The ghost resort, the garden to end all gardens and the cobweb tip

The search for upmarket R&R on the drive from Pele was an exercise in sightseeing. There was the odd rain shower, which isn’t really a great thing when you’re on some of the side roads.
We headed to a restaurant for lunch (I can’t remember the name), a trip that involved some horrendous roads but the owners were having their first day off after the Christmas/New Year rush. Bugger.
The gang decided to show me the Blue Waters resort, which apparently is now closed after the owner struck several avenues of trouble.
What a sad sight it is … it’s set on a huge tract of land with beautiful water either side. All the infrastructure is there (well most of it) … cabins with air-conditioning, solar panels, furniture, but it’s like a ghost town … the day trippers and squatters notwithstanding.
What were once beautifully landscaped roads are now overgrown, with accompanying piles of rubbish (think old TV sets, broken furniture, et al) and the general feeling of decay everywhere. I had a look at a couple of websites later to see it in its former glory … it was a cracker. Word on the street is that it can be bought for a couple of million, but it would take at least that again to get it anywhere near its former glory.
It’s a sad story.
As we left the grounds, hunger was kicking in big time and we stopped at a resort (again I can’t remember the name, which is a good thing) on the road to Port Vila.
We settled into comfy cane chairs and ordered soft drinks for the kids and three G&Ts for the former kids and a jug of water. We also ordered a couple of bowls of fries to get us started and a round of cheeseburgers and a couple of ham, cheese and tomato toasties.
The chips manifested quickly (the potato peeler in the kitchen must have been broken because they were a motley collection) and they were quickly dispatched.
The burgers took their time. It must have been tough in the kitchen. Yeah, right. We were the only customers. The wait was eased by a round of brandy and dry for all (OK not the kids) and after almost half an hour, the excuses for burgers arrived. The bread rolls, not toasted or buttered, were cardboard-like stale, the patties were a dark colour that was sometimes interrupted by a film of yellow mucous-like stuff that masqueraded as cheese, there was no sauce and no salad of any type (although there were a few shreds of raw cabbage on the side to dress it up). They were a disaster and totally inedible and were duly sent back to the kitchen. On the way they passed the toasties (35 minutes to make two), which were the same standard of the burgers.
“They just don’t get it,” said Liam. “It’s no wonder that this place is not travelling well.” He got that right.
There was to be no resort stay for us tonight … home was the call, for some decent food, some wine and a comfy bed. It was a good choice on all counts.
We unpacked, opened a coldie, chilled for a while in the familiar surroundings, re-acquainted ourselves with the dogs, who were pleased to see us and made a beeline to the closest nakamal for a couple of kava shells and some chit chat with the locals.
It was a good end to the day.

A CUT ABOVE

Breakfast loomed the next morning, with Dan in the kitchen doing her thing with one of the new kitchen knives that had been my Christmas present (they were suggested by Liam).
She was merrily slicing away. It was a first-hand lesson in just how sharp they were … a yell later we assembled in the kitchen to examine the tip of a finger sitting forlornly on the cutting board. A sympathetic Dr Liam set about the business of cleaning and bandaging the wound before taking over knife duties. In the tropics there’s no place for a she’ll be right approach to any sort of cut or scratch … infection is but a moment away. I know because a scratch on my arm from Bob the dog got nasty really quickly. Dr Liam soon was in need of Dr Dan … he had blood pissing down his hand after he, too, discovered how sharp the knives are.
Breakfast was good but.
ALARMING
Every afternoon at the house, an alarm sounded some time just before four o’clock.
It’s the “it’s kava time” alarm
A nice touch, that.

GARDEN TO END ALL GARDENS

To say that Dan’s garden is a cracker is, well, a gross understatement. Apart from being beautiful to look at … really beautiful … it’s productive in the extreme.
Here’s a list (there’s probably some that she forgot to mention) that will give you a good idea of what productive means.
Coconut palms
Brazilian cherries
Custard apples (pink and green)
Jackfruit (huge bubblegum-like fruit)
Soursop (lemonade sponge)
Purple star apple
Dragon fruit
Bananas
Breadfruit (like a starch soccerball … good for chips or pudding)
Black sapote (chocolate pudding fruit)
Pamplamous (grapefruit)
Lemons
Limes
Nange nu, Namambrae nut, Narelle nut, Natapoa nut
Paw-paws (a favourite of Jeffrey, the pig)
Pepper vine (really sweet and peppery)
Vanilla
Tree peanuts
Island cabbage
Ceylon spinach
Malberry
Bunya nut
Sugar cane
Sunblong fruit
Avocado
Pineapples (every one picked gets eaten and the tops are replanted to do their thing again)
Naus tree (green apple)
Mangos
Passionfruit
Pumpkins
Yams
Taro
Sweet potato
Manioc/cassava
Kava
Ylang ylang tree (for oil)
Sandalwood
Ginger
Tumeric
Galangal
Coriander
Basil
Parsley
Tomatoes (they were the tiniest but sweetest I’ve tasted)
Who needs to go to the market?

