VANUATU - THE GREAT AUSTRALIAN SUBURBAN BACKYARD

I'm a bad blogger, and must be punished!!! It's been another month, and even worse, this post has been sitting in draft for much of that time.

We even won the soccer grand final and I didn't post!

I've read a great many books and seen quite a respectable number of movies - yet no post!

What of those heady times in my blogging infancy when I'd post three entries in a single night?

I have a confession to make. I'm one of the vast, ever increasing number of young men (that's right YOUNG!!!) who are only ever 20mg of anti-depressant chemical away from writing some really bad folk music. Moreover, whilst on the cruise I threw caution to the wind - of which there was plenty and didn't it just get that boat rockin' to such an extent that none would come knockin' - and stopped taking my happy pills.

Yes. Very silly of me. As if returning from a cruise isn't depressing enough already. This is like adding insult to injury, when the injury is wound that you're rubbing salt into. It probably explains why I cried all the way through Mama Mia - though it's equally likely that was just Peirce Brosnan's singing.

Anyway, I did promise a somewhat more detailed blog about our recent cruise. To whom did I promise? The people who read my last blog entry. Did anyone read that entry? Not really. So why am I bothering to follow through on a commitment made to no-one and at no-one's request? I have no idea.

The first stop on our cruise was Vanuatu - specifically Port Vila. This was my third visit to Port Vila - it being a staple for P&O. It's one of the few South Pacific ports with a harbour capable of receiving a cruise liner, whilst maintaining the appearance of being incapable of receiving a postcard.

I recall on a previous visit being greeted on the dock by natives in traditional costume. Whilst I didn't see this on our recent visit, the traditional male costume of Vanuatu still warrants comment. Imagine, if you will, an oversize drinking straw, about 2 inches in diameter, a foot or so long, and made from some organic grassy material. If you prefer, imagine a regular sized drinking straw, and a very small person, the illusion works either way!

The straw is placed over the penis, folded upward, and tucked under a similarly grassy belt wrapped around the waist - and there you have it - the nubang - and doesn't the title work ever so well!

Whilst I'm no naturalist, I do find it a peculiar trait of human development that we've become so uncomfortable with nudity that someone thought up indecent exposure as a crime. I can assure you, if Jane Goodall were tell her little chimpy friends that if they were to get on with evolving, not only would they invent clothes (which is altogether quite practical, particularly if you lose hair at the same time as finding new ways to fuck with the ozone layer), but that they'd then go on to decide that NOT wearing clothes was intolerable.

Anyway, what I find particularly odd about the nubang, is that it covers the penis whilst leaving the scrotum on display. Now, to some this may seem like splitting hairs, but does this suggest that culturally they find the penis more unsavoury than the scrotum? Personally, I think to describe the scrotum as looking like an appendage of left-over elbow skin is putting it kindly. With the underside of the tongue already tucked neatly away inside the mouth, I'd have though the next priority for cover should be the scrotum. Sure, deal with the penis as well, but get the scrotum covered first.

Now, at this point, allow me to pause and reflect on a recent discovery vis a vis my blog and the finding thereof. I have a code snippet installed which allows the good people at google to monitor how people find my blog - e.g. referrals from Lee's blog, or from Facebook. When someone stumbles across my blog as a result of a google search, the report tells me the search terms used. Recently, I discovered that someone had been directed to my blog after searching for: "films about men getting buggered men". I am reminded of this as I read back over the preceding paragraph and wonder how scrotum, penis, appendage and tongue may be creatively combined into a new and exciting search term.

So anyway, I didn't see any nubang-clad natives, but was greeted by a "traditional" Vanuatu band playing on the dock. And by traditional, I mean anything but. Still, all traditions must have a beginning, and I'll not be a slave to nostalgia, so let the tradition begin with a band comprising the terminally dentally challenged, with more guitars than strings, and playing such traditional Melanesian fare as Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport, and well, pretty much that one over and over ... and over ... and over.

