The Honeymoon series – Hideaway Island 22/9/2013

It was still overcast so after about 7 attempts at getting out of bed we ambled down to the beach for a continental breakfast. Hideaway boasts but one restaurant in the style of “toes in the sand casual” (according the the website). It was on this premise of not having to wear shoes to mealtimes that we chose Hideaway as our honeymoon destination. Rather ironically, we quickly worked out that the beach, being wholly comprised of dead coral, necessitates the wearing of footwear.

The cloudy day was not right for snorkelling or traumatising skin cells with lazy sun tanning. Instead, we made our way into town so that Ben could sort out his Epilim problem.

A trip into town meant another trip on the glass bottom boast and catching a “bus” (really just another van with extra seats owned and driven by a local). Our driver’s name this time was Javen. Javen has goggly eyes and likes to laugh LOUDLY. His bus is named after him which seems tacky but proved to be a clever tactic at solidifying a memorable identity in the minds of the tourists that would otherwise think that all the buses and their drivers look the same.

Good-natured Javen picked up and dropped off a variety of characters on our way into town. After a long, meandering journey through Port Vila (I eventually stopped questioning whether we were being abducted) we arrived at the drug store. Before we were allowed out of the van Javen decided he ought to invest in out stay by offering us his number and the privilege of calling him “friend”. We were grateful but doubted that the relationship would every truly blossom past a casual bus driver – passenger situation.

Drugs are a lot easier to come by in Port Vila than Sydney but a lot more expensive to own. Ben skipped 6 years of medical training and was allowed to write his own script. See Kieran, you ain’t so clever. With that problem solved so quickly it was looking to be an easy holiday.

The rest of Port Vila was quiet. Most of the stores are closed on Sunday (in true Sabbath fashion) including the typically crowded marketplace where villagers sell their crops. There was only one thing for us to do. FIND COCONUT CRAB. We didn’t need to search hard. I think Ben sniffed it out. It was only 11.30 and I was still digesting my continental breakfast but he Benjamin couldn’t wait. Our waitress seated us at a table with a view and politely apologised for being out of lobster. Ben barely even heard her. His eyes were burning a hole in his spot on the menu and he was busting to order. Coconut crab and a mojito for him. Poulet fish and a Make a Mango for me.

Ben found the wait excruciating. I didn’t mind. From our window seat we watched a giant garfish who became lovingly known as Garry frolic in the waters below.

The crab arrived. A splendorous bowl of mammoth claws piled high in a creamy, chilli sauce. Ben must give off an air of being a grub because the waitress came bearing a finger washing bowl, a bib and a spare napkin which she replaced dutifully throughout his feast. With sauce up to his ears and down to his elbows Ben munched through succulent crab (with a just a hint of coconut). He even managed to share. Both in bibs and armed with shell crackers we chowed down on possibly the best meal we’ve ever had. It was worth every one of those 4800 Vatu (about $48, but we enjoyed pretending to be ludicrously extravagant).

(upside down selfie…I’m still learning)

Satisfied, if not stuffed we boarded a different bus with a different driver back to Mele beach for out return to Hideaway (our other island home). This driver wanted to be friends too but we only had room in our lives for Javen.

The tide was out so we kept our vow and ran along the sand spit racing the glass bottom boat back to Hideaway.

An afternoon snorkel proved very rewarding despite my snobbish objections that the clouds were too thick and the “vis” would be too poor. Yep, I said “vis”. That’s the kind of person I’ve become and now that Ben’s started a scuba diving course he’s well on his way to underwater obnoxiousville too.

Somehow that day, the coconut crab coma wore off and we decided to sample dinner on our tropical paradise. We regretted it almost immediately. We had risotto and pasta. Nasty and nastier. Thank goodness for our proximity to the mainland otherwise dinner would be a sad affair for the next 10 days.

Early to bed as always to get ready for a brand new day.  

