Drinking kava in Vanuatu

"Traditionaly, we drink it fast. All in one go. I'll explain why later," said Harrington, proprietor of a delightful waterfront kava shack (and former ombudsman of Vanuatu). He handed us coconut shells full of slimy liquid and steered us to a corner of his deck -- for the spitting. We drank the kava. We gagged. We spit. We breathed heavily. We observed, in a purely clinical way, that our tongues were huge. Drink it fast. Right. We ordered more.

"Uuuuuuugh, that's awful stuff," said Harrington. He should know -- it was his kava. Kava is a mix of bathwater, pharmacological jungle roots and distilled liquid evil. And it makes your tongue go numb. Or, I should say, if maketh yor tun go nub. Delightful stuff.

According to wikipedia:

A moderately potent kava drink causes effects including mental clarity, patience, and an ease of acceptance. The effects of kava are most often compared to alcohol, marijuana, or a large dose of Valium.[1]

The sensations, in order of appearance, are slight tongue and lip numbing; mildly talkative and sociable behavior; clear thinking; anxiolytic (calming) effects; relaxed muscles; and a very euphoric sense of well-being. Sometimes this feeling has been mistaken for nausea.

Right then. Sounds good. We drank Harrington's kava. We patted his dog. We sat on his deck and watched the Port Vila lagoon turn from green to blue to black in the setting sun. Harrington skipped from group to group sitting in little circles of deck chairs, lighting candles, ensuring that all was well. His clientèle was a mix of ni-Vanuatu and foreign ministry officials, with the occasional ni-Vanuatu minister thrown in. He was quite proud of these official visits to his humble kava shack.

The night wore on, and a provincial governor arrives. We greet him and make small talk. Harrington beams. Our brush with local celebrity -- nice. With that all done, we prepared to shuffle on our way, when Harrington approaches, looking pained. There was someone we should like to meet. More dignitaries? Sure.

A man slides into a deck chair, a dark silhouette against the torches lighting the bar. His voice is deep and slow and clear. Harrington brings kava. We drink and spit and huff. N asks the man how many kava shells he has had. He says, "Six. Seven." A small shrug, as if such things are unknowable -- to count the kava would ruin the kava. Quantum kava.

N talks about the need for access to information in Vanuatu. N is remarkably smooth. The man nods slowly. I nibble on jungle greens soaked in salt and sauce. Harrington comes back, all apologies: he is out of kava. He switches from English to the local tongue -- or maybe French. I'm not following everything. No worries, he says, he can direct his guest to a nearby kava shack that is well stocked. We follow Harrington and his guest out to a battered pickup truck. The VIP is giving us a ride back to town. Of course. We ride, we talk, we arrive. I watch the streetlights with fixed attention. So quiet. So peaceful.

The man hands me his business card. It reads:
Director General, Government of the Republic of Vanuatu.

Right then. Of course.