While visiting Peace Corps Volunteers on the remote island of Maewo, Vanuatu, a sleepless night fuelled by strong kava and an old book sends a traveler on an unexpected search for the country’s legendary earthquake stones.
“We will need to take two planes, a boat, a pickup truck, and hike three hours over a mountain to get there,” she said, pointing to Maewo, an island in the far north of the Vanuatu archipelago. “It could be really wet and muddy.” Relvie tugged her shirt printed with large sprays of bright purple foliage, pushed her kinky black hair behind her ears, and flashed a wide smile. “Do you want to come? There are four Peace Corps Volunteers on the island.”
“Yes,” I blurted. I was in Vanuatu on a short-term Peace Corps consultancy, and visiting volunteers was my passion.
A few days later, our Air Vanuatu plane climbed above the craggy, lush rainforest mountains of Espiritu Santo Island and banked over the pristine ocean. “Naviso is our most remote site. The village has no phones, electricity, or running water, but the volunteers assigned there have a solar panel and a SAT phone. They’re expecting us,” Relvie shouted over the airplane propellers.
Steve and Alexis had hiked three hours to greet us. “Be prepared to drink kava tonight, it’s kastom.” Kastom guides almost everything on Maewo. “They will grind it specially for you since you are an honored guest.”
The trail was muddy and steep. I hitched my ankle-length skirt to my knees in a vain attempt to keep it clean. My pack was light, and the sky blazed a piercing blue. After a few hours, we summited the ridge, and the South Pacific unfurled to the horizon. The path down was slick; I slid like an out-of-control skier through the mud until Steve offered his hand. “You’re lucky,” he said. “It’s been raining for weeks, but we’ve had a few dry days.” As the trail leveled, we entered a forest of coconut trees, sunlight sifting through their fronds.
As the trail leveled off, we entered a forest of coconut trees. A sprouting coconut lay on the ground, its shell split open. Steve pounced on it. “You must taste coconut ice cream,” he said, holding it by the shoot.
The couple lived in the traditional manner of several huts: a kitchen house, a bucket shower house, an outhouse, and a two-room sleep house. The outhouse didn’t have a door. We were told that people just didn’t look. The walls were loosely woven bamboo that allowed breezes to infiltrate and the roofs a thick thatch.
Steve appeared from the kitchen house with the coconut split in half. The center was a fuzzy substance. He proffered a spoon, and I dipped in. “Isn’t it good?” he sounded like a proud child who was sharing his favorite candy. I smiled wanly, pushing the soft, slightly sweet mush around with my tongue. A diminutive girl scampered to where we sat and whispered to Alexis that we were expected for the kava ceremony. A torn dress hung from her scrawny frame. Her teeth flashed brightly under her tight curls that were blonde at the tips. Dusk was descending as she guided us along a path through a tangle of jungle bush. It emerged into a clearing surrounded by bamboo benches. A long, low building was at one edge–the nakamal, the local kava house. Silent villagers huddled on mats. Small fires had been lit. The Chief and Alexis gave short speeches in the local dialect, occasionally pointing at me. I smiled and nodded, having no clue what was being said.
Through the flickering firelight, we were ushered to a semi-circle of half coconut shells balanced in the dirt. Behind each shell crouched a man. I looked at the huge shell of kava in front of me and began shuffling toward the adjacent one, which was much smaller; a hand on my arm stopped me. There would be no switching places. Each man had been told who he was preparing the kava for as he ground the root with a traditional stone mortar and pestle. I was expected to drink it in one gulp. I leaned my head back and chugged. It was bitter and numbed my tongue, but I didn’t mind the taste. Relvie’s voice floated over my shoulder, “That was really strong–maybe the strongest I’ve ever had.”
I felt fine until I stood and proceeded to wobble as we ducked into a hut for dinner. I picked at the taro and island cabbage. The kava had killed my appetite. When we were finished, we staggered for what seemed like miles through the dark forest. Milky light from the moon illuminated the path. Once in our hut, I lay down under the mosquito net. Shivers raced down my arms. My body was fatigued, but I was wired. Kava is supposed to be sedative–even a narcotic–what is going on? Unable to sleep, I turned on my Kindle and began reading “The Shark God,” a book based on the memoirs of the author’s sea-faring missionary grandfather. Hours passed and sleep eluded me; one o’clock, then two.
Words faded and sharpened on the screen as I drifted through kava consciousness. After a few pages, the story focused on Maewo. I snapped to hyper alert. Oh my god, that is where we are. The author had encountered Wes, a Peace Corps Volunteer. Wes told him a tale of earthquake stones. There had been three stones, but one was lost. Supposedly, if these stones touched the ground or came together, they would trigger an earthquake that would last for eight days. Wes led him to where the stones hung in a hut on a road that had been bulldozed into the jungle.
As the roosters began to crow, sleep claimed me. It was a short, deep sleep. At six-thirty, we gathered in the kitchen house. Steve crouched and stoked the fire next to a small table and some chairs. “All coconut fibers burn differently.” He lectured a sleepy audience, “Our first fire was frustrating, but now we’re experts.”
My mind drifted. Did I really read about Wes, a volunteer, and earthquake stones? I pulled out the Kindle and began to read aloud.
