| Port Vila Diary: WHAT’S THEIR SECRET? |
Clutching on to the short sleeve of a passing bar hand’s electric-blue island shirt, one of them staggers on to his feet and makes bold to ask: “What’s it that makes you guys the happiest?”
Dev Nadkarni
The discussion is intense around the table at the Waterfront, Port Vila’s popular watering hole. The assortment of experts, consultants and investors—some of them from halfway across the globe and first timers in these parts—proffer their individual takes on what makes the denizens of this little Melanesian country the happiest in the world.
“It’s hard to understand,” says one. “Their healthcare is poor, their roads are appalling and they have to pay for their kids’ primary school.”
“The problem is that the stuff you think gives you happiness is not necessarily seen the same way by these people,” retorts another. “That’s why it’s hard for us to understand.”
Yet another joins issue with the method that has been used to rank the countries. “It is ridiculous that all of the developed world ranks so low on the index.”
He rather cynically attributes “this happiness index business” as an exercise to make the least developed countries feel good “because there’s little else to cheer about”.
After several more rounds of theorising—from strong Vanuatu kava to pre-modern lifestyles amply fuelled by local ‘Tusker’ beer—some of the group decide to ask a local for the secret of their eternal joy.
Clutching on to the short sleeve of a passing bar hand’s electric-blue island shirt, one of them staggers on to his feet and makes bold to ask: “What’s it that makes you guys the happiest?”
“Huh?” says the hapless man half-smiling and looking around the table with Mad Magazine mascot Alfred E. Neuman’s classic quizzical expression, obviously clueless about what we’re trying to get out of him. After what seems an interminable moment come the words in a reassuring tone, “Bro’, don’t worry, be happy.” Smiling broadly he makes his way towards the bar.
C4’s endearing paradise
The bar hand is not alone in his blissful ignorance of his country’s ‘most happy in the world’ status. Next day, I ask the question to a cabbie, a vendor at the sprawling produce market and the sales girl selling me a Tamtam. Smiles are all I receive by way of replies.
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C4 (left) explains his 'refrigerator'
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Finally, I find a semblance of an answer at the unique Ekasup village, just outside Port Vila. “Just call me C4,” says the bare-bodied, grass-skirted English speaking gent who welcomes us into the village and will be our guide for the visit. “C4? How do you spell it,” I ask pen and notepad in hand. “The letter C and the number 4,” he says. “That’s the best way you write my native name in English.” C4, I scribble. Reminds me of the wise C3PO of the Star Wars movies.
Ekasup is perhaps one of the South Pacific’s best attractions in cultural tourism. It offers an equally exotic and educative slice of pre-modern life in Vanuatu. One is amazed at what humans can do in the face of adversity with natural materials available at hand.
C4 shows us how to make and use spears, bows and arrows, snare chicken, fish in the brook and even construct a natural fridge that can preserve otherwise perishable food for as long as five years with absolutely no source of power!
“So what makes Vanuatu the happiest place on earth,” I ask C4 as we tuck into a natural meal cooked right before our eyes, served on banana leaf dishes. “Look at this village,” says C4. “You don’t need money for this kind of life. We use everything that nature’s given us and it’s given everyone plenty—you find your happiness in it.”
Shades of the Dalai Lama?
He spots me looking for a bin to dump my leaf-plate. “Just chuck it,” he says. “It’s natural and biodegradable—it recycles naturally. Everything here comes from nature and goes back to her.”
Another C4-ism: “We don’t need a museum, we’re a continuously living culture.”
“C4 Contentment,” I think, as I step into the bus for the short bumpy ride back into Port Vila.
Potholes, potholes everywhere-—even in the air!
If Ekasup transports you to another age, Vanuatu’s roads transport you to another cratered planet.
“Every year the pot holes just get bigger. If you’d like a smoother ride, please come back next year,” says my cabbie.
“Why?” I ask. “Is some foreign-aided road project expected?”
“No,” he replies. “We hear of so much of foreign aid coming in all the time, but the potholes never get filled.
“But the elections are coming up in 2008 and some of these potholes especially on the roads going into villages will definitely get better.”
On my excessively bumpy Air Vanuatu flight back into Auckland, an elderly Kiwi schoolteacher volunteering in Vanuatu who is sitting next to me, says, “I’d never imagined we’d have Vanuatu’s potholes even in the air.”
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