A change in pace today, as I ditched my camera bag, put my camera in my dance bag, added a towel and the tube of sunblock, and got into a small boat to a small island.
It’s a good sized small island, a couple of miles across, 14000 inhabitants. They were all heading to the beach to greet the ship, wooden craftswork with them, a wide variety of masks, drums, jewellery and toys. Some of it was very nicely done, all of it ‘authentic’, none of it bought by me.
I confused the locals and went up the track they were all coming down. I passed half the island on that track and they all said good morning, even the young children that had never seen someone with a different skin colour (or maybe just a weight problem) before. I coped with being a local source of fascination, made way on the narrow mud track so they could pass, got interrogated by the men. “Where are you going?”
The track led nowhere, which made it more intriguing that they were all coming down it. I was told it would reach the main road eventually so decided to head that far and consider my options. The main road consisted of two dirt tracks, a car width apart, but otherwise just the same as the path I’d been following. I stopped, had a drink, took a photograph, headed back. There was indeed nothing there, the whole island seemed fairly flat,
A young teen, 13 or 14, walked with me as I went back to the beach. I’d had to decline three men’s offers to walk behind me towards the main road, their reason for offering uncertain. I didn’t know if they thought I’d get lost, if walking alone was dangerous on the island, if they hoped for payment for escorting me or if they just didn’t trust me. I’m good at telling locals that I’m just going for a walk, I’m fine, good day.
This lad was heading the same way as me anyway so I let him chat as we walked. He was curious about me but ‘Australia’ was as foreign as he knew, the concept of England beyond him. Perhaps my failure to communicate, but how do you describe the other side of the world to someone that lives on an island with no electricity.
He hadn’t always lived there. “I was born in Town,” he told me, so I asked where the town was. Alotau, the place we’d stopped at yesterday, 13 hours away over a sea. That’s his local town.
As we crossed a fence he explained without me asking that it was to stop the pigs getting into the garden, causing carnage. The garden was a rocky field, uneven surface but planted with yams and what I’m fairly sure he said were carrots. He pointed out a melon too, then explained that they had two types of yam and pointed out both plants.
Yams are their wealth on this island, so I felt I was walking through a bank vault. Security wasn’t tight, or was well hidden.
The beach was sand and broken coral. A lady stopped me, asked if I could help her exchange currency. She had a single US dollar bill, must’ve sold something small to an unthinking tourist. There’s no bank on the island, nowhere for them to exchange currency, no cost effective currency exchange that’d except a single dollar bill anyway. She had money but it was no use to her.
I had no money, I’d left it all on the ship and I didn’t have any of the local paper currency anyway. Hopefully she found someone to help out. I filled in a feedback form on the ship suggesting that for future visits they set up a table on the beach, run a currency exchange for the locals, even if it operates at a small loss.
The other thing I mentioned on the form was providing the local school with books in English, and an English dictionary. I offered to buy the dictionary, if someone promised to deliver it next time one of the cruise line’s ships is here. This was because a man approached me on the beach, said he was looking for English books and an English dictionary, to help teach his son English. Selfishly I didn’t offer him my kindle, even though it has 17 dictionaries on it, but it is to the cruise line’s advantage if the locals speak good English and they’d appreciate the assistance.
The economy here may be based on yams but the locals have too much contact with the rest of the world to be happy with a traditional way of living. T-shirts and jeans cost actual currency, let alone any luxuries.
They’re also very entrepreneurial. Walking down the track every man had been carrying a child, sometimes a bag, every girl and woman a large bundle on her head. The bundles and bags contained the things they’d brought to sell, as well as their lunch and drinks. Selling to the tourists was a family day out.
A man approached me, started discussing his search for a business partner. He wants to set up an export business, selling ‘sandy fish’ to China. I’m not sure what sandy fish are but they’d already paid for two new dinghies with Yamaha outboard motors, courtesy of the Chinese. It may have been the local chief himself, although he didn’t introduce himself, as any effort would’ve needed collaboration across a large number of the local population. I declined the opportunity, hoped he found an Australian already working in international trade, felt bad that I didn’t want to help him develop his island. Even the boy that had walked by me had touched on the economy, the need for them to get external investment and expertise to help them exploit their resources. They’re very aware that life could be different, consider it a great opportunity.
