Keeping Score

If you really want to stress yourself out, take a ‘Life Events Survey’.

The Dreamboat and I did one a couple of days before the wedding, courtesy of my little brother and a book he’d brought over from NZ. The idea was to scan down a list of stressful or potentially stressful events and tick them off if they’d happened in the last two years. Each event had a corresponding ‘stress score’. The maximum score was 300.

The Dreamboat scored 324. Your Correspondent scored 356 … and that wasn’t even allowing for all those Life Events which had occurred more than once in the two-year period.

“Wow,” said my brother, “You guys are off the scale. According to the book, if your score’s over 300 ‘it is likely you are experiencing some detrimental effects of cumulative stress’.”

This was Your Correspondent’s cue to nod to her mother, the Dowager Empress, with a smug and vindicated expression and say, “See? And you wonder why I smoke and drink so much. It’s not my fault. It’s cumulative stress.”

The Dowager Empress gave me one of those looks that passes for “Yeah, whatever” in the world of older, maternal-type persons and held her tongue.

The Life Events in the survey were pretty standard -- new job, leaving job, moving house, moving interstate, changes in eating habits/sleeping habits/number of family get-togethers, etc – but there were a lot that weren’t covered. Tons, in fact. I know this because I’ve been keeping score.

Here, in chronological order, are a few post-honeymoon Life Events from Your Correspondent’s less-than-ordinary existence that never made it into the book:

1. Knowing that you’re already off the stress scale before you even start keeping score: +5 points.

2. Farewelling that same little brother who introduced you to the stress survey because he’s buggering off to Sydney to start a Brave New Life: +25 points.

3. Farewelling the husband who’s kept you company and entertained you 24/7 for the previous four months because he’s buggering off into town to start his new job: +25 points.

4. Being woken by grinning husband on the first morning of his new job after he’s just shaved off the beard he’s had for nearly four years: +10 points.

5. Cringing away from husband for a whole week because you just can’t get used to his new look: +5 points.

6. Husband gives up smoking. You don’t: +10 points.

7. Seeing off husband at airport before he flies to Townsville for a week: +5 points.

8. Driving in Brisbane for the first time ever, peering over the steering wheel of your huge 4X4 while attempting to get home from the airport, getting stuck in the wrong lane and circling the CBD for forty-five minutes, screaming, “Where the fuck am I now? Another one way street? Jesus Christ, how am I going to get home?”: +20 points.

9. Boarding plane to Townsville the following day … all by oneself: +15 points.

10. Being sandwiched between two stupid guys who insist on taking all the arm-rest space for themselves: +5 points.

11. Listening to one of them snoring loudly: +5 points.

12. Entering luxurious apartment where Dreamboat is staying: minus 10 points.

13. Being informed that the apartment will be shared with two of the Dreamboat’s colleagues: +10 points.

14. One of whom has a very loud voice: +5 points.

15. And all of them have to get up at 6:00am: +5 points.

16. At which point they’ll turn on the TV: +7 points.

17. Ringing real estate agents, who, for the main part, are totally disinterested in us and our lives, to inquire about houses for rent: +10 points.

18. Taking a new tack and actually walking into real estate agencies, to be confronted with monumentally unhelpful little maidens demanding that we fill in forms stating full names, dates of birth, details of last three residences, how much we earn, how many sexual partners we’ve had and a concise summary of the key points of the Da Vinci Code before we can even look at any properties: +30 points.

19. Driving around Townsville with a street directory, getting lost four times, desperately trying to find properties in a new suburb that isn’t even on the map: +15 points.

20. Coming down with a cold: +5 points.

21. Boarding plane back to Brisbane … all by oneself: +15 points.

22. Greeting husband when he returns the following day: minus 5 points.

23. Exactly one hour later, jumping in cab to airport with husband for flight to Sydney: +5 points.

24. Spending the weekend in Sydney catching up with little brother, attending an engagement party, getting extremely drunk, having brunch with engaged couple the following morning and begging their forgiveness and that of their friends, rendezvousing with other friends and reminiscing about how much fun we all had at our wedding: minus 50 points.

