I awoke and left our room to ascertain what time it was by visiting the clock in the corridor. As it was twenty to four, I returned to bed where I managed to sleep until five minutes past five. Tiki stated that it was “the worst night’s sleep” she’d ever had and claimed that she had achieved no more than two hours. This had been due, in part, to the fact that I had snored and when this was coupled to the racket that emanated from the outrageously loud nearby disco, it had all become too much for her to bear.
We each consumed a packet of ‘Cheezels’, washed down with the contents of a can of ‘Time’ lemonade, which had been produced in Sydney. Prior to entering the corridor for a second time, where I noted it was almost 6.15, I cleaned my teeth with ‘Ipana’ fluoride toothpaste and, as I waited patiently for Tiki to apply her makeup, I witnessed my first New Hebridean sunrise.
It was half past six when we passed the clock in the corridor, however, when we reached the foyer the principal clock showed twenty past the hour. We had just made ourselves comfortable and were enjoying the aroma of bacon being fried, when I produced one of our pink tickets and noticed that the bus to the airport was scheduled to arrive at 6.30 and not 6.45, as I had in mind.
Hence, it was without delay that we made our way to the main entrance where we were soon joined, firstly by a French mother and daughter who had brought a suitcase, accompanied by lesser forms of baggage, and secondly two gentleman. One of plump physique and the other, slim. Both of whom nattered away in French.
A quarter to seven came and went and perhaps five minutes after that, the heavier of the two men suddenly converted into speaking perfect English, as he explained of how he had heard that buses meant to link intended passengers with their flights to Tanna Island, sometimes were known not to materialise. As time was of the essence and as the pair possessed a rental car, the four of us were invited to accompany them to Port Vila’s airport.
No sooner had the gentleman left to retrieve the vehicle, than a mini bus appeared and after the workers, it contained, had alighted, we took it upon ourselves to explain our situation and the driver, a native, agreed to convey the six of us to the airport. The journey was a speedy, yet, pleasant one of some four or five miles and upon our arrival we handed our pink tickets to the driver in order that he might then claim payment.
Inside the terminal, we presented our yellow tickets, provided to us by Air Melanesiae, that would permit us to board the flight of some one hundred miles. However, firstly we each had to take it in turns to stand on a scale, in order that our individual weights could be recorded. Something we found to be not only rather amusing, but unique.
Tiki and I were feeling peckish. Therefore, at a cost of 60 FNH, for each, she decided to purchase two ‘Mars’ bars. Instead of having been made in nearby New Zealand or Australia, we soon discovered that they had been imported from England, which, coupled with the fact that we were purchasing them at an airport, presumably made them appear to be so expensive.
After we had observed a ‘Fokker Friendship’ depart, it was time for the six of us to leave the terminal and board the ‘Britten Norman’ that awaited us on the tarmac. Having photographed Tiki as she stood in front of the aeroplane, meant that we were the last to enplane. As Tiki tends to suffer from claustrophobia , she objected to us being seated in the rear seats, with no window on either side. Hence, as a result, I ended up in what would have been the co-pilot’s seat, had we had one, while Tiki occupied the seat immediately behind me and next to the plump gentleman, who earlier had spoken French so fluently.
Prior to takeoff, he explained that he was actually English and that he has lived in Paris for the past ten years. A city that isn’t to his liking. He also explained that he and his male accomplice were travelling to Tanna, in order, to film for a documentary.
The French pilot was perhaps aged in his mid-thirties and wore sunglasses. He activated the two engines, with the presence of the starboard one being just outside the window from me and level with where Tiki was seated. Once the pilot had completed the mandatory testing of all of the equipment, necessary for a safe flight, the plane was taxied to the end of the runway where he awaited the clearance to become airborne.
This wasn’t long in coming and I, for one, was surprised at just how little time it took before the aeroplane’s wheels lost contact with the tarmac. No sooner had this occurred than the pilot’s clipboard flew off the dashboard in front of me, as the plane climbed steeply, and presented me with the opportunity to catch it for him. I turned to Tiki and asked her to hand me my old Kodak ‘Instamatic’ camera so that I might photograph the Erakor Lagoon, as well as our current accommodation. The sunshine, that had partly emerged for our departure, was soon engulfed by cloud as we left the pretty bays along the coast of Efate behind and headed out over the ocean, in a southerly direction.
