My Granny Lehi had a routine for sundays when I was at Primary School. She always had a story to tell before my bed time on sunday evenings. It was called Nitivenbetep. It was set on Nembangahu. Our tribe. Our land. That was the best treat on reflection. It was very settling. It was life saving in a different way. 
Those who knew me during my early years of school as a little girl remembered the little girl who always cried. I was called “the devils child” while I was at Primary School by my distant cousins. I never knew why. Maybe I was the ugliest child in the class? Perhaps being the smartest child in the class who could spell “earthquake” as no one else could? Maybe I was just the petite child in class that I could easily be called “tetei lapus” meaning “the devils child?” in the Ninde langauge. Or perhaps it was because I was a different village girl who was trying so hard to be accepted into another village where my Granny lived. I felt very ‘split up’ being from another village. But nevertheless, I accepted that norm as I had to gel into a different village to be able to hang out with the cool boys and girls. I accepted being called by that name. My distant cousins all called me by that name. I was never called Leina. We would go hunting for prawns in the rivers. Or go fishing along the coast. Or go gathering fruits and firewood in the plantations. Or fry fish together at their house. For at least three years, I was bullied. Something I was never aware of. Psychologically, it was damaging.
I suffered from very bad separation anxiety. My father took me away to go to school in another village. Between the ages of 8 years to eleven years old, I had to live with my aunt Janice and Granny for school. My father believed I would do better going to the District School where the Australian Missionaries were based. It was where my grandfather, the late Elder Isno Betep was serving to the First Missionaries who arrived in South West Bay, Malekula, Vanuatu. I never met my grandfather. He died long before I was born. These days I only got to meet him through the photographs the Australian Missionary Mr Ian Taylor saved for me in Brisbane, Australia. I cherished those photographs so much as they are my only surviving memories of envisioning who my grandfather really was. He was a hardworker. He was the Missionary’s right hand many moons ago. 
The separation anxiety was almost debilitating. Pschologically, I sobbed uncontrollably at times. The transition was so tough. It made me very sick. I remembered one time, my father came to the school where I was. He tried getting away from me after he had helped me with my maths problems but he wasn’t successful. I sobbed so hard that I had a violent episode of extreme vomitting. It was tough being an eight year old girl then. These days, I wished there was better parenting to teach young parents to deal better with separation anxiety. 
Fridays are my favourite days as I would look forward to getting home to see my parents. Excitment builds and by lunch time, we would be singing songs in our classrooms for the weekend. School closes at lunch time and for those of us who have parents out of the area, we would start walking home after our lunch meal. It would take us an hour. 
We got used to the long and hot walks home. We used to run too. We would time ourselves jumping through the large boulders safely, and without getting wet from the large waterfall spraying mist at Lamelkise.
We taught ourselves how to husk coconuts so we had sweet drinks to maintain our blood sugars. We learned about the safer leaves instead of the toxic posionous ones to curve them into little cups to serve water from the running streams along the beachside to quench our thirst. We climbed fruit trees to get fruits to eat along the way home. We would weave little balls out from coconut leaves so we could kick them along the beach or have a wee game of volley. We would cut out our arrows for games and carry them when we got back into the village. Sometimes we would change our routes home and try out a new route that would take us through the jungles instead. This is to ensure we can keep safe from the heat of the scorching sun. We used swam a lot along the beautiful sandy beaches home. 
We would look out for each other when one got stung by a poisonous jelly fish or stood accidently on a sea urchin. Sometimes, we would catch octopuses to take home for our friday evening meals. We knew how to entertain ourselves. We celebrated with bonfires and games when we reached home safely on fridays. The bonfires would create little firecrackers so we would heat up little stones and they became our fireworks across the ocean in the evenings. The whole village would know that we were home safely as they would saw each of us the students heading down to the rivers or the sea for swims. It was such a wonderful time in the eighties. There was also no phone technology. Life was very different then.
