Where Mermaids Eat Seaweed
Vanuatu – September 19 through October 8, 2025
“Vanuatu? What a fascinating country! But aside from that underwater military dumping ground, there’s not much to do when it comes to snorkeling.” … “There are some really cool hikes, but you always need a guide—and of course, you have to pay for one. Sometimes you even have to pay just to drop anchor somewhere.” … “And then there’s that high diving, right? Wasn’t that Joko? Or Klaas from that TV show?” … “And those festivals with dancing and aardvarks? Though I don’t think they’re diving or celebrating at this time of year.” … “I’ve heard that the people of Vanuatu aren’t always particularly hospitable. And when they are nice, they often expect something in return.”
If we had believed those claims, Vanuatu—to put it bluntly—would have been interesting, but also expensive—full of tourist traps. It’s surrounded by plenty of water, but there are no colorful reefs with cute little fish there, and to make matters worse, Mirko and I visited the country during the wrong season. Hmm. Still, we were there. Not just because it was practically on our sailing route to the Northern Hemisphere—no. But also because we’d decided to take a closer look at this new, unknown country that no one seemed to know anything specific about.
At the very latest after I’d had a “fact-finding” conversation with Mr. Google (there’s actually something here even better than little colorful reef fish!) and we’d turned our stern away from Mount Yasur and the whole of Tanna, the spark of reservations about Vanuatu—which had been unintentionally attached to us like annoying barnacles on the hull—was wiped away with a quick flick of the wrist. (Oh, how nice it would be to clean the growth off the Yum Yum’s underwater hull just that easily.)
One thing was clear from that point on: You have to take the time to form your own impression of a country and not let others influence you too much. It’s kind of funny when someone (= me) writes this—someone who basically pens travelogues about countries and their people to publish them—haha. So if you ever want to travel to Vanuatu, you can either stop reading now (not recommended) or interpret this article as a colorful canvas wildly splattered with brushstrokes (recommended). Essentially, a painting hanging in a gallery whose artistic intent is to tell a very personal story and inspire the viewer to paint their own picture. Period. But enough with the anecdotes for now.
Our first stop after Tanna was Erromango. As we’d already experienced on other Pacific islands, we were greeted warmly here as well. That very evening, shortly after we’d anchored off Dillon’s Bay, an elderly local named David paddled his canoe over to the Yum Yum, greeted us warmly, handed us a few papayas and bananas, and invited us to come ashore the next day—it was clear from the start that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
His “invitation” included a tour of his hometown, a small tasting of typical Vanuatu dishes, and a coconut to drink that his wife had prepared especially for us. As in other island nations, the diet here in Vanuatu consists mainly of taro roots, cassava, bananas, yams, and papayas.
Personally, I had of course hoped to find mangoes on Erromango as well—especially since we’d been sailing right around mango season the whole time. Of course, there were plenty of mango trees on the island, but the fruit on them—as I should have expected—wasn’t ripe enough yet. At that point, I didn’t know that a few weeks later, we’d barely be able to escape the vast quantities of mangoes being sold by the kilo at the markets—yay!
Erromango von oben Endlichhhhhh! Die Mangosaison hat begonnen! David, selbsternannter Guide in Erromango
After the island with a population of 4,000, our next stop—a few nautical miles further north—was a slightly more densely populated island: Efate. Here in Port Vila, the heavily damaged capital of Vanuatu, we picked up our crew: Miri, a 27-year-old German woman whom I had met about a year ago in Borneo. So for the next few weeks, the three of us were traveling together.
Why was it destroyed? In December 2024, Port Vila was rocked by a severe earthquake. About 90 percent of the buildings were damaged—roughly 40 percent of them severely—and have since been dilapidated and uninhabitable. Many are still undergoing renovation today or have already been demolished. In some parts, the city seems downright ghostly and deserted.
Honestly: I definitely ate the best mangoes of my life in Vanuatu. By the way, the locals eat them either like apples (bite into them, spit out the peel, and eat the flesh off the pit), like bananas (hold the bottom with one hand and peel the skin off from the top with the other), or simply nibble on them until only the dry pit remains.
Aside from the devastating earthquake damage, Port Vila seemed to us like any other city in the Pacific: hot, dirty, noisy, and expensive. The latter, however, was probably—as is so often the case—our own fault, since, in addition to stocking up on groceries at the French-style, well-stocked supermarkets (oooh chocolate! yesss olive oil! wooow broccoli! mmmmh feta!—all imported, so expensive)—we also took advantage of the local scene and tried out every restaurant, café, bakery, and “ice cream shop”—aka the supermarket freezers, since these treats are usually off-limits to sailors on the (almost) deserted atolls and islets.
Markt in Port Vila Stoa für Store auf Pidgin-Englisch Ziemlich heiss in Port Vila - da hilft natürlich nur eins: EIS!
