Photo by hawkins_hnotk
It was supposed to be a relaxing holiday in Vanuatu. A bit of snorkeling, a few drinks and a giant book to read. However, as we all know things never turn out as just as planned and I had plenty of time to reflect on this as I sat on the sand in the dark, drenched by the monsoonal rain, scouring the reef looking for a man in a canoe to arrive with my kava.
It started out innocently enough. I was invited to take part in a Kava drinking ceremony, in what I thought would be a nice cultural exchange – a good way to start my holidays and would alleviate any guilt for what was planned to be two weeks of slothful relaxation on an almost deserted island. So I happy accepted, though as I sat waiting for hours, dripping wet and wondering which of the mosquitos on my arms were malarial, I wondered what I had gotten myself into.
Kava I am told, is traditionally drunk at dusk. It’s somewhat of a social lubricant; villages have avoided wars, marriages have been approved and more recently building permits granted, all over a few shells of kava. It’s a mild narcotic; rather than getting you drunk it makes your body feel almost stoned, but your mind is still active. Kava also has the added benefit of being an appetite suppressant and more than a few New Caledonian French tourists have been known to use it to loose weight.
We noticed a light out on the reef, slowly becoming bigger until we could see the outline of what seemed to be a very relaxed man in a canoe. The kava had finally arrived.
The first shell (for all kava should be imbibed from either a purpose made cup, or a coconut shell) makes your mouth tingly. Like you’ve visited an incompetent dentist who missed your gums and shot the Novocain straight into your cheeks. You can’t sip kava, you’re body will reject it. You must scull it, preferably with a chaser – for which beer works nicely – though nothing quite prepares you for the foul aftertaste.
We sat around a table, an even mix of travellers and Ni Vanutau (the collective term for a group of people from Vanuatu). While we waited for the full effects of the Kava to kick in, the preparation process was explained. The chewing technique of yore has been replaced by machine that grinds the root, which is then soaked in water until the liquid turns to watery chocolate milk colour (I was relieved to hear this though couldn’t help but wish it was explained to me before my first shell). Most of the Pacific islanders drink Kava, though it is apparently much stronger in Vanuatu. We were told that you find most kava bars by the red or blue lights that are displayed on the side of the road; the light stays on until the kava runs out. In Vanuatu, kava bars are only frequented by men, though there is a relaxed view towards foreign women attending. Each bowl at these bars sells for 100 Vatu, or about $1, which makes for an incredibly cheap night.
There’s a lot of spitting and coughing involved when drinking Kava, it’s disconcerting and reminds me of what seems to be the national pastime in China. I found it difficult getting into the Kava groove with the guy next to me coughing up a lung, but I persevered.
It was time for the second shell. Straight down the throat, half a beer chaser. Immediately I noticed the tingly feeling spread to all of my face, and down my neck. My body started to relax and I had a feeling of being quite happy with, well, everything.
I traced my teeth with my tongue for a while – which felt fantastic – and chatted to my spitting and coughing friend. The conversation was relaxed, until I mentioned the growing pool of phlegm at his feet. He thought this the perfect opportunity to remind me that up until not long ago, cannibalism was rife in his country (the last recorded incident was about 50 years ago). In fact – he said with a look that rapidly countered the relaxing affects of the kava, he even knew a guy who had once tasted human flesh. I excused myself quickly, something about needing to go to the toilet. Returning after what seemed like only a few minutes, I was told I’d been gone for about half an hour. This seemed peculiar, though who knows. The rain had stopped and I could see the moon come through the clouds, lighting the coral beach in such a magnificent way, I felt as though I must go for a walk, and I really had no say in the matter. The kava had well and truly kicked in.
Later, I sat on the beach, about 20 metres away from the group. I was looking at a piece of coral, admiring the shape, the way the light from the moon bounced off it, and then it moved. Well, scurried. I think it was hermit crab, though I can’t be sure. I named it corab (half coral, half crab). Someone in the group called out to me that it was time for our third shell. I replied that it had only been about 15 minutes, but was told that it had been well over an hour, though who really knows.
I 
went back to the group, and prepared for round three, my body protesting but my mind keen to see where the kava train would take me. We stood around in a circle and reluctantly sculled our Kava, then half a beer chaser. My body went to jelly; I needed to sit down. Gulping the remainder of my beer, I studied the faces in the group. The Ni Vanuatu, in between spitting, seemed very relax, a sentiment I also shared. One of the Germans in our group was looking a bit green. I was about to ask him if he was ok, when he promptly threw up. A French guy in the group chuckled at this, mumbling something condescending about Germans all the while furiously rubbing his own knee caps. The other Australian that was there was staring intently at a moth that was dangerously close to becoming a Gecko’s midnight snack. The whole scene started to look pretty sad so I took my leave and stumbled in the general direction of my bungalow. On the way I tripped over and fell on my back. I stared at the moon, falling in love with it’s colour and shadows. After ten minutes someone walked passed and helped me up, though they said I had left the group about an hour ago, at which point I was convinced there was an international conspiracy afoot, orchestrated to fuck with my sense of time.
As I lied in bed, unable to sleep from the buzzing in my head but enjoying the faint rumblings of distance thunder, I decided that from then on I would stop at two shells. Maybe.
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