Thus are we welcomed to the market which is set up on the dock whenever a ship comes in. The market offers the weary traveller many an opportunity to relax under the expert hands of the local hair-braiders - and to my mind too few passengers really stop to think through whether this is their best option. I can assure you, no matter how thick and lustrous you may think your hair to be,
braiding will surely cure you of that misapprehension. Some girls can pull it off, a small few will actually come out the other end for the better - but I'm yet to see a guy on a cruise with braided hair who doesn't look prematurely bald and frankly more than a little silly. Which is why I encourage it wholeheartedly.

The market also sells a range of allegedly traditional weaponry, which are very popular amongst tourists of Connick's ilk. The claim that these could be traditional, or even that they are weapons, is easily discredited by the evidence of a nation of people who still exist. If these were indeed their means of hunting and defence, these people would starve, or worse still could be defeated by an invading force armed with balloons on strings - and there would be no market, no Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport, and, saddest of all, no nubangs. By comparison, the Swiss army present an inpenetrable miltary presence with their tiny yet versatile knives, and Captain Feathersword with his nicky-nocky-noo-ing could strike fear into the hearts of an entire nation (or at least tickle their exposed testicles).

The reality of Vanuatu is that is has very little of a cultural heritage of the type that we tourists can engage with. There is a culture of very basic tribal life, and even of cannibalism. Getting by as they did with the barest of implements and facilities, there is very little "take-home" culture for the western tourist to trade for. Much like the imported culture, the artifacts are similarly imported, and mostly from the same sources as supply the Australian discount chains. The biggest cultural discovery of the recent era for Vanuatu has undoubtedly been the permanent black marker. Sure, the $15 ukulele you can by from the Warehouse in any Australian town looks much like the $15 ukulele in the Port Vila market - and both were made in China - but in Australia they don't have "Port Vila - Vanuatu" written on the body in permanent black marker. And that pretty much sums up the local market. There is very little gennuine local product - but plenty of locally texta'd product.

I hereby proclaim Vanuatu "The Land of The Long Black Sharpie."

Beyond the market, you will find that every local with access to a working automobile (and don't let looks deceive, with a good downhill run many of these cars actually move) will be soliciting for your patronage to drive you about, and with minimal regard for road safety by any interpretation of the term.

Moving beyond the dock, the most prominent feature of the country is disorganisation. Port Vila is the shipping port, and yet has no container facilities. Shipping containers are scattered haphazardly along the soft shoulder of the road between the the town and the dock. The town is littered with half built structures, the weathering making clear that many of these have been half-finished for many years. And it is for this reason that I dub it the great Australian suburban backyard. Can any Australian male genuinely support a claim of never having commenced a backyard project only to, some years later, finish it hurriedly, or remove it, once the For Sale sign appears in the front yard.

Despite having been here before, and knowing full well that there is far greater value to be obtained in using the service of local drivers than there is in the organised tours, we booked on a tour of the local botanical gardens. The local botanical gardens have little to maintain the attention of a fast-paced generation W'er (didn't we come before Gen X?). Certainly not enough to occupy the period of time between being dropped off by the bus and the bus returning to pick us up. Actually, this is not entirely true. For the terminally dull and anal retentive, such as I, there was more than enough reading material attached to tomato stakes around the gardens to occupy a quite absurdly tedious number of hours. However, we were constantly moved by the tour guide to the next display, casting the illusion of a fast-paced and exciting tour. Imagine my surprise, after being rushed along to find that we had an hour or so to sit around in the heat before our bus returned.

The gardens did contain some iguanas, bats, a python (with its mouth sticky-taped shut - and I'm not sure whether this was for safety reasons, or if perhaps it was taped shut by a nubang salesman because it keeped telling people to eat from the fruit of the tree in middle of the garden, after which they'd rush out and buy some pants), and a coconut crab.