“I know Wes,” Alexis exclaimed. “I chatted with him online when I found out we were assigned here. He was the first volunteer on Maewo, ten years ago.” A chill ran up my arms–maybe the stones were real. We spent the day walking around the village. I took the opportunity to quiz people if they had heard of the stones. No one had. I began to lose hope.
In the gathering dusk, an old man approached and, in excellent English, said that he never thought he would see Americans again. He was eleven in 1942 when a US plane bombed a Japanese submarine near Naviso. The entire village was scared and hid in the jungle for days. Over 40,000 soldiers were stationed in Vanuatu during the war. He had heard of the earthquake stones and confirmed their mysterious power and their location in a small village we would transit on our way over the mountain.
The next morning was sunny. Alexis and Steve were determined to walk us out. They said that the community would frown on them if they didn’t. After a few hours on the trail, we reached Quatawol, the village in the book. Steve started querying some of the locals, in their language, about the earthquake stones. Relvie and Alexis proceeded down the path, obviously thinking it was a lost cause. I waited, about to give up and follow them, when Steve waved excitedly at me. “He has the stones!”
A small man in tattered clothes led us to his hut. In the dim light, I saw two bags about the size of large grapefruits dangling near the rear wall. It looked like something was wrapped in either rags or dirty leaves and then held firmly with mesh of metal or rope. It was impossible for me to see what was in the bags. Steve translated as a woman with a small boy who had emerged from the shadows began to tell us the legend. The man was the keeper of the stones. The boy was to become the next keeper when his father died. It had been that way for generations. She said that whenever there was bad weather, the family would hold the stones closely to their chests to keep them from touching. They were protecting the Earth from a quake that would last eight days. The man solemnly informed us that if a person with pig’s blood on their hands or holding a certain flower entered the room, the stones would begin to shake. He seemed happy that we were interested. Relvie was now at my elbow and trying to convince me that I should ask to hold one, but I couldn’t get up the nerve. Backing out of the murkiness into the sunshine, I thanked them profusely.
We made our way to Kristin, a volunteer with whom we were spending the night. I began to recount the story of stones when she held up her hand. “My host dad has an earthquake stone. He showed it to me when I first arrived.”
In the book, the legend was that three stones had been found hanging in midair, and one of them rolled into the ocean, never to be seen again. Could Kristin’s host father have found it? She assured me that we would meet her host dad that night, and I could ask him. As we sat discussing the stones, a quiver began slowly and then intensified until the house rattled. Had we disturbed the gods with our talk? Common sense said no, but we were on an island of magic.
In the book, I had also read about the Kastom Chief of this village. I wanted to know what he thought about the stones and the earthquake we had just experienced. The author had attempted to meet the chief for almost a week before he finally succeeded. I didn’t hold out much hope that we would have any better luck. Kristin knew the chief and determinedly led us to his house. We found a potbellied old man garbed in grimy shorts, cross-legged on a mat, waiting for his evening kava to be ground. The Chief reluctantly agreed to meet us later in the nakamal after the kava was ready. I figured this was the classic brush-off.
Kristin started down the dark road. “We’ll catch him later. My host family has made dinner.” I lock-stepped with Kristin; I wanted to hear about the third earthquake stone. We hadn’t gotten far when Kristin’s host father intercepted us and escorted us back to the nakamal. It seems that when the sun goes down, this is the thing to do. Kava was the elixir of these islands. Relvie smacked her lips in anticipation–she had recovered in true island style from her last kava high. I groaned at the thought of another sleepless night.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be strong; this is a commercial nakamal,” Relvie assured me. We could buy either a fifty-cent or a one-dollar shell of kava. I chose the fifty-cent version.
The kava hush filled the room as everyone settled into their own private reverie. “So, you have an earthquake stone?” I broke the silence.
Kristin’s host dad looked at me in surprise. “No,” he said defensively.
“But Kristin said you showed it to her,” I persisted.
“It was just an example. I don’t have a stone,” He responded again.
Kristin jumped in, “But you said it was an earthquake stone.” Then she glanced at me, “Of course it was when I first got here, and my language wasn’t very good.”
At that point, the Kastom Chief ducked through the low door and sat next to me. After some basic pleasantries, I began questioning him about the stone. His watery eyes fixed on me. Several boys, about nine years old, leaned into the window of the nakamal. He began to tell a story–the boys and I listened intently. This was oral history in the making. The story was long and twisted. It was about magic, stones, weather, and a man who pulled fire from his anus. Most of it was so weird that I wasn’t sure if I was hearing correctly or if it was another kava fog. Hours passed as he relaxed into his story. We might have been there all night, but Kristin’s host mother timidly entered and indicated that dinner was ready. We headed into the darkness to the host family’s open-air kitchen. The mystery of the third stone is still intact.
As we plowed through the rough waters, leaving Maewo, a huge tuna fish jumped into our boat, turning a vibrant blue before our eyes, as if to say there is more magic to be found here.
Many tourists visit Vanuatu for its pristine waters, but for me, the welcoming people are the true attraction, along with its deep roots in Kastoms. The mysterious Cargo Cults that still flourish to this day and the Sorry Ceremonies to smooth ruffled feelings are just a few cultural intrigues of this earthquake-prone archipelago. It is a place to dive deep, not just to visit shipwrecks, but into the culture–and maybe to guzzle a shell or two of kava.
