Black Magic Island

Oct. 16 (Wednesday)

Here’s the local buzz: If you want to curse someone, you need one of the wizards from the Vanuatu black magic island of Ambrym. One of our guides was on one of the nearby islands and happened to ask about their owls. (Lindblad/Nat Geo guides are like that.)

The answer was “We have two. One that roosts in the trees, and one that watches me because someone from Ambrym sent it.”

So THAT’S pretty cool!

When we arrived, Ambrym was covered in clouds; we never did see the pair of volcanic peaks at the top of this mostly-cone-shaped island. But didn’t that just add to the black magic coolness? You betcha.

 Photo by Harry. The people on Ambrym did NOT swarm the beach to “welcome” us with screams of fury (and frankly, I was grateful for that!). Instead, due to some LIndbladian wizardry of our own, we were invited to witness the “Rom Dance,” which (we were told) is never shown to outsiders.

So…why were we seeing it? It was confusing. But okay. Thanks.

Part of the reason we were invited, I feel very confident in saying, is because the people of Ambrym are carvers when they’re not sending owls to spy on other islands. Not only did they want to sell us their carvings, but someone VERY clever had worked out a deal. I “buy” something from a carver and they wave over a man with a clipboard. He asks me for my name and cabin number and the amount of my item. I take the carving. In my case, a really handsome wooden fruit bat carved by this man:

Then at the end of our visit, the clipboard man goes to Lyle the expedition director and says “Your people spent this much money.” Lyle hands over that much in Vanuatu cash and takes the list. Back on board, he charges the amount to my account. No need to have cash of ANY nationality.

Brilliant? And how!

I spent a total of $60 on my sleek, beautiful bat and on a large bamboo flute that I cannot play—but maybe Rusty can. My son plays saxophone, so maybe this will entertain him. James, Lindblad naturalist, told me later that my $60 purchase would probably send one of the carver’s children to school for a year.

Shit. I should have bought more.

So why are we getting to see the secret Rom dance? Hm. Wonder why. No other cruise ships come to Ambrym. What’s even more tragic about this came from Trish, who has been on EIGHTEEN Lindblad/Nat Geo cruises. “They’re not coming back here.”

“What do you mean, they’re not coming back?”

“Have you looked at next year’s catalog of where Lindblad is going?” Um, no. I’m three trips in, not eighteen. But Trish has studied the catalog and she could confirm. “They’re not doing this trip next year. Can you blame them? This ship holds over a hundred guests and there are barely 50 of us on this trip. It doesn’t make sense for them. So the carvings they sell on Ambrym today might be the last they sell for a long time.”

Well, SHIT. I should have bought a LOT more.

Many of the eager-beaver passengers opted to walk to the ceremonial dance site. From the daily description: “The hike is long, hot, and uphill for two miles.” (Harry later pointed out it was actually 2.7 miles, which I definitely appreciated!) Who was first in line off the boat? Twig, of course, looking forward to an Orange Theory-level workout. She was annoyed that they had to stay in a group and she couldn’t go as fast as she wanted! The girl is SO FIT.

All the old and frail passengers—plus me—opted to ride in what Lyle called a B.A.T., which stands for “Best Available Transportation.” I rode in the back of a pick-up truck along with four or five others. We bounced and jostled and shook up the road through the heat. For my part, I was desperately glad I wasn’t walking. Along the way we saw:

• A neat fence along the roadway formed by cutting sticks into the appropriate length and then planting them, stringing chicken wire in between. Since the planting, almost every stick put out roots and burst forth into full, brushy leaves. Imagine a picket fence sprouting a canopy!

• Ian the WWII expert who was forced to get into the truck with us. Jeff the photographer insisted. “You have to come with us; I’m under orders to pick up any walkers who have lagged behind.” “Can’t be much further, though, can it? Can’t I walk it?” There was still a mile and a half to go. “Nope. Come with us.”

• Banyan trees the size of houses. Most of the trees on this heavily-forested island either look like they can bend in a cyclone or are too slim to be affected. But every now and then we drove past huge old grandfather trees. And because banyans send vines down from above which, like picket fences, then root in the soil, the tree just gets bigger and thicker and sends down more roots. The result is something that really does need to have at least ten or twenty fairy tales written about it. Absolutely mesmerizing. If I were an Ambrym owl, that’s where I would roost, no question, while waiting to be sent out on a covert mission.

We got pretty woven leis when we arrived at the traditional site. Unlike the other garlands of flowers I've happily received, this one isn't going to die within hours.

At the site of the dance, Ian (who has seen the Rom dance before) wryly warned me that I was about to experience the South Pacific penis sheath, and sure enough—here came the chief. His wiener was encased in SOMETHING made of nearly-fluorescent pink, which is then bent back to be tucked under the waistband. Yes, those are balls right there. Hello.

(But like a nude beach, partial or complete nudity is a lot more provocative in theory than it is in actuality. Most of us don’t look like porn stars.)

