The Tourism Expo at the Tjibaou Cultural Centre was full of Noumena people hungry to purchase deals to New Caledonia’s attractions, but with a week and a goal for my trip of umbrella drinks and rest, I purchased a discount voucher for a treatment at the spa at my hotel, and made my way through the Centre’s exhibition spaces, empty in contrast with the hoards in the covered walkways.
Within these exhibitions, I learned a little about Jean Marie Tjibaou, the Kanak freedom fighter, priest and politician who spearheaded the New Caledonian independence movement. A failed referendum in 1985, and his assassination in 1989 didn’t stop the fight, and the Kanak people continue to agitate for independence, securing another referendum later this year.
A delicious smoky smell dragged me down the hill to where food vans and tents were set up. Two reasons I came to Noumea for a relaxing holiday: it was a two-hour flight, and with tropical ingredients combined with French cooking I figured the food would be pretty good.
Not understanding enough French to read the signs, in time-honoured tradition, I joined the longest queue, reasoning that it would be good.
It was not.
A French woman spoke to me, mercifully switching to English when she saw my blank expression.
“How is your lunch?” she asked.
“Not very good,” I replied.
“That isn’t local food you know?”
“I know, but I didn’t know where to go or what to get.”
She pointed me to a line of tables tended by old women who I knew wouldn’t speak English, not that they should. I like getting lost in new places and I enjoy trying to communicate with people, but sometimes my shyness means I miss out on unique experiences.
With my mentor watching from a distance, I approached the ladies.
“Pardonnez-moi, pas parler francais, parlez vous anglais?” A useful phrase I memorised thanks to google.
Four of them frowned at me, looked at each other and cracked up as my face went hot. I continued in English, pointlessly, embarrassed. “I just want some lunch and I want to try Noumean food and you have some and I want to buy it?” I showed them I had money.
Puzzled looks, judgment, laughter. After letting me sweat, ignoring me, realising this not even French-speaking white woman wasn’t leaving, someone was fetched from the group around the fire. She came to my rescue, and translated for me the signs, and pointed to each thing in turn. I walked away with a plate of food.
This was traditional, served with a bamboo skewer in place of a fork. Packets of yam, plantain, coconut, wrapped in banana leaves, and cooked in the fire. It had a smoky scent, but clean taste of the native root vegetables. It was also stodgy and dense and was underwhelming in terms of flavour and texture, but I was happy.
Sarah Bonnar 