COMING TO AN END

My last day in Vanuatu was a bit of relaxing and shopping … I hit the duty-free shops in search of Egoiste, my favourite Chanel product. It’s not available in Australia (Platinum Egoiste is but while it’s OK, it’s not my favourite). The job was done. I grabbed Egoiste and some Chanel Antaeus for a total of 160 bucks … in Oz it would have cost me somewhere nearer to 300. It was a good result.
We also stopped at the Kava Emporium to grab some takeaway (dried that is, to take home). I got enough to make 2 ½ litres, which equates to 50x100 ml shells, enough to give some mates and me a good workout. Given that the shop sells things other than kava, I also snaffled a couple of things that will be fun (and useful in the boudoir). Suffice to say, it’s called Mother Load.
A quick trawl of the craft market down by the beach (I got nothing although I did buy a shanghai there earlier in the stay) and there was nothing left to do, but buy some travellers and head home, via the bakery.
A relaxing afternoon involved a nap, some beers and plenty of general bonhomie. It was sad to be packing.
As a last treat, Liam took me to one of his favourite nakamals, which is near where he used to live across the road from La Lagon resort. It’s also not far from Elouk, where he lived when he first came here almost four years ago.
It rained on the way … the first serious rain for my entire stay. And I mean serious. We drove down a shitty dirt track and parked about 30 metres from the nakamal.
Soaked to the skin is the only way to describe the way I was. Even my undies were saturated, which made sitting a none-too-comfortable experience. But sit we did, shooting the breeze with Patto and Kelvin, among others, and solving some of the world’s problems.
A couple of shells and a few beers and it was time to defongerate. At least the rain had stopped.
We headed to Bon Marche to grab supplies for dinner (Liam was making spag bol). I grabbed a huge caterer’s size bottle of pickled onions for Dan … she has a real thing for them. We also had a hankering for a can each Jack Daniels and Coke travellers. It was a good decision, despite the $10 each price tag.
As we walked out of the supermarket, the light had changed dramatically to an almost golden sky. And there was the brightest rainbow I’ve ever seen. We could see the start and the finish. Where’s ya camera when you need it? There was also a second rainbow, not as bright but beautiful just the same. It was a good sign. Perhaps there is a pot of gold here. I’m pondering a chance I have to rent Angelica’s furnished house in Bellevue for six months … it’s a great deal. We’ll see, but I really want to do it.
With dinner in progress (but not before I gave Liam a lesson in mincing meat with a very sharp knife), I got the last of the packing done. It’s such a shitty time.
Dinner was done, some last-minute drinks and chats before setting the alarm (I was supposed to be at the airport at 5am for a seven o’clock flight) and sleep.
It didn’t come easy for anything like a reasonable stretch … I kept waking and checking the time.
At 4.10, the gods did their things and the house shook for a few seconds. It was another earthquake. That was me done for any more sleep.
Liam and I hit the airport at 5.30, with time enough for a few smokes and some final farewells.
There was a good sort in the queue ahead of me. Cate Blanchett is her name. She has a house in Vanuatu and a brother who lives there. She flew in economy too.
I did my usual tearing up as I hugged Liam … it had been great to see him again and to meet the beautiful (in every way) Dan and the kids.
Immigration wasn’t the quickest … there was just one woman checking passports … but after I got through security, I noticed that there’s a smokers’ lounge. First time I’ve seen it despite being here four times.
It helped kill the last hour (and me, no doubt) before we finally left the ground and settled in for an airborne breakfast, which was better-than-average airline food, on the way to Sydney.
About an hour out of the harbour city, I took my glasses out of their case so I could have a read.
To say I was pissed off was an understatement … the right arm of the glasses just broke off. They were almost 500 bucks a pair, made of titanium or something and supposedly could be tied in knots and were unbreakable. Yeah, right.
Some duty-free black label Jack, some tequila and a ¼ kilo of tobacco and the last hurdle was the sniffer dogs, who thought nothing of my luggage. Not that there was anything in there to worry about, it’s just something that gets the heart racing a little quicker.
A quick smoke with a Scot, Peter, who was on the same flight, and I was in a cab and homeward bound.
It had been a great holiday … in every way …

ON THE MEND

A trip to SpecSavers to get the glasses fixed was first on the agenda the next day (Friday) … and I was told that it would take the best part of a week to get new frames (which were under warranty). It would make life tough, given that I was starting work on Monday and I basically read for a living.
I had to make do with wearing prescription sunnies in the office.
I got a call from Tammy at SpecSavers on Tuesday to say that my glasses were ready. “Oh, wait,” she said, “you’re not Michael O’Brien. Your glasses are not ready.”
To her eternal credit, she hit the phones and finally found some frames at one of their other outlets and I picked them up on Wednesday morning before work.
Hallelujah … I can see. Thanks Tammy.

BACK TO THE BUMP AND GRIND

Work at both places was a culture shock for me, although The Weekly Review was just a couple of afternoons, which made the transition from holiday mode a tad easier.
It helped to be on familiar territory … Lina’s wine bar was on the list. It was good to catch up again with friends and do a belated happy new year thing. The wine was good too.
Thursday and Friday afternoons off also helped. I caught up with my opera singing mate Ben at the local pub. Drinking rose at 2.30 in really the path to danger. And so it came to pass.
I’d decided earlier in the week to have a bit of a (personal) tidy up and booked the hairdresser for 2pm on Friday.
He’s never going to make his fortune out of me. I’ve been going to him since 1975, but this would be the first time I’d seen him in more than a year.
The beard went on Thursday night (my first shave for about six months). I got a call from Chris, the hairdresser at work on Friday morning pleading for me to come earlier. “I don’t usually work afternoons,” he said.
“I’ll bring wine and you’ll work in the afternoon,” I told him.
It was a done deal.
He always enjoys the prospect … or is that a challenge? … of carving a good six or eight inches off the top of my noggin (I don’t know how much that is in the new money).
“Oh, and I want you to leave a full-length plait at the back,” I told him.
“I don’t do plaits,” he said.
“Mate, I brought wine, which means you do plaits,” I said,
I now have a plait … and short hair.

BACK TO A ROUTINE

Saturday morning was light-headed in more ways than one, but I was up at about 6.30 and by 9.30, I’d done three loads of washing, stripped the bed, done some tweeting, been to the shops to pick up a magazine or two, bought some wine to go with what I was cooking for dinner the next night, grabbed a coffee and bought a Tatts ticket.
I did the market thing to buy the ingredients for my take on san choy bow and to catch up with my favourite stallholders.
Job done and I did the honourable thing and stopped at Claypots for a beer and a smoke (it was after 12).
By 12.30 I was in the kitchen, slicing, dicing and getting the show on the road.
A phone call from someone near and dear came just as I’d finished the dish. She was popping in for a catch-up and a coffee.
I was sitting on the church pew on the front verandah when she arrived. It was great to see her. She headed straight to the kitchen, grabbed on spoon from the drawer, lifted the lid on the pot, and grabbed a scoop.
“Shit, that’s good,” she said, “you’re such a great cook. But it needs a squeeze of lime juice.”
Thanks, and she was right.
We sat in the backyard for a coffee and a chat … which led to a tip for all you single fellas out there. Do not get rid of the cobwebs on the outdoor furniture. After talking for about 45 minutes, it was time for her to go. As she walked into the kitchen, I noticed a heap of cobwebs on her backside.
“Hang on,” I said, “you’ve got cobwebs all over you.” I started brushing them away with my hand. “You just wanted to rub my arse,” she said. Right again.
I wandered to get a clothes brush given that my hand work was ineffective. “That feels good,” she said. Alas.
It was great to catch up … It has been far too long.

Time for some island hopping, some local food and a homemade corkscrew

Pele is a short boat trip (just seven clicks) north of Efate. It’s a pretty smooth boat trip, skirting the whitecaps that emerge from the reefs that seemingly surround the place.
It was about a 20-minute drive from Port Vila, notwithstanding a smoke break and a chance to grab another traveller from the Esky in the back of the ute, to get to the pick-up point at the jetty.
Greetings and happy new years out of the way, our man pointed the bright yellow tub out to sea. It was as flat as a shit carter’s hat (I’d love to have written “the sea was angry that day, my friends” as a tribute to George Costanza in the marine biologist episode of Seinfeld … alas) as we motored towards a neighbouring island, got up close and personal with it and then turned left and headed to the far side of Pele.
About 20 minutes later we arrived at the village that would be home for the night.
It was a beautiful beach, with plenty of kids splashing in the shallows, and a big smiley greeting from out host Michael. That was a bonus because I’m not usually good with names.
A couple of woman offered us flowers for our hair (it was like being in the sixties again although my flower of choice then was usually jasmine … this was hibiscus) and then was got the lay of the land (it was the only lay I managed for the entire trip).
Our digs consisted of a bungalow with a separate bedroom with bunks for the kids, another bedroom for Liam and Dan and a mattress on the kitchen floor for me, which turned out to be a bonus because it was apparently the coolest place (that’s temperature cool not Fonzie style) to sleep.
We moved the kitchen table and chairs outside into an area with a palm frond roof.
There were bowls of water with flowers floating about and soap for hand washing, a couple of small water tanks with a saucepan and a bucket for flushing the dunny, which equates to no running water, and the promise of a couple of kerosene lamps later to light our night.