25. Receiving quotes on how much it’s going to cost to fly our cat over from Karratha to Townsville: +10 points.

26. Being informed we have 24 hours to pack up contents of apartment if we want them, along with the rest of our furniture already in storage, to reach Townsville at the same time we do (next Monday): +15 points.

27. And then finding out how much the insurance will cost: +15 points.

This comes to a grand total of 568 points. I figure the Dreamboat’s score is probably around the same level, given that sharing everything around is supposed to be a key component of the marital contract. Going by this, I figure we’d both be well and truly ensconced in the Basket Case category of the Life Events Survey … if such a category existed.

It’s always reassuring to know one’s place in the scheme of things. Time to crack open another bottle of wine and smoke that second packet of cigarettes to celebrate.

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Honeymoon Vanuatu: Episode 5 – Final Glimpses

Glimpse #1
We’ve been taken to our room in The Melanesian at Port Vila. It’s enormous: separate bedroom, two balconies overlooking the pool, two bathrooms (one with a spa bath and bidet) and a bar area.

Dreamboat: Wow, this is great. This place is amazing. The rooms are huge.
Niki: Yeah, bloody high standard here.

It’s not until we go out for a wander around town and come back that the Dreamboat spots what’s written on the door: Presidential Suite.

Who knows what other important world dignitaries have sipped champagne whilst leaving a ring around that very bath? How many other famous individuals have rumpled that king-size bed? Who were the other luminaries too scared to try out the bidet?

Now you might understand why I shared Useful Honeymoon Tip #1.

Glimpse #2
We’re at a Port Vila eatery having brunch. A young boy approaches us. He’s aged around nine and he’s selling newspapers. He takes a quick look at our table and sees we’ve already bought a copy of a rival paper.

Boy: Excuse me, do you wanna buy a newspaper?
(The Dreamboat buys one.)
Boy: Do you wanna sponsor me for soccer?
Niki: What does that involve?
Boy: Well, you give me money.
Niki: How much?
Boy: As much as you like.
(We give him some money.)
Boy: Thanks very much. Have a nice weekend.

An hour later, the same boy approaches the Dreamboat at the Port Vila market.

Boy: Excuse me, do you wanna buy a newspaper?
Dreamboat: I already did.
Boy: Well, do you wanna sponsor me for soccer?
Dreamboat: I. Already. Did.

An up-and-coming entrepreneur, Port Vila style. Watch this kid ... he'll probably end up making millions.

Glimpse #3
At the airport, the Dreamboat buys Your Correspondent a book on Bislama*.

With over 120 different indigenous languages, Vanuatu has more tongues per head of population than any other nation on earth. Residents needed a lingua franca and Bislama (Bish-lah-ma) was the result. It’s Pidgin English with a big chunk of French thrown in. The resultant mix is then stirred around with Melanesian grammar.

My favourite Bislama term in the book is the phrase for "bra":

“Basket blong titi”.


*Evri samting yu wantem save long Bislama be yu fraet tumas blong askem” (Everything you wanted to know about Bislama but were afraid to ask) by Darrell Tryon and illustrated by Allan Langoulant, Media Masters Ltd 2001).

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Honeymoon Vanuatu: Episode 4 – Let’s Drink Kava!

Every second night on Bokissa is ‘kava night’. For 500 vatu (around AUD6.50) you can sit in the island’s kava hut from 6:00pm and drink as much of this local concoction as you like.

Kava is made from the ground-up root of the kava shrub, a very common plant throughout Oceania. The brew is drunk in most of the Pacific Islands, including Samoa, Tonga and Fiji. According to this site, Vanuatu’s kava is the world's strongest.

The same site will tell you that kava isn’t an alcoholic drink. It’s a drug – the only legal narcotic in the world. It looks exactly like diluted mud. And the taste? Well …

“The best description of the taste is a combination of muddy, dirty, soapy,
peppery dishwater and dettol.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

You drink kava out of half a coconut shell. There are certain rules governing its consumption and they vary from place to place, but two are constant: it must be drunk on an empty stomach and downed in one go.

