I was just waiting for an opportunity to go. A bunch of volunteers and I attended a Camp G.L.O.W. (Girls Leading Our World) training session on Ambae and we decided to hike the volcano after the workshop was finished. Dan arrived from Malekula on the last day of the workshop and planned to come with us.
While we were still on Maewo, Sheridan reserved a truck to take us to Ambanga, the last village on the road to Manaro. Turns out she has an uncle in the village. She called him several times before we left for Ambae to make sure he could take us. Each time he said he would be there. When he asked Sheridan to buy him phone credit, she happily obliged. As the workshop drew to a close, she called him again, and again he confirmed that he would come to get us.
On the morning of the climb, I awoke at 5 am and groggily packed my things, trudged out to get some breakfast and waited for the truck. My fellow would-be Manaro climbers and I sat around waiting. And then we waited a little more. Sheridan called her uncle repeatedly, but his phone was turned off. Around 7:30 we decided to give up and took a local truck into Saratamata, Penama’s provincial capital, to the house of a PCV who was nice enough to let us crash at her house while she was away. Realizing that it was already too late in the day to start our Manaro trip, we decided to set out for Ambanga in the afternoon on a local truck and get an early start up the volcano the next day. We later found out that Sheridan had the wrong number for her uncle and had actually been calling some random guy in Pentecost.
The ride was about an hour long. The first half of it was smooth and enjoyable. It was the kind of day that makes you wanna keep taking deep breaths, as if breathing in deeply would help you take in all the beauty that much more. Then the roads became the roads I remembered from my stay in South Ambae. Hilly and full of potholes. Still, there were stretches where the grass was thick, green, and trimmed short, almost like a golf course. I spent the rest of the ride wondering if someone had actually taken a lawnmower to the sides of the road or if the several cows I saw along the way were capable of keeping such a large plot of land looking so good.
We arrived in Ambanga, but had trouble finding anyone who knew the whereabouts of the Duviara Guest House. After no little amount of confusion, we saddled up and set off on a road of unknown length and hoped for the best. The road was a little tricky. Extremely narrow at some points, steep at others, and at once there was a 2x4 to cross over a small ravine. It was gorgeous though, and after only about five minutes, we had reached Duviara.
Huh. A large blue tent. And a huge white guy with a Broncos t-shirt. Vanuatu never ceases to amaze me. Turns out the Broncos fan was a missionary from Georgia or something. He lives in Vila but goes out to stay in Duviara every few years to preach the good word. Because he was using the main house, Justin and Sheridan got to sleep in the tent while the rest of us divvied up the remaining four beds. That night we drank kava. We hadn’t given the guys at the guest house much notice that we wanted to drink that night, so it came rather late. The lady who runs the guest house prepared a whole bunch of really delicious-smelling food, which made waiting for the kava even more difficult.
When the kava finally came, I thought that I might be able to handle one shell. I’d discovered that taking ibuprofen lessened the symptoms I usually feel after drinking kava. Shaking, fever, sleeplessness, itchiness, etc. I listened to the kava for a bit and even managed to take a few bites of food before the shaking started. I went to my room, swallowed some ibuprofen, and waited. I started to feel cold. Then I started to shiver. I put on my socks and got under the covers, the shivering coming on stronger now. I curled up into a ball and concentrated on relaxing my muscles by taking deep breaths. After about 15 minutes I finally succeeded, but I felt sore all over. For the third or fourth time since coming to Vanuatu, I vowed to never drink kava again.
We set out the next morning at 7 am. I was stoked because we got to eat gato, which are like doughnuts, and drink milo, which is like hot ovaltine, for breakfast. We chatted excitedly about the walk. How it wasn’t very difficult. Not too muddy, not too steep. We were surrounded by dense bush and the path became more narrow. About 90 minutes into the hike our guide informed us that we were about halfway there. Although I was incredulous (it’s often been my experience that Man Vanuatu grossly underestimate both distances and time) I couldn’t help but be excited to reach the top of Manaro in just another 90 minutes.
Two hours later, I felt my excitement begin to wane. The path was becoming tedious, lots of ducking under and climbing over fallen trees, avoiding large stones on the path, etc. We were muddy, sweaty and tired. On several occasions Justin joked that we were “halfway now.” The guide seemed intent on providing us all with walking sticks, though I felt like I got on better without one. Sheridan got the brunt of it as she was walking in the front. After another hour, we started to get silly. Sandy and Lauren took pictures of goop seeping out of plants, Sandy playfully whined the question on everyone’s minds: “Are we theeerrree yeeetttt?” We even began to sing what would later become, in our minds, the trip’s theme song: Living on A Prayer by Bon Jovi. Oh, we’re halfway there…Ohhhh livin’ on a prayer…Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear…Ohh, livin’ on a prayer.
After 5 ½ hours we reached the top of the volcano. It was misty, rainy, and very Exorcism of Emily Rose-ish in general. We rested for about 30 minutes, eating lunch and admiring the beautiful view revealed whenever the mist cleared.