There wasn’t much left to do but put our chairs under a pandanus tree and relax with a beer while the kids splashed about in the shallows, albeit with a warning to wear shoes because there were a lot of stonefish about.
To the right of us was an outrigger (still in use) one the beach and a little closer, a bloke sleeping on a palm frond mat on a bamboo platform he had built into the tree. Chooks wandered here and there looking for tucker. Not a bad way to spend a day, all to the sounds of church singing somewhere in the village.
The first interruption was women from the village arriving with our lunch (that was part of the deal). We tucked in to thick slabs of tuna with onion sauce, rice, a salad of sweet potato, beetroot and something else I’ve forgotten, and lap-lap, which is a traditional Vanuatu dish. (We had five village dogs visit during lunch, three of which (I swear) looked just like dingoes.)
Lap-lap is made from grated vegetables such as manioc, taro or yam, which are soaked in coconut milk to form a paste. On special occasions (although no meat for us), pork, beef, chicken, fish or even flying fox may be added, or the paste may be sweetened with a few bananas (ours was).
The mixture is wrapped in banana leaves, tied with vine to form a parcel, and placed into a traditional uma, which is created by digging a hole in the ground and filling it with red-hot rocks. The parcel or food is placed in the centre, covered with more hot rocks and the whole thing covered over with dirt and leaves.
After about three hours, you get your rocks off (that’s my joke) and the lap-lap is ready. It’s best served hot and eaten straight away.
After lunch the only thing left to do was move the chairs back to the shade of the pandanus, sit down, lift the lid on a cold one (OK it was a few) and chill while watching Liam and the kids snorkelling in the shallows. (Dunno where he gets his energy from … it’s obviously not in my genes.) OK, there was some walking on the beach, twice in fact, the second time to collect driftwood for a fire on the beach for when it got dark (which is early in these parts … think 6.30 or thereabouts).
It’s amazing how time flies when you’re doing bugger all.
All of a sudden it was kava time. Then Michael arrived with the sad news. “Sorry, there will be no kava today. The man who makes it is not back until tomorrow.” Yeah, right. Sorry, Michael, but that’s bullshit. Kava is a way of life in Vanuatu … there’s no way you don’t have kava. But it was our first kava-free night for my whole time in Vanuatu.
Next thing, the women (armed with the promised kero lamps) were back with dinner, this time chicken stew, rice, banana lap-lap and yams. And what better to have with it than a bottle of Château Belles Eaux Fûts de Chêne, a tasty red we’d grabbed the night before at the supermarket and a snip at about 12 bucks. It was a blend of Grenache, Syrah and Carignan.
Then the following conversation happened. “Did anyone bring a corkscrew?” “No, nah, nup.” “Shit, I’ll have to push in the cork.”
I always travel with a Swiss Army knife with a corkscrew, but not this time. I did, however, have my Swiss Army mega tool, with pliers, screwdrivers, blades, hacksaw, wood saw and a partridge in a pear tree.

“I’ll make a corkscrew,” said Liam, who then took a round thing off his keys and proceeded to, well, make a corkscrew. A bloody good corkscrew it was too. Its one shortcoming was that it shredded the cork. Nought to do but to push it in carefully and slowly. Yeah, right. He may have been impatient for the fruit of the vine and pushed a little too quickly. As a result, the first wine into his being was via his eyes, a stinging and none too pleasant experience.
Eventually we enjoyed the dinner and wine, despite the fact that lots of flies and more than a few mozzies got up close and personal and this time just two village dogs visited.
Sleep came pretty easily (we gave the beach fire a miss), courtesy of the waves hammering the beach, but lasted until just after 1am when one of the kids decided she’d rather be with mum.
No matter, it was a chance to ease out some of the excesses of the day … peeing on the beach is very liberating … before settling back into zed territory, which for me was interrupted by a small lizard tickling my feet. Ah, the joys of sleeping on the floor.
The village came to life at 5.15 just as we were snoozing.
And it came to life with a bang … OK, a six-or-so-year-old boy playing badly what may have been Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells with a piece of metal pipe belting an old gas bottle. There were lots of other kids whooping and yelling. Jesus wept, no one slept.
Liam, who speaks and understands a fair bit of Bislama, conveyed the message that perhaps the kid could keep the Tubular Bells to a dull roar.
For me, sleep or bed just wasn’t an option, so I did something I haven’t done in years. I got up at about 5.40. Jesus was still reaching for the tissues.
What followed was an amazingly pleasant experience. I rolled a smoke and just watched the village unfold into life as the sun eased its way upwards.

Women in brightly coloured dresses, carrying babies and woven mats, wandered around looking for shady spots into which they could sit their pickaninnies.

An old woman in a bright blue dress was bent at right angles and sweeping the path outside her house. I’m not sure that the sweeping wasn’t detrimental to her brightly coloured washing that was hanging on a cord and providing a bright contrast to the mostly rusted galvanised iron that was the side of her house.
Chooks and dogs mixed freely, oblivious to each other’s company, in search of anything that would pass muster for breakfast.
A pleasant breeze found its way through gaps in the palm frond wall that was all separating me from the already hot sun as I watched men wander around looking for a comfortable spot that was probably going to be their home for the better part of the day.
Kids played by throwing stones or sticks, and then picked them up and threw them again.
Life is pretty simple and really enjoyable, given the laughter from the kids.
Not so for me, however. My most arduous task was to separate the cigarette papers (OK it was a problem last night too), which had become one thanks to the excessive humidity.
Just after seven o’clock, one of the men from the village wandered over and asked if we were ready for breakfast. A bit early, I told him. “Everyone else is still trying to sleep.” No matter, he said, I’ll come back later.
I finally managed to split some papers and get a gasper rolled. It was coming up for 7.30 and I thought that I may as well get a start with breakfast.
A cold stubby of Tusker was the preferred choice. A good choice it was, too. It was refreshing and anyway, it was at least 11 o’clock somewhere in the world.
It was great company as I watched tiny hermit crabs wander around the crushed coral patch that surrounded our blue welcome mat. Skinks,too, darted hither and tither looking for something other than hermit crabs that may be fair game.
My idyllic watching was interrupted by Dan’s mock horror at me having a beer. “You’re kidding, aren’t you,” she said.
Pretty soon the rest of the troops were up and about to face the day. I reckon they’d missed almost the best part of it.
Breakfast arrived and it was worth the wait. Toast cooked on a griddle, fried slabs of plantain, chunks of freshly picked pawpaw and a cup of tea. It doesn’t get a lot better.
A chin wag, a smoke or two, a splash in the water later, it was time to pack our grip, organise Michael to get us a boat (11 o’clock was the appointed time and it arrived exactly at 11) and head home.
Settling the bill was the easy part. It was 30 bucks a head for the adults and 15 for the kids … and it was a boon for the village. The rule of thumb here is to multiply the dollar amount by 10, which means they got the equivalent of 1200 bucks.
On the way back, our boat dropped another family at the neighbouring island … their farewells and smiles were genuinely beautiful … and the next thing we were at the jetty again.
We loaded the back of the ute with our goodies. Liam and I say on a rusty 44-gallon drum for one last smoke before we hit the road. He sat there with his arm around my shoulder. For me it was a beautiful moment that I didn’t want to end.
But end it did and we headed off around the island with the plan to find a resort for the night for some upmarket R&R.