All the chiefs from every village came, most of them in fetching bright pink. Around them were seven men in huge coconut-hull capes that hid everything but occasional glimpse of stomping feet and massive masks. There’s an ornate induction ceremony for a man to be a Rom dancer in the masks, but I’m afraid I lost most of the details. But it is each dancer’s job to hide his identity so no one knows who’s dancing.

(Speaking practically, I would think that if you had an important ceremony but a few people were missing, it would be pretty easy to suss out who was under the masks… like “Huh. Wonder where Fred got to?”)

Before the dancers, two men and one woman—also mostly naked—drew sand painting in the dirt. They always began and ended in the same spot, and were of things like a kingfisher, a canoe, a breadfruit.

Then the dancers. The seven masked men surrounded the chiefs and everyone was stamping in time to the drums. As they worked their way up, the ground was shaking with the stomps. Each “verse” began when one of them chiefs would sing out something. All the others would call out, and I’m assuming the dialog; it sounded like “Hey—I have something to say!” and all the others said “Hear him—hear him!” Then the single chief would sing his song.

When he was done, all the men would sing together. Were they repeating his words? Were they chanting the same thing after each chief got to speak? I have no idea. But chief after chief had their chance to make some kind of statement, while all the other chiefs listened and stomped together and the masked dancers whirled on the outside.

Twice the benches we were sitting on cracked under the Lindbladian butt and someone went crashing to the ground but that was considered just part of the excitement.

Why did the dance end? I have no idea. Maybe all the chiefs felt they’d had their say. The Vanuatu representative who’s been traveling with Lindblad while we’re in Vanuatu is a New Zealand woman named Virginia who lives in Vanuatu; she said that part of the dance included a “returning” portion where the masked dancers left and then returned two by two as a kind of memorial to the number of Vanuatans who were abducted and taken to Australia as forced labor. She said she’s trying to help one guy find his family’s roots and all it would take would be for Australia to offer DNA testing, but they haven’t. So sad. A lot like Trump separating families at the border… The US is certainly not blameless in such vile behavior.

I got into another pick-up for the ride home and then Lyle said “move back so there’s room for people to stand just behind the cab.” Ooh—stand?! Shit, yeah! I took the right side and Lyle was in the middle.

Photo by Harry. We rode back down the wild and bumpy ride and I had a full grin on the whole time, ducking under low branches and waving at the people in the gardens and fields we drove past. Now THAT was fun! Wouldn’t Lyle have been surprised if I’d been thrown right over the edge?!

Twig and I played Scrabble as the Orion was moved to what we were told was a more sheltered spot so we could snorkel, but the water got rougher and the clouds thickened. Plus the Scrabble set on the Orion requires a certain tenacity—what expedition leader Lyle calls “rigid flexibility” as the bag of tiles has not the usual 100 tiles but in fact some 500 tiles; a game could go on until the tiles were stacked up ten deep. Plus once I separated out a normal 100 (ooh—no blanks at all!) we realized the tiles did NOT have their point value written on them; we’re relying on my memory to decide if an M is worth three or four points. Thank god for all the games I play with Kevin and Lura!

And then the word came from Lyle on the PA: No snorkeling. Again! Instead he offered us action-packed Zodiak rides if we would dress to get wet since the waves were getting higher and there were frequent little squalls in the area. So Harry, Twig, and I got togged out in things that could endure a little rain and off we went with James the naturalist and a few new friends.

 James was very interested in geology, which is useful if not terribly gripping. We looked at different kinds of lava. The sea was practically a mill pond it was so still, but there were occasional flicks of rain…

Vanuatu is entirely devoid of what is referred to as “charismatic megafauna” on land. No seals? I ask James. Nope; water’s too warm and Hawaii’s monk seals never made it this far. No cliff birds to nest in the crevices of the lava stone? Nope; there are trees hanging right overhead. Why use the lava habitat when a tree nest is five feet away?

In fact, the tour was a tad dull, but we saw crabs on the rocks, fruit bats flying far overhead, about a zillion little birds called swiftlets, caroming around in a mad scrum over the water, and—hey! What’s that?! Sea turtle!! That was the best part. I think when it comes to animal life, Vanuatu’s best days are under the surface.

 Harry's photo again. He's an excellent photographer. James showed Harry how to do a time lapse photo of a pillar of rock with a tree on it; hope I can upload this...

Hmm. Maybe that worked!

For someone who sat in a Zodiak, sat in a truck, sat on a palm trunk bench of questionable integrity, stood in a truck, sat in a Zodiak, and sat in another Zodiak, I am surprisingly tired! Tomorrow’s destination is an island whose name begins with M. Can’t remember the word (but in the best Scrabble tradition, I’m pretty sure it has four letters) but it’s supposed to have excellent snorkeling; probably our last as we head into cooler waters on our way to New Caledonia. So fucking fingers crossed, damn it!

Want to see Harry's gorgeous photo of a gorgeous sunset? Of course you do! Lookee: