond our safe zone, discovering a band of live coral. He found Nemo! This opened up new frontiers of adventure, new creatures to discover, things to see. The boys showed us there was nothing to fear out there, so we went swimming at night too.

Although they didn’t tell us about the sea-lice…

FRIDAY - DAY 7

As the boat left Sails on our final morning, narrowly missing a sea-turtle, I felt mildly bewildered. Was it really time to go? Now that power had been restored, and there was so much more to discover…

But leave we must. People at home are eagerly waiting to give us the shits. And so we begin the excruciating journey in the same fog of heat, hangover and humidity as we’d arrived.

The wistfulness of departure is replaced by barely containable annoyance when our skipper drops us off at Santo Hardware wharf. I’m scratching around for correct weight to pay him 3,000 Vatu, but I only had a fistful of 2,000 notes. Bear in mind whitey pays 1,500 VUV per trip across - roughly equivalent to $18 AUD - while the locals pay 500 VUV ($6). Fair enough I suppose.

But when I rifled through my change and came up 100 VUV short ($1.20 AUD) I thought he might be give kind enough to give me a discount. There was none forthcoming. I end up handing over two 2,000 notes and receive no change. Who says you can’t give it away.

Not a great start to the day. 

After dragging our luggage around the world’s biggest pothole, we found a taxi to take us to the airport. At least we’d be rid of our bags. It was a long wait for our flight, an almost as long wait to buy a bottle of water (island time, baby). The return flight to Port Villa was nowhere near as exciting as our arrival flight, it was aboard a boring A320-200Neo operated by Air New Caledonia (Air Vanuatu went broke and are currently operating a serviced fleet of three planes - a French-Italian twin-engine turbo prop ATR 42/72 and two 48.5 year-old Twin Otters.)

More devastating than the plane’s dullness, the fucker sat locked-and-loaded on the runway - no aircon mind you - for a full hour and a half, as we slowly cooked inside. There was a very handsome New Caledonian flight attendant with dreadlocks onboard who kept walking up and down the corridor. At one point he took his jump-seat and strapped himself in, in what I took to be a positive sign we were about to lift off. Then he got up, walked to the back of the plane. Then back up the front again.

Me, annoyed: ‘The fuck is he doing?’

Jackson: ‘Probably the same thing we’ve been doing for the past seven days. Walk into a room, stop and think, why have I come in here again?’

True. Everyone’s brains are fried.

Ah, the joys of being in transit. It’s a first-world problem. I can say that now, having finally experienced a lower-middle-income nation (Vanuatu is not a ‘third world’ country, apparently this is the politically-correct terminology).

Another interminably long wait for the Flying Kangaroo from Port Villa to Brisbane. Still no air-conditioning in the terminal. I’m feeling like a sweaty ball-sack and don’t look much prettier. All I want to do is get home and burn all my clothes.

Jackson’s upgraded himself to business class, just so he doesn’t have to be seen with me I guess. He promises to take me to the Qantas Lounge in Brisbane, but because we were delayed by Air New Caledonia in Luganville, all our connecting flights are fucked-up.

At last we board the plane, Jackson’s up the front and I’m back in cattle class. Even though we’re packed-in like sardines, I’ve managed to score a free seat beside me so I’m happy.

I catch up to Jackson in transit in Brisbane. Jackson’s made good use of the inflight bar facilities, preloading before he hits the Qantas Lounge. While picking up our luggage and proceeding through customs we discover we’re heading back to Sydney on different flights; mine leaves shortly while he’s got a couple of hours to wait.

Luggage checked through to Sydney, we make our way to Domestic.

Jackson: ‘That was easy. If we were in Sydney they’d be x-raying our arseholes.’

I overhear the other Sydney-bound passengers on the bus making similar remarks, sans arsehole reference.

Before we enter the terminal, Jackson stops for his final cigarette and we say our goodbyes, marking the official end of our Vanuatu adventure.

Although I briefly had a feeling I’d still be looking for my car in the carpark by the time Jackson finally touched down an hour and a half later…

Arriving back in Sydney on a Friday night, driving through Surry Hills, I’m unaccustomed to the traffic and volume of people. There are P-platers in turbos trying to drag me off at the lights, people turning left from the right hand lane, drivers stopping without indicating what the hell they’re doing. Fuck Fridays, get me home. 

Kings Cross is worse. There’s too many people and I can see what they’re thinking and I don’t like it.

I stop in Roslyn St to get Thai takeaway. Ms Chu is going off; she’s taken over the whole block with tables, chairs, pot plants, lights, a DJ and waiters clad head-to-toe in white. One of the waiters comes out singing Happy Birthday with a dessert spewing sparklers. Have you people forgotten Switzerland already?

Vanuatu; no longer an abstract idea full of unfamiliar place names. It’s a new reference point, a new sensory experience.

Aside from our shared experience at work, Jackson and I have both been through a lot recently. Vanuatu provided a place and space to stop, feel and experience a different way of being, removed from our regular habitat. We’re ambivalent about our regular habitat, love it and hate it. The prevailing personality of the people we deal with at work are entitled, self-centred, shallow. Not all, but a great many more than I’ve ever come across before.

Vanuatu is refreshingly dissimilar, providing the chance to repair frayed nervous systems, an opportunity to see that one doesn’t need very much at all, not as much as we’re told we need. Vanuatu gave us the opportunity to take off the armour we need to survive the worst of the rapacious, facile consumer society we live in, and set it aside, just for a little while.