It didn’t take me long to notice that one of the two tyres on my side of the aircraft possessed no tread whatsoever. I then turned my attention to the cockpit, itself, and soon noticed that the readings of the pilot’s indicator of airspeed and the one situated before me, differed. This was also the case with the two altimeters, with the discrepancy, in this instance, being one hundred feet.
During the flight the aeroplane ascended to a height of five thousand feet, give or take a hundred! All of the while the pilot was kept busy as he consulted charts and resorted to working out what was obviously necessary on sheets of paper. He was continually adjusting the dial, which was labelled ‘tail trim’, as well as leaning across in front of me to adjust his radio from ‘High Frequency 1’ to ‘High Frequency 2’ and vice versa. It did concern me a little when he began to turn the knob, marked ‘High Frequency Gain’, back and forth as if he was experiencing difficulty in obtaining and/or maintaining contact.
Nevertheless, this didn’t deter me from taking photographs of the coast of the island, Erromango, which appeared to be, perhaps, some twenty miles in length. By this time we had experienced about three-quarters of our flight and we didn’t have to wait for too much longer before the outline of our intended destination appeared.
The aeroplane descended to approximately one thousand, five hundred feet as we crossed the relatively flat north-east of the island and passed over a small freighter as it lay at anchor. There appeared to be no sign of an airfield, anywhere, until, after a few minutes of gradual descent, a grassed strip of an exceedingly short appearance came into view.
The pilot almost wrestled with the controls as he endeavoured to reduce the aircraft’s speed to a bear minimum, in order to land it safely. His next mission was to almost caress the short trees at the end of the runway, in order to provide him with the greatest length in which to land.
Just as I began to realise that we had no hope of stopping in time, it suddenly dawned on me that the airstrip was of a concave nature and the craft was about to ascend the pronounced rise at its other end, thereby, rapidly reducing its speed. Quite understandably the pilot hadn’t conversed with me at all during the flight and had kept his headphones on for the entire time.
Tiki had drawn my attention to the Englishman seated next to her. I’d heard of a person’s face turning a shade of green during a time of great discomfort and of feeling unwell, but had never seen such an instance first hand, nor since, for that matter!
Those of use who intended to climb the volcano, regrouped in the office, which was only a short distance from where the plane had come to rest, and could only be described as little more than a shanty. The plump Englishman, whose countenance had remained green to that point, told of how he had envied me being in the co-pilot’s seat, up until he cast his eyes on the length, or lack thereof, of the airstrip.
Another Englishman, who had been seated behind Tiki during the flight, told us of how his job meant that he is stationed in Port Vila for six weeks and how he was taking advantage of the fact that today is Assumption Day, and, therefore, a public holiday in the capital, in order to climb Yasur. Tall in stature and probably around forty years of age he was attired in a pale blue shirt, shorts and sandals. When I questioned him on his choice of footwear he remarked that he imagined that the climbing of the volcano would be, and I quote, just a leisurely stroll.
A gentleman, in his late fifties or early sixties, with diminishing grey to white hair and a matching moustache, appeared and addressed the five of us who intended to ascend the fiery mountain. He had us clamber into a ‘Land Rover’, in order that we be driven along a track in the jungle. It was seen as a source of amusement that when the track we were on intersected with another one, that there should be the existence of a ‘Stop’ sign.
Upon our arrival at the gentleman’s shop in what was presumably the main centre on the island, we soon realised that Tanna was a far more primitive island than Efate. Ushered into a back room, we were shown a photo album which contained images of Yasur, belching molten lava hundreds of feet into a night’s sky.
The tall Englishman, meanwhile, was busily reading about the cult, John Frum, which is worshipped by some eighty per cent of the population on Tanna. Apparently, during World War II, a substantial American presence on the island meant that the native population was made aware of the goods and possessions that were being imported from the outside world and to this day continue to pay homage to this. The remainder of the population tend to pledge their allegiance to the Duke of Edinburgh.
We had been forewarned that we could arrive on the island only to be told that one, or even both of the tribes, did not want outsiders to climb the volcano. Therefore, we were relieved when the grey-haired gentleman waved us goodbye, after we had, again, boarded the ‘Land Rover’, safe in the knowledge that we were, indeed, bound for Yasur, itself.
Tiki and I rode in the rear of the vehicle, accompanied by the younger Englishman, who sat facing us on the other lengthwise seat. The left side of the front seat was occupied by the young dark-haired Frenchman, while in its centre sat the tall Englishman between whose legs our young native driver had to operate the lever in order to change gears.
