In Bislama, they say, ‘Wan nambanga i foldaon.’

A great tree has fallen.

The nambanga, or banyan tree, is the centrepiece of many a Vanuatu village. Its massive network of boughs provides shade, shelter and strength. I’ve only ever seen one knocked down, and that was in the wake of category 5 cyclone Pam in 2015, whose 250 kph winds had never been seen before or since in Vanuatu.

The blow on hearing of Marc’s passing feels the same.

In fairness, Marc Neil-Jones was often more like the wind than the tree. He’s knocked a lot of stuff over since he arrived in Vanuatu in 1989 with a few thousand bucks in his pocket, a Mac and a laser printer.

He also built the nation’s newspaper of record, and a tradition of fairness and truth in the media.

One of my first tasks as Marc’s successor at the Vanuatu Daily Post was overseeing coverage of the 2015 bribery trial that saw more than half of the MPs in Sato Kilman’s government convicted and sentenced. The saga had started with a front page photo, showing a hand-high stack of money—a bribe offered to an MP in exchange for his vote to oust the current PM and install Moana Carcasses.

On the witness stand, former Speaker Philip Boedoro was asked, ‘Why did you send the photo to the Daily Post? Why didn’t you just report it to the Police?’

‘Because I knew if people saw it in the Daily Post, they would know it was true,’ he replied.

That’s a hell of a thing to say on the stand, and the fact that he could say it is indelible evidence of Neil-Jones’ legacy.

Marc was fearless, a swashbuckler in the truest sense. If he smelt a story, he’d swoop in on it, and the devil take the hindmost. His friends are fond of recalling how he broke up an international drug smuggling operation, exposing more than 500 kg of heroin buried in a local beach, and still made it to the kava bar on time.

Marc’s impact on the political scene was undeniable. But far too often, he paid for his courage with blood. He’s been assaulted with fists and furniture, attacked incessantly in the courts and even briefly deported.

In 2011, he was brutally assaulted by then-Minister Harry Iauko and a truckload of henchmen, including current MP Jay Ngwele. I went to check on Marc two days later. He related how it had all played out with trademark bravado, then he chuckled as he turned to go, and said, ‘I’m getting too old for this.’

He tried to laugh it off, but I could see in his eyes that this time was different. Eyewitnesses told me they felt that if Ngwele hadn’t convinced Iauko to relent, he might have killed him then and there.

Trauma, age and hard living took their toll. In 2015, he announced he was going to retire from the newsroom. Marc had struggled to cope with type 1 diabetes throughout his life, and the daily stress of running the paper was affecting both body and mind.

I took over the newsroom in interesting times. The pressure was intense and immediate, but Marc’s staff were more than equal to the challenge, and made my life far easier than it might have been. Due to the paper’s reputation as a bastion of fairness and honest reporting, it attracted the best that Vanuatu had to offer. When I joined it, there was well over a century and a half of experience in the room.

Personally and professionally, Marc was not the easiest person to deal with. He was driven by passion, and impulse often preceded insight. More than one editorial meeting ended in fury. A close friend of his described him as ‘a unique combination of complete arsehole and loyal mate all wrapped up in a British accent and long hair.’

That was Marc. He made you love him or hate him. Those who knew him best did both, and measure for measure, matched his fierce devotion.

I choose to remember Marc as a giant. His shadow still looms across the Pacific, causing corrupt politicians to cast a nervous glance over their shoulder, emboldening those of us who still carry his passion for the truth. But today, his loss feels like a gaping hole, an absence where once a mighty nambanga stood.