Having spent the morning travelling from Indonesia, Lido was a respite. No motorbikes, no buses, no cars. No horns, no shouts. No pollution. On the coast just west of Vanimo, it is a stereotypical tropical village: coconut palms, white sandy beaches, the sea, the sea; houses on stilts built almost on the shore itself, and bunches of giggly, gangly, beautiful kids.
There is a surf club here, and they’re working to build up the name of the area as a surfing destination. (The season hadn’t quite started yet, so can’t report on the waves. But the founder of Tracks has surfed there, and commented favourably in the guest book.) It’s near the equator and it’s hot. When we arrive it’s mid-afternoon; there’s almost no one around. People rest at this time; older women go out and fish. At first glance, there is no one at home at the place we want to stay. We wait underneath the house, in the cooler shade. But we’re not alone: in a bilum hanging from a rafter, there’s a chubby baby, fast asleep.
After about twenty minutes, the baby’s mother returns and we organise the accommodation. Then it’s time for a paddle down at the beach, and a bunch of kids take us on a guided tour of the village: we meet a man carving a boat, a group of men playing canasta (keeping score in a thick, neatly ruled book), see the kids’ school, the teachers’ accommodation, the cemetery, the surfing beach, the church. We explain who we’re staying with to people we meet along the way, so that they can place us; although they are used to visiting surfers, strangers are rare in this strong community. Life is simple, and gains its strength through relationships and traditions. If you wanted to build a house, marry, fish, make gardens and love, raise a few pikaninnies, know your neighbours, swim and watch the sun set and rise every day, well this could be the place to do it.
But things aren’t always as they seem. Back soon with a tale of true crime.
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