AIRLINE WATCHING ITS PENNIES

Air Vanuatu is a full-service airline. My previous trips on the carrier involved airline food that was actually good and decent wines.
It was interesting to note on the way over that during the meal service the plastic bag that housed the bread rolls was in fact a recycled party ice bag.
And the milk served with breakfast on the flight home was Coles home brand long-life milk.

SHOW US YOUR TATTS

Given that there was a $31 million Tatts draw on New Year’s eve, we did the right thing and tried to buy a ticket online.
I registered to be a Tatts member, but had a bullshit time trying to buy a ticket. I know that I’m a Luddite but I reckon the Tatts site is a bitch to negotiate. I gave up.
Dan then decided to register and have a crack. She had no problems getting them to take her money, but she used her mum’s NSW address …
It seems that Tatts rules dictate that people in NSW cannot buy a Tatts ticket online.

A Tusker in hand on the road of life

With the sky as blue as it ever could get, the other day Liam and I headed for a trip around Efate, the main island.
The road last time I made the trip was unbelievably bad … we’re talkin’ almost unmanageable. This time it was sealed the whole way around.
The Americans, God bless their cotton socks, brought in huge teams of workers and equipment and finished it last year. Reckon it must be some sort of deal the Yanks had to make good after its forces spent a lot of time here during the Second World War (there’s still evidence of its presence dotted here and there).
We did the trip in a one-tonne truck (believe me, it has plenty of grunt) armed with plenty of cigarettes and about a dozen Tuskers in the Esky. Beer on a road trip here is akin to the ’60s at home … it’s just a way of life here and given that no one goes too hard on the accelerator, it’s kinda OK.
We stopped whenever something looked OK. The beach at Eton was first. A more beautiful place is hard to imagine, with its rocky outcrops, bluer than blue water, white sands and plenty of locals swimming. You can even throw into the mix a few tourists.
We watched for about 20 minutes as a local, armed with a snorkel and a sizeable net, was hell bent in getting something for lunch. I haven’t yet seen anyone fishing with a rod. There’s a Ni-Van fella who fishes in the lagoon at Erakor (the island near La Lagon resort at the end of Port Vila) and he literally uses a lasso to catch barracuda. He stands in crystal clear, waist-deep water with just a line into which he has put three loops. He just waits for a fish to mosey through the loop and then yanks it. He gets a few too.
Back on the bitumen (the locals have renamed I the road of life) we cruised past countless village from which everyone waves, kids swimming in rivers, roadside markets, coconut plantations, you name it.
It was a sensational trip, made all the better for stopping at Havana Harbour, which was a big US base during the war. Beside the road are three bamboo and palm frond huts, one of which houses a huge, ramshackle collection of all things US military, including one of the world’s biggest (and the Pacific’s biggest) collections of old Coke bottles.
Ernest, the bloke who does the collecting, is amazingly knowledgeable when it comes to Coke bottles. His collection is mainly old bottle, onto which is embossed the origin of the bottle and the date … i.e. California, 1944. Ernest explained that Coke has resumed the practice because of his collection.
“I had a visit from the US ambassador a while ago and he told me that I am a US national treasure. Me and my family are legally allowed to fly the US flag until we are all gone,” he told us.
He’s obviously very well read and to listen to his spiel is an absolute joy. He talks fondly, almost family-like, about every piece of stuff he has. The busload of tourists there at the time we were there turned out to be a disappointment. No so much as a few coins in Ernest’s donation box.
We were about 30-odd kilometres from Port Vila, or K, according to the markers on the road. There is no letter C in Bislama, so it’s K for capital. We stopped at a village shop to get a few more Tuskers for the last leg and we met up with an ex-pat (Liam knew him), who has lived in Vanuatu for 17 years.
Talk turned to Dick Eade, an ex-pat who was shot dead a few days ago. He was the first ex-pat murder (it was front page news) and it rocked the local ex-pat community, not least because he was a really decent fella. Apparently he did volunteer work to enable locals to find work on Oz and New Zealand as fruit pickers and the like. The jobs enabled them to make and save enough money to come back and buy a house and generally set themselves up.
Seems Dick was subdividing some of his land and went to have a chat with some squatters who had taken up residence. They shot him.
We moved on, armed with a few coldies, bound for out last stop … a nakamal called Last Flight, so named because it’s close to the airport.
Liam and I were chatting about the merits of the place. “It’s kind of a down and dirty sort of a place,” he said, to which I countered “a bit like the Espy (Esplanade Hotel) of nakamals,” I said. “You got it in one.”
There was a fair crowd in … a mixture of locals, ex-pats and tourists … and the kava was OK.
New Year’s eve was meant to be the start of our island hopping adventure. We were planning to spend a couple of nights on Pele on the eastern side of the island. The swimming is better on the western side, but all the bungalows were booked out, so we settled for the eastern side.
Given that the girls, Tahlia and Em, had gone for a sleepover at some friends’ house in Eluk (it’s a hillside part of town overlooking the lagoon and Erakor), we started the day slowly. A smoke, a cup of tea and lots of umming and ahhing before we decided the day should begin with breakfast and maybe a swim at Chantilly’s. Patto, who was back working, did what any reasonable person would do … he joined us for an early-morning(ish) bloody Mary, which helped us all in putting the day back onto An even keel.
Breakfast had all the usual suspects … eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomato, hash brown, toast … washed down with what was a really Tobasco-heavy bloody Mary … and then another.
Getting out to Pele on the day was looking far less likely, given that we had shopping and banking to do before picking up the girls, so the call was made to tell the guy at the village we’d be staying at that we’d arrive on New Year’s Day.
One of the shopping tasks involved picking up some batteries to fire up the Taser that belonged to Dan’s neighbour. She has kept one ever since she got terrorised by some escaped prisoners (quite a regular thing I these parts). The Neighbourhood Watch equivalent, including a small Chinese guy dressed in pyjamas and armed with a huge bush knife put paid to any real nastiness.
The neighbour explained to the police that she should probably keep a gun at the house and they agreed and issued her with a licence on the spot and offered to lend her a gun until she had the chance to buy one.
After picking up the girls (that involved beers), we headed back to Bellevue for some chill time before hitting the nakamal for some kava after which there’d be a quiet New Year’s Eve at home with some takeaway.
Liam and I went into town to the Bon Marche, which I right alongside the fantastic fruit’n’veg market. It was an amazing atmosphere with people scurrying here and there to get their last-minute goodies. Ours, by the way, involved a couple of cases of Tusker for the trip and some fireworks (from a Chinese shop).
My first pizza here (pasta for the kids) and it wasn’t anything to write home about but it went OK (that doesn’t sound right cos I am writing home about it).
We let off the fireworks at about 10 o’clock (the girls had to be in bed because a big day was planned … with an early start) and in the end, the whole house was in bed by about 10.30.
Seen one New Year’s Eve, seen ’em all. (That’s enough for today. As I write, I’m enjoying some Pastis on ice, checking the cricket scores and am ready for a nap.)

