I became acutely aware of how very, very provincially colonial Vanuatu still is (they've only been a nation since 1980) and how that mindset persists. Ni-vans steps off the sidewalk long before they get to you; I was told to not be surprised if I was called 'Master' in a restaurant or store, and Susan informed me that she still gets called "White Missus" occasionally. All the bars and night clubs have the rules posted at the door, but only in Bislama-- the insinuation being either that only ni-vanuatu break rules, or that rules simply don't exist for white people. Iririki island in Vila Harbour is a resort owned by the people or Ifira, the island directly behind it, but until very recently the one boat that goes to Iririki from Vila featured a sign to the effect of "Bonafide Visitors & Their Guests Only Allowed", meaning that the rightful owners of the island were not even allowed to hop over and go for a swim or eat in the restaurant or lay on the beach because it might make the white people nervous.
Sucky, but it gave me some good ideas as I took the boat over with Susan and kayaked around the island with a professional bible translator whose name I either forgot or never bothered to learn. After lunch and a nap I headed over to The Wild Pig resort across the street from Susan's for a beer. I was the only customer, so I ended up shooting pool with the bartender for an hour and hitting up the Chinese place down the street for some lemon chicken and Rush Hour on DVD. Read another book and a half before bed. Throat hurts.
Drink Count: 6
Another lesson I learned: mosquito coils stink and I hate them. I'd rather have malaria than this cheeky fucker billowing in my face all night.
Susan's from the outside:
Dude, the hair is getting worse by the hour:
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