There they are standing in a row . . .

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

After you get a coconut from a tree (a green one, that you have just picked) then you can get started on getting into it.

To get the husk off a coconut you will need a special husker . . .basically a thick stick shaped into a point and stuck into the ground. Spike the coconut, between the husk and the hard coconut shell, then push so that the husk peels off the coconut. Continue this until all the husk is off the coconut.

(This photo is a great example of using a stick to peel an old coconut, the Follow the Road post has other photos of preparing coconut flesh)

At the top of the coconut there are three small circles, these are a softer part of the shell and are easy to dig out so that you can drink the juice. The juice is clear and a little tart – but very refreshing.There is nothing quite as refreshing as fresh coconut juice from a green coconut. Watch out not to get any of the juice on your clothes - it will leave a light brown stain that will never come out.
Apparently the juice is also full of lots of good things. Pa told me that during WW2 war hospitals in PNG used it as IV fluid when they ran out to rehydrate patients.

When the juice is finished you can open up the coconut to eat the thin slimy flesh. It’s no easy feat to open up the coconut. If you’re skilled you can hit it with the back of thick machete and split it in half. I liked to throw the coconut onto our cement veranda to break it. Several hard throws against the concrete was enough to crack the shell.

When a coconut gets older, it's skin goes brown. These are generally the coconuts that fall off a tree and lay on the ground. After taking the husk off (which is a great fire starting material) you open the coconut up. The juice has mostly gone, but now the flesh is thick and hard and tasts so creamy. You can either it eat as is, or grate it up to make coconut milk. This is the coconut flesh that is used to make desiccated coconut.

Coconut tree

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

There are three ways you can get a coconut from a coconut tree;


You can wait for it to fall from the tree to the ground with an unexpected thud.
You can stand at the base of the tree and wave a long bamboo stick up in among the leaves and knock the coconuts off the tree.
Or You have to pick them straight from the coconut tree. To do this you must climb the tree – a job normally reserved for young men or kids.

Climbing a coconut tree is all about the toes.
With your hands you hold either side of the trunk – they are to keep balance, the main work is done by the feet. You grasp either side of the tree trunk with your big toes and part of the balls of your feet.
You then proceed to climb up the tree, either with a hopping motion, pushing off with your toes to jump slightly up the trunk, or in a vertical crawl – left hand and foot, then right hand and foot.

This video is of a guy using the hopping menthod. He seems to have some cloth wrapped around his feet to keep them together - most people didn't do that unless they were going to be climbing alot of trees at once.

Joshua mastered the art of coconut tree climbing, I never quite got it – I think my toes were too soft to be much good at gripping the trunk. Whenever we came back to Australia Joshua would use his climbing skills to amaze our family. He would be able to climb just about anything – door frames, walls, poles.

After effects

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

The effects of the cyclones are felt for a long time after they pass by. As I mentioned we were never in Vanuatu when a cyclone went directly over us. But we would listen to the warnings to secure everything down. Cyclones season was during the end of year break, so often ones would hit when the college was empty, with just a few staff around. Dad would go through the college making sure everything that could fly around was inside or secured down.

The rain would fall like a sheet non-stop for a day or so and we would stand at the window to watch the wind blow anything not inside away. Large trees would be snapped in two, flexible trees would be pushed horizontal, and the dark clouds covered the sun so you needed hurricane lamps to see.

We would stay inside and play board games and read stories as we waited out the cyclone – so very thankful for a cyclone proof house that didn’t leak and enough food and supplies to keep us going until the storm passed. In villages people would huddle together in the strongest building – often the school or church.

Islands that had cyclones pass over them completely would have the worst effects. A cyclone would strip every leaf, fruit and flower from the trees. For people who rely on the vegetation as a main source of food this was devastating. I remember after one cyclone passed over part of Vanuatu a collection being taken up at Talua to send to the Islands with basically no food until plants would start to grow again. Entire villages would need to be rebuilt – bamboo and thatch houses are easily tossed around by the strong winds.

I wondered what happened before radio and communication. Did people know a storm was coming? Did they stay in their homes or try to shelter in caves if there were any? What did they do when the whole island barely had enough food?