It proved to be a really rough crossing of the island and as it involved a distance of some eighteen miles, we had ample time to converse with our pleasant, fellow passenger. He told us of how he teaches Geography at a public high school in France. He hails from the English county of Bedfordshire and, as he had already made known, resides in Paris and while he states he dislikes the city, stressed that he “has” to live there. for personal reasons.
Tiki was to tell me later that his mother lives there and that the Frenchman who was riding in the front seat, is actually his brother. This led her to reason that his parents had separated. He finds that he is “losing” his ability to speak English, and yet claims that he can’t speak fluent French unless he has planned what he is actually going to say beforehand.
He told us that the public schools in France possess little discipline and stated that on occasions pupils, and even their parents, assault teachers. A fellow teacher once rang him to ask if he would substitute for him, due to the fact that he had sustained an injury after some boys had locked him in a cupboard and then proceeded to drop it from a window on the first floor!
According to him, teaching is one of the most lowly paid professions in France and yet teachers are generally not known for going on strike. Although parents sometimes call strikes against the system of education, itself! When such an instance occurs they tend to withhold their children from attending school.
Despite his proclaimed low rate of pay, it would appear that he makes money from the 1600mm footage he films, using the camera that cost him paid two thousand pounds to purchase. Such footage is sent to ‘Kodak’ to have it splice and edited at the points highlighted by him. This has allowed him to travel extensively throughout the world, which has included several visits to the United States. He and his brother once boarded a plane, in New York, ostensibly bound for Miami, only to be told its intended destination was San Francisco.
The gentleman had spent a year in national service. During which time his training was with the French navy, however, he claimed that he spent most of it in the sick bay, due to sea sickness. This could explain why this morning’s flight affected him to the degree that it did!
Four years ago he spent three months in Sydney. He liked it to such an extent that he had planned to stay. However, he was discovered to have been working, as an actor, on a French passport and was, therefore, obliged to leave Australia.
Our native driver almost lost control of the ‘Land Rover’. Although stationary, it had threatened to topple on to another vehicle that was travelling in the opposite direction on the relatively narrow, steep-sided road.
The vegetation on the mountains was typical of Efate with cocoanut and pandanus palms prevalent. The one main difference being that the usage of the land was seen to be devoid of many of the plantations that exist on, this, the main island.
Eight miles from the volcano, our driver stopped the vehicle to allow us photograph it from a distance. It was then that I noticed an even taller peak to the right of Yasur. Although the volcano was observed to be emitting smoke, it was to become ever more noticeable the closer we came.
Our guide told me that despite the fact that he was born on Tanna, he had been educated in Luganville, the New Hebrides’ second town, on the island of Espiritu Santo, the archipelago’s largest. Perhaps forty years of age, he spoke English quite well and told me that Tanna, without fail, receives an annual cyclone. The wet season lasts from November to March, during which time it rains at least once a day.
He went on to explain that Yasur is not nearly as active as it was six or eight years ago. During which time a young Australian woman was struck by a piece of descending lava and, thereby, received a broken clavicle.
Tiki and the Anglo Frenchman appreciated the break, as it had allowed them to recover, somewhat, from the feeling of car sickness, what with us having been cooped up in the ‘Land Rover’ on such a rough road. We soon left the jungle and were driven on to a plain where windswept sand of a blackish grey colour, stretched for several kilometres.
Our group was deposited upon an outcrop of reddish brown volcanic earth. Despite it bearing no detectable cracks, it readily crumbled under foot. The wind whipped the previously described sand into our eyes, hair, noses, mouths, as well as our clothing.
There, the driver, who had climbed the volcano “a hundred times”, left us and drove off in the direction from whence we had come, in order to collect the guides who would be accompanying us. Ten minutes passed and jokes to the effect that the guides might have become lost, began to be heard.
When our guides did arrive we were amazed at just how young the pair was! They sat on the front of our vehicle’s bonnet as our driver convey us for a mile or more, to the foot of the mountain, in order that we might begin our ascent. We were each given a pole of balsa to assist us in this endeavour. I decided to carry our hand luggage with me, as it contained our passports, camera, airline tickets, thongs, et cetera.
The little guide of ten or eleven years of age led the way as he held on to Tiki’s hand. As he spoke only French, there was little verbal communication between the pair. Although Tiki did tell me later that he did utter “Look!” and “Slow” in reference to the tardiness the rest of us were displaying. I occupied ‘second’ placing while the others, accompanied by the older guide, brought up the rear.
