Getting Stoned With Savages - J. Maarten Troost [45]
“Turn to page one-fourteen,” he said. “Do you see?” He jabbed at the page. “That’s me.”
The entry to which he referred read, in its entirety: “In the village on Wala Island, George’s Guestroom is small, for one or two people.”
“Well, George,” I said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
We ambled along the beach back toward Rose Bay Bungalows, which was also described on page 114 of the Lonely Planet guide to Vanuatu, just below the entry for George’s Guestroom. “Traditional bungalows,” it read, along with “intoxicating surroundings” and, most important, “the food is good.” I thought of suggesting to George that it might be time to hire a new publicist.
“So what do you want to do on Malekula?” George asked. He was, apparently, the self-appointed guide for this part of the island.
“Well, I think I’d like to talk to a cannibal, if there happens to be one around.”
George nodded. “Yes, we eat the man here.”
Really.
“In time past.”
“Ah…well, is there anyone around who remembers eating a man?”
“Yes,” George said. “There is an old man on Wala Island. He eat the man.”
“Do you think I might be able to talk to him?” I asked hopefully. I hadn’t the remotest idea of what exactly I would say to him. Cultural sensitivity and cannibalism, I found, did not blend easily.
George indicated that it wouldn’t be a problem. This pleased me, and I happily agreed to all his suggestions for enhancing my stay on Malekula—kastom dancing, a trip to Wala Island. What I really wanted to do, however, was to learn as much about cannibalism as possible. I had read that there was an old cannibal village up in the hills above Wala.
“Botko,” George said. “It is a Small Namba cannibal village.”
“Could I go up there?”
“I will see.”
George joined me for dinner, canned corned beef and rice with slices of pumpkin and papaya, prepared by Peter’s daughter. I made a mental note to send a letter to Lonely Planet. This was the typical outer island grub I had been hoping to avoid eating. It was, in fact, that promising phrase “the food is good” that had induced me to stay here. What was it about Pacific Islanders and their canned corned beef? Paul Theroux theorized that the people of Oceania enjoyed corned beef because it reminded them of human flesh. Could be, I thought as I picked at the gristle. I washed the victuals down with rainwater. George and Peter spoke together in their language. It was quite a serious discussion, I gathered. At length, Peter said, “You want to speak to one old man who eat the man?”
“Yes,” I said, wiping my mouth. “If it’s not too much trouble. I’m curious about the traditional customs on Malekula.”
“That old man,” Peter said, “he died last month.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” I paused for a moment. “Is there anyone in this area who may have witnessed the eating of a man? Could I speak to that person?”
“Yes,” George said. “There is also an old woman on Wala Island who saw her father eat the man.”
“Do you think I might be able to speak to her?”
“Yes,” George said. “I will arrange it.”
He and Peter discussed the matter further. Something was afoot, I deduced. Either George really wanted to get me over to Wala Island, or Peter really didn’t want me talking to cannibals. I left them to their discussion, thanking them effusively for their hospitality, and made my way back to my bamboo bungalow.
Within moments I was pathetically lost. It was a moonless, overcast night. I had forgotten to bring the courtesy kerosene lantern, and I stumbled about in the darkness for a small eternity. Somehow I had lost the footpath. I walked into trees. I had a half-dozen thrilling encounters with spiderwebs. I found myself inches from toppling down a steep gully. Okay, I thought, listening to the waves fracturing on the beach. The ocean is there. If I turn around and walk diagonally away from the ocean, I will reach the