(photo credit)

Cyclone Warning

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here) (I'm not going to mention how long it's been since I posted one of these, cos that's just embarrassing)

Thankfully we never really had a very bad cyclone when we were in Vanuatu. Several went past but never went over the top of the island of Santo. As I’ve watched the cyclone Yasi warnings over QLD, I remember how we use to keep tabs on the cyclones in Vanuatu without internet or TV.

Everyone had a special map of Vanuatu that was put out by the Vanuatu meteorology service. The map had an outline of the entire island nation set out on a numbered grid. When a cyclone developed near Vanuatu the radio would put out a warning and let us know the coordinates of the cyclone and the direction it was heading.
Dad would listen out for the co-ordinates and mark them on the map. As the cyclone became more intense the warnings would become more frequent and each time Dad would the mark the new co-ordinates on the map and we would watch the path of the cyclone. It was never straigth, the path. It would curve and twist. It would get stronger and then die off. Cyclones have a mind of their own, so we had to keep an eye on them and be prepared.

Friday Night Activities - Pastrol Care

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

All the students and their families were divided into pastoral care groups depending on which Island they are from. There was the Santo Pastrol Care group, the Ambrym Pastrol Care group, the Southern Islands Pastrol Care group . . .

Every Friday the college had Friday night activities, and maybe two Fridays a term we had pastoral care night. Each group gathered for dinner in the house of the staff member assigned to care for the group.

All the students would bring something to eat. I liked it because it was one of the times we had local food in our home. Someone generally made lap lap with lots of yummy coconut cream. Once or twice a student had caught crabs and we got to eat it fresh crab. One of the Mama’s would sit and show me how to crack the claw with the back of a spoon so you can pick out the meat.

The way we would sit to eat was so instinctive to me. The men sat in the chairs around the living room. The women and children sit on mats on the floor along the side of the room.

The women would normally clean up while the men talked and the kids played, though sometimes Dad would upset the order by volunteering that the men to do the dishes.

After dinner we would do some kind of light hearted activity, like play games, or sing songs.
Once Dad showed a video of Pele and everyone was amazed by the soccer skills (soccer is something of a national sport).

Another time, when we were having a farewell, we ate outside and the students brought a string band. Josh stood on the tea chest and stomped to the music, singing out loud.

We danced a traditional dance the students had taught us; at night, with the hum of the generator in the background, the sound of other celebrations being had around the college, the sting of mosquitoes in the air, and smiling faces all around.

Mr Fix it

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

Dad has always been one of those people who could pull apart just about anything and then put it back together again. He would tell us crazy stories about the cars he had as a teenager and how he kept them going longer than possible.

This came in handy at Talua. The generator provided our electricity, the truck took us to town, the lawn mower helped keep the grass under control. Being a country without a lot of experience with mechanical things, most people weren’t sure what to do when things went wrong. And most things that came to Vanuatu they were second hand donations, and as such not in the greatest condition.
Dad could often be found with his head stuck under something mechanical, trying to coax it to work again. And mostly he did. Dad soon became known as the go-to guy whenever anything broke.
Every now and then a student would appear at our front door with a tape player or sewing machine and a smile; “Pastor?”

Dad was always happy to help – but soon worked out that if someone who had no idea what they were doing had had a go first, things were normally beyond repair. He developed a rule; “Has anyone else tried to fix it?” he would ask. If the answer was “yes,” then Dad would not touch it. The students soon learnt not to fiddle with things – but take it straight to Dad to be fixed up.

Decorations

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For a quick overview and links to previous posts you can go here)


I haven’t written a growing up Island post for a while (like several months). I was reminded of something today while at church for Good Friday service.

If it’s one thing people in Vanuatu know how to do, it’s decorate. The best bit is that decorations are taken from the bush around the collage. It’s free, and it looks great :).

On the Thursday before Good Friday many of the students go looking for things to decorate the hall that was used for all of our services.

On Good Friday when we went onto the hall for the service the entire hall is covered with dead leaves. Long brown coconut leaves frame the door ways, large brown banana leaves are placed along the windows, shredded and haggard looking. Curled pandanas leaves encase the pulpit. Everything is dead and brown and sombre.