I couldn’t help so I went for a swim instead. The sea was the same temperature as the air, and my t-shirt got no wetter when I started swimming. The sea bed changed from sand to coral to rock and back every foot or two, and was uneven in height beyond that, so you’d be chest deep then knee deep in the space of a yard, especially with the waves varying the height of the water itself.
Half an hour of that, another 20 minutes drying on the beach, watching tiny hermit crabs scurry around at the edge of the tide, then back onto the ship. Waiting for the tender I saw fish in the water by the jetty, zebra striped ones on the surface, larger dark ones on the bottom, a blue starfish and a round golden fish ducking under the jetty itself.
On the ship I went straight into the shower cubicle before taking off my clothes. It took a while to wash the sand and coral off my sandals and feet, then as I pulled down my trunks another shower of coral hit the floor.
I’d already walked 5km, my bag wet where it had been against me, my shorts I’d worn (and taken off to go swimming) wet too, the walk in the early morning sun still hot enough to dehydrate me.
Sat in the Lido at lunchtime, eating pizza, I looked up from my book, glanced to my right. A tropical beach, sea breaking over a coral reef 50 yards from shore, wooden outrigger canoes lining the sand. Later I went onto the aft deck to take a photograph, got soaked in the heavy rain that had threatened all morning.
An afternoon talk on a future destination was given by the owner of that destination. He bought the Conflict Islands while working in Papua New Guinea – he says ‘exploring for oil and gold’ but then mentioned the accountant his PLCs had (that introduced him to the people selling the islands) so I’m guessing ‘working’ meant something rather different to him. Such is the life of people that went to school with then accompanied Prince Charles on trips abroad.
The islands sound quite lovely though, and have astonishing marine biodiversity. Apparently of 5000 dives in Asia and this part of the world one of the islands had the most species found in a single 60 minute dive: over 250. Another island had the second ‘best’ coral, although I have no idea how you measure that. They also have baby turtles.
The talk itself was interesting. Lovely photographs, above and below the sea, and lots of anecdotes from the chap that owns them, including burning down a native village out of anger at them poaching turtles. He’s not a confident public speaker but has a lot of knowledge and is happy to share it, and being Australian he’s not shfy of risking offending people either. He did apologise for one Chinese Takeaway joke though; people get thrown out of university for less these days but it was groanworthy.
Moments after returning to my room I received a call on my room telephone. The Guest Services team were responding to my provided feedback, although primarily to say “We’ve passed your feedback to head office.” Their timing was too suspect, they clearly had a trigger set for my door key being used to let me into the room.
Dinner was chicken soup followed by prime rib of beef, the medium well coming out more medium, heading towards rare on one edge. Tasted good though. The table was very commonwealth, two Canadian women, two Australian couples and a sole American, sat opposite me. Even she’d worked in Europe for over 30 years; cruise passengers on the whole seem to be very well travelled, and not just on cruise ships.
One of the Australian men was very chatty and gave me some useful input about Cairns, so I’m fairly sure I know what I’m doing now at Yorkey’s Knob.
Back in my room the ship’s beach towel I’d used today had been taken away but not replaced, and my duvet cover had been taken away but fortunately was replaced. The duvet cover had managed to go blue where my sandals had been on it, after I’d washed them. I’m not sure what caused that, they’re ten years old and have been in water before so the colour wont be running, and I’d had them under the shower for a minute each since they’d been swimming in the sea.
An hour later a knock on the door, a clean beach towel “For tomorrow”. Roy seemed to think I’d be swimming again. I considered this highly likely.
Later I went to the Filipino Crew Show. They had the same set as the other boat, but not the live musicians. Instead the music was recorded and that made it processed, killed the charm of the whole event, leaving the performers to stand or fall on their own merits. I left early, did my laundry, went to bed. Another 8km today, plus however far I swam. Less than a kilometre, plus a lot of floating and holding position against the waves.