I have the BEST idea. The ultimate everlasting souvenir! More than a cultural artefact – I’m BECOMING that in fact, and I’m documenting it. Capturing a beautiful connection and artistic expression, forever to view and hold on to. Such is my starry-eyed intention, free from all pretension (scoff). Hoping I’m not overstepping, I ask Louise if it’s ok to film as she braids my hair. I sound like a little girl, shy but too excited to hold back. She chuckles sweetly, exuding laid back island charm “yeah it’s ok, no worries”. My camera rolls; we both smile. She weaves my fine tendrils into rows of tight braids, some zig zagging, some straight. I feel like a work of art! She threads pretty beads on the end of each braid – black, green, red and yellow – colours of Vanuatu’s flag. The Port Vila markets are a tourist hotspot. Cruise ship passengers filter through, hunting mementos from this tropical paradise. I feel getting your hair braided on such trips has become popular taboo, making you a cringe-worthy tourist – “ew!” I think it’s a shame. The process allows you to connect with a local artist, holding an almost meditative space with them in an otherwise bustling crowd of consumerism. Louise smooths my hair with coconut oil “to make it soft and smell nice”. The sweet aroma and intention fill me with warmth. Her beautiful, dark hands meticulously separate then entwine strands of hair across my glowing, white scalp. It’s stimulating and relaxing at the same time. Her fingers are the main tools of her trade – but she also has an old school wide, tooth comb. She stores it in her own hair while busily braiding mine. The iconic Afro comb in downtown Port Vila! Embraced by Louise out of pure practicality, the image evokes ‘70s disco nostalgia for me (but that’s just a surface association from pop culture history). I’ve read descriptions of the style as “a way of saying no to oppression… a kind of comradeship amongst those whose hair grows up and out, not down”. I love this. As an Australian travelling in The Pacific, another association springs to mind: the “Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels”. This was the name given by Australian soldiers to Papua New Guinean (PNG) natives who, during World War II, cared for and carried wounded men along the notoriously rugged Kokoda Track. In my injured countrymen’s delirium, the soft silhouetted hair of their Melanesian rescuers must have stood out. What relief they must have felt knowing they were safe from slaughter by invading Japanese. The “Fuzzy Wuzzies” were angels indeed and our comradery is legend to this day. I observed it in PNG a few years ago. I met descendants of the “Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels” who warmly embraced me when I said my grandfather fought in PNG in WW2. How lovely to be reminded of this in Louise’s Port Vila stall. We laugh about our contrasting hair; her thick Melanesian fuzz and my thin Anglo-Celtic wisps. I gush over how much I love my braids. “Island Princess!” she says with a smile, wrapping me in a hug and wishing me a safe journey home. Back in Sydney it’s time to take the braids out. I’ve maintained them for almost five weeks now following Louise’s care instructions (“swim and wash as normal – no worries”). I really don’t want to let them go – but I remember my “BEST idea”. I set my camera up and press record, documenting the entire process of untwining. I’m going to edit a time lapse video, preserving Louise’s work AND my cherished memory. The braids are out: I’m a strawberry blonde Fuzzy Wuzzy! Pleased, I stop recording – excited to watch my footage. Shock horror! It stopped about 3 minutes in to the 30-minute process! Nothing. Black screen. Amidst frustration and a neurotic feeling I’d let Louise down, I remember what I did before meeting her at the markets. I’d spent the morning at the National Museum, where I was treated to a sand drawing demonstration. This ni-Vanuatu artistic and ritual practice has been recognised by UNESCO as a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. In a tray of sand on the floor, Eddie used one finger to create a continuous meandering line that became a graceful, symmetrical turtle full of intricate patterns. He didn’t lift his finger until it was complete and then, after we tourists finished gasping and taking photos – desperate to “keep” it forever – he shook it away with a delicate tip of the tray. The art was gone, but the memory would forever stay.