And then on Easter Sunday we come into church and the decorations have changed completely. Along the doorways are still coconut fronds, but they are glossy and green with bright coloured hibiscus threaded onto them. Leaves and flowers are everywhere, along the windows, around the pulpit, lining the walk way. At the front around the table has been constructed a cave with the stone rolled away. Everything is bright and green and colourful.



You walk in and are reminded that death isn’t the end, after three days there was life.

Our First Christmas

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)






Seeing as how it's less than 2 weeks til Christmas, I thought I'd do a Growing up Island post on Christmas.


Christmas time at Talua was always a little weird. All the students go home, and most of the staff too. For about a week the truck would be piled high several times a day with people and bags on the way into town to catch boats or planes to their respective islands and villages. There is much crying and shaking of hands and waving goodbye.

Then you wake up and the place is eerily quiet. There may be 3 staff families left to keep the collage in order. That year we were the only little kids left so Josh and I play together and the whole collage is our playground.


With less people wanting to go into town when Mum and Dad go in to do the weekly shop we are allowed to come too. Our first Christmas in Vanuatu we go into the bank and they have a TV showing a video of Carols in the Domain. I remember wondering why Mum was crying over a show with singing and fireworks and Humphrey B Bear. I obviously did not know what homesickness was.


We then went to the local grocery store and were greeted by a large Ni-Vanuatu man dressed in a red suit, dripping sweat. Yep, Santa had made it all the way to Santo. He was delighted to see some western kids who would actually know who Santa was. Unfortunately for him our parents were in the ignoring Santa camp (much easier to do when on a tropical island than in a western city, by the way) and to top it off Joshua was terrified of any large men with fake beards and big red suits.

It must have looked funny; a Ni-Vanuatu Santa chasing two white kids around the store. Once we realised that he just wanted to give us lollies we stopped and accepted them from behind Mum's skirt (poor guy!).

Each trip to the post office produced parcels from friends and family back in Australia, and they were secreted to the top of Mum and Dads wardrobe the minute we came home.



Mum and Dad tried to give us a Christmas we were use to. We had a little tree and the parcels held presents which we opened Christmas morning. Being the first Christmas of our missionary life we were sent more that year than any other. After the first year people get use to you being away and only those really close to you send something.



On actual Christmas day we had planned to go to a village for church because there wasn't enough people to have a service at Talua. But a storm was near and the rain was coming down so heavily you couldn't see out the window. The principal sent over his son to say we wouldn't try to drive in this weather so we had Christmas just the four of us; in our little house on a tropical Island.

Feeling hot, hot, hot

The heat the last few days has been incredible. Possibly made worse by driving around in a dark coloured car with no air conditioning.

Whenever I start complaining about the heat I like to remind myself that I grew up in the tropics, where there were months of heat, not just a few days. After a few minutes of self righteousness I then begin complaining about it again.

I tried to remember what the heat felt like in Vanuatu growing up and maybe write a 'Growing up Island' post about it. But honestly I can't remember much - or not enough to write a coherent post about. Maybe the brain squashes that sort of thing so you forget it, over wise you would never want to go back again. Or maybe because I was a kid it didn't effect me as much?

I remember the sun was fierce - a little red head girl with white white skin learns early on to stay inside during the main hours of sunlight. The sun feels closer to you than it does in Sydney. (Which it is, right? Because we're closer to the equator? . . . My high school geography teacher would be hitting his head against a wall knowing I was even asking that question.)

I remember there were days when I would lie on the floor (it was lino on top of concrete) under my bed during the middle of the day trying to cool down.

And being covered with sweat was a normal occurrence.

So I guess it did effect me after all. Maybe I just tend to dwell in the moment. Which is now, where it's so hot that I can't sleep. And I'm day dreaming about lying on a hard, cool lino floor.

(photo credit)

Earthquake

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can click here)



Reading Rachael's posts about earthquakes and tsunami warnings reminded me about the earth quakes we experienced.