The Dreamboat and I had steadfastly refused the invitation to sample Bokissa’s kava because we’d been doing a sterling job of chalking up what was probably the island’s biggest-ever bar tab as it was. Plus we’d had Vanuatu kava before, on Hideaway Island, and Your Correspondent had spent all night vomiting her two shells’ worth back up, along with a fair amount of bile. It’s true that she also had a bad case of sun-stroke that day, so the kava might not have been at fault. Even so, she wasn’t too keen on testing it again.

Our final opportunity to take kava was on the last night of our stay. The Dreamboat wasn’t feeling well. We’d done a boat trip to the nearby island of Malo the day before and had canoed, snorkelled and swum for the better part of four hours. We’d both had quite a bit of sun, compounded by a late night in the bar, chatting and playing pool with Stanley, the barman. To cap things off, the next morning we’d gone for a final walk around the island and the Dreamboat had been stung on the chest by a particularly nasty wasp.

We ran into Stanley on the way to lunch.

“Don’t forget – kava tonight,” he grinned. “Last chance!”

We smiled weakly and nodded. There was no way we were going anywhere near the stuff. We knew Stanley would be disappointed because he’d spent a lot of time the previous night talking about its many benefits but nope, no kava for us. Definitely not.

At 6:00pm:
Dreamboat: So what about this kava, then?
Niki: No. I’m scared of kava. And besides, you’ve been feeling like crap all day and I don’t want to risk spending my last night on the island puking my guts out.
Dreamboat: Yep, agreed.

At 6:10pm:
Niki: Oh, fuck it. It’s our last night, after all. We’ll regret it afterwards if we don’t.
Dreamboat: Yeah, you’re right. Come on.

Fired with the spirit of adventure, we scuttled off with slightly more haste than was seemly.

Back when we’d taken kava on Hideaway Island, it was as the prelude to the resort’s Melanesian feast. We had to say a prayer and then walk to a nearby table where a local man filled our shells. The women drank before the men. Guests only – no locals were allowed to partake.

On Bokissa, it was different – there was an actual kava hut. Outside, there were seats and a fire-pit. Inside, there were long seats against three walls and a large bench for the kava and shells in front of the fourth. There were open-air windows along one wall, facing the door. The floor was sand. A single, dim light burned.

Four or five local guys, including our barman friend Stanley, were already seated. Apart from the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent, only two other resort guests were there: Keith, a nice bloke from the Gold Coast who’d managed to down four shells of kava at a previous session and Michelle from Newcastle, mother of the child actor involved in a film shoot taking place on the island. Alan, one of the Aussie resort managers, was also present and in a suitably mellow state.

Alan told us what to do: no prayers, no order for drinking. The only rules were to drink with our backs to everyone else and scull in one hit.

The Dreamboat went first, then Your Correspondent. The taste was even worse than I remembered – acrid, stomach-churning stuff that desperately wanted to eject itself before I’d even finished the shell. I tottered back to my seat and concentrated. Hard.

Stanley was delighted we were there.

“Now you wait ten minutes before your next shell. What you should do is take five or six shells and then have five or six beers and you’ll be fine. You’ll feel very good.”

I looked at him. “How many shells have you had?”

“I’m up to my fifteenth,” he replied dreamily, “but I don’t want to wait ten minutes. I’m going to have my next one now. It’s time for your second, yes?”

My lips and the inside of my mouth were numb. Every muscle in my body was relaxing at the same time. Nausea swirled and receded in waves. I nodded and found it hard to stop nodding. The Dreamboat nodded too.

Alan looked at me, surprised. “You’re going to have another?”

“Yep, may as well.”

Michelle smiled. “I’ve already had two. Great, isn’t it?”

Shell #2 was emptied. Stanley continued talking in a low voice:

“On my island, when we have a big celebration, the men take kava – only one shell – and then they do this,” he dropped to his knees on the floor, “and they can’t get up again.”

I could sympathise with their plight. “Is that because the kava’s so strong?”

“Yeah.”

“What age do you start drinking it?”

“Sixteen.”

