Vanuatu: Tanna Island and the 'cult' of Prince Philip
As a destination on this trip, there were not many that held the allure of the exotic so much as the island nation of Vanuatu. Beautiful landscapes, outrageously friendly people, dark tribal practices and remote adventures. But, as I’ve stated many times, travel has a way of shoving a rather different reality down your neck.
Denied service at the currency exchange at Port Vila airport with my Solomon Island dollars, having a heated argument with the pissed-up owner of the hotel as to why she couldn’t book me a taxi without 24 hours notice, eating out at a bar in Port Vila full of inebriated Australian children, and worst of all, having to listen to the thousand decibel karaoke disco shit show directly opposite our room until after midnight. We should have been grateful it didn’t go on til 3am, apparently.
Not the best of starts, but it was bound to get better…..Our eventual taxi driver, Ronnie, was great and returned us to the airport the next morning for our flight to the island of Tanna, where we hoped to get a glimpse of the spectacular volcanic pyrotechnics at Mount Yasur.
We drove to our lodgings in the back of a single cab Isuzu truck, on thin and very hard wooden benches, clinging on to the overhead bars as we lurched over enormous ruts and crevasses in the mainly black dirt road. Conditions here were quite unbelievable and we were continually amazed at driver Daniel’s skill at negotiating the mud packed chasms. Our backsides had never felt pain like it, but at least we were joined by a lovely couple from New Zealand and an amiable lady from Brisbane who’d left her Brummie husband cooking by a pool in Port Vila.
Two hours later we arrived at the foot of the volcano, from this angle an almost perfect cone of black and grey rock and ash. An awesome sight, belching plumes of white smoke skyward and making the air heavy with the scent of sulphur. We had a river crossing here and the drivers were nervous. Both got out to walk the waters which were flowing fast and knee high, but from their faces it seemed borderline passable. We took the plunge at a fast steady pace and rumbled our way through.
Mount Yasur
Testing the waters, Mount Yasur
The mess-hut, Castle Treehouse
Bungalow Gleeson, Castle Treehouse
Mount Yasur view from our hutch
Bungalow Gleeson, Castle Treehouse
The bathroom, Castle Treehouse
Unfortunately we were not staying in the same place as the others and after dropping them off we had another 20 minutes to get to ‘The Castle Treehouse and Bungalows’. Here there was only a tiny bamboo shed left unoccupied, the treehouse and larger bungalow being already taken, but it turned out to be the best of the options in any event. Just a damp bed, an insect net and a solar lamp that came on for 2 hours at dusk, but with a wonderful view out to Mount Yasur in the near distance. Every half hour or so, a low rumble from the mountain reminded you that you were perched on the slopes of an active volcano and at night we could see an eerie deep red glow emanating from the top.
Alas, though, that was as good as it got here. There was no water for washing and the food supply quickly ran out. The occupants of the shed next door, 2 young idiot Spaniards, would not stop talking loudly and continuously until 2 o’clock in the morning (we were convinced they were on something) and the owner was fixated on taking us up the volcano on an illegal route that circumvented the need to buy official tickets. He had a dodgy deal going with one of the chiefs of a nearby village, charging just as much and pocketing the cash. The occupant of the treehouse (which was seriously unfit for human habitation and looked like it had been built by ten year old boys using any old crap they could find) was a lovely American bloke called Mike. He’d been out on the illegal volcano ascent the night before and had to cross the same fast river we’d encountered earlier in the dark to get to and from their transport and had, in his words, ‘barely survived’ the experience. Unsurprisingly Helen point blank refused to even entertain the idea, so we opted for the official route instead, much to the owners disappointment.
On the slopes of Mount Yasur
Even then we wondered whether we’d made the right choice. Waiting around at our muster point there were a few other independent travellers, but also a party of ridiculous Indians and a set of Chinese instagrammers (the latter wearing massive transparent safety goggles) all of whom arsed around for ages taking selfies in the car park.