The crater lakes of Manaro are the highest lakes in the South Pacific. Apparently Ambae has five crater lakes, but only two on the very top of the volcano. A good hike down from where we stood was the lake, electric blue and wind-rippled. I know people who have gone down near the water, but the guide told me that we couldn’t and I was too tired to argue it any further. As I stared at the water, I remembered stories about how the lake on Manaro was special because the lake’s waves came to shore, but never pulled back. I studied the water for a good while, but didn’t really see waves at all.
We took off our shoes and socks, wearily admiring our wrinkly feet. We ate the lunches that the guest house prepared for us. Taro, rice, and macaroni (ramen noodles) wrapped in banana leaves. Food never tasted so good. We gobbled it down and snapped a few pictures. Inside the lake is the cone of Manaro, shaped like a semi-circle. We could see the other shores of the lake, covered in trees and mist.
I was glad that Justin and Sheridan were there to push us on because when it was time to start hiking back down, I did not want to move. But it was getting late and we all wanted to get back down before dark. As is usually the case, the walk back down seemed to take a lot longer than the walk up. Justin was at it again with the “halfway now” jokes. We unconsciously broke up into three groups: Justin and the guide chattering together way ahead, Dan and I working our way steadily down in the middle, then Sheridan, Lauren, and Sandy bringing up the rear. We had to stop occasionally to allow them to catch up, but I was always happy for the rest. I felt like a couple of the toes on my left foot were broken and my legs were getting shaky. Then it started to get dark.
Luckily we all brought flashlights with us. My light wasn’t very strong and I found it challenging to avoid every stone and root in the path. I was sortof worried about falling, but never did. When the trees began to thin, I all but got down on my hands and knees and rejoiced. Disclaimer: I am not a hiker and did not ever go on a long hike until coming to Vanuatu. Out of the group, I think I was the most inexperienced and out of shape, so sorry if this sounds whiney. Looking at my cell phone I realized that we probably still had another hour to walk. I went into robot mode and sortof just spaced out as my legs moved underneath me.
Eventually we made it back to the guesthouse. The lady had been pretty worried about us and the truck to take us back to Saratamata had been waiting for a good hour already. I feebly packed my things and suddenly felt nauseous. Everybody wolfed down the boiled bananas that were brought to us, but I couldn’t eat. It felt like I was walking on pins and needles. The walk back down to Ambanga where the truck was waiting was like a dream. I was just going through the motions and was soon ecstatic to be sitting in the bed of the truck, although that too was uncomfortable. All of us, save Dan, were flopped down in the bed of the truck moaning and groaning. Dan stood up the whole ride back to Saratamata, I couldn’t believe it! When the truck started moving, I immediately felt the motion sickness. I concentrated on breathing but, before long, threw up off the side of the truck. “Who’s unhappy?” Justin asked everybody. We all chuckled then groaned as it began to rain. Best trip ever.
On the sunnier side, I don’t think I’ve slept that well in a while. I woke up feeling sore, but refreshed and accomplished. I was proud and happy that I had finally done it. I felt like I had earned the kastom tattoo that Sandy, Lauren, and I had arranged for ourselves to get later that afternoon. Once upon a time there was a PCV who lived in Sakau, a village in South Ambae. Through this PCV other volunteers met Bob, a man from the village who is skilled in doing kastom tattoos. We paid for Bob’s transport up to Saratamata and talked with him for a bit about the kastom story behind the road to Manaro tattoo. The tattoo itself looks like two parallel lines, an equal sign, or the number eleven. It represents the road and it is said that, if you have this tattoo, upon your death your spirit will dance on Manaro for eternity. Kastom tattoos are done with needles from the orange tree, leaves, and soot. Juice from the leaves are squeezed out onto the soot, making a black paste that is put into skin broken by the orange needles. Bob informed us that he had given 17 tattoos to PCVs over the years. One might say that Bob is our official kastom tattoo artist. He’s a good guy and loves to talk about the U.S. We gave him some gifts, storied for a bit, and he went on his way.
I got the tattoo on the right side of my right foot. It was a little painful just because of the location, but Bob was professional and efficient. Over the next couple of months my tattoo healed and peeled just like any other tattoo and now it is glorious. Every Man Vanuatu who sees my tattoo is fascinated by it and happy that I shared in their kastom, but can’t understand why I got it on my foot. The women in my village have all sorts of ridiculous “kastom” tattoos on their arms. Mostly initials that look like they were scrawled on by a 3 year-old. Others are more funny. The Nike symbol is my favorite.
In short, I’d say that if you enjoy hiking and are in decent shape, Manaro would be fun for you. If you’re a beginner and/or out of shape, I’d seriously reconsider this one, or bring a tent to camp out and take your time with it. The view on top was spectacular when and if the fog clears. And then, of course, there’s always the bragging rights.
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