Early on in Your Correspondent’s life, she theorised that there are Booze People and Drugs People and her own preferences, by and large, were weighted in favour of booze. Kava as a drug, though, is different. There’s no euphoria or paranoia; just a sense of great calm and well-being. It’s not hard to think straight or to string words together but it’s difficult to coordinate the body. Eyesight and hearing are enhanced. If it wasn’t for the nausea, everything would be perfect …

… But the nausea was becoming a big problem. This stuff was far stronger than the kava we'd had on Hideaway.

“I’m completely and utterly off my face,” I announced, and staggered outside for fresh air and a cigarette (yeah, I know). Michelle and the Dreamboat both imbibed Shell #3. Stanley disappeared.

A few minutes after I’d re-entered the hut, we heard the tam tam (drum) sound for dinner. The Dreamboat chose to interpret this as the signal to consume Shell #4.

We could barely stand, let alone walk, but somehow we made our way to the outside dining area. A lingering memory of how ravenous we’d been before visiting the kava hut prompted us both to load up our plates, but after seating ourselves and looking at the food, we realised we’d lost our appetites. We picked disinterestedly at our plates while everyone else tucked in. They knew what we'd been doing and gave us occasional covert glances to see how we were bearing up.

Because four of us were leaving the next day, our kava co-conspirator Keith ordered a bottle of red wine to share around. The Dreamboat didn’t demur when his glass was filled. Your Correspondent stuck to water.

A new couple had just arrived on the island. After helping herself to some dessert that she subsequently didn’t eat, Your Correspondent wandered over to their table, said Hi, introduced herself and welcomed them to the island. The Dreamboat waltzed over as well and immediately launched into a conversation about the island’s attractions.

Your Correspondent’s nausea had receded somewhat. Emboldened by this, she had a mouthful of the Dreamboat’s wine and returned to her seat. Fifteen minutes later, it became apparent this wasn’t the wisest decision she’d ever made. She hastily rose from the table, bid goodnight to the Dreamboat and his captive audience and ran to the faré. She lay on the bed for ninety seconds and then bolted to the bathroom, all the better to projectile-vomit for the rest of the night.

And what of the Dreamboat ... he of the sad, droopy demeanour, bilious complexion and wasp sting? What was he doing while Your Correspondent had her head down the toilet, trying not to choke on her own gastric juices? Well, the Dreamboat hung around the bar for two hours longer, conversing with his new mates, drinking beer and playing pool. He felt great.

Helpful Honeymoon Hint #3: It’s not wise to reprimand your spouse for neglecting you in favour of New Best Friends at the start of your honeymoon if you’re going to do the same thing yourself near the of your honeymoon, especially if said spouse is rather unwell. Of course, if you want to spend half of the following day being alternately berated and ignored, go right ahead ...

To be continued.

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Honeymoon Vanuatu: Episode 3 – Phobias / A Day at the Races

After three days on Bokissa:
1. The Dreamboat, while snorkelling, had been head-butted in the mask by a little clown fish (one of those ‘Finding Nemo’ fishies)
2. We’d walked around the island, Your Correspondent had been stung by a wasp and histrionics had ensued
3. We’d impressed the hell out of all the other sloths lolling around in hammocks by actually taking out one of the canoes and, like, paddling
4. We knew most of the other guests (so much for not feeling sociable). Nearly all of them hailed from New South Wales. Some were honeymooning but there were also people celebrating wedding anniversaries, a group of four working on a film shoot and others who were there simply to have a holiday.

One of my favourite conversations took place with a young couple who’d arrived around the middle of our stay. We were sitting next to them at dinner and the girl proudly made an announcement:

Her: Hey, I broke my snorkelling record today … longest I’ve stayed in the water since I got here.
Niki: Yeah? How long?
Her: Five minutes.
Niki: Uhh … five minutes? Why so short?
Her: I’m scared of fish. And there are heaps by the jetty. Did you know the guys here actually feed them?
Niki: Yeah, but that’s to encourage them to hang around so we can see them when we’re, uh, snorkelling.
Her: I just can’t stand the idea of any of them… touching me.
Niki: Dude, did you know in advance that you were coming here?