The volcano itself, however, made up for all the crap we’d been putting up with for the last couple of days. We found a good spot overlooking the depths of the crater and were treated to 8 separate eruptions (‘Strombolian’, we understand, where the molten rock is ejected in the form of lava bombs), a truly spectacular sight, particularly as dusk turned to night and the vivid red and orange explosions completely filled our field of vision. We hung around for 40 minutes and had the place largely to ourselves, the large party of Indians having left after the first explosion, a mere 5 minutes in. “Right, we’ve seen it now and somebody has a photo, so let’s go,” the matriarch of the group declared and off they all trotted whether they wanted to or not ….. It was pitch black by the time we prized ourselves away, but we were starting to suffer from too many gulps of volcanic gas. We felt exhilarated nonetheless.
We abandoned The Castle the next day and managed to bag a beachside bungalow on the east coast of the island where we hoped to see more of the cultural side of the Ni-Vanuatu (as the people of the country are known). At least our transport back was great fun, swapping stories with Mike and the two Kiwis we’d met before in the same truck. We’ve found 2 new converts to ‘chucking in the jobs and going long term travelling’ for certain.
Outrigger canoes, Alofa Beach
Alofa Beach
Alofa Beach
Arriving at the far superior bungalows of Alofa beach, we revelled in our first hot shower (shower at all!) in several days. The resident chef had already buggered off however, so we cadged a lift with one of the staff to the nearby town of Lenakel where there was a cheap and cheerful restaurant for lunch and a local hospital. I’d been suffering from a problem with a big toe that was swelling, looking very red and was fast becoming very painful to walk on. We asked around, then followed a bloke up a grassy hill full of cows that looked like Britain in the summertime and came to the clinic at the top. A kindly nurse stuck me on some weighing scales and wrote down my particulars on a scrap of paper. We’re not sure whether we were advanced up the queue or not but in 2 minutes we were seeing the doctor. “Problem?” he asked. “It’s my toe, it’s inflamed.” “Yes.” “Do you think it might be an insect bite that’s infected?” “Yes.” “Do you think a course of antibiotics would help?” “Yes.” “Great – would you prescribe me some?” “Yes.” “Marvellous.” Clearly exhausted from his verbal outpouring, our conversation ended there whilst he wrote out the prescription on my paper. I went to the dispensary where a lady instantly handed over a small bag of 40 antibiotics. I guessed this was not an uncommon outcome to a visit here. We found a local bus back and hobbled to the beach for a glorious sunset before dinner, my toe glowing almost as much as the sun….
Alofa Beach
Alofa Beach
Alofa Beach
We’d heard that the Ni-Vanuatu of Tanna had a strange cult based in the village of Yakel in which the late Prince Philip was actively worshipped. Naturally we were intrigued and keen to find out more. It seems the royal yacht Britannia was moored off Port Vila as part of a Vanuatan tour in 1974 and some enterprising villager from Yaohnanen on Tanna had paddled out to it on an outrigger canoe, demanding a present in return for the gift of a pig presented to the British High Commission a few years before.
Word got through to the royal family and Prince Philip decided to send the village a signed photo of himself along with 5 white clay pipes. Thrilled at the gesture, the villagers carved him a wooden club and sent it on to Buckingham Palace. The prince duly responded by having a portrait taken of himself royally wielding the club and sending it to the village. Further exchanges of gifts and messages between Yaohnanen and its neighbour Yakel village continued right up until Philip’s death in 2021, culminating in a visit of a delegation from Vanuatu to the palace in 2018. Alas, the idea of there being some kind of ritual worship going on, or even the presence of a cult, is somewhat of an exaggeration stoked by the press, but the story is fascinating nonetheless and the man is clearly most revered here still.
We passed through Yaohnanen on our way to Yakel, where we’d heard that a school was dedicated to the prince and asked if we could see it. Some of the villagers took us to a small and fairly innocuous corrugated building and declared that this was the place, though it was empty at the time. Inside, however, was a hand painted sign bearing the name of the kindergarten and a rather grotesque but recognisable portrait of the man himself. We weren’t sure the ladies and kids showing us around really knew who he was. We didn’t get to question them too much either, mainly as we seemed to be making all the babies in the village cry and thought we’d better make a quick exit.