THROW ANOTHER PRAWN …

The other night at the local nakamal (Kath’s and Abel’s … there are two on the Bellevue Road) not only kava was on the menu.
Some of the locals made a trip to a really deep ravine in the Bellevue valley where there are decent sized freshwater prawns. We arrived just as they came out of the pot.
Good thing, that.
From memory they were about 90 cents each and well worth the price of admission. The snags were pretty much on the money too and with a couple of shells of kava it was the ideal precursor for a dinner washed down with a few Tuskers.
Not on the menu, however, were the mini bananas in the nakamal garden. There were plenty of bunches of bananas, each about the size of a decent index finger. Apparently that’s as big as they get. Dunno whether they’re edible.

IT’S IN THE BAG

There’s a stainless steel bowl in the kitchen and everything that is left after preparing food … i.e. egg shells, veg scraps, fat from meat, OK anything … is bound for Jeffrey’s sty.
Even, after I’d been putting them in the bin, teabags.
Dan explained that, according to the locals, most of whom keep pigs, teabags help to make the beasts tame.
Which perhaps explains my tame demeanour, given that I have so much tea in my life.

A moving experience and then some

There’s something intrinsically comforting about waking to the view over the valley in Bellevue at seven in the morning.
My first task for the day was to put on the kettle, walk onto the verandah, roll a gasper and survey the said view and it never ceases to inspire. God, I’m lucky to be here.
The distant call of Jeffrey the pig is a gentle, soothing reminder that not everyone is enjoying what I am. The porker is hungry … OK, he’s never not hungry … and I return to the kitchen to grab his bowl, laden with the excesses of last night’s meal, which was a cracker.
It’s a beautiful feeling, that grass under the feet, the sweetness of the warm, humid air as I walked to Jeffrey’s pen with his bounty … he kinda jumps up, both front legs extended, against the mesh that keeps him prisoner, chatting all the time and saying what I imagine in pigspeak equates to “C’mon you slow bastard. Make good with the food.”
This porcine vacuum cleaner moves around the bits and pieces … pigs obviously have a priority for what tastes good first up in the day. Ah, fruit … that’s a good palate cleanser. Perhaps he’s just arranging it into courses. Who knows how a pig thinks.
Back to the kitchen to rinse the bowl and make a cuppa.
Life’s good.
Sitting at the table on the verandah, cuppa at the ready, rolling the second smoke and then …
What’s this then? Involuntary movement. I started gently to move this way, then that. Am I pissed from the night before? Surely not. No, I was sober(ish) when I went to bed.
Nah, the involuntary movement is not only affecting me, the cars to my left are gently swaying like palms in a gentle breeze.
Well, well, it’s my first earthquake. It lasted for about five, maybe seven seconds. What a bizarre feeling … not altogether unpleasant, a little bit exciting. Maybe it’s the anticipation that it may last longer. Dunno, but it was a great, and certainly different, way to start the day.
Yesterday was a cruising sort of day, lounging around … Liam resited the water tank, played guitar for a while, whatever, until later in the day when it was time to take the kids into town for a swim, get some food for the night’s meal and replenish the beer supply.
Everyone piled into the ute and we made a beeline for the Chantilly resort. We commandeered a table not too far from the pool and ordered some drinks. I got the impression that Liam and Dan go here a bit because Liam was undecided about what to drink. The barman said “come back here and have a look”. Not necessary because he was already halfway there.
While Dan and Em swam, we just kicked back and solved a few more of the world’s problems and then we decamped, dropped Dan at her office to pick up some stuff and then we hit Bon Marche.
Suitably armed with all the necessaries (including travellers for the trip home) for the night’s dinner and beyond, we headed home and hit the kitchen.
While my pastry was defrosting (I was cooking a lemon tart) I was the designated potato peeler. Pretty soon, the pastry was in the oven, the curd mix was ready and waiting and it was beer o’clock again.
Em got busy creating shapes (she got a cooking set for Christmas) with the leftover pastry until she had a tray of them ready for the oven.
Finally Patto and Virginia arrive in time for a feed of baked yellowfin tuna, wasabi mash and a humungous salad of fruit, veg and whatever else looked good i.e. everything.
Dinner was a cracker, the lemon tart too. So too the conversation and laughter that followed the feed. All too soon, it was time for some zeds to prepare to get on a roll for the next day.
I just didn’t realise that the roll would come in the form it did.
Yep, the Earth moved for me.
Tomorrow we're doing a lap of the island.

You wouldn't read about it. OK, you would

There are two newspapers in Port Vila, the Vanuatu Daily Post and The Vanuatu Independent. They both do their jobs well.
The Independent runs a lot of stories in Bislama, a fascinating language that’s easier to understand in the written form. When the locals speak, most times it’s a bit fast fort me to understand. Liam’s good … he did a course not long after he arrived.
The papers concentrate on local issues, but give coverage of what’s going on in the world … i.e. North Korea etc. There’s also a page in each designated for wacky world news and plenty of sport.
In the Post there’s a gossip and rumour column called “Mi harem se” which I guess means I hear and see ‘em.
A couple are worth sharing.
“Mi harem se the dame large breasted woman is really a blonde in disguise as she opened her front doot to let out her dog, stark naked and was shocked to see her staff member standing there closely examining his boss’ anitomy (sic). She shrieked and slammed the door. The employee was last seen getting psychiatric assistance for shock and nerves as his boss was not a natural redhead as thought.”
Or how about:
“Mi harem se an expat businessman was followed everywhere in the Grand Hotel by two security guards after a tipoff that he was in the secret society of Xmas ball grabbers. He still managed to steal a bauble when they were distracted.”
Or:
“Mi harem se the new Shakers nightclub is now selling great food over the bar including the cheapest burgers, hotdogs and pizzas in town. Great for lining the stomach so you can drink more.”
I did though like my horoscope in the Independent.
To whit: “Travelling somewhere different and connecting with people from faraway places could be your ticket to romance this week.
We’ll see.

The Honeymoon, pride, honesty, the village people and other stuff

The view for the verandah at Dan's house.