The amazing thing about this was that she wasn’t the only one. I spoke to at least two other women who shared the same fear. Thinking back on it, the Dreamboat and I probably didn’t help things much on the day we told everyone I’d spotted a reef shark and a stingray and the Dreamboat had seen a big yellow eel that bared its teeth at him in an expression of pure malice.

Day Four was Melbourne Cup day and Jan, the Australian woman who runs the place, invited everyone to take part in a sweepstake. She also announced there’d be Happy Hour at the bar from 2:30pm until 7:00pm.

Your Correspondent, ever a fountain of creativity and novel ideas, suggested we hold our own version of the Melbourne Cup on the island.

“We can race hermit crabs on the beach-volleyball court and call it the Bokissa Cup!” she said excitedly.

Jan smiled, walked behind the bar and came back with a trophy consisting of half a coconut shell with ‘Bokissa’ painted on one side, resting in a metal frame.

“Here it is,” she said. “We’ve done it lots of times before.”

It’s true that for five seconds Your Correspondent felt slightly crestfallen at her lack of original thought but then -- blithe spirit that she is -- she was blessed with renewed inspiration and scampered off to find decorations for her sunhat.

At the appointed time we all assembled in front of the TV (which is only ever turned on in extraordinary circumstances) and ordered our cocktails. The Dreamboat and I should’ve won prizes for Best Hats, being that we were the only ones who’d taken the trouble to stick half-dead flowers in them and, in Your Correspondent’s case, artfully balance a piece of coral on top.

The television feed was out of West Australia and it was very odd to be sitting on a tropical island two hours’ flight east of Brisbane and watching all-too-familiar ads for businesses in Port Hedland. If the cocktail hadn’t been so damned yummy, I might've almost suffered a bit of homesickness for Karratha.

The race was run and neither the Dreamboat nor I had drawn winners, so we tripped down to the beach in search of thoroughbreds for the Bokissa Cup.

After about half an hour, we’d collected around thirty specimens of varying sizes and colours. My crab (“Chopper”) was a splendid individual and one of the biggest. His form was good, too, judging by the speed at which he was trying to escape from the container.

Once more the punters assembled. Among their number was a couple with their two-year old daughter. The poolside bar was opened to lubricate the proceedings. The trophy was displayed for all to see. People were instructed to choose their contestant and a circle was drawn in the sand. Jan came down with a little boy to watch. Your Correspondent, in her best radio voice, took the role of commentator.

We emptied the container in readiness to receive the crab-racing world's Brightest and Best. The two-year-old immediately trotted around picking up crabs at random and dropping them back in. Her parents smiled indulgently. What the hell, we thought, we’ll have a practice run, and tipped the whole lot out into the circle.

Bedlam ensued. Some crabs, with complete disregard for the feelings of their fellows, scrambled over the top of each other. Others scuttled around aimlessly. A few remained where they were, traumatised. The eventual winner hadn’t been selected by anyone, so we decided to repeat the exercise. Properly, this time.

The little girl, however, had other ideas. Once more she plopped crabs into the container without prejudice. We tried to explain that this time only special crabs would be racing. She ignored us. How does one argue with a two-year-old? One doesn’t … so the second race was another free-for-all. Chopper, in the lead at one point, dashed Your Correspondent’s hopes by refusing the cross the line.

It was a disappointing result. The winner was some little upstart in a bright green shell but as there were at least three others in identical-looking shells, no-one could be certain they’d backed the right crab. The punters began to disperse. The die-hards, including the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent, repaired to the bar. And then, no doubt like many others who’d had a big day at the races, we drank slowly but steadily until 1:00am.

To be continued.

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Honeymoon Vanuatu: Episode 2 – Beautiful Bokissa

Regular readers may have intuited that Your Correspondent is no stranger to the debilitating condition known as The Hangover. In fact, acquiring hangovers and then fighting to recover from them is pretty much all I ever write about on this blog. There’ll come a day - I just know it - when I’m really bored and I’ll decide to add up every reference I’ve ever made to hangovers in the scant two-and-a-quarter years that hot water has been in existence. What’s the bet I’ll make triple figures? Scaaary.

