Tomorrow Is Another Day In New Hebrides

Press, Volume CV, Issue 30965, 22 January 1966, Page 5

Tomorrow Is Another Day In New Hebrides

(Specially written for “The Press” by

KATHLEEN HANCOCK)

THE New Hebrides beat is a slow beat. Heat, remoteness, the tropical “ambiance” conspire against time. But bustle and haste are not what you come to the South-west Pacific for. You come up to these islands to submerge in the very atmosphere of langour and indolence that is vaguely irritating when you first arrive.

And it isn’t long before you’ve slipped almost unconsciously into New Hebridean ways. Tomorrow is another day. You adjust to the tempo.

After a while it’s only too easy to understand the Melanesian puzzlement at European insistence on accuracy, punctuality’, and all those other irksome but necessary adjuncts to Western civilisation.

The picture of the New Hebrides group floating on the fringe of the Coral Sea had hung at the back of my mind for years. Dark hints of cannibalism, a far-away look in the eye of a former serviceman, Tom Harrisson’s accounts of anthropological sorties, Michener’s tales of Bali Hai—something tantalising was always turning up.

Down in New Caledonia they shook their heads over my crazy idea of spending several weeks in the New Hebrides. “I don't know what on earth you’ll find to do up there,” they said. “A few days In Port Vila perhaps, but Santo. . . .” They shrugged. But from the word go, the New Hebrides came up to expectations. My only worry was to decide which of a dozen adventures to embark on; I was only sorry that I had not four months instead of four weeks to explore this weird and wonderful collection of islands. You fly in over thousands of acres of coconuts to land on Efate at Port Vila, administrative capital of this Franco-British Condominium, known in the Pacific as the “Pandemonium.” There’s a hen-coop of an air terminal, a buzz of talk in French and English. Gay French The British are recognisable by their starched “whites” and their long, flapping shorts. The French go in for brevity and colour —very short shorts, gay shirts, jaunty planters’ hats. Australians and New Zealanders take the middle course for the most part, though there’s one New Zealander in Vila who’s famous for wearing the longest and widest shorts in the Pacific. In these islands the Frenchman predominates. And up here many British planters have taken out French citizenship. They say the French Government looks after its own. It is generous with assistance after disastrous hurricanes, helpful with loans when the price of copra falls. And French planters are allowed to bring in indentured labour on contract. Pretty Town Vila is a pretty town set on the shore of one of the loveliest harbours in the South Seas. From the low hills gaily painted bungalows overlook the indigo waters of the bay. The island of Iririki lies a little way off-shore, girdled with the jade and turquoise of the reef. Along the waterfront the motley collection of Chinese shops and the two large trading stares, one British and one French, are worth fossicking in. There are bargains in tortoise shell, perfume, cameras and tape recorders. Gold jewellery is a good buy in the Chinese shops, and if you're lucky you may pick up a rare shell or two.

Shopping in the New Hebrides is an exercise

guaranteed to keep the tourist in the mental pink. There are no less than three currencies used in this crazy mixed-up Franco-British Condopinium. You pay in one—you get your change in any of three—French, British or Australian. Three legal systems take care of British, French or Melanesian citizens. The crime rate is low up here in these steamy islands. It’s not surprising—a charcter would think twice before getting himself embroiled in a legal set-up like this one. Hard Choice Paul Burton is the man to see if you want to get off the beaten track in the New Hebrides though you’re pretty weel off already, just by the mere fact of being up here at all. With his partner, Bob Paul, planter-trader of tanna, Burton has carved an inter-island airline out of tropical jungle. He’ll fly you into islands that only geographers have ever heard of, and if you give him advance notice, make arrangements for you to stay in native villages. It’s hard to make a choice between Vila’s two hotels. They’re as different as Magnani from Moreau, and both good. Myself, I go for “ambiance” —I always stay at Rossi’s. I had a weakness for the warmth and friendliness of “la famille Rossi,” whether it’s manifested by Mrs Rossi’s cheery welcome when you first arrive, Mr Rossi’s solicitous advice in the diningroom, or the smiles of the numerous sons, daughters, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law who help around the place. And the food! This is “Mama” Rossi’s domain, and I’d put her right alongside any Parisian chef. Rossi’s wide verandah overhanging Vila’s harbour is another lure—breakfast there on a pearly morning starts the day off on a singing note. Opposite Rossi’s the Hotel Vate, new, air-conditioned, up-to-date, is the place to go for every modern convenience.. Tropic Artist Michoutouchkine, the French born painter who has made the Pacific his home, lived at the Vate for six months, paying his board with paintings. They hang in every room and they’re worth looking at. The food is good here too, and for variety you can eat at “la Pagode,” the Vietnamese restaurant in a nearby side street. Robert Tatin d’Avesnieres is another painter to look for in Vila. With a few tenuous strokes of his brush, Tatin