Tsunamis weren't in the worlds consciousness the way they are now, it was not something we ever really worried about (through we knew they did happen - friends of our had witnessed a 'big wave' on one of the littler islands after an earth quake). It was the earthquake that we felt and concerned us.


Our first earthquake happened within a few weeks of our arrival at Talua. Joshua and I were doing something at the kitchen table and it struck - we didn't know what had hit us. We sat screaming in the kitchen clinging to each other. Emma our house girl walked in after it had finished and laughed at us. I remember being rather indignant, how did we know that the house wasn't going to fall down around our ears?


Through the years we got use to them. They weren't very common, but they weren't a surprise either.

You can hear an earthquake before it comes. It's a low rumble, almost like a large semi trailer trying to get up a hill. When we moved back to Australia our house was near a busy road. There were times when I would hear the sound of the trucks and my body would involuntarily brace itself.

Within a few seconds of hearing the sound the earth would move side to side, a rythmic rolling sensation. When you tried to walk your feet tripped over themselves, but if you held onto a wall or furniture and braced yourself you were ok. Ornaments would tip over, and pictures might fall from the wall.

We were lucky we never experienced a really ferocious earthquake. Most of them were small and over within a few seconds.
In Vanuatu it's very rare to hear of major damage from an earth quake. The traditional houses of bamboo and wood has enough of a give in them to be okay. Most other buildings are only one story high and have steel running up within the walls to protect it in earth quakes. I use to worry about a tree falling on our house, but I'm not sure if that's even possible?
While we were there the worst thing we heard of was a concrete water tank which watered a village on a nearby Island split in two, and was useless. A new water tank had to be made and water carted over on canoes for a few weeks.

The water in the water tank near our house would still move within it even after the earthquake had finished. It would slosh out one side, then the other. Slowly less water came out as the water level dropped and the momentum lessened.


Earthquakes are generally accompanied by earth tremors. You might get a small tremor, which was followed by the main earth quake, then in the following hours a few more smaller ones as the earth settled itself into it's new position.

Water Tank

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)



Out the front of our house you had a clear view of the water tank where all the water for the collage was stored. It was piped from a spring up in the hills, and collected in the huge concrete tank.

There was a little bottle which floated on the water, a string was attached to it and came out the overflow pipe. A small weight on the end of the string told us where the water was up to. If the weight was low that meant the water level was high, so the bottle floated near the top. If the weight was near the roof of the tank it meant that the float was way down the bottom of the tank and therefore the water was almost out.

Mum had a habit of looking out the front door to check the weight level several times a day. She was often the first to know when the water started to drop; she would send one of us kids over to find Dad at his office so he could tell Yarael, our handy man.

The pipes which carried the water were laid on top of the ground. Sometimes someone would accidentally break them when gardening, sometimes someone would be angry with someone at the collage and they would cut the pipes, sometimes the pipes came apart because a tree fell down or a join broke.

When the water level was lower word would go around and everyone would conserve the water. The truck would set off to the river to collect drums full of water. The truck would they drive around the campus, when it came to your house you went out and handed up your buckets to the students and they handed them back full of water.

We used half a cup to brush our teeth, half a bucket to flush the toilet, half a basin to wash the dishes. We would have a shower with half a bucket of water. It’s amazing how little water you can use if it’s not there when you turn on the tap.
Yarael, would set off to walk the pipe line and fix the pipe. Hopefully he could fix it easily and the tank would fill up in a day or so. When the tank was full we turned on the taps and heard the groans and splutters of the air in the pipes. Then everything would go back to normal again

The Cave

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For a quick overview and links to previous posts you can go here)




Most days our parents would partake in the Ni-Vanuatu custom of siesta, and rest for about an hour. Towards the end of our time I fell into the same habit, and would often lie on the floor (the tiles were so much cooler than the bad) and read quietly.

But at the beginning, especially when the Scott's were still at Talua there was too much fun to be had to be lying down. One day we ventured over the fence into to bush towards the west of the collage. It was still partially Talua land, every now and then we would come across one of the students gardens.