Yep, I’ve had some real stinkers over the years but the hangover I had at 5:00am after three hours’ sleep on the second day of my honeymoon was a stand-out effort. God, I felt awful. This wasn’t just a “feeling seedy, need a few litres of water and a mudslide evacuation of the bowels to feel 100% again” type of hangover. No, this was one of those “vast quantities of alcohol are emitting from every pore, I reek, I’m a pale, silvery green and the only reason I’m not vomiting RIGHT THIS BLOODY INSTANT is that I’m exercising every atom of will-power I possess … and I’m never touching alcohol or cigarettes again” afflictions.

The Dreamboat looked very smug.

We checked out of Le Lagon, boarded the shuttle-bus, drove past large groups of smiling and incredibly healthy and un-hungover locals and eventually reached Port Vila Airport, where we languished for an hour in the Domestic terminal.

Port Vila’s Domestic terminal is very different to its International counterpart. There’s no air-conditioning, for one. The faces are predominately black instead of white, for another. And you wait three-quarters of an hour for food from the café instead of the fifteen minutes it takes when you’re leaving the country. So it goes without saying that I totally love the Domestic terminal at Port Vila. It’s my second-favourite domestic terminal in the world.

The flight north to Espiritu Santo -- the largest island in Vanuatu’s archipelago -- took forty-five minutes. We landed at Luganville Airport, disembarked, walked into the terminal and, with a start of joy, Your Correspondent realised she’d just found her Number One in the domestic terminal stakes.

Luganville Airport is a shed. Literally. It’s very small and it’s very stuffy. Luggage from the plane is unloaded, piled in precarious stacks onto handcarts and physically pushed across the tarmac (bloody hell, the muscles on some of those local guys). I use the term ‘luggage’ loosely. A couple we spoke to a few days later told us that on their flight (a much smaller plane than ours) the back seats had been removed to accommodate a bunch of loudly-protesting pigs and chickens.

We shared shuttle-bus #2 with a dozen Aussie divers, one of whom seemed to be almost as hungover as Your Correspondent. They were a chatty, friendly bunch and probably would’ve been a lot of fun to hang out with, but after ten minutes the bus-driver pulled off the road onto a beach, pointed to the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent and said, “You get out now.”

A jet-boat manned by two local guys awaited us. We boarded and roared off. It was a windy day with quite a swell and Your Correspondent was totally in her element, whooping and hollering every time the boat surged and smacked against the water. The guys turned around at the first shriek and, having discerned that it wasn’t due to abject terror, obliged by accelerating. Thirty minutes later we docked at the private jetty of the Bokissa Eco Island. Your Correspondent’s hangover was completely gone. The Dreamboat looked a little green around the gills.

Ah, Bokissa. I wish every one of you superheroes could experience this place -- 175 acres of rainforest and beaches, where you can walk into the water and immediately swim through live coral. The advertising blurb describes it as “seriously private” and indeed it is. Guest numbers on the island are restricted to 36 or 45 (depending on which brochure you read) and there are no day-trippers.

A man and a woman were waiting for us when we disembarked. The woman hung a frangipani lei around our necks and the man handed us a fruit cocktail – non-alcoholic (it was only 9:00am, after all.) He gave us a tour of the resort facilities and took us to our Faré (bungalow).

We had some idea what to expect with the Faré, having stayed at Hideaway Island a couple of years back, but it was still impressive. Every available surface in the bungalow was strewn with hibiscus flowers, from the mat at the front door to the bed, from the bedside cabinets to the handbasin, from the bathroom shelves to the toilet cistern.

The rest of the day passed thusly: Breakfast. Sleep all morning. Lunch. Sleep all afternoon. This, we later found out, is pretty much what everyone does on their first day at Bokissa.

When it came time for dinner and we saw that the tables had been set for communal dining, Your Correspondent muttered to the Dreamboat, “After everything that’s happened over the last few weeks, I really don’t feel like being social while we’re here. I just want to chill out and not have to make conversation.”

Famous last words …

To be continued.

