Getting Stoned With Savages - J. Maarten Troost [76]
Even the language suggested a frightful existence. Coco, or grass, referred to the chief’s wives, who had been strangled so that they could follow their husband into the afterlife. Lago, or logs, were the men who had been killed so they could be used as rollers for the launching of war canoes. Manumanu-ni-laca, birds-of-the-sail, were dead children from an enemy’s village who had been strung up on the yardarms of a war canoe. This was a culture devoted to killing, and when there wasn’t an enemy around to meet their needs, chiefs took to killing the commoners among them.
Generally, when it came to missionaries, I rooted for the home team. “My god is better than your god” always struck me as an argument that was just a trifle presumptuous. What if the missionaries were wrong? What if the divine creator was actually Isis, the goddess of fertility? She’d be pissed, wouldn’t she? Nevertheless, after just a brief exploration of Fijian history, I couldn’t help but cheer for the Methodists.
The people of Nubutautau, the village where the Reverend Baker was consumed, had begun to feel a little bad about the matter. Indeed, ever since their ancestors ate the reverend, they felt that their village had been plagued with bad luck. To make amends, they’d presented a tabua, or whale’s tooth, to the Methodist Church. If you really want to say you’re sorry in Fiji, do it with a whale’s tooth. Indeed, Sitiveni Rabuka, the army colonel who led Fiji’s first coup in 1987, had sent a whale’s tooth to Queen Elizabeth, the titular head of Fiji, demonstrating that he was very sorry for upsetting her with the coup, wouldn’t do it again, promise, now can we please rejoin the Commonwealth? The whale’s tooth that Nubutautau gave to the Methodist Church was displayed in the museum together with a photo of the Reverend Baker’s great-grandniece, who had traveled to the village to participate in a forgiveness ceremony. Makes you feel all soft and fuzzy inside, doesn’t it?
Now why, I wondered, couldn’t other national museums be like this one? Not only did the Fiji Museum contain compelling artifacts like the remains of the Reverend Baker’s boot, but it also displayed random curios for no other reason than the simple fact that they happened to be in Fiji—things like the rudder of the Bounty. The mutiny had nothing to do with Fiji, though Captain Bligh and the loyalists did sail through the islands on their way to Java, but Bligh wisely declined to make landfall in Fiji lest the sole of his shoe also one day join the museum’s collection. Even the walking sticks were fascinating to behold. They were made of human bones, circa 1850. See what I mean? It’s fun for the whole family.
Once the shower had passed, we started walking toward the center of Suva. With Sylvia beside me, the pssts had stopped, though here and there, I’d receive a friendly hello from the ladies of the night.
“And who was that?” Sylvia asked.
“That was Ramona.”
“And did you meet many women during your week alone in Suva?”
“Many women. They’re very friendly in Suva. But Ramona’s not actually a woman.”
“Ramona’s not a woman?”
“Fooled me too.”
It was a strange time to be in Suva. The number of women—and men—who had turned to prostitution attested to how convulsive the coup had been for people in Fiji. It had been a particularly traumatic experience for those in Suva. The front man had been George Speight, a ne’er-do-well son of a politician. He and his co-conspirators