OPINION: On my wedding day on Tanna Island, a name now linked inextricably with Cyclone Pam, I stood surrounded by a tribe of men, women and children who had stockpiled crops for weeks beforehand to give me the kind of ceremony an adopted daughter deserved.

As I walked barefoot down the dirt road alongside the chief who had taken me into his family – an honour bestowed on us because of deep connections made while making television there –  I remember thinking: "This is the best day of my life."

The women had bathed me in coconut milk, sung to me, dressed me in freshly made grass skirts and draped me in scented grasses. Later we were given mats made from local grasses and palms, baskets painstakingly woven by hand, steaming slabs of lap lap, a local pie baked in a stone oven for 24 hours, and mountains of taro harvested from the volcanic-rich gardens.  My village in Tanna is one of those still living along traditional economic lines. Pigs and kava are the cultural currency. 

Generosity lies at the heart of traditional culture. You only have to look at the images beaming in from Vanuatu and being shared on social media to see the way men, women and children are pitching in together. They cheerfully get on with putting their lives back together piece by shattered piece, yet still finding time to look after tourists stranded by the disaster.

My heart is aching for Tanna now. We have no news of how our traditional "kastom" villages fared. The pot-holed dirt roads are impassable. They live in thatched huts and rely on the gardens for their food. If they are being counted among the 80 per cent on Tanna without shelter right now, life will not be easy. If the crops fail for the traditional villages, it will be disastrous.

But it will be even harder for the villages down near town that rely on money and live in shanty-like accommodation, a mix of galvanised iron and thatched walls and roofing. Although they have some capacity to grown their own food, they do not have the same self-sufficiency as the "kastom" villages or the means to generate much income. The so-called developed world has left them in an awkward halfway house between traditional and western life. And that house just blew down.

In the main town of Lenakel, the island's sole hospital serving 30,000 people has lost its roof. Staff are wading knee deep in water. And yet it's still functioning.  People wouldn't dream of not lending a hand even in those conditions.  Food supplies are running low. Water will only last another week. Belongings have literally been scattered to the winds.

Even at the best of times, getting supplies to Tanna is difficult. We have spent more than a week without fuel waiting for the barge to arrive. Without fuel – which is frighteningly expensive – it's impossible to cover the long distances between hamlets to distribute aid. And aid is what is so urgently, desperately needed. 

When we visit we bring machetes: they are among the most useful tools for subsistence living. That's for the tribal people. For the people in the towns the immediate need is basic food, water and clothing. Aid is really important.

I am touched by friends and family who have so swiftly sent money and supplies to send directly to our friends in Vanuatu.  Australians traditionally have been known as generous people, despite the signal that the slashing of foreign aid sends to our Pacific neighbours.  

The Australian government is sending $5 million in aid and that's welcome.  But that wouldn't even replace the cost of rebuilding five houses in our Sydney street. 

Vanuatu has to rebuild a nation and materials have to be shipped in at substantial cost. Maybe this is a chance for people power to redeem Australia's reputation and give as generously as people in Vanuatu do every time we visit there.

Mary O'Malley is the director of Digital Media Production at UNSW.

This opinion piece was first published in the Sydney Morning Herald.