It was an early start for me, Nadia, coming into cabin 9 announcing it was time for a trawl. We hadn’t had much opportunity for plastic fishing in the preceding days and, with land in sight, we would have to get to it fast.
Emilia, our scientist, was on deck before me. She had already set up the cameras that survey plastics every day. The trawl was already on deck and Nadia was now up the main mast rigging our halyard.
The trawling went smoothly. Under engine, we could better control our speed and direction, slowing and turning slightly to starboard to protect the hungry net from the choppiest of the waves. As the third trawl was in, I ran to the galley to make myself a morning hot chocolate. A special treat for a busy day.
The collection complete, Emilia busy separating the samples, we drew nearer to the shores on Ambrym Island. The landscape was thickly vegetated with a dense, lush, green. From a small clearing on the hill-top we could make out a school. Children started running to the viewpoint, waving and screaming. This called for the horn. We put out the call to cover ears and Europa let out a proud bellow. The kids went wild. The crew was just as excited to see them as they were to see us, straining through binoculars and waving frantically. The atmosphere was jovial.
It took some time to put out the anchor, get the zodiacs in the water, and scout out landing locations. Sandy, our local guide, went ahead to speak with the village chief and finalise the arrangements of our visit. We enjoyed and early lunch and waited in anticipation.
As promised, at 13:00, the first people were taken ashore. With the usual complications of reefs and engines, the landing took a little longer than anticipated. The chief had come down to greet us and was very accommodating. ‘Everything on your time’ Sandy translated his Bislama. Everyone was well entertained with the wonderful combination of coral sands, inquisitive children and a rope swing.
When we were all ashore, we began our walk through the island. What started as a coral-concrete road soon petered out past a football pitch to a dirt track. Evidence of tropical storms had been carved into the landscape, with scars of erosion digging the path below the level of the topsoil. Large puddles remained, the kind you need a pickup truck to drive through. We passed houses of palm leaf roofs and colourful woven walls. Chicks of various ages followed their mothers, dogs watched us lazily, and cows flicked flies away with their ears. We passed a building, standing out from the rest with a tin roof and fresh paintjob. ‘Superb Service Excellent Shop’. Each word separated by a windowand emphasised by illustrations of toothpaste, soap bubbles, and cornflakes. At one point, the road dipped through a river. This section was lined with established fern trees and rung with birdsong. In the tropics, the world is deeply alive.
As we passed some children, Paul (voyage crew and resident Santa Claus) produced colouring books and pens, passing them out in exchange for promises to share. By the time he dug a rainbow rugby ball from his bag, the children were ecstatic. They grappled for it as he mimicked throwing it along the road before swivelling and launching it in the opposite direction. He was in his element. The children barely noticed us leave as they explored their new toys.
We continued on our way, soon turning off the main road and through a cow field. It was here that Sandy warned us of falling coconuts. I looked up apprehensively at the field packed with palm trees. I decided that if a coconut decided my time had come then there was little I could do to fight it. It wasn’t long before vegetation closed in around us and aged carvings of faces appeared. We later learnt that these represented the village ancestors, welcoming us to a sacred place of ceremony.
A lady and four children then greeted us with a garland woven from strips of leaf. One of the crew had already given her a necklace of their own. Today would be a day of reciprocity.
We filed into hand-made log benches. In front of us stood more carvings of ancestors, this time with a hollow slit dug into their base. We were informed of the areas that were allowed for us to walk in, and those reserved for the sacred ritual. The high chief, a man of slight frame emanating wisdom and responsibility, and wearing a traditional dress that many of us Europeans found to be shocking, greeted us in a tribal language that was translated by a younger chief of lower ranking. A third man stepped forward, with an impressive white beard, and performed a short piece on a bamboo flute.
After being ushered back to the seating, we were informed that it was acceptable for us to take pictures. The air was now thick with intrigue and respect. I took my camera out reluctantly, feeling a sense of responsibility to document what would follow. It was one of those experiences that you want to live in fully and remember deeply.
From a back corner of the arena, drumming began. Men started stomping in a rhythm that I could feel reverberate into the warm earth. I won’t try to describe the dress here- it was too intricate in texture and form to do it justice here. The dance was one of energy, a deeply special male initiation ritual consisting of hopping and stomping. I was lost in time. I remember at one point feeling surprised that the men still had energy for a dance that would exhaust me in minutes. But they were empowered by their ancestors, not longer inhabiting their own bodies but overtaken by the generations that came before- the same people who passed this rite down, elaborating and editing it at each harvest season to what now unfurled before us. Groups of men split before us, those dressed in palm continued dancing through the sacred grounds, those left now drumming on the carved statues of ancestors. Towering split drums.
When the event came to an end, and I don’t remember how it did, we were provided the opportunity to stand in front of the performers for a photo. What surprised me was that the high chief pulled out his phone to take photos of us. We felt honoured that the tribe was as curious about us as we were of them. The juxtaposition of traditional dress and ceremony,a spell wrapped upin history, and mobile phones was jarring for me at first. But then our doctor, Sam, noticed printed photos of the dancers that had gone before, and pointed out that they had a working printer (ours was in a bind with a paper jam, waiting for Terry to awake and work his magic).
We were provided with snacks – fresh grapefruit and a casava and coconut desert – by the same lady that had welcomed us with garlands, now proudly wearing her new necklace. We ate appreciatively while listening to the chief’s explanation of the events we had witnessed. He spoke of how, when a boy comes of age, he is taken to a secret location and taught the hidden process of making a Rom mask. Each mask is made from the island, has features signifying the maturity of the barer, is kept until it crumbles and fades. When a masks life comes to an end, it is buried at the feet of the ancestors, in the centre of the ceremonial grounds, and mourned fully as a reminder of the family gone before.
We were then presented with carvings of stone and wood to take as souvenirs of a sacred experience. Nina and I were gifted miniature slit drums, an appreciation for organising the visit. We passed along reading glasses, kindly donated by a previous member of or voyage crew to be given to elders of remote islands. The grand chief received them with appreciation.
Nick then produced his mandolin. He wanted to perform as song, an act of gratitude for the performance we had been witness to. We joined in as he sung, and the villagers waved their arms in time with the music.
As we left first the circle of ceremony, then the village, the island, and finally the waters surrounding her, I felt a deep appreciation for the hospitality of people. My memory of the experience now is to appreciate that both villagers and visitors shared a relationship of give and take, of inquisition and revelation, an encounter of reciprocity.
‘We have to stretch our understanding to accommodate the understanding of others’ - The Seabird’s Cry by Adam Nicolson