Vanuatu Natives Know the Key to Freedom

Give Your Most Treasured Objects Away

The anchor plunged into the dark water in front of a native village. Black coral sand lined the shore and thatch huts stood in a clearing against jungle-covered hills. Small, naked children somberly studied our sailboat, shifting their gaze from the waterline to the top of the mast. Not much has changed in Vanuatu since Captain Cook, I thought, waving at the children who looked down and scampered away.

“Maybe I’m the first redhead they’ve seen,” I told my husband Glen, joining him at the stern to lower the dinghy. “At least they’re not crying at the sight of me like the last village.” Pentecost is a remote island in Vanuatu unaffected by modern life, where people lived according to kastom, or the old ways. Men wear nambas, or penis sheaths, and the women grass skirts. Homes are extensions of the jungle, built among sprawling banyan trees with girth large enough to withstand fierce tropical cyclones.

The village looked deserted except for the children, peeking out at us from behind a tree. Then I spotted a tall, thin, ebony-black man in the shadows, watching us motor our dinghy to shore. For me, this is the most exciting time; those first moments when our words, actions and manner would either draw us in to the life of the village, or sideline us with standoffish welcome.