Climbing was made even more arduous, as the sun had appeared. However, at least we were now out of that most unpleasant wind. We would take one step forward and slide half a step backwards in the fine blackish grey sand. This, in spite of the fact that we were not climbing vertically, but rather on an angle, as we headed towards a copse of green ferns to our left.
This was located about seven-eighths of way to the volcano’s rim and by the time we reached it, the plump Anglo-French gentleman still had some one hundred and fifty metres to climb. All of the men, including me, were impressed by Tiki’s endurance. I had taken the opportunity to seek out the Englishman who had chosen to wear sandals and exclaimed, “Is this what you English call a leisurely stroll?”
I remained on my feet, as I admired the view of the sea and enjoyed the shade afforded by the vegetation in such a hostile environment. The plain of fine sand stretched out below, broken only by a reddish landform that reminded me of a miniature Ayers Rock. A lake of perhaps two square kilometres in area could also be viewed although it was partially obscured by the volcano, itself.
After having waited for the Anglo-French member to also rest, we continued, in the same order as before, until we had reached the volcano’s rim. The highly active crater was perhaps two and a half kilometres in diameter and possessed two main active vents that would erupt alternately, having each formed their own mini-crater.
We hadn’t had to wait for long to witness what had been the cause of the sonic booms and the heating of the earth during our ascent. The eruptions of varying magnitudes, hurled large molten rocks from hundreds of feet below the volcano’s rim to hundreds of feet above our heads. There, they would almost hang suspended prior to beginning their deceptively slow decent to the inwardly sloping floor of the main crater. As the molten rocks did not all land simultaneously there was a period of clatter, as they landed upon cooled rocks from prior eruptions.
Each eruption would be accompanied by an expulsion of smoke and steam. The smoke appeared to be variously coloured and its thickness would also vary. The molten lava possessed a dull reddish colour that would bordered upon maroon. The smell of sulphur was particularly pungent and brought back memories from Rotorua, in New Zealand.
The eruptions proved difficult to photograph at their zenith and just as we had all but put away our cameras and were about to depart from the rim, the largest eruption of all occurred from the vent that was the closer to us. Its brownish smoke rose thousands of feet into the air and must have been visible from miles around.
The older of our two young guides, ‘Royal’, did not speak English fluently, but did convey that he was aged fifteen and that he had left school two years ago. He had passed the time by pushing solidified rocks on the rim of the volcano, thereby returning them to the main crater. He achieved this via the usage of his balsa pole. Meanwhile, the Englishman of circa forty years, while impressed with what he had seen, confessed that he was not one to take photographs.
After perhaps twenty minutes at the rim, we began our descent. As we were departing it came to our attention that, presumably prior visitors had piled stones in such a way as to form pyramidal shapes. This immediately reminded me of similar behaviour I had witnessed at The Olga’s ‘Valley Of The Wind’ in Central Australia, in 1972, when on a tour by bus that circumnavigated the country and lasted for nine weeks.
Our descent was comparatively easy when compared to our sudoriparous ascent. Each step was more of a slide in the fine volcanic sand. Being more like dust, it filled our shoes and even entered our hair. Upon reaching the bottom I quipped to the Anglo-French gentleman, “Now I know why they weighed us at the airport! To see how much of the volcano we are bringing back with us!” He laughed and told his brother, in French, what I had said and it brought a smile to his countenance.
The native driver was parked a couple of kilometres distant across the grey blackish dusty plain, where it bordered with the green tropical vegetation. Despite Royal’s whistles into a fairly strong wind, I felt it was more likely to have been the line of sight rather than such whistling that had resulted in our collection. He took us – with the two young guides, again. riding on the bonnet – across the plain in front of the volcano, to the quite large lake where its shoreline and the tropical vegetation met.
There he told us that we could refresh ourselves while he prepared lunch from the basket of food, brought from the shop on the other side of the island. Tiki and I waded about in the shallows. Her, with the lower half of her slacks rolled up while I did likewise to my jeans. She demonstrated how she had cleaned her hands by having collected the volcanic dust from the lake’s edge and using the resultant sludge as a substitute for soap.
Lunch was eaten while we were seated upon a bank of reasonably soft grassed earth. Our lemon cordial was served in hemispherical cups fashioned from the shells of cocoanuts and our plates possessed knives and forks wrapped in serviettes. We were each offered slices of pineapple, tomato, lettuce, two slices of salami and, in addition, slices of a meat which possessed a foreign, yet delicious, flavour. Tiki and I each ate two buttered buns.
