But
it’s not all bad. The Western Europeans may
have been a bit heavy-handed on the governance side of things (and possibly a little discriminatory in their national view and treatment of their colonial citizens), but they did leave behind a commitment to fine dining which is truly
a welcome aspect of occupational exile in some of the world’s far-flung
locales.
While
some colonial powers set fire and/or bombed fields, towns and livestock as they
made hasty retreats ahead of angry, spear-wielding mobs of pro-independence activists
in the ‘70s and ‘80s, the French chose instead to throw toasty, golden baguettes,
flaming crepes suzette and sugar-crusted crème brulee in their wake. This seemed to do the trick in Vanuatu, as
the satiated masses embraced this culinary legacy, and such delightful treats
are available in every corner store, often at any time of the day or night.
Great
news for Donkey in some respects, but not so great for the ol’ waste-line, as
evidenced during a recent clothes shopping expedition with Mrs Donkey while on holiday
back in Australia. Mrs D was in the
change room trying on some little black cocktail number while Donkey stood
outside the closed door, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible amongst
the frilly lace and tiny bows of women’s lingerie hanging all about him (why do
they put the change rooms amongst the lingerie?). As I stood stock still, embarrassingly
avoiding aggressive, accusing eye contact from the other customers queuing to
try on their garments, an attractive young sales assistant wandered-up behind
me and enthusiastically asked when I was expecting.
That
was it! As soon as I got back to Port
Vila, things were going to change. No
more hazelnut praline-filled baguettes for breakfast, no more pain au chocolat with chocolate ice
cream and fudge on the side for morning tea, no more brie and bacon pies aux frites for lunch and definitely no
more garlic snails followed by duck a l’orange
for dinner. True to my commitment, my
life since returning to Vanuatu has become a thrice daily monotony of breadless
lettuce sandwiches washed down with a straight glass of tepid water (the temperature
being conducive, so the diet gurus tell me, to more frequent bowel movement).
On
top of this gruelling feeding regime, in order to both divert my attention from
my groaning abdomen, and to try to shorten the period of time I shall be
subject to this dietary boredom, I have also embarked on a sustained exercise
program which I must grudgingly admit, is finally starting to yield results.
But
the selection of an appropriate form of exercise was not an easy process in
this country where the roads and traffic are not conducive to safe cycling, and
where the forty-eight-degrees-in-the-shade summer heat renders traditional,
vigorous exercise such as sit-ups and push ups completely out of the question
(after a single lift, the sweat pouring off one’s body makes it impossible to
get any purchase on the floor, and one is left floundering on one’s back like
an up-turned tortoise).
The
only option left was swimming … in this country with not a single serviced
swimming pool greater than ten metres in length. I did give it a go, but after seventy-three strokes
and as many tumble turns, I blacked-out from dizziness and had to be retrieved
from the bottom by a burley construction worker and his heavy-duty crane with which
he’d been laying building foundations nearby.
A
week later, with the humiliation of front page local news behind me, I realised
there was nothing for it; if I was going to lose this massive paunch, I was
going to have to embrace the concept of living on an island, ignore all the
horror stories and take to swimming in the ocean.
“What’s
the big deal?” I thought to myself as I launched out from the sea wall one fine
morning. All about me was a kaleidoscope
of blooming coral formations and a menagerie of brightly coloured tropical
fish. “This is fantastic … so
peaceful. I should have done this months
ago”. I pounded confidently out from the
port and was still congratulating myself on having discovered this wonderful,
submarine paradise which was going to turn me into a herculean specimen of
manhood, when I suddenly came to my senses above a deep, blue, murky darkness.
I’d
left the drop-off well behind and was now floating vulnerably above an abyss
from which I imagined all manner of deep sea beasties zeroing-in on my fleshy
white thighs. My panicked brain convinced
me that if I was desperate enough, I might just manage to outswim a giant
squid, great white or whale shark, and feeling pretty desperate at that point,
I set to pounding back towards what I thought was home.