The bush around Talua has a deep fresh smell, it's the exact opposite of what I know as 'bush' in Australia. While in Australia everything is high, with dry leaves on the ground, in Vanuatu it's low with green abounding. Even the dead leaves underfoot are still damp. We would weave paths around trees, scramble over rocks. We dodged the shrubs with large green leaves with red veins because of the stinging rash we knew they left on our skin. We picked tiny yellow fruits and sucked the seed pulp out of them.

It was during one of these expeditions that we discovered the cave. I suppose it wasn't really a cave, because it had no roof, it was just a small enclosure between two high coral cliffs.

It wasn't a place you played in - it struck awe rather than joy in our hearts. The floor was a mixture of dirt and rocks and leaves, then the rocky walls went straight up, and all you could see above was blue sky. Someone had obviously been there before, because on one of the walls was carved a person without any features.

We stood in a huddle and told each other stories of the people who had been there before until we freaked ourselves out and scrambled over the rocks in the opening and headed back home.



We may have visited it once or twice after that but it never featured strongly in our play. It's strange that that one visit left such an impression, I even went looking for it in our last year before we left. I never did find it again, I think I was too chicken to head too deep into the bush alone, which was probably a good thing.

Adoption

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)





In Vanuatu families share many things amongst each other. There is not so much a feeling of 'this is mine' but rather 'this is ours'. There is also the idea that if someone asks you for something you can not say no, no matter how much you value the item asked for.

This included children. Often if a couple is unable to have children family members will give them one of their children to raise as their own. From what we had seen it was quite accepted - a student had explained it to us as "I have been blessed with so many children, of course I would want to share one with my brother." Our Principal and his wife had three children this way, who knew their aunt was their biological mother and their mother was their biological aunt, but just accepted it as fact.

We had rejoiced and touted this example of sharing to people back in Australia when the Principal and his wife were given a family.


But what if you didn't make the decision about your child? What if the child was requested rather than given?

Mum and I went to visit the new baby born to the family across from us. Her name is Chrissy and she is plump and sweet but the family are down cast. They do not smile, their faces are drawn. They accept our gift and show off Chrissy but something is not quite right.

A few days later we find out that Chrissy's uncle lives in a village not far from Talua. He had come to visit them after Chrissy's birth, obviously waiting to see if the baby had been their 6th girl or their 2nd boy. When it was a girl he said; “You have many girls. My wife and I have no children. When Chrissy is weaned she will come and live with us and be our child.” And they could not say no.

I forgot this news, we watch Chrissy grow up. She is still plump and is all smiles and giggles. I watch her older sisters smother her with love and affection. She is almost walking when we hear wailing coming form their house one night. The next day Chrissy is no where to be seen. Her ‘Mother’ had come to take her ‘home’.

We had seen the wonderful side of adoption in Vanuatu, with families who don't have children are able to have a family when children are given to them. But now we saw for the first time the other side, the family where a much loved child had had to been given up. And we don’t quite know what to think.

String Band

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)




I love the sound of a String Band. It is made up of a tea chest base (a large wooden box with a rope threaded through a hole in the top and kept taut by a stick standing up straight), several ukuleles and sometimes bamboo pipes.

String bands appear at all major events, but often just appear when the guys want to make some music. Every song starts the same, with the same melody. Duh, dah, duh-duh-duh-dah-duh. The sound of a string band is distinctive and pulses through you. I can't hear the sound without beginning to sway to the beat.

My most distinctive memory of a string band is from an end of year farewell for our pastoral care group. We are outside our house in the semi dark. In the background I can hear the sounds of other pastoral care farewells around the collage. I am sitting with the women on a woven mat under a tree. The men are around the string band.

Joshua is so little he can stand on the tea chest bass and sings with the rest of the band. He has the best accent of all of us. Little white boy stands out in a sea of black as the lamps try unsuccessfully to light up the night. He is half in the tree, half on the tea chest and shakes the branch to the beat of the song. It’s one of the ones they sing often at the college. ‘B-I-B-L-E hemi wan holi buk blong God’.

(B -i -b-l-e, is a Holy Book from God)





This picture is from the Island of Araki, by one of the members of the mission team I was on a few years ago, (Sorry I'm not sure who - if you want to claim it let me know! - pretty sure it was one of the guys cos the girls were sitting in another area). See how all the guys playing sit in a circle and faces each other?