Although we were apparently in Vanuatu during the “wrong” season, we still got to enjoy a festival. Unfortunately, it wasn’t one of the well-known cultural festivals, but—drumroll—a building dedication! Even from a distance, we could see the yellow-and-green flags proudly fluttering above the palm trees on the small island of Ifira, located off the coast of Port Vila, where the new government building was being opened.
Although we had to do without the traditional dances, black magic, and high diving, we didn’t have to miss out on the feast. Even during the never-ending speeches—which were incomprehensible to us both linguistically and acoustically, but were surely very boring anyway—people dressed in the colors of Ifira scurried about, busily preparing meals or shifting impatiently back and forth on their plastic chairs while waiting for the food and for the traditional pig slaughter to begin.
Pig killing takes place at nearly all cultural events in this country and is a huge spectacle. During the event, a pig is literally killed in front of everyone present. It has symbolic and ceremonial significance: traditions are preserved, ancestors are honored, and the community’s social cohesion is demonstrated. The pig is then cooked in an earthen oven and later eaten together. Fortunately, no pig was sacrificed before our eyes at Ifira (Captain’s note: “I would have liked to see that”). Instead, a group of men in traditional garb ceremonially carried about 20 pigs in decorated cages onto the stage. There, they were patted and honored by (apparently important) figures before being carried off the stage again, accompanied by singing and the rattling of coconut shells tied to the men’s ankles.
Out of curiosity, we eventually slipped away from the ceremony—which had been going on for an hour and a half and consisted mainly of speeches and the constant carrying of pigs in and out—and watched the women and men preparing the food for the guests. The traditional earth ovens had been dug out, lined with hot stones, and filled at least a day before the celebration. When the cover of banana leaves was finally removed, vast quantities of huge pieces of meat came into view—as if the pig had simply been cut into five pieces and placed in the oven to cook. Beneath them were also several woven baskets filled with cassava, taro, and breadfruit.
When the meal finally began, we tourists were immediately approached from several sides and asked about our preferences. Before we could even really answer, they brought us a whole tray full of meat and vegetables, affectionately ushered us over to the salad and side dish buffet, and poured us a green, cloudy broth from a bucket labeled “Wall Sealer”—kava! Since kava here in Vanuatu is made with fresh roots—rather than dried ones, as in Fiji—it’s considered one of the strongest brews in the Pacific. Of course, Mirko politely declined right away (“I have to drive the dinghy” was his excuse, since his stomach can’t handle this broth), while Miri and I could hardly wait to wash down the meat with a little “wall sealer.” Thanks to its spicy, fresh—and therefore less earthy—taste, I actually really liked it!
In Ifira waren alle in den Farben des Dorfes gekleidet. Hier herrscht kein europäischer Standard Hier lebten die (armen) Schweine noch
After Port Vila and Ifira, we decided to make a few short crossings along Efate to gradually acclimate Miri to the open sea. First, along with about 200 land-based tourists, we marveled at the fire-swinging performers at the Friday night fire show in Mele Bay. Afterward, we anchored off Pele Island, a small island north of Efate. We walked along the beach, enjoyed the tranquility of the bay, and had dinner with our friends Doris and Wolf on the Nomad. We also took an idyllic hike through the jungle and tall grass on the neighboring island of Nguna—until, out of nowhere, just about 100 meters from our destination, a makeshift-looking fence blocked our path. Out of defiance, we sat down right in front of the wooden sign that read “No Trespas” (it was probably meant to say “No Trespassing”), ate our snack in front of the locals—who tried to charge us 2,000 vatu (15 euros) per person for the last stretch—and, this time on principle, let the drone take a few beautiful photos from above.
There were about 60 nautical miles between Efate and Epi, our next sailing destination—and right halfway between them lay Cook Reef. Yes, Captain Cook’s. It’s slowly dawning on us: Your favorite pastime was probably sticking an English flag in every spot you came across and then naming everything after yourself (Cook Reef), your boat (Port Resolution), or something typically English (Maskelyne Islands, after Nevil Maskelyne, a British astronomer). Even Vanuatu was called “New Hebrides” before its independence. Captain Cook derived the name from the Hebrides in Scotland.
The wind was strong that day, and Mirko wasn’t sure until just before we reached the reef whether it was a good idea to anchor on a small sandbar in the middle of the ocean with so many knots of wind—with only minimal protection from the reef, which was completely submerged. Not to mention paddling around in the little YY, our dinghy, swimming, and watching the little fish. But the rumor that this country wasn’t suitable for snorkeling—which was still lingering in the back of our minds—finally gave way to curiosity, and we dropped anchor deep into the sand—without any problems.
With the anchor securely set in the sand, we set off on our first snorkeling adventure in Vanuatu—and it was amazing! The massive, interconnected coral formations provided a home for many marine creatures, both large and small: giant parrotfish, enormous groupers, reef sharks measuring one and a half meters, a species of stingray I hadn’t seen before (which, according to later research, turned out to be a cowtail ray), and an incredible variety of reef fish. Somehow, everything here seemed a little bigger than elsewhere—so much for it not being a snorkeling spot!