Sundays are particularly hard for me after spending the weekend with my parents. My mother always cooked a meal for me and would package it up in my favourite creamy cast iron pot. I would sob so hard come 3pm. It would take an hour walk along the beach, climbing through the big rocks with my pack bag along with the other school children. We would pass through other villages on the way. I would quitely sob behind the big kids through these villages too. It was tough. At times, when we got so tired of climbing the hills, we would try and swim across the big rocks when the high tides are in. Its about taking the short cuts so we don’t have to climb hills through the dark. Little girls like me would swim across in their undies. I would always take my little dress off to swim across the large boulders. Often I was terrified of seeing the large seaweeds on the ocean floor waving as I swam across with my bag on my head. Sometimes, I would piggyback onto a larger girl. Other times, I would give my bag to another bigger boy who could carry it for me so I can swim across. I would always feel so sick arriving at my aunt Janice and my grandmother. I suffered from separation anxiety too much.
One sunday evening, I ran away from my aunt Janice and grandmother. I missed my parents too much that I made it all the way back to my parents. By the time I got home, I was terrified of the dark. I was sobbing quietly in the dark. My father found me sobbing outside our house.
Through my tears, I begged him not to let me go back to school! I especially did not want to go and live with my aunt Janice and Granny. I missed my mama and papa too much. I never wanted to go anywhere. Not ever. I pleaded my case to stay home and be a village girl. Life was better that way being a village girl.
My father did not listen (These days I am grateful for his perserverance). He wanted me to go to school. The next day he returned me to aunt Janice and Granny. I have never forgiven him since!
My Granny was still my best friend on sundays. She would listen to Radio Vanuatu in the mornings for a childrens story on the segment. Then she would settle me in the evenings with those entertaining, lessons to be learnt stories. I remembered lying across from her in my little mosquito dome and she would tell me stories to help me settle.
But my favourite story still rings out loud-Nitivenbetep. It will be a story that will be ingrained in me forever. It is my tribal story. It has become so real to me. It has really impacted on how I am today. It is one story that I will never forget. Not Ever. My Granny saved me. 
It has truly made me overcome my separation anxiety during my primary school years as a little girl.
It nurtured my emotional well being. It comforted me during some very tough years being away from my parents.
It was healing. It was connecting. It was meaningful. It was legendary. It was distracting.
It was able to make me believe in another story, just like Mr Pip in Llyod Jones famous book set in Bougainville.
It was positively changing. My imagination roared into life.
One day, I hope to capture it by writing it into a little childrens book.
It would be a legacy. 
The water sparkles. It is so calm. It is glassy. It is such a deep blue colour. There is hardly a breath of wind. There are no flying fishes just yet. The dolphins are nearby. A school of fish swam past on a typical tropical summers day. The place I call home is Lumete, a little paradise nestled along the coast of South West Bay, Malekula, Vanuatu. This is my true turangawaewae. 
The next six years of my life will be spent in Dunedin-an absolutely stunning slice of New Zealand. I have been secretly falling in love with a surburb there called Roslyn. Maybe it is because I will have a special historical connection for the next big life project-a Writing Contribution Towards Vanuatu’s Childrens Books for the South Pacific World War II Museum! You can check out this incredible project here where you can contribute too: 
In 2019, I will be embarking on another completely chapter of my life that will really challenge me in many ways. I will be studying at the University of Otago in Dunedin specialising in Health Sciences (I have a couple of Postgraduate Qualifications in Health Sciences from 2007). I am excited by the challenge and I am looking forward to becoming a student again. Though weighing it all up, on reflection I have concluded that losing my full time income will be my biggest challenge of all. With it comes the massive reduction in my networking skills as I give my resignations to all the community organisations I have been heavily involved with through the years. But on a positive note, I look forward to creating a completely new set of networking community. A wonderful strength to have. 
Wellington, New Zealand the Coolest Little Capital in the World has been my home for 18 years! I have lived and worked here for nearly 16 years. I will miss it greatly as I will transition. I have made Wellington home (in fact it is Porirua City) and really settled here; made lifelong friends who became my family and supporters and susbstantially grounded myself in the community work and contributed where I can. 
But I’ve been greatly fascinated with New York, dreamed about Paris and Geneva, wined and dined in Port Vila, loved and explored Melbourne and Noosa, and lusted after London and Shanghai. A huge part of me craves to travel the world. After a couple of humanitarian missions with the New Zealand Red Cross, I’ve got the travel bug. I must admit I’ve come home and all I wanted to do was get up and go again. There is no wrong in that. I felt like I have set myself financially well to do that; to travel the world, and delve into the eat, pray, love!