And just to embarrass me here is a photo of me dancing with the village girls to the string band.

Feeding the pigs

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)



As a child everyone has jobs. One of mine was to take the scraps down to the pigs.



The collage always had a few pigs - they are necessary for important feasts, like graduation. While we were at Talua they lived down the back, behind the married quarters. A little track lead through a bit of bush, and then there was a sheer drop, below us was where the pigs lived.

They lived in a sort of hollow of old coral and volcanic rock, with a large area for the pigs to run around. There were steep walls all the way around so they couldn't escape. Any fruit or vegetable scraps were thrown down for them to eat. The pigs would hear you coming, and would stand below you making a racket waiting to see what you brought them.

I wasn't a huge fan of feeding the pigs - I always had visions of falling into the pit, and being trampled to death. The pigs were huge and ugly and smelt.

But about once a year one of the sows would get bigger and then give birth to a litter of piglets. Then I loved going - the piglets were adorable! So little and funny as they squealed and tried to chase each other around the enclosure.

I once tried to convince Mum and Dad that we could have a piglet as a pet, I thought we could make a little enclosure near our house from chicken wire and keep it. (I may or may not have been reading Charlotte's Web at the time). Thankfully Mum and Dad decided it would not be a good idea, especially considering that piglets grow into big pigs soon enough.



Funnily enough my attachment to the piglets never stopped me eating them at a feast. Nothing tastes quite as good as a pig that has been cooked underground with hot stones. It's juicy and smokey and delicious.

School Days Part 2

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

Somewhere during the middle of our time in Vanuatu Mum and Dad became concerned about my not interacting with kids my own age. The Scott's had left and the new missionary family had a new baby, but no children my own age. I was too shy to wander down to the married quarters very often, and the girls my age were at school during the day anyway. So one day a week they sent Joshua and I to the local school.

Down the road that goes to The Point, a bit after the farm is the local primary school. It is called Tata school.

I would dress in the morning in the uniform - a simple dark green skirt (shorts for boys) and a white blouse. The Talua bus would round up all the kids at Talua and leave us at the school gate.


English only was spoken during school, which shouldn't have been a problem for me seeing as how my English was better than the teachers. But I had this weird thing were I found it nearly impossible to speak English to Ni-Vanuatu. Just as I found it impossible to speak Bislama to any Anglo people. Even though I was fluent in both, and could theoretically speak both to both groups, something in my brain would automatically switch between the two in the 'right' situation and I had to work really hard to talk the other language in the reverse situation. (Ian Scott was always trying to get me to speak Bislama to him, and even though I could form the words in my brain I would look at him and it would come out in English. I'm sure a language expert would be able to say something profound about this but it just seems weird to me). (Though I would often take the way of talking each language and use that interchangeably)

Once I remember clearly talking to the teacher and suddenly becoming aware I was speaking Bislama. I stoped and tried to say it again in English but got mixed up and flustered. He didn't say anything, though other children had gotten into trouble for speaking Bislama. While I was thankful (I lived in fear of getting into trouble), I also felt uncomfortable that there were double standards about how the teacher treated me and the rest of the class.

Lunch time was great fun, but looking at it now from an Australian student-teacher point of view all I can see are potentials for suing. All the teachers went to their homes for lunch, the children were left on their own for at least an hour (could have been more?). Most of the girls would sit and talk, or play the Vanuatu version of hopscotch or some other game. The boys often disappeared to the beach which was a few hundred meters away.

After the first day I asked Mum did not send sandwiches with me for lunch, I preferred a container of plain rice and cold Kamala (sweet potato) like the other girls.

After school ended for the day all the Talua kids walked home together. The boys up the front with the girls trailing behind. We would laugh and joke and make mischief. The best was when it had rain all night and the bridge had collapsed so we had to go home via the river and waded through waist deep water.




After a couple of months though I stopped going. I was sick of the spacial treatment I was given; the teachers never picking me up when I did something wrong, and the other children giggling behind their hands. I was sick of having bright shiny pencils and a new bag when many of the children had nothing. I hated it if the principal would call Joshua and I to his house and give us nice things to eat and then his family would sit around and watch us. I hated that we got into trouble at home for doing this when all our cultural instincts said we were not allowed to say no.