There’s gotta be few things as good as sitting on a verandah at a super house, surrounded by beautiful gardens, perched high on a hill in beautiful downtown Bellevue, Port Vila.
There’s a view that cascades across a green, green valley to the distant, mist-shrouded mountains (OK tallish hills then). There are three sleeping dogs (it’s best to let them lie), music and an occasional rooster crowing in the background, a bird noise or three, a pig (Jeffrey) sometimes yelling in pigspeak that, if it’s not out of the question, he’d like more to eat, and a breeze that’s having a pleasant cooling effect on what is, in a shock twist, a hangover.
It’s day one (although I flew in on Thursday night) of what will affectionately be known as “Adventures in Vaughanuatu”.
I snagged a great cab driver to get to Tullamarine, although he must be the only Indian in the world who prefers AFL to cricket. Yeah, he did have tickets for the Boxing Day Test.
An early check-in for the overweight bag (and yep, I did get an emergency aisle seat) left me with two hours before lift-off. Just enough time for a less-than-good fruit salad … it cost seven bucks for not a lot, but it was cool and fresh … and a couple of last-minute smokes before giving the duty free a workout. Reckon at the airport I always smoke the last one right down, knowing that it’s gonna be five hours before the next.
Customs was a breeze, although I’ve never understood what makes my boots go off with the metal detector. Like, the studded belt with the silver buckle I can understand.
“Please take off the boots.” They’re a pain in the arse to get off without my bootjack (a timber device that allows me to slip ‘em off in a trice, however long that’s meant to be) but it can to pass. I passed through the metal detector again and I passed the test.
I emerged the other side of duty free with a litre of Jack, a litre of Pimm’s and five pouches of Old Holborn tobacco, which was a snip at less than $8 a pouch (usually it’s $33 for one). I was annoyed that they had run out of papers. No matter, I had enough to get me through.
There was nought left to do but sit at the appointed gate, read a book, glance at the clock and count down the minutes. Watching a clock is like watching a kettle … it never boils. But boil I did when the departure time was amended from 2pm to 2.30. No announcement, no reason, just a change to the electronic scoreboard … no way it wasn’t going to be a point deduction for Air Vanuatu. Surely it’s incumbent on the people in control there to keep the punters in the loop.
Needless to say (but I’ll say it anyway), boarding didn’t start until 2.18 … again no announcement … and it wasn’t until 3.15 that the pilot finally dropped it down a cog, floored it and the rubber finally left the tarmac.
What was planned to be a 6pm arrival became some time after seven. Yeah, thanks for not a lot.
In some strange quirk of fate, once airborne the announcements then came thick and fast … yep, flying time would be three hours and nearly 50 minutes, drinks and then a full lunch would be served. At last they were filling in and about to fill up the punters.
The drinks came soon enough (I had chardy) as did the miniscule packet of potato chips, which had a smell that took me back to the early teens years at the Royal Melbourne Show. I couldn’t quite get a handle on what exactly it was, but it surely transported me to somewhere else. Good feeling, that.
I try hard not to judge, but it was four hours of mostly screaming, bawling kids … some running up and down the aisle … punctuated by some really ordinary airline food (I was told that Air Van had changed caterers and it showed). The wine was OK. I reckon it’s the first time on a plane ride that I’ve actually been kicked in the head, courtesy of a screaming youngster being carried up the aisle by his less-than-careful parent, a man whose (I presume) wife didn’t smile for the entire trip. She would have given George Costanza’s mother, Estelle, a run for her money. Not so much as a tee hee. And yeah, I was snoozing at the time of the head kick. Again, thanks for that.
Finally it was touchdown just after seven.
Walking down the stairs from the plane, the air was thick, smelled of diesel and it was humid. It was foreign but somehow very familiar. I guess it should be given that it’s my fourth trip here.
Getting through the first Immigration check was quick (it seems to go for forever, but it doesn’t), my overweight case made an early appearance and I hit the Customs section. This was the first time in Vanuatu that there has been any check of my stuff. My laptop case was opened, my camera case too and the duty free checked to make sure I wasn’t bending the rules. I wasn’t.
“So, what’s in your suitcase?”
“Just clothes, chocolates, shoes toiletries, a kitchen knife set, a book, odds and ends and some music DVDs.”
I was hoping he wouldn’t want to open it because I had a skateboard securely strapped to it and it would take forever to get the bloody thing open.
“What sort of music?”
“AC/DC.”
“What’s that?”
“Uh oh,” I thought.
And then he said: “OK, you have a great stay in Vanuatu.”
Done.
Out the door and into a big hug with Dan, a truly wonderful woman. Then Liam, a truly wonderful son.
Shit, it was good to see them … and, it was cigarette o’clock. It was a great first meeting with Dan and a great reunion with Liam.
And we did what I was expecting to do … we headed straight for a bar.
“Patto is singing at Baywatch. Are you up for it.”
“Shit yeah.”
Pretty soon we were breasting the bar at Baywatch and listening to Patto, Stuart and David serve up some excellent covers. Greeting Patto (I hadn’t seen him since February) when he’d finished his set was like meeting a long, lost brother. He’s a Scot, a big unit and he hugs like a bear.
It was a sea of meeting people, beers going down like ninepins … a great way to start the holiday. Then the beer hit a flat spot. They were having trouble with their pipes, so we did what any sensible people would do … we switched to bourbon.
Pretty soon enough was enough (does anyone know how much that is?) and we were in the ute bound for Bellevue.
A couple of bottles of white, some nibbles and catch-up/what’s up chat was enough to make sleep come easily, but not before stretching out on the bed and starring at the stars.
It seems as if there’s a constant show on through that window. The next morning on the flyscreen it was a small chameleon getting shitty and determined to have a small spider for breakfast … and the spider was having none of it. Up, down, across and back again. What a super way to wake up, hangover notwithstanding.
It was lots of tea, a smoke or three (OK maybe five) and sitting staring at the aforementioned view, before Dan took me on a tour of the garden (it’s a hectare plot) … oh, and to officially meet Jeffrey, who made a meal of the leftover crackers from the night before and a huge paw-paw (think Sherrin size here). He almost inhaled it in no time at all.
The back of the block is really heavily treed up the slope … and it’s really beautiful.