Once lunch had been consumed, we were faced with the journey of approximately an hour that would return us to the western side of Tanna. Tiki sat in the middle of the front seat, this time, as our native driver had to resort to using the lever, that was situated between her legs, in order to change gears.
I was seated in the back, opposite the Englishman of some forty years. He spoke French fluently, as he is married to a French woman, who has lived in England for the past twenty years. He chose to talk to me as opposed to the non-English speaking Frenchman, seated next to him. Our vehicle swayed to and fro as it once again traversed the rough and rocky roads.
The gentleman conveyed to me of how he lectures on accountancy at a “polytechnic” school in the city of Oxford, where he lives. His occupation has allowed him to travel to such locations as Monrovia, Liberia and Sierra Leone, as well as Belize – once British Honduras – in Central America. He found the African natives to be extremely friendly, however, many faced life as beggars.
He seemed rather cynical when I asked him for his views on Australia and this led us into discussing our views of our respective prime ministers, Margaret Thatcher and Malcolm Fraser. He also expressed his concerns for the stability of my job, but, as I am not one to believe that a full-time job is essential in life, I did not share his outlook. He, too, leaves the New Hebrides for home, on Friday, after having been here for the past six weeks. His scheduled flights mean that he has to visit Brisbane, Sydney, Singapore and Bahrain, en route.
Our driver allowed us to alight at the most picturesque of beaches, which is situated but a mile from the island’s Burton Airfield. It was there that I used my last available film, with Tiki entrusted to take the photograph of me. A small island stood just ten metres off the beach and was in possession of four trees. Its black rocky soil stood high above the water.
After what must have been half an hour our driver returned and drove us to the store. There, the grey-to-whitish haired, moustached, debonaire, aristocratic, gentleman talked with Tiki and I after we had strolled through the store which was filled with native customers. He was obviously the head Caucasian on the island, having left life in suburban Chatswood, in Sydney, thirty-three years ago.
We mentioned the serenity of the Lane Cove River Park and suddenly he started to compare the beaches of Sydney. Stating that, in his eyes, Cronulla’s is nicer than the more internationally well known Manly. He was leaning against his aqua blue ‘Range Rover’, which had been imported from England five years ago. It still bore its English number plates.
The gentleman proudly stated that it must be one of the few vehicles to have been driven on both the Hebrides, in Scotland, and the New Hebrides. A statement, with which the Englishman in our group concurred.
While he smoked a cigar, the aristocratic Englishman returned us to the Burton Airfield, not in his aqua blue ‘Range Rover’, but rather the cream one to which we had grown accustomed. He informed us that he was in the process of “winding up” his operations here and that he and his wife were hoping to purchase land at Mount Tamborine, inland from Queensland’s Gold Coast.
He asked the two of us to compare the climbing of Yasur to that of Ayers Rock. Tiki stated that today’s effort had been the more enervating. Although we agreed that there were significant differences. Ayers Rock had presented a firm surface on which to climb and we had both undertaken its ascent in far cooler conditions.
‘New’ people, who had stayed on the island, began to arrive at the airfield, with their luggage and, as we had done this morning, had to have their respective weights recorded. The head man expressed the fact that our flight from Port Vila was slightly overdue and went on to explain that it would carry seventeen passengers and the pilot, of cause!
The law of aviation states that an aeroplane only requires a second pilot – as well as a stewardess – when it contains twenty seats or more. He went on to inform me what I really did not want to hear, namely that only this morning a new pilot had failed to remove a certain something from his plane’s wing prior to takeoff. Had not taken it upon himself to do the pilot’s job, himself, and removed it, the aeroplane would have given no indication of its air-speed!
What made the situation of even greater concern, he went on, was that those in air traffic controls, in Port Vila, had not made the young pilot aware of his error, either!
The larger aeroplane appeared at altitude and I was informed that the new French pilot must have been observing the airfield as well as determining the direction of the wind, prior to making his approach. The gentleman soon became less than impressed by the young pilot’s action as he equated it to an unnecessary wastage of fuel.
As we waited for the plane to descend, he informed me of how he had co-founded Air Melanesiae with Burton, after whom the airfield was named. However, his co-founder had perished along with seven of his passengers, in 1966, when it was suspected their aircraft became affected by aerial turbulence and crashed into the tall peak that lies adjacent to the volcano we had just climbed.