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Honeymoon Vanuatu: Episode 1 – Instant Drama

So, after the usual in-flight hysterics we’ve all come to expect from Your Correspondent, the Dreamboat and I arrived at Port Vila and made due haste to Le Lagon Resort, where we were to spend the first night of Honeymoon Number Two.

Useful Honeymoon Hint #1: Always tell your travel agent you’re going on your honeymoon, even if you’re not. Then you’ll get complimentary champagne and room upgrades and everyone will love you and not mind if the state of your king-sized bed resembles the aftermath of a pitched battle.

After sussing out our room, noting the presence of the afore-mentioned champagne and then rapidly demolishing it, we ambled through the balmy night air to the poolside bar and proceeded to re-acquaint ourselves with Tuskers Premium Ale, the local beer – a damn fine drop.

A large marquee had been set up nearby, obviously for a wedding. The bride, groom, two friends and both sets of parents were sitting at the bar. The bride’s father was obviously quite a few sheets to the wind already and was having a great time, lurching around by the pool while kicking a soccer ball to some of the local kids. We found out later that there were no other guests; the reception in the marquee had been thrown open to anyone staying at the resort who wanted to join in the festivities (for a price, naturellement).

Dinner in the restaurant was next, more as a formality and prelude to continued drinking than anything else. While we were outside having a cigarette, we chatted to a very attractive girl from Sydney who’d got married the week before and was lamenting the fact that she’d put on six kilos during her honeymoon. We’d seen her earlier by the pool, wearing a microscopic bikini and I’m buggered if I could work out where she could’ve stacked six extra kilos. She must have been skeletal on her wedding day.

Back to the Pool Bar and more Tuskers … and then Your Correspondent did a very stupid thing. She did what she usually does when she’s a bit squiffy: tripped gaily around the place, talking to strangers.

Useful Honeymoon Hint #2: Don’t, under any circumstances, wander around making New Best Friends on the first night of your honeymoon. Your recently-acquired spouse will probably be a little put out if you do, and the chances of any impassioned consummation on, or in, the marital bed/floor/shower/wardrobe will diminish drastically as a result.

It turned out that the fascinating folk Your Correspondent was blithely conversing with while the Dreamboat quietly seethed at the bar were all from an Australian naval frigate docked in Port Vila. There were five of them: four guys and a woman.

I have a soft spot for Navy people, dating back to all those Sunday afternoons in prehistory when I used to drink with a bunch of Naval Reserve guys in Christchurch. These inestimable souls taught me many important life lessons, including the International Rules of Drinking (“Never tell someone they have to drink. Tell them they have to consume!”) and referring to the dunny as The Heads, so it only followed that I’d be well-disposed towards their Aussie counterparts.

Things took a less congenial turn after half an hour, when another guest at the resort approached, pointed to the youngest guy in the group (who was paralytically drunk and could barely stand up) and asked, “Is he with you?” When the others assented he said, “Well, I want you to know that he’s just trashed our room and now my wife’s wallet is missing.”

It so happened that one of the other guys was a member of the Military Police. Having deemed it inappropriate to linger while there was shit going down, Your Correspondent moved away and didn’t hear what was said in response but I assume it would’ve been some sort of assurance that the matter would be looked into. The man – justifiably upset – eventually left.

By this time, the Dreamboat was thoroughly sick of sitting on his own and had come over to see what was going on. The young, drunk guy continued to drink and his friends were trying to convince him to go to bed. The female member of the group pulled me to one side and showed me a wallet he’d given her. The stupid little shit had indeed selected a room at random, trashed it for no reason whatsoever and taken the wallet for the hell of it.

I looked at her. She looked at me. And then the following exchange took place:

Her: Shit, now I’ll have to knock on every door at the resort tomorrow and find out who it belongs to so I can return it.

Niki: Wouldn’t it be easier to hand it over the resort staff? They’ll be able to check their guest register.

Her: No, it’s better if I deal with it myself.

Niki: (nodding in the direction of the Military Policeman) Isn’t he supposed to clap that guy in irons or take him somewhere and beat the crap out of him, or whatever it is that you guys do?