As you come down the slope there are fruits of all sorts … mango, avocado, custard apple, passionfruit, paw-paw, tree peanuts, pineapples … it goes on. There are also pumpkins, tomatoes, herbs of all sorts … there’s even a huge cocoon of spider webs, housing plenty of inmates, that the gardener is under strict instructions to keep intact.
Dan said that it was almost a case of accidental self-sufficiency, and that she’d had a story published about it. If I can ever get hooked up to the interweb thing, I’ll find a link.
Breakfast loomed large and Liam took over the kitchen. You’ve heard of the three egg omelette … well he went for the three-pot omelette with lots of ham and tomato. Speaking of lots of ham, Dan and Liam bought one for Christmas. It’s about the size of a small house … and so it should be. It cost about 300 bucks. Tastes good but.
After breakfast there’s not a whole lot to do other than hit the bed on the verandah and have a nap before Liam and I head to town to get a few supplies.
Post-nap, and armed with a couple of Tusker travellers, we pointed the ute at Port Vila and headed down a road that makes the Gibb River Road in the Kimberley look like a billiards table (more on roads in another post).
The traffic in downtown Port Vila was like it always is … a shit fight, but we managed to get a parking spot near the bank and after the banking was done, we bumped into Patto and his girlfriend Virginia, who’d been doing the last of their Christmas shopping. He was still a bit ginger, courtesy of too many bourbons the night before.
After a quick chat we headed to Bon Marche (supermarket) to stock up on some vino, beers, lemonade and dry ginger and cucumbers (for the Pimm’s).
French wine was the order of the day, with a bottle of Domaine Ventenac, a de Pennautier Syrah, a bottle of a de Pennautier cab sav and a case of Tusker (the local beer). Job done for about 100 bucks. Nothing left to do but to open the Tuskers, grab a couple of travellers and head home via a small but good bakery where it’s actually decent bread. Just what the doc ordered … wholemeal toasties with (of course) ham, cheese and tomato, the perfect prelude to an early-arvo nap. I woke about an hour later and Dan and Liam were having Pimm’s. He walked to the freezer, and grabbed on for me … “here’s one I prepared earlier.”
Ah, Pimm’s No.1 Cup, the most heavenly drink on Earth. Liam and I shot the breeze while Dan had a nap … her daughters Tahlia and Emmogen were flying in on the midnight special. To give her some breathing space (she was getting pretty toey), we boys headed to the local nukamal, run by Cathy and Abel for some kava and a beer and a chat with some of the locals (Liam knows, it seems, most people on the island … OK not all, but it’s a lot). It’s a weird place … there are tracks going every which way and a central bar where Cathy was sitting, waving a banana frond over some freshly cooked beef, snags and sundry other stuff. “They’re still hot,” she said to Liam who has the appetite of a small nation. He was into it.
We chatted with the local ex pats and solved a few of the world’s problems (especially the media), enjoyed a couple of shells of kava and a few beers before heading home to wrap the last of the Christmas presents, a task that was pleasantly interrupted by Patto and Virginia, who arrived with Christmas pressies (including a soccer ball for Jeffrey) and a thirst for bourbon.
If this is what my holiday is about, I like it. Oh, and my phone has no service and there is limited internet.

THE VILLAGE PEOPLE

Dan’s girls’ plane got in an hour late on the 23rd … at 1am on the 24th actually, a pretty tough gig for the girls. They didn’t go to bed until 3am, not the ideal preparation for Christmas Eve, but they did it well.
Liam and I went out to Mele to pick up a wide screen TV, which was to be part of the girls’ Wii Christmas package.
We wandered out on to Devil’s Point road where there is a security station … apparently there were a couple of murders out that was a while back, so the residents set up the manned boom gate.
It’s mostly ex-pats who live out there. The joint we went to is a pretty cool set-up. Private beach, a surf ski moored at the private jetty, a couple of sea kayaks all ready to check out things such as the pod of dolphins that we can see not too far offshore.
After a quick chat with the woman, who is selling all her stuff and moving back to Oz (why?), we loaded the TV and sundry other black boxes, a kilometre and a half of cords, and we hit the road.
Cruising back towards town, Liam jumped on the phone, said g’day to someone and told him we’d be there is a couple of minutes. (Everyone talks on the phone here while they are driving … they drink too and don’t wear seat belts … well they aren’t fitted in the back of utes … reckon the coppers are tolerant because the roads are so, so bad, it’s impossible to speed, hence I’m not sure there is a road toll. Yes, I’ve just read in one of the local papers that the year’s toll is three.)
We turned in to the Mele village … there are about 10,000 locals living there (that’s not counting the pig and dog populations) … it’s a maze of dusty, bumpy tracks that all looked the same to me. We twisted and turned and finally pulled up at Johnny Bangalulu’s place. Johnny’s a great bloke … we had a great time when I last saw him in February … and I got to meet his family, including his daughter Cathyfreeman. Yep, that’s right, it’s one word. She was named after Johnny became enamoured of Cathy Freeman’s performance at the Sydney Olympics.



We shared some smokes, a chat and then pointed the ute towards home although we did have to treat a huge pig as a roundabout just down the track from Johnny’s place.
We stopped on the way out of Mele so I could take some photographs of the black sand beach. My god, it was beautiful.



THE HONEYMOON IS ON

Christmas Eve was time for the girls, Em and Tahlia, to open a few early presents and get cranked up for the main event in the morning.
We did the full Christmas thing for dinner. Roast turkey with all the trimmings. It’s the first time I’ve ever stuffed a turkey. Dan and I kind of made it up as we went along, but in the end (that’s a turkey arse joke) the stuffing was excellent, as was everything on our plates.
Unusually, the girls slept in a Christmas morning, but it wasn’t long before the house was a sea of wrapping paper.
I did well … a whiter than white pig’s tusk mounted in silver (it was made by a local) to wear around my neck and a bottle of New Zealand pinot to put down my neck.
Then it was time for the Christmas Day activities. Nothing to do but pack the ute with everything … lots of food, grog, floaties, boogie board, Eskys, baskets of clothes changes , whatever … and head to Honeymoon Beach to join about a dozen families for some celebrations, which included lots of floating in the shallows, Tusker in hand, and enjoying the sunshine.
Everyone brought food and lunch was a smorgasbord … it was all there including the ubiquitous ham.
It was the sort of day that Christmas Day should be, including the beach, good people, good food, lots of beer and wine … and for me, a long sleep.
I woke to a long chat with a wild man called Jim, a nomad who was just cruising by on his motorcycle. He’s live all over the world and has some great stories to tell.
Pretty soon it was time to flee, so we pointed the ute towards Bellevue. Seems the ute is well versed in the ways of the world here. It only travelled as far as the local nukamal (yes, it was open on Christmas Day). It’s the closest to home and is a well landscaped block, with lots of table and chairs, a couple of thatched bamboo huts and a bar.
Dan caught up with some Ni-Vans she hadn’t seen for a long time … they were happy to see her. They storied on for ages and just before we left, they gave her a beautiful hand-woven basket as a gift.
Patto arrived solo … his girlfriend Ginnie had jagged a night shift at the casino where she works … and Kelvin and his girlfriend made it a crowd, a good one but. Through it all, we managed a few shells of kava and some beers, the kids had a great time just tooling around before we headed to home base to kick back and watch a White Stripes movie, via a projector to a big screen set up on the verandah.
We were running low on beers and Liam, Patto and I headed into town and cruised around to see if we could call in a favour at several resorts by borrowing a case of Tusker (we’d return one in the morning)
We interrupted the search to go to a nukamal that overlooks the Port Vila harbour. A shell and a beer later we were on the search again.
We got some and headed home. It’s the first time that kava has ever affected me. I had what’s known as kava legs. It’s kinda like a case of the feet refusing to do their duty.