Just when I did not feel that I needed to hear more, he told me of another pilot who had crashed his plane, in 1974. He was allegedly pursuing wild horses at the northern end of the island when the tip of one of the wings contacted the ground. The aircraft cartwheeled numerous times before it became stationary and on its wheels. One of the six passengers, who was found without his seatbelt fastened, died and the pilot, is now, according to the gentleman, “just a vegetable”.
My conversant had, too, on one of the islands been in a crash, when the aeroplane in which he was a passenger overshot the runway on one of the islands. Although the plane suffered serious damage, no one was seriously injured. He went on to add that the three short airstrips on the island of Aoba remain far more dangerous than the one at which we were.
He used to be a pilot and added that most of the pilots are young Frenchmen who, in general, have arrived bearing impressive skills and knowledge, in their chosen field. Their goal is often to become international pilots with airlines such as U.T.A. I had to suppress a smile at that moment for someone had joked the other day that U.T.A. stood for ‘Unlikely To Arrive’.
I felt somewhat privileged that the gentleman had spent so much of his time in conversation with me. This was especially the case when he told me that he had met with Queen Elizabeth II not once, but on three separate occasions. It was then that he told me of the ‘land divers’ on the island of Pentecost, who individually dive from tall structures of wood or bamboo with a rope, made from vine, attached to one leg in order to break their descent. Their aim is to see just how close they can get to the ground without actually striking it.
Her Majesty was in attendance on the day one of the more experienced divers was unwell and a less experienced young man was recruited to replace him. Unfortunately, he plummeted to the ground in full view of onlookers, having broken his neck instantaneously.
He said that Her Majesty could not help but be shaken by what she had witnessed and it was not until later that the Queen was notified that the young man had, indeed, died. He confided in me that he had always found Her Majesty to be, as he put it, “a tremendous person”.
The aeroplane gradually made its descent and apart for an instant where the head gentleman expressed the belief that it might not be able to stop in time, there was no cause for concern. As the incoming passengers deplaned, he raced out to place a pole in an upright position, beneath its tail, in order to prevent the aircraft from toppling backwards. He informed me that this had been essential, as this larger aircraft possessed a third engine above its tail in order to accommodate the extra load it had to bear.
We enplaned, with Tiki and I seated in the third row behind the pilot. The Englishman of some forty years was seated behind Tiki and during the flight he was to tell me that the New Hebrides is to obtain its independence from being a condominium of France and the United Kingdom, on the first of January, however, he believes he that it is not prepared administratively for such a dynamic change.
Prior to takeoff, the pilot had turned around and, in perfect English, asked of me if my door was, indeed, closed entirely. Before I had had time to react the head gentleman used his hip to make sure that it was.
Our seats possessed little in the way of cushioning and our bottoms were well and truly numb when we landed on Efate, at 5.15 p.m. Our transportation was in waiting to convey the five of us ‘home’. The Englishman alighted at the Hotel Rossi, in the centre of Port Vila, between the main street and the harbour. The native driver’s cream ‘Land Rover’ bore only one registration sticker, which was two years out of date. When I remarked on this, he just smiled.
Despite Tiki having stated that she had only managed to achieve two hours of sleep last night, combined with the enervating undertakings of the day, thus far, she remained determined that we dine at the restaurant, ‘Ma Baker’s’, this evening, instead of partaking of lunch there tomorrow.
The taxi’s meter began at thirty francs and by the time we reached the main street, it showed seventy.. We ordered a litre of rose and when it became time to order our meal Tiki selected the ‘Fish Soup’ as her entree while I opted for ‘South Pacific Prawn Cocktail’. The main course, as selected by Tiki, consisted of ‘Garlic Steak’ for her and the ‘Pepper Steak’ for me.
We were really starting to guzzle the rose and it can’t have been long before we became light-headed. Dessert consisted of ‘Ma Barker’s Fruit Sundae’ for Tiki and the ‘Coconut Special’ for me. It was to arrive in a cocoanut shell. Two after-dinner mints came with our two cappuccinos, as did our bill for 1,925 F.N.H., the equivalent of approximately twenty-six dollars in our currency.
We experienced no problems in getting home as there were about twenty taxis parked at the rank opposite our restaurant. Tiki, the manageress of our finances, gave the driver eighty francs for the fare that amounted to seventy. It was half past eight – give or take ten minutes – upon our arrival and it can’t have been long before we were sound asleep in our separate double beds.