During our journey through Vanuatu, it wasn’t just Cook Reef that surprised us with its diversity of healthy corals and fish. The rugged coasts of Epi, the steep anchorage off Ambrym, and other islands also had a wealth of marine life and plants to offer beneath the surface, in addition to eagle rays and turtles that gathered by the dozens around our boat at anchor.
And I haven’t even gotten to the sea creature I mentioned at the beginning—the one that sparked immense delight not only in me, but also in Mirko and Miri. The best chance of encountering it is in the Maskelyne Islands, a cluster of many small islets northwest of Epi—and that’s exactly where we dropped anchor next to observe it up close.
We didn’t have to paddle around in the water for long before we spotted them a few meters away. With a peculiar-looking yet somehow rhythmic motion, these two- to three-meter-long creatures moved through the water, leisurely going about their favorite activity: eating sea grass. Still, they were more agile than expected, and we had to be very patient and quiet so as not to startle them—especially not the mother with her baby. When I saw them for the first time, I just thought, “How cute! They’re chubby, gray, clumsy, big dolphins!”
Well, have you figured it out yet? It’s nothing other than… mermaids! Okay, almost. Just imagine the human part gone, and ta-daaa—now you’ve got it right: they’re dugongs!
Dugongs belong to the manatee family and are one of the last remaining species of this ancient group of mammals. They live in warm, shallow coastal waters and feed mainly on seagrass—up to 40 kilograms a day. That’s exactly why they’re often called the “gardeners of the seas,” because they keep the seagrass beds short and healthy. They can grow up to three meters long and weigh over 400 kilograms, but they move through the water surprisingly gently and quietly. They are very shy, sensitive to noise and engines, and quickly retreat when disturbed. They rarely have offspring, which is why dugongs are now considered endangered—so every encounter is something truly special.
Wunderschöne Sandbank in den Maskelyne Islands Da ist sie: die Meerjungfrau! (Dugong)
And then there were… …the little disasters on the high seas.
Amid all the cultural adventures, I let the sailing aspect take a back seat—but quite a bit happened there, too. There were wonderful days of sailing when the wind filled our sails and we found ourselves in a little unofficial race against the SY Nomad time and again. At the same time, we—especially Mirko—aka captain, mechanic, electrician, plumber, and jack-of-all-trades—were kept busy by a few mishaps.
Shortly before Erromango, the autopilot went haywire and made maneuvering difficult. Although it was turned off, it didn’t disengage properly from the steering mechanism. Mirko had to remove it at the anchorage, clean it, and repair it—which, fortunately, we were able to reach without any major problems.
Next, in the Maskelyne Islands, the water pump broke down—yet again. Just like back in Tonga, the sensor that was supposed to respond to water pressure was broken. Fortunately, Mirko had already been so thrifty that a replacement part, cobbled together from various pumps, was available and could be installed.
Last but not least, it was time to deal with the sail—or rather, the lazy bag. On the port side, a line snapped during a fast run just as we were trying to reef the mainsail, and the entire sail—which was normally neatly stowed in the bag—plopped out in a messy heap. Fortunately, this didn’t affect our trip—it just looked messy—and, unlike the water pump, it was quickly fixed.
David uns seine Frau nach der Tour auf Erromango Mirko repariert die Wasserpumpe wieder einmal Kurzer Stopp bei Moso Island, Efate Paddelboarden über glasklarem Wasser Die Yum Yum unter Segel Die beide Kapitäns am Bug und niemand am Steuer? Wer war schneller? Die Yum Yum oder die Nomad? Miri fängt die Kakaobohnen von Daniela, die mit Mirkos Hilfe auf den Baum geklettert ist. Damit wurde unsere eigene Schoggi hergestellt, yummy! Es gab unzählige Schildkröten in der Lamen Bay, Epi Daisy Coral Rote Fächerkoralle Es war wirklich immer windy, Nguna & Pele Island Zusammen mit den Seenomaden haben wir den Vulkan auf Nguna bestiegen Wunderschöner Blick auf Pele Island und die Bucht Erkennt ihr die Yum Yum? Das "A" hat es gerade noch reingeschafft, das "ing" jedoch nicht Die verdiente "Gipfel"jause vor dem Zaun auf Nguna Island Sonnenuntergang in Pele Pele Island Selbstgemachte Brezeln Da Lachen sie wieder :) In Ifira war alles in den Farben des Dorfes geschmückt Es wird hier immer noch mit Holz gekocht Man beachte den Rinderschenkel im Hintergrund Endlich wieder einmal Fleisch für uns. Der Kava wurde im Eimer des Wall Sealers zubereitet Unser erstes Laplap war solala Erdnüsse werden hier roh und wie ein Blumenstrauss verkauft. Dies war noch vor dem Einkaufsmarathon in Port Vila