The Honeymoon Series – Sydney to Vanuatu 21/9/13

Ben’s my husband now. There are no illusions anymore. He has promised to love me UNTIL DEATH (sucker). He’s a frantic traveller, and an experienced traveller. BUT, he’s a dreadful packer. He is of the “I think I’m forgetting something and I guess I’ll find out what it is when I get there” mindset. He whisked me out of our room at the Stamford Hotel in a panic that we’d miss our 6am shuttle to the airport. Apparently personal hygiene can be put on hold during les vacances (or possibly throughout marriage) and so I had to demand the right to brush my teeth and barely made the basin to spit as he pulled me through the door and into the hallway. I was very aware of a bit of minty dribble working it’s way down my chin but my hands were too full of poorly packed bags to amend the issue. In typical Benjamin fashion, we were 15 minutes early and sat feeling stupid in the lobby. At least I had time to wipe my chin. Ben claims that his inevitable punctuality is some kind of unconscious rebellion against his parents’ tardiness that embarrassed him regularly as a child. All I know is that I’m looking at a future of sacrificing my final, and favourite, 15 minutes of sleep and will never again enjoy fashionable lateness. It’s a good thing Ben is into Merino wool cardigans otherwise, as a couple, I doubt we’d ever experience “FASHIONABLE” of any kind ever again. At the airport we looked forward to checking in using a computer. It was, after all, too early to deal with real people. But of course, our combined domestic and international journey proved too complicated for the technology. We joined the slow-moving and apparently formless Virgin Blue check-in line and watched as pusher-innerers were rewarded for their rudeness again and again. We were really getting close to boarding time when it was finally our turn so I was relieved to find that Ben passes security check points with far more ease than my suspicious mother. The flight to Brisbane was relatively uneventful. We slept most of the way, regretting our early start, but thankfully not our marriage. One hour and a couple of puffy-eyed selfies later and we landed in Brisbane, the most miserable place on Earth- the antonym to Disneyland. And we were stuck there for 2 hours! A  A good portion of those 2 hours was spent outdoors waiting for a bus to transfer us between the poorly laid out terminals. Meanwhile, Ben worked out what he had forgotten and spent his time on the phone trying to work out how to recover his epilepsy medication. I glumly watched the Maccas breakfast seconds tick by. Ben in his frantic state wanted to board the flight way too early, but thankfully could be delayed long enough for us to scoff down a bacon and egg roll each. We still arrived at the gate EARLY. My only consolation for a second dose of punctuality was beating those evil pusher-innerers who had accompanied us from Sydney onto the plane. I only wished I could have taken up more space in the overhead lockers. The flight was as uneventful as the first. We enjoyed our first day of marriage by watching separate movies on separate devices. We thanked our lucky stars that we’d already eaten because Virgin’s only meal option was a questionable looking sandwich from yesteryear. On descending, we marvelled at the landscape of Vanuatu. Our heads pressed together to gaze through the window. I thought it was like Fiji, Ben said it was like Africa. We were both wrong. It is a country all of its own. Unique and beautiful.

At the airport, two plane loads of people were crammed into a single room and arranged into a a very long, snaking line. Two very relaxed immigration officers processed us one at a time. We waited without air conditioning and enjoyed the feeling of our toes defrosting in the tropical warmth. The customs officials were possibly more relaxed than the immigration officers. They were “take your word for it” kinda guys who enjoyed scowling intimidatingly before waving you through completely oblivious to the illegal animal products, and untreated wood carvings that you may have been carrying. A scruffy looking character drove us through scruffy looking streets in a scruffy looking van. It was hard to determine which was the right side of the road as all the traffic swerved side to side to avoid potholes like craters. The streets were littered with an eclectic mix of buildings from Western supermarkets to basic mud village huts. Signs are covered in English, French and Bislama but the spoken language is none of these. Most of the people are heard speaking their own dialects native to their villages. My rusty French would do us no good here. Spot fires burn unsupervised all over the island to give Vanuatu a distinct smokey smell that sings of dinner time. Ben loves it. I love it too, but at certain times it mixes with the stench of diesel and becomes nauseating. We arrived at Mele beach and hopped aboard a glass bottom boat that would transport us to Hideaway Island. There was no mistaking which island was ours. It was the only one out there. It lies barely 500 m from shore and is connected by a sandspit to the mainland. We vowed to walk across this one day when we were less burdened by baggage. It was overcast but still stunning. We could feel relaxation emanating from the shores which we earnestly welcomed after our first 3 terms of full time work as high school teachers. I thought the day had peaked on arrival but then we were handed complimentary mocktails, which we enjoyed while looking out at our ocean views from our bungalow. We had good intentions of having a snack, and then making the most of the snorkelling. So much for good intentions… After sampling a bit of everything from the beach barbecue we went to bed at 8pm (well after Ben’s bed time).

An explanation…

I discovered today that I have lost my travel journals that I wrote as a child on my family holidays. This upset me more than I expected. I have decided to make the journals that I have written since being married a little more permanent by posting them here.

My memory feels a little less under pressure this way.