There is on the tour a kava hut, and our guide described the wonders of this hallucinogenic, which is ground from the root of a local plant and which has the look and taste of mud. (to be read in Homer Simpson voice) Hmmmm muuud. A cultural oddity is the pride with which they hold their traditional vice. I'm not entirely convinced that kava is doing the community a world of good, and I wonder if there may be a few more projects actually getting finished around the place if they weren't so keen on maintaining this tradition.

Presenting kava, and the drinking thereof, as a tourist attraction, is a bit like Melbourne suddenly taking pride in its homeless winos. "And to your right you'll see a man with wild hair shouting incoherently. You can see from the front of his pants that he's been urinating, which is a bit of a traditional for those partaking of the local 'plonk'."

In addition to the botanical gardens tour, I parasailed from the back of a boat - which was great (last time I abseiled down the cascape waterfalls).

Anyway, I think I've written enough to assuage my guilt for the time being. I promise I'll try to be a better blogger.

BY REQUEST ...

Before I get to detailed blogging about our recent cruise - which shall await the sorting of over 2,000 photos ... hang on ... I'll give the overview now, then get to the details/photos/videos in a later post.

We left home at 4:20am on Friday two weeks ago (I'm on leave - surely you don't think I know what day it is).
Drove to Sydney and spent the night with Donna and George.
Boarded the ship.
Party party party!!!!!
Two weeks and five islands later we got back to Sydney, spent another night with Donna and George, drove to Lakes, spent a night in our apartment there, and arrived back in Traralgon on Tuesday.

I didn't miss a day in the gym on the ship - which I'm quite proud of. I also didn't miss a buffet breakfast, 3 course lunch, scones with jam and cream for afternoon tea, or four course dinner. So, for those who've been waiting some years for the grand reveal of my abs ... keep waiting kids.

Connick spent much of the cruise in the cabin watching movies.

I postulated and subsequently disproved the theory that too much karaoke is never enough.

Highlight of the trip (for me) - singing with Jesse Banez, piano player extraordinaire, who had also been on our last two cruises. In my mind everyone on the cruise wanted to hear me sing every time a microphone was left unattended. That audible groan you may have heard all the way from Australia every time I made for the stage was just the Pacific Dawn battling some pretty fearsome weather (and there was a bit of that too!).

But lo, it ended all to quickly, so if anyone has an unused prescription for any manner of anti-depressant medication - send it to me ASAP. I'll be needing to increase my dosage substantially until the next cruise. I hereby postulate that, when on land, too much medication is never enough.

I did check with the Purser's desk (or Percy's desk, as Jesamine prefers) on the last night for any empty cabins going cheap on the following cruise - but the boat is just too damn popular.

Met some great people, drank too much (mostly against my better judgement and at the expense of the aforementioned great people), and enjoyed every second. I shall now spend the remainder of my leave sitting by the phone awaiting a call from P&O with a great offer to return.

Further details and photos shall follow in due course - but for now, back to the matter at hand.

I have made a commitment to do a gig at the Star Bar in Traralgon in September - can't recall the date, but I think it'll be the Sunday after the AFL Grand Final. I'll be supporting the Beer House Dogs (at least I think that's what they're called). Mike, who plays guitar with the band, is a fellow FOB United team member, and this may be his last gig before he returns to the land of the long white cloud.

Anyhoo - given that I'm no longer in a band, and haven't played for quite some time (excluding quite copious servings of Karaoke on the Pacific Dawn), I have no idea what to play. So, If you can make it to the gig, then how about leaving me a comment with a request, and I'll attempt to play it for you. The quality of my performance shall be entirely at my own discretion, and I make no warrants in that regard. In fact, I don't even promise to do my best - just to do.

So leave me a request - get to the Star Bar on the afternoon of the Sunday after grand final day (or at such other time as I subsequently advise), and join me for all the fun of the fair - but without the fair ... and with less fun.