PRIDE AND HONESTY

I really love the pride of the N-Vans. They are as friendly as all get-out and love their country.
I was standing beside the ute the other day having a smoke while waiting for Liam to get something from the shop.
A bloke called Steve walked up to me, held out his hand, and shot the breeze with me. He worked at the jail as a corrections officer (he was a major) and it was just great to chat with him.
A couple of days later, Liam got a call from Amy, an electrician who works for him. He needed some money. We cruised to pick him up (he travelled in the tray of the ute) and head for the bank.
When Amy got his Christmas pay and bonus, Liam told him that he would hold it for him so he didn’t blow it and find himself short. They met occasionally so Amy could get a drip feed of what he wanted. Five thousand vatu here and there just to get him by.
This time he needed it all to pay the rent and go food shopping.
While Liam was in the Bank, Amy and I had a smoke and a chat.
“I really love this place,” I said to him.
“Thank you,” he said in a beautiful, heartfelt and proud response.
Ah, you can’t beat pride like that.
Liam lobbed with Amy’s dough, told him to count it to make sure of the amount and in a touching display of honesty, he said: “That’s five thousand too much.”
Given that five grand is about a third of a week’s wages, it was a big call.
He then looked at me and said: “He’s a good man, Liam, we need people like him in Vanuatu.”
I met up again a couple of days later with Gabby, who also works for Liam.
The greeting was a cracker. Although he couldn’t remember my name, his face exploded into an almost complete smile … he has one front tooth missing … and he said: “Ah the old man.” He’s one lovely bloke.

Life's a beach and then some

The countdown to Vanuatu is well and truly on … four more sleeps until I climb aboard the big silver, airless tube, eat some very good airline food (no, fair dinkum, the tucker they served last time I flew Air Vanuatu was the best mile-high grub I’ve ever had), the endless bottle of red (ya gotta love that) and finally catch up with “picaninny blong me”. That’s Bislama for my son, Liam.
There are more than 100 Ni-Vanuatu tribes, each with their own culture and language. Estimates of the local languages spoken in Vanuatu vary between 105 and 115.
Any wonder that’s it’s rated as the happiest place on Earth. Just hearing Bislama or reading the various signs around Port Vila makes me smile a lot.
For instance, did you know that Bislama for “bra” is “basket blong titi”? Now you do.
For 15 days and nights, it’s going to be a hard slog given Liam’s message of last week: “We’ve got nothing planned other than to eat (this is definitely going to be a seafood summer as we’ve got a deal with some of the boys that we slip them a 50 every week and they go out and catch us crabs, lobster, squid, fish, etc) sleep, beach, fire, outdoors, sleep, eat and maybe more sleep… Hence the no need to steer, just cruise …” Talking of cruising, the plan for New Year’s Eve is to take a yacht to an island not too far away (it’s uninhabited) and cook some seafood on the beach, wash it down with something good and see in the New Year before sleeping on the beach.
Sounds tough. Eh?
The really tough thing will be not seeing my other son, Joel, for his birthday, which falls on New Year’s Eve. While I’m having dinner with him on Tuesday night, it’s not quite the same as being there with him on his special day. No doubt we’ll toast him on the night.

BOXING ON

My good mate, Ben Logan, has snaffled the gig of a lifetime.
He’s a tenor who has done work with Opera Australia … he has a fantastic voice … and he sent me a message earlier in the week to tell me that he’s got the nod to sing Advance Australia Fair (solo) for the start of the Boxing Day Test.
Maybe 90-odd thousand people is a pretty fair audience. I’m sure he’ll nail it for them.
Ben’s company, Logan Musical Events, is producing a series of opera and music theatre concerts in China late in the new year.
On the agenda is the famous Bizet Opera, Carmen , and another concert of classics, such as My Fair Lady, Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables.
The Australian Concert Orchestra will make its international debut and be joined by some of Australia’s best singers from Opera Australia, Victorian Opera and the Ten Tenors.
Ben, who did concerts in China late last year, is also negotiating with David Helfgott to be part of the concert series.
Have a look at Ben’s website at http://3-au.com/loganmusicalevents.com.au/
… he’s got a pretty good thing happening … he can organise almost anything musical.
China looms large and I’m looking forward to it.
Oh, did I mention that I’m going too?
Yeah, I’m gonna be the security element, which basically means that I get to wear a black T-shirt to the opera … I have to look the part. Me, an opera bouncer … who’d have thought it?

A BIG, BUT VERY GOOD WEEK

Given that it’s the silly season, it hasn’t disappointed.
It started a week ago, while I was vacuuming of all things … I had what I best can describe as a life-changing epiphany. It was a very personal thing but it has put me in a wonderful place from which I haven’t detoured (and won’t).
Monday was a hoot at The Weekly Review contributors party at The Carlisle Bar in St Kilda. It was great to catch up with the troops who make working there such a good thing.
I spent to good deal of time having some great exchanges with Rachel Berger, who is funny in the extreme and a bloody nice person to boot (and no, that’s not rhyming slang for anything).
Tuesday was a catch-up for drinks with friends.
Wednesday was lunch with some former and current buddies from The Age … a great afternoon at the Saint & Rogue in the city.
It was good to catch up with some people I haven’t seen for a long time, including Chris (he has a gig at the ABC these days). He sent me an email the next day and it’s one that needs to be shared.
“Sign in my mother's fav coffee shop (wheelchair accessible): ‘Men are like tiles. Lay them right first time and you can walk over them for ever’."
What are the odds that the author was a woman?
Thursday night was the Crikey Christmas party at the Olsen Hotel in South Yarra. The Crikes and Crikettes always put on a good show, which kicked off with a bus to get us all to the venue.
It was a warm night made all the better by being on an open-air terrace (yeah, we could smoke) by the pool.
Everyone got a present (yep, Private Media knows how to look after its staff), there was plenty of good wine (the chardy was excellent), finger food doing its thing and bloody good company.
And I reckon I may have been first onto the dance floor … will wonders never cease?
Friday was the Crikey contributors lunch … but I pulled the pin, given that my liver was trying to punch its way out of my body. Truth was though, that I just had/have shitloads to do to get organised for the trip away.
And the liver didn’t get a complete break. Dinner on Friday was smoked ocean trout, goat’s fetta, greens and good sourdough and a bottle of Dona Pateuno Alvarinho, a cracker wine from Portugal.
Alvarinho is an aromatic crisp, dry, young wine with excellent balance. There’s a bit of citrus happening and maybe some honeysuckle. There’s no oak used in production. And while it’s not exactly a snip at 30-odd bucks, it’s a bloody good drink.
I also had a sniff around some Domaine Marcel Deiss Alsace 2010, which is a super drink, and also some Ceretto Zonchera Barolo 2007, which is a super-duper drink. The Barolo is a special-occasion drink at about $75 a bottle that’s gonna be on the table for the first special occasion I have in the new year, whatever it may be.

HERE’S ONE FOR JASON

I follow Jane Barnes (Jimmy’s missus) on Twitter and the other day she tweeted a site that’s made up of helpful hints.
There are a lot of things on it that don’t make the grade for me, but there’s a couple at least that do, not the least being how to fold fitted sheets.
Crikey deputy editor Jason (aka the town crier on Twitter) apparently cannot fold fitted sheets. Who can? Well on http://www.thedailybuzz.com.au/2011/11/25-clever-ideas_household-tips_storage-ideas/#.TurBR6cyk4O.twitter , there’s a step-by-step guide. Get to it, Whits.

WHAT A WASH

And just to prove a point, yesterday I washed my car for the first time in about two years. It was looking like a Guinness Book of Records entry for the world's biggest collection of cobwebs. I also managed to (sort of) wash my jeans in the process.
Now the car looks a picture. So there.