But despite all, I have a special place in my heart. A sacred space. A tribal land. A turangawaewae. 
A sacred turangawaewae where I grew up as a little girl. My playtime was spent outdoors here. A little international tropical paradise. An untouched paradise. 
This is a very special place where special memories were formed and nurtured. A place where I learnt to work hard to garden and produced on the land.
A place where my ancestors gathered and built their lives. They fished. They collected shellfish. They hunted. I did the same many decades later. They performed their traditional dances here with all their sacred rituals. This sacred place became my tribal land called Denemus. 
Lumete became a place where my family settled. They built their nest. My late first baby nephew was buried close to the beach. My mother Ruby and I shared tears as we spoke about the lack of basic obstetric and medical care in our area. Paul Race Isno died at 5 months prematurely as my sister struggled with prenatal bleeding; a very dangerous condition many pregnant women had to endure in very remote rural areas of the world. 
I learned how to weave coconut and pandanus mats and baskets on the beach. We learned basic traditional herbal medicine. We learned to look after ourselves on the reefs. We learned how to swim. 
We sang tribal songs, our waiatas at sunsets and listened to our famous family story of “Nitivenbetep.” 
We celebrated with bonfires and roasted sweet bananas instead of marshmellows on the beach. We skipped and hopped with banana ropes. We slid down hill slopes in large coconut husks. We climbed trees and harvested fruits. 
We sliced papayes to feed the turtles in the shallow the sea waters. We collected the thousands of seashells on the sea shore and made them dance. We soaked special young trees in the sea water for weeks to create our grass skirts for our traditional dances. 
Peter, my Father worked hard on the land. He planted a lot of coconut species. He faced a lot of criticism from his decisions as he took over from my grandfather who had passed. He believed in crop farming instead of livestock farming. He transformed 6 hectares of land from livestock into a coconut and cocoa plantation. In between this plantation, he grew vanilla beans and coffee beans. Ruby, my Mother worked tirelessly with him planting a lot of legumes especially beans to help fertilise the soil. The Vanuatu Government had not invested productively in agriculture in the early eighties so Peter and Ruby found relief in subsistence farming. They cultivated the land. In 1994, the first fruit of a coconut was harvested. Peter fed his critics (one of my distant grandmothers) with his harvest. There was a lot tears and apologies from her as she realised the outcome of the decision. To this day, this six hectares of fertile land has consistently produced income and food for our family. Peter ensured that our extended families and relatives benefited from his projects too. 
Peter became so environmentally protective too. He invested in his self education about marine life. He invested his time and skills into protecting the ocean and the reefs. He was involved with breeding sea cucumbers. He went fishing. He dived around the reefs to grow new coral reefs on the edge of them. He applied the Namele leaves as a taboo sign on the reefs to keep the locals away so the marine life could recover. 
The New Year of 2017 was all about family time. It was significant. The Denemus tribe had never been reunited at a single family meeting. The Denemus family came together on our tribal land, lumete to repair our relationships and to plan our future businesses together. We had so many broken relationships. We had so many fractured bonds. We neglected our land. We failed to honour our ancestors. We failed to move back onto the land and nurture the place. We left everything to my father Peter to develop the land by himself; something I struggled to understand still. An international slice of 6 hectares with exceptional water views and greenery was under developed. Perhaps it’s the best thing for now? I found myself apologising to my cousins. They had held grudges against me for so many years. I apologised to my eldest Aunt Janice-something I never understood too but it was what my cousins wanted. It was the right thing to do by them. It was very emotional. I was tearful. 
But my father honoured me and for the work I had done internationally. His family did the same. I felt honoured. It was huge. 
The girl who is building a museum has a long term project to complete. These are her life goals. Her dream. A significant legacy. Lumete is her turangawaewae. Denemus remains her turangawaewae.
In his book “A Nurse on the Edge of the Desert” New Zealand Nurse Andrew Cameron, the winner of the coveted Florence Nightingale Medal reminded me of Theodore Roosevelt’s statement,