miraculously captures on canvas the shimmer of tropical waters, the menace of the creeper shrouded bush. His tin shack lacks water and light—if he offers you a glass of red wine, it will be in a paste jar, very obviously used for rinsing brushes. Painting is all that interests Tatin — the amenities are for other men. He doesn’t wear shoes, and the story goes that when the French High Commissioner opened a show of his in Noumea, Tatin wore socks as a compliment to the occasion. Dark Bars Vila’s night life is limited, but amusing. There’s even a night-club, run by jovial Eddie Tetiki, whose rolling French-Tahitian accent contrasts intriguingly with the clipped voice of his English wife. The Club Tetiki is a gay spot on Saturday nights, and there are movies on week nights. The town has a number of small dark bars, too—smoky, bead-curtained hideaways, straight out of Somerset Maugham, with overtones of Tennessee Williams. The Club “C” has a notable collection of turtle shells on its walls, and peanut shells inches deep on the floor. Outside the back door, on a dirt patch lit by a single naked light bulb, black men and white play petanque—a kind of bowls—late into the night. Few Tourists Any visitor to Vila who wants to get the feel of the New Hebrides should wander along the waterfront to the engineeering workshop of Reece Discombe. la a town where the extraordinary is ordinary, this New Zealander is one of Vila’s most colourful characters. He discovered and salvaged wrecks of La Perouse’s frigates, lost since the 18th century. He has filmed the fast disappearing “custom” dances of the New Hebrides. There is nothing much about these islands that Discombe doesn’t know: — it’s worth fighting your way into his murky, piled-up workshop just to have a word with him.

And then there’s Santo, a two or three-hour air trip north from Vila—the time depends on how many island stops there are between. Missionaries, planters, government officials, Melanesians—the last possibly nursing a piglet in a sack, or a chicken in a basket —will be your fellow passengers. Tourists as yet are few. This island with the long, mellifluous name— Tierra Austrians del Espiritu Santo —is Michener country. The American writer’s stories of the South Pacific were inspired by his war-time years up here. “Bali Hai” is Aoba, a short flight from Santo. The original “Bloody Mary” now lives quietly in Vila. Santo meanders along a rocky beach. Everywhere there are reminders of the Pacific war. Fences of airstrip matting; old gun emplacements; the hotel is part Nissen hut, part three-ply. But the miles of wharves that were built in wartime have been allowed to rot and tumble into the sea. Perfect Service If yo-’r'e lucky enough to be in Santo when the "Tahitien” is in port, there’ll be a sign outside Mao’s bar —“bal le soir.” All Santo will be at the “ball” dancing to the music of Mao’s Tahitian boys, laughing, flirting, drinking champagne. There’ll be a wreath in Mme. Mao’s long, dark hair. Her lovely Tahitian smile lights up the room—she is straight out of Gauguin. And perhaps Germaine, the girl behind the bar, may interrupt her busy work anl dance a “tamoure.” But Germaine is temperamental—she’ll only dance if she feels like it. Smaller, but more polygot than Vila, with a bigger French population and a large Tahitian colony, Santo’s gay. The hand of the administration rests lightly on this island—it’s almost a world apart. If you’re asked to dinner on a plantation you’ll find a way of life that's disappeared in most other parts of the globe. The baleful eyes of the thick-necked Australian blue cattle dogs on guard outside the house make for a wary approach, but once inside the spacious bungalow you'll bask in the warm glow of welcome that awaits you. And there are plenty of surprises in store—collections of paintings; libraries of rare books; curios from IndoChina, reminders of a time when France was a power in the East.

Your planter host may be a graduate of a French university—or a former journalist from Argentina. The service and food are perfect. The wines have been chosen by a connoisseur. Tables shine with old silver and sparkling

glass .and a covey of darkskinned maids hover behind the guests. Every move is anticipated, unobtrusively, gracefully. It’s an atmosphere that’s largely disappeared in our Antipodean world.

It isn’t all champagne and skittles, of course. The solitude of these plantations, the heat, and indefinable sense of menace, these intangibles cause nerve endings to shred sometimes. Simmering emotions can and do boil over. There are odd manifestations of the tropical malaise. But for the most part, people up here in the New Hebrides are warm, charming, outgoing and kind—quite unbelievingly kind.

You’ll be lucky if you leave this part of the Pacific feeling exactly the same as when you came. It’s a safe bet that the New Hebrides will get into your blood. These days you’ll dodge malaria, thanks to modern medicine. You won’t have your head split open by a Melanesian war club. But you won’t escape a permanent case of nostalgia for this crazy, off-beat string of islands, east of the Coral Sea.