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It is twilight as we set out for Green Light Nakamal. Our only landmark is a solitary lantern hanging precariously in the crook of a wooden pole. Sepa tells me this Kava bar is a favourite haunt of locals and tourists alike. Inside, the scene is one of pure serenity with none of the rowdiness typical of western bars. The freshly-swept dirt yard is dotted with clumps of banana trees and the odd guava and lemon trees, under which roughly-hewn wooden benches sit in anticipation. We find a seat under a lemon tree and I begin to drink in the atmosphere. I first heard of Vanuatu in 2006 when it shot into prominence as the Happiest Place On Earth on the Happy Planet Index. Comprising an archipelago of some 83 islands in the South Pacific, it was touted as one of the world’s best kept secrets with natural wonders and unique cultural traditions. So, when I was offered an assignment as a Tourism Adviser there, it was hard to resist the temptation. Curious to discover the islanders’ secret to happiness, I wanted to experience the local way of life as I felt it could provide me with some valuable clues, and perhaps, a little happiness as well! It seemed an obvious place to start would be the local watering hole where my Ni-Van colleague, Sepa, frequented and it wasn’t long before I persuaded him to take me along. But little did I know what I was letting myself in for. My eyes are drawn to a flurry of activity in a hut nearby. Men, both young and old are seated on low stools preparing the raw kava roots for processing. While one man selects the best ones from a heap on the floor, others work in unison peeling and grinding the kava before diluting it with water. I look on with fascination as the mush is strained through muslin cloths and poured into large plastic containers. Soft lights have just been lit in the rickety wooden shacks which encircle the yard. A queue begins to form, and murmurs of subdued greetings among friends and compatriots pollute the serene atmosphere. Sepa drops two coins on the counter and places our order: ‘Two shell nomo.’ Almost instantly, the server swings into action scooping up the muddy liquid with great dexterity. We retreat to our bench on the periphery of the dusty yard. Sepa looks at his cup with a kind of reverence and seem to meditate for a moment, before tilting his head upwards and decanting its entire contents in one fell swoop. As a good rookie, I obediently follow suit but I soon feel an irrepressible desire to cough and clear my throat. ‘Aaaahhhh!’ The taste is utterly revolting; earthy and bitter. I sense a numbness engulfing my mouth, not unlike having a local anaesthetic. I struggle with the onset of nausea, hawking and spitting and trying to regain my equilibrium. I’m tempted to abandon the nakamal but Sepa persuades me to stay and have a bite to eat. So we move along to a sort of snack bar where women in colourful island dresses offer an array of fresh fruits, nuts, fried fish, and traditional foods like laplap and tuluk; stodgy treats made from root vegetables. The night is warm and humid and the flies are having a field day with the fried fish. An idle server brushes them away with a dirty rag and turns towards me. I offer a 100 Vatu coin and she hands me a banana leaf on which is a whole fried fish, head and all, a slice of papaya and a wedge of golden apple. As if in a trance, I fumble my way to join Sepa in the dim courtyard. We sit and eat quietly under a guava tree. I am so relaxed, even chewing takes great effort. Nearby, small groups of people are speaking in hushed tones while others move around like zombies in a slow-motion film. Through a clump of tall banana trees, I glimpse a full moon rising, casting mysterious shadows onto the ground and somewhere in the distance, a cock crows. Somehow, I have a happy feeling.