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| A candidate for a chief |
Chief Roy Mata had 50 wives and when he died, all of them were buried
alive together with him. Chief Roy Mata brought peace to the
archipelago of Vanuatu, so the legend says. He came from the east and
subdued all other chiefs on Efate and its neighbouring islands, this
is how the peace came. During his time going to war was punishable by
death. When he died, all his wives and all the subordinate chiefs
were buried with him. This is what the legend says. The place where
he has been buried is sacred and is the object of pilgrimages to this
day.
In the 1960s a French archaeologist Jose Garanger excavated the place
where Roy Mata is supposed to have been buried. There he found a
skeleton decorated with signs of chiefly power and other skeletons,
whose hands and feet had been bound. Information about the
excavation, illustrated with many pictures, can be seen today in the
National Museum in Port Vila.
A chief in Vanuatu could have several wives. If this was the case,
the wives had to be obedient, or else they could end up on a dinner
plate (this is not my description, it was used in a conversation with
me by Hardiman, a native of Vanuatu). In Vanuatu human flesh vanished
from the menu only 1960ties. It wasn't necessarily prisoners that
were on that menu. The immediate family was at hand all the time and
for a chief who had several wives, tens of children and perhaps a
hundred grandchildren a plump grandchild for supper was not a big
deal. Still in the early 1980s a chief at Malekula island decided to
have a juicy grandson for supper but the would be meal sniffed what
was going on and legged it. Today he drives a bus in Port Vila, the
capital of the country. My interlocutor, Hardiman, knows him very
well. Hardiman knows many people in Port Vila, he has an arts and
crafts shop on the main street there.
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| Plaited houses on Pentecost island |
Welcome to Vanuatu, a paradise archipelago, where some of the islands
have no roads, no cars, no electricity, no running water, no concrete
buildings, all buildings plaited of bamboo and bound with forest
vine. All buildings: houses, churches, schools, nakamals. A nakamal
is a main building in a village, all public ceremonies are conducted
either in it or on a square in front. Welcome in Vanuatu, which does
not have an army and the whole police force is less than 600 men. On
some islands there are no policemen at all. Where there are no
police, the whole power is in the hands of village chiefs.
Eating human flesh is now illegal in Vanuatu but whoever wants to
become a chief has to prove that he can kill. The victims are pigs
nowadays. During the ceremony of a nomination of a new chief they
wait turn quietly (or sometimes not so quietly), tied to a palm tree
on a plaza in front of a nakamal. A band playing on slit drums sits
next to the entry to the nakamal. A throng of dancers circles the
victim. The candidate for a chief is easily recognisable, he is the
one who wields an axe. At the correct moment the axe splits the pigs
scull, the pig falls in convulsions, blood running down its snout.
The dancers in the meantime circle another victim. (This is no
literary fiction, I witnessed a ceremony like this on Pentecost
island).
Pentecost Island is long and narrow, stretching from north to south.
Some tourists go to the southern part to see an initiation ceremony
that includes jumping head first from a platform with vines tied to
the ankles. The jumper does not hit the ground, thanks to the vines
at his ankles he ends up dangling just above but he has to show his
stamina by jumping head first. No tourists go to the northern part of
the island where I witnessed the initiation ceremony that included
head splitting. I was the only white person there. The northern part
of the island is, however, a place from which the intellectual elite
of the country comes. At the airport (which consists of a grass air
strip and a kiosk) I rubbed shoulders with a deputy prime minister
and an attorney general who were visiting their families. Both
carried a characteristic stick of a chief which meant that both once
had to split a head of a pig. The candidate whom I saw dancing with
an axe in his hand was a well known doctor who had a practice in the
capital. Pastor Walter Lini, the first prime minister of the
republic, also came from here and is buried here. There is a figure
on his tomb holding, of course, the chief's stick.
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| Vanuatu folk dress |
Tanna is the place where most tourists to Vanuatu come, the biggest
attraction being Yasur Volcano. This is supposedly the most easily
accessible active volcano in the world. One can drive a land rover to
its foot, walk the last hundred metres to the rim of the crater ond
look into the fire spitting throat of Hell. The airport of Tanna is
not just a long bit of lawn, it is a proper tarmacked air strip used
by big airliners. The airport is close to the town of Lenakel, called
Black Man Town by locals, although the only reason to call it a town
is that not all the buildings are made of bamboo. There are a few
concrete buildings there, among them shops, a bank, even restaurants.
I was there with my little friend Gibson, a grandson of chief Jack.
He walked there holding my hand and watching the big world with wide
open eyes.
Lenakel is the big world for Gibson. He lives on the other side of
the island, in a village called Iatapu. It is so called “kastom
vilij”, where tourists may come and take photos of the natives in
their traditional costumes. On Tanna the traditional costume of men
consists exclusively of a penis sheath, of course much bigger than
the penis itself and always sticking up. The costume of women is a
skirt made of grass that also cover the rear, but does not cover
breasts. The villagers of Iatapu put these costumes only when
tourists come there to see the traditional dances and pay for the
privilege of taking photos. For the money earned thus they buy normal
clothes they wear every day. Only adults wear clothes, though.
Children, like my little friend Gibson, run around naked.
I know this because I stayed in that village for several days. I saw
tourists coming with cameras and the villagers taking their clothes
off for their sake. When I was in the village, little Gibson followed
me everywhere holding my hand, in his birthday suit of course. Only
when we went to Lenakel, the Black Man Town, they gave him a pair of
trousers. I have no idea why he liked me so much, I couldn't even
talk to him as he didn't speak English. When I had to leave, little
Gibson cried. We were sitting at my last breakfast,Gibson on my lap
and his grandfather, chief Jack, with me at the table.
“You
can take him with you if you want to”, said chief jack.
“What
do you mean? He would cry for his mum and dad. His mum and dad would
cry as well.”
Maybe they would cry but you would give him power and in the future
he would help the community..”
Chief Jack was saying this absolutely seriously.
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| My friend Gibson |
You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".