It was about this time I started to withdraw more. I learnt to stop talking and watch everything closely - become aware of body language and read every situation as closely as possible before allowing myself to become involved. I immersed myself in a world of books and babies because both these things were safe and I didn't have to worry about being culturally appropriate or watching every word I said, or worry it would come back to haunt me.

School Days

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)



I had never heard of 'home school'. As far as I was concerned school was a collection of buildings I went to in my school uniform with my school bag and sat in a class with 30 other little boys and girls. My memory was that I quite enjoyed it. Believe it or not I was an incredibly outgoing and social 5 year old (something happened between then and now).

In Vanuatu we did correspondence school.

I hear stories of people who were home schooled, days staring at different times, breaks for excursions, following their interests - and I am rather envious. That's is not what our school was like at all.

The study in our house was set aside as our classroom. There were two wooden school desks we had brought over in our crate. Mum is a trained primary teacher and so thought we should start at 9am on the dot, with a recess and lunch break, and finish at 3pm in the afternoon.




Before we left we visited the NSW Distance Education office in Casino, and met our teacher for the year. Distance education is set up mainly for children living in remote areas of Australia, or traveling children without a regular school to attend. And there are a few children, like us, who live overseas. Our teacher had their own class of students all over the place who they would send work to and talk to on the phone (if you had one - we would communicate by recoding ourselves onto a cassette, and sending it back and forward).

A parcel with lessons was sent to us which contained instructions for Mum, and all the work we were to complete that week. Our days started with Spelling, then Maths, then English. Afternoons were reserved for fun subjects like Science and Creative Arts and HSIE.

By Friday we had completed all our worksheets, and they were put back into a parcel along with a taped message to our teacher (Which included our news, any discussions we were meant to have about different subjects and a report from Mum to our teachers back in Australia).

This parcel was then sent back to our teachers, and a few weeks later would arrive back, with our work marked and our work for another week.

There were always several parcels in transit, so when we got the parcels it was always a bit of a surprise to see what the work was that we had completed a month ago and now had received back. Those parcels were eagerly anticipated. Our teachers would add in stickers and treats for us, and there were new library books to pour over.



I understand why Mum did things the way she did. She was terrified that we would fall behind our peers back in Australia, and was determined that we wouldn't be disadvantaged because we had been missionary kids.

But she shouldn't have worried. We came back to Australia well ahead of most of our peers, and with a work ethic that was unheard of in most Australian classrooms.

Birthday Disasters and Angel cakes

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)




So apparently today is my birthday. I pretty much only realised yesterday. Must be getting old ;).

I thought, seeing as how I normally try to post a growing up Island post on Fridays I should write a post about one of my birthdays in Vanuatu.



The thing with my birthday in Vanuatu is this; I don't remember a birthday where something dramatic didn't happen. Something always went wrong on my birthday, if I believed in such things I would have thought my birthday was cursed. Rather I think the end of March is just a dramatic time of the year :).

One year there was a hurricane, the rain was being blown side ways and the wind howled. We sat in the dinning room playing board games by the light of a hurricane lamp.

One year we had no water. Some one had cut the pipes which provided Talua with water and so water was having to be brought around in big drums on the back of the Talua truck.

Then there was the year when Dad was so sick with malaria that just about everyone was sure he was about to die. The day was a steady stream of visitors to sit in Dads room and pray for him, until the Principal decided that dad had to go to hospital and was driven off to town.

I do remember one birthday party. I can't remember what year it was, but wasn't any of the above years because Dad was there and we had water and the sun shone.

I had invited all of the children and we played the three stick game. In this game everyone lines up and there are three sticks laid on the ground lengthways so that there is 2 spaces between the sticks. You have to step between each stick, but can only put one foot in each space. At the beginning it is easy, everyone puts one foot confidently in each space. But then the sticks get moved further and further apart and you have to run and jump between each stick. If you have to take two steps in a space or you step on a stick you are out.