Her: Well, if he makes it official he’ll get into trouble himself because it happened while he was with us. He’s a mate and he’s senior to me and I don’t want him to get into any strife.

Niki: But that little arsehole trashed someone’s room, stole their wallet and probably ruined their holiday. He can’t just get away with it. What’s to stop him doing it again next time he’s pissed?

Her: He and I work together. He’s a mate too. You don’t shit on your mates. I’ll deal with him, don’t you worry. We'll have a little talk.

Niki: Has it occurred to you that the bloke whose room it was will probably complain to the resort? And the local police?

Her: Maybe not, if I can get the wallet back to him early enough tomorrow.

Niki: So what if you return it and the guy complains to the police about you?

Her: I’ll wear it.

Niki: You’re fucking kidding. You'd take the blame for the person who did it and the person who should've dealt with it, you'd have a big blot on your service record and you don't think this nobility is just a little bit misplaced?

Her: I told you: you don’t shit on your mates.

There are so many things inherently wrong in the content of that dialogue*, I won’t say any more lest this post become a rant. Draw your own conclusions.

By this time, the Dreamboat had had enough. Taking Your Correspondent firmly in hand, he marched her back to their nuptial quarters, told her off for neglecting him in favour of a bunch of military arseholes and basically put her in her place, knowing that revenge would be his in three hours’ time when we’d have to check out to catch a flight to Santo.

To be continued.

* I was sorely tempted to yell, “I want the truth!” to see if she’d thump the recliner she was sitting on and yell back, “You can’t handle the truth!"

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Happily Ever After #1

So … we’re back. We reluctantly bade farewell to paradisal Vanuatu and returned to BrisVegas on Sunday night. Awaiting us at home was my little brother; a stack of bills; a wedding dress that’s yet to be dry-cleaned; a bunch of thank-you cards yet to be bought, penned and posted; an appointment with the wedding photographer and, for the Dreamboat, a new job.

In other words, all the honeymoons are well and truly over.

Our sincerest thanks to you lot for your congratulations and good wishes. You’re all mad, of course, considering:
A. Most of us have never met (although the Dreamboat and I did think we’d spotted Jonas of the now-defunct 85 George St at Noosa), and
B. I could’ve made the whole bloody thing up for dramatic effect.

Posting a wedding pic would prove it all hasn’t been a cruel joke, but here’s the catch: we won’t get a CD of proofs from the photographer (who may or may not exist) until just before Christmas. Our scanner is sitting in a storage facility along with the rest of our worldly goods, so that puts paid to showing you any happy-snaps taken by guests at the reception. The alternative is to post a digital pic of two people (who may or may not be us) apparently cutting something resembling a croquembouche wedding cake. The photo quality isn’t the best, though, so the choice is yours: do I go ahead and shove it up on the site anyway, or should I wait until I’ve got the professional pics? You decide …

… And in the meantime, here are some little vignettes to illustrate how well my beloved, newly-wedded Dreamboat is coping with married life:

1. Opening the Wedding Gifts
Dreamboat: (reading a card) “We wish you all the floppiness in the world …” Huh? What does that mean?
Niki: Happiness, babe. It says “happiness”.

2. During a Buffet Dessert in Vanuatu
Niki: So what’s it like?
Dreamboat: It’s very good.
Niki: What were those orange chunks of fruit? Pawpaw?
Dreamboat: Yeah, I think so.
Niki: But you hate pawpaw.
Dreamboat: It was a lot nicer this time.
Niki: (after sampling some) Uhh, sweetie … this isn’t pawpaw.
Dreamboat: No?
Niki: It’s bloody pumpkin.

3. Last Night During a TV Commercial
Niki: So, now that we’re married, should I have a baby?
Dreamboat: NO.
Niki: Just a wee one …
Dreamboat: The trouble is, they grow up to be big and horrible.
Niki: Like you, you mean?
Dreamboat: (refuses to bite)
Niki: I reckon I should just go ahead and do it anyway. You’d come round. You’d probably love it. I can just picture you sitting there with me in the delivery room, crying and writing bad poetry …
Dreamboat: (still refuses to bite)

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