Yaohnanen village
Yaohnanen Kingergarten
Yaohnanen kids
Whilst at Yakel village though, we convinced the headman to show us some of his photos, which he proudly did via the assistance of a young lad who held them up for us to see on either side of his penis sheath. One was of the palace delegation which included members of the headman’s family and Philip in the middle. They still commemorate his death with a special feast and a kava ceremony and ‘keep an eye’ on his son Charles. “We have a special connection,” he boasted, visibly quite emotional. “Now please donate some money….”
Yakel village headman
Yakel village lad shows us his Prince Philips
At least someone was pleased to see us…
Yakel village kids
Yakel village itself is an attempt by the Ni-Vanuatu to keep elements of their culture and traditions (kastom) alive through tourism. As a result it’s one of those strange places that feels part human zoo, part wonderful glimpse into an almost primeval way of life that has existed here for centuries. Female villagers thus go topless and dress in long flowing grass skirts and men sport only hand-woven grass sheaths with trailing fronds that cover their genitals. When there’s no one else around they go back to t-shirts and shorts. When tourists come though, they make the effort to recreate or revive the impression of traditional village life and perform exuberant rituals and dances. It’s a precarious way of life which derives precious little income and the village sustains itself on subsistence farming in the main. Only one in ten kids gets to go to school here, our young guide informed us. But the pull of family and tradition is strong. Lucky individuals find a way to get to Australia, work for a few years earning decent money, then come back, build houses in the village and help boost collective earnings with whatever they bring or send back.
The visit culminated in a display of traditional dance in which the men formed a circle and moved in and out whilst chanting loudly. It was a bit like a naked hokey-cokey. The women seemed to be merely cheering them on at first, then sent a few of their number, along with a posse of small kids, to merrily prance around the circle. The women ran clutching their boobs, partly for decorum’s sake, partly to stop them uncomfortably bobbing about everywhere.
Pysching up for the big dance
Putting one’s ‘left leg in’…
We also tried the drink of kava here for the first time in the South Pacific. It’s big in both Fiji and the Solomon Islands, but kava from Vanuatu is purportedly the best in the region. At Yakel, they make it the traditional way, of course, by shaving strips off the kava plant roots, giving them to young male virgins* to chew, then binding the masticated mush into a fist size ball. The drink is made by pouring water (supplied here from a yellow petrol can) over the ball whilst squeezing it through a porous sack. The liquid, looking for all the world like brown manky dishwater, is then poured into coconut half shells and is ready for downing. And downing is what’s required for traditional imbibing – pouring down one’s gullet with regular gulps. I’d say we had a good half litre to chug through, but we both made it and made it look effortless (no doubt one of the benefits of a misspent youth). The taste is best described as ‘earthy’ but the effect was slightly disappointing – just tingling lips and gums and not even the hint of anything narcotic or alcoholic. Perhaps we just drank a puddle.
* Those ‘who have not seen a woman’, as the headman of the village diplomatically put it, are said to have purer saliva which makes the kava taste better and adds a certain air of integrity to boot. Kava consumption is a big, big deal here and is said to promote a unique and wide ranging social bond in the South Pacific, being used in major ceremonies and as a simple after-work relaxant. Its use has an apparent symbolic purpose too, supposedly fostering a sense of community and helping in conflict resolution. The effects are described as ‘sedative’ and ‘calming’, though we saw a fair bit of weaving around from those who’d drunk too much.
Making kava, Yakel village
Before we left Alofa we went to visit the school next door. We were beckoned in by one of the teachers and we had a chat about what the kids were learning. Today they were drawing ‘family trees’, using circles and triangles to represent brothers and sisters. A lot of kids had a lot of shapes on their drawings. We also went next door to the pre-school class where the teacher asked what day it was. All the days of the week were shouted-out simultaneously. It was a Friday. “What day is it tomorrow then?”, she asked. “Tuesday!” came the shouted response from one enthusiastic youngster. “No, it’s Saturday – so what day was it yesterday?” “Tuesday!” was the equally enthusiastic assertion. “No, it was Thursday – so what is the first day of the week after the weekend?” “Tuesday!” came the by now quite predictable response. At some point that little kid is going to get it right – he just needs the right question to be asked……
Simon (8th May 2026)
Fabulous pics of the volcano!!
Hope your toe is better