Mum had made me a cake. It was a beautiful fairy cake. I had been drooling over this particular cake in the Birthday Cake Book for weeks and was very happy with the result.
All the girls said "Oh look, it's an angel!" when they saw it. "No," I told them "It's not an angel, it's a fairy." But fairy's are from western folk culture and there are no fairy stories in Vanuatu, so none of them had any idea what I was talking about.

Wailing

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

Our house was close to the Single Boys quarters. If something particularly loud was going on we could hear it in our place.

Ever now and then (not very often, but often enough that we knew what it was) we would wake up to hear a loud wail. It was a high, loud, mournful sound which was then joined by other voices.

We knew then that someone had died. A message had traveled from one of the islands that a relative of one of the students had died and now they were mourning their loss, and other people were sharing in their pain.

Being a kid I never really paid much attention to things like that. Death was not a part of my world. I have only one vivid memory of being part of a mourning.

Dad had received a phone call, and come back upset. Mum came and told us that His grandmother had died in Australia. Joshua and I were not sure what to do. It was very rare to see Dad so upset. Great Grandma was a vague shadow in our memory, we were use to the people in our everyday sphere, or the relatives that we were in direct contact through letters and parcels.

The news soon spread around the campus and the next afternoon everyone from the college came to our house to mourn with us. Our house was full, with people sitting on the floor though out the main room.

First we sat and most people cried. Then someone started to sing and we all sang some choruses. Then Pastor Kalsikal lead us in prayer. Afterwards Dad, Mum, Joshua and I lined up so that everyone could shake our hands and tell us personally how sorry they were.

Looking back as an adult I appreciate how the community banded together. Everyone came to support the people who were grieving, and showed that when one person in a community was hurt, everyone hurt. There was no shying away from the pain, they acknowledged it straight up.

I don't know if this continued, or if it was only for the day, so I'm not sure how people reacted in a few days afterwards; if they mentioned it or ignored it as I feel happens here. Like I said, I was only a kid and death had not yet made an impact on my life.

Wedding Customs

(This is part of an ongoing series chronicling memories of my life growing up as a missionary kid in Vanuatu. For links to previous posts you can go here)

Every now and then we would be invited to a wedding in one of the surrounding villages.

There would be a long service in the village church, while we sat on wooden benches with out backs, and used woven fans to keep ourselves from melting in the heat.
We would walk out of the church in the usual procession, shaking hands with the Bride and Groom. Here they were showered in talcum powder. (Talcum powder is used in many ceremonies, but especially when farewelling people or at weddings. It would be liberally shaken over the heads and shoulders of the honoured guest. I have no idea where this tradition came from, I’d love to know)

We waited in the village for the next part of the ceremony. Food has been cooking all day, the air is full of the smell of smoke and laplap leaves singed from the hot stones.
This is when the Bride Price is exchanged. The Brides family gives the grooms family a prearranged amount of woven mats, yams, chicken or money.
Different islands and even different villages on the same island have different customs surrounding the bride price. Sometimes the groom will also have to ‘pay’ a certain amount to the bride’s family.

Then the pigs are brought out. If the families are wealthy enough both the bride’s family and the groom’s family will provide a pig. The groom will then kill the pig in front of all the wedding guests. I never actually saw this happen, I either closed my eyes or Mum would take us away when the pigs were being lead out.

The pigs were butchered right then and there, and carried off to be cooked. The pigs must be eaten at the wedding. This way if the husband says later on “I want a divorce.” The elders will say “No, we have eaten the pigs, it can not be undone.”

We have to wait a long time for the kakai (feast), because the pigs have to be cooked. But there is always a string band to listen to, or someone will start to sing so we can all join in.


It was only once I came back to Australia that I learnt of another custom at weddings. I was at the wedding of the oldest Scott girl. Ian was preaching and mentioned how Fiona had grown up in Vanuatu and that there was a special custom which was practised there with every newly wed.

I almost had a heart attack because I thought maybe Ian was going to kill a pig right here in the church, but instead he explained “When a couple is wed, they are given a new Bible, one which belongs to both of them so that they can build their marriage on Gods word.”

I think I like that custom a lot better.