Of
course, one’s sense of direction in open water is never an easy concept to grasp,
nor is one’s ability to stroke strong and true when driven by sheer panic. In my desperation to get back to the reef, I
was floundering like a harpooned killer whale (perhaps not a great analogy,
given the circumstances), and heading in a completely different direction,
towards the rocky headland at the opposite end of Port Vila harbour.
After
a while, the forbidding black depths changed to a more palatable, murky blue,
and I managed to reign in my debilitating terror. My stroke improved and before long I was
powering along; back into that monotonous trance one gets from the relentless
plodding of right arm, left arm…
right
arm, left arm…
right
arm (“Oh how nice, Angel fish”)…
left
arm (“Wow, coral trout”)…
right
arm (“Gee, that’s a big fish…”)…
left
arm (“Aaaaaaargh!”).
Back
in first year physiology, we learned about that basest of animal instincts, the
‘fight or flight’ response. When an
animal senses danger, their body reflexively gears-up for ‘fight’ or ‘flight’;
the options for success are weighed-up and the decision made by the creature’s
very fibres at near supersonic speed.
Obviously, ‘flight’ gets them out of danger, and ‘fight’ is the only
alternative if the former is not possible.
The body’s essential systems fire-up for the selected action, and all
extraneous functions shut down to preserve energy.
How
is it then, that when Donkey looks down to see a massive tiger shark swimming
towards him, his body’s fight or flight response includes the immediate release
of two malodourous, bulky, fright nuggets into his Speedos? How can that be fight or flight? For a start, the extra drag from this oozing
pouch would surely slow my flight to a messy, mortal end, but even if I did
manage to get the jump on my sinister predator, if sharks really can smell
blood like they say, then he’d have no trouble tracking my stinky wake all the
way to shore.
Stewing
in my own mess, then, I resigned myself to meeting my maker, and with calm
resolve, I turned to face my toothy assailant.
It was then I noticed the horizontal, not vertical tail moving slowly up
and down, and realised that rather than meeting my end in a bloody, mashy mess,
I’d found myself with the rare privilege of an encounter with a peaceful dugong,
slowly meandering along the sea bed, snuffling away at sea grass.
An
hour later, I emerged from the sea before a crowd of alfresco diners tucking
into breakfast in one of the town’s fashionable cafes. Although my life was intact, my dignity before
the shocked crowd was sagging lower than the saddle of my laden Speedos.
Defeated
and resigned to life as a fat bastard at that time, I now have Mrs Donkey to thank
for helping me to get back in the water.
She did so thanks to the wonders of modern technology, which have
enabled me to strap on a waterproof iPod and crank up the volume of power
ballads enough to distract me in the water from mortal fear. Now I churn along the coast three mornings a
week to the spurring drums and guitar riffs of such fire-up classics as:
· Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger [shark],
· ELO’s Don't Bring Me Down [to the dark depths with your
massive tentacles to chew off my head],
· Deep Purple’s Smoke On The Water [Humph],
· Hunters and Collectors’ Throw
Your Arms Around Me [and get me out of this school of killer jelly fish],
· The Choirboys’ Run [for your freakin’ life here comes a manta ray] to Paradise, and of course
· Great White’s Once
bitten, twice shy.
The
distraction seems to have worked, and everyone’s happy. I’m happy because I look and feel great, and
Mrs Donkey’s happy because she’s no longer getting around town with a pregnant
hippo on her arm. But the happiest
person of all is Ms Nicole, the unfortunate soul who is tasked with doing my laundry
– as she’s told me in no uncertain terms, any day without having to scrub the
gusset of my Speedos is definitely a good day!
The
Western Europeans may not have been the most culturally sensitive of masters,
but they certainly managed a mean chocolate dessert. Pic: http://www.comicsalliance.com/2012/12/11/belgian-court-rules-tintin-not-racist-just-gentle/