black mud magic

Being of the ageing aching variety, me and Fran know full well the benefits of the miracle of hot mineral springs around the world.
Fran had a hip replacement before she was fifty and waddles like a penguin, and me?...well, as everyone knows, my left ankle has been FFL'd [Fucked For Life] since I busted it to bits in a stupid accident 30 years now, my left knee is a goner, bone on bone, while both feet are riddled with psoriasatic arthritis, just for a start off, blah, blah, blah.
We moan, we creak, we shuffle along wherever we go, so a chance at a "miracle cure" never goes begging, and we seek them out wherever we go.
And we have been in some good ones too over the years, ranging from Kerosene Creek on the North Island of New Zealand [local hazard - do not put your head underwater otherwise the amoeba will come in through your ears and eyes and eat your brain out], to the famous hot springs at Pai, in north-western Thailand, way up there through the mountains close to the border with Burma.
Through some rudimentary searching for a half-way decent topographical map of the Island of Éfaté, I noticed that there appeared to be one hot spring suitable for bathing in.
But where was it?
Was it in the village of Baofatu, the village of Takara, the village of Narisu, or the village Onesua -- no two maps seemed to agree.
But in any case it was somewhere up there on the north-west of the island; about 70 kilometres and a 45 minute to one hour drive from Vila.
How to get there?
It was a very good thing we decided that local knowledge was the key to this, so we hired two charming and idiosyncratic ni-Vanuatu men, Glenn and Sonny, to drive us around the island to show us some of their favourite haunts at a leisurely all-day pace with the promise of the hot springs thrown in.
They had a rickety old six-seater mini-van with balding tyres, rusting bits of panel work, and a sliding door that needed to be very firmly slammed shut.
It would not have passed any road-worthiness test anywhere in Australia, not by a long shot, but Sonny was expert driver -- going slowly and carefully; he was a master at avoiding some of the more monstrous potholes.
We took off.
The 'ring-road' around Éfaté used to be known as the 'American road' as it was US troops who put in the graders to carve out a track big enough to take military vehicles in 1943, and it was macadamised shortly thereafter.
But it's now known as the 'New Zealand road', because it was repaired and rebuilt by NZ army engineers after being totally wrecked in Cyclone Pam, to high standards and even in some places around bends there were warning signs to slow down, and a dashed line in the middle of the road.
The road is crucial to the whole of Éfaté.
The New Zealand Govt. paid for it with foreign aid money, for which the ni-Vanuatu are so grateful that they have informally re-named the road in honour of the Kiwi's.
I digress.
After the beautiful and spectacular Havannah Harbour, we drove further north past a disused rusting old copra factory and miles and miles of cyclone devastated coconut palm plantations, before reaching the top of the island.
Suddenly we were off the bitumen, as we turned down an un-signposted sandy track with a primal aroma, and smoke.
"See there? Smoke.", said Glenn, "Spontaneous grass fire. In some places too hot. You can drive a stake one metre into the ground, pull it up, and steam comes out".
Now yr talking!
The mini-bus pulled up to a gate behind what looked like a cattle grid and there was a small white tin sign on it, hand painted in black enamel: HOLY HOT WATER.
Sonny opened the gate, but there was no village to be seen.
You would never have been able to find the place on your own.
There was a small hut with some benches, and a narrow channel where the hot spring had been diverted into two shallow concrete bowls, entirely circular and probably waist deep in the middle, and they couldn't have held more than half a dozen people.
There was a mild one to start; no hesitation, stripped off to my boardies, and in.
The exact temperature of a nice fresh warm bath, but with a distinct smell of sulphur and other volcanic chemicals and there were tiny little heat tolerant bright green aquatic plants sticking to the sides.
The legs, in particular, went "ooohhh aaaahhhh".
Then it was a hobble past an oblong hot pool full of pebbles to an area thick with rich volcanic jet-black mud.
Black as the Ace of Spades it was, sandy - smooth, but gritty as well...and if you ask nicely enough, the traditional owner will send out one his girls - in this case Natalie - to show you the intricate process of mud-bathing.
I couldn't get in the thing quick enough, but was told no, slow down, take it easy, you have time, know yr limits and relax.
Assisted I was by Sonny and Natalie - one holding each shoulder - as I gingerly navigated my way to the deepest part of the mud with my cane.
You stand shin deep in the mud, that stank to high heaven; the stench of seething minerals, and starting from the knees up you cover your entire body with a thick layer - without asking, someone else will do your back for you.
Then you just perch there, like a shag on a rock, for about five minutes to let the stinking dark matter sink in, osmosis-style.
There was much hootin' from the locals "look at you! look at you! you not white, you black like us!".
Then came the best bit as I was again helped to the edge of a drainage channel at the end of the pebble pool, which runs the spring water out to sea, which was only a hundred yards or so away, but obscured by low sand hills.
There, with a five litre plastic bucket, you dip into the warm water of the channel and repeatedly pour it over yourself to wash the black mud off [I didn't do a very good job - it was still coming out of my arse-crack and boardies days later].
Bucket, splash, bucket, splash, bucket...
Deeply satisfying.
Then for some entirely unknown reason, I decided to do a comedy act, and dragged myself along by the arse in the pebble pool to the other end - I was acting the goat and in retrospect really must have looked like some kind of complete idiot gimp.
Then we we were treated to the pièce de résistance.
The really hot pool.
And I mean really HOT, fookin' hot, hot as a freshly poured cup of coffee.
There were no thermometers to be seen, and the locals don't talk in degrees.
But they said that the hotness was hotter than usual, and it had something to do with the time of the year and the especially dry weather.
It was so hot you could only sit in it up to you hips for a few minutes at a time - get out and let the tingling, prickling sensation in the legs fade a bit - then back in again for a few minutes - repeat - repeat - complete immersion would have been taking it way too far.
Then it was time to get going in the mini-bus, so we toweled off, and the skin felt as if it was glowing like kryptonite and the aches and pains in the joints were considerably eased and soothed.
That sense of bodily well-being you only get from highly mineralised spring water...well, it lasted all day.
The whole exercise took about 45 minutes, and both of us were helped every inch of the way to negotiate the pools and mud bath by ni-Vanuatu - willing to lend a shoulder, helping you to stand, and making very very sure you didn't slip.
Seeing the sign on the gate, and always looking to take the once-and-for-all lifetime cure for my crippledom, I was hoping that this would be my Road to Damascus experience on the way to Lourdes.
But, sadly, no.
However, it is, without doubt, the best 500vt*** you can spend on Éfaté.