Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [32]
Joe leads me to the meetinghouse, a simple open barn structure with benches arranged along both sides, upon which a bunch of men are sitting quietly. The least prepossessing of them stands to greet us: he's small and middle-aged, with an endearing toothy smile when he does smile, but who otherwise boasts a dour countenance not uncommon among people living in the shadow of an erupting volcano. This is their Bigman.
“The chief will now explain the history of the village to you,” Joe announces, getting ready to translate.
“Okay”
And, by golly, he does just that, fleshing out his story in the most phenomenal blow-by-blow detail, but in Bislama. Normally, this would pose no problem for me, of course. But out here in the more remote villages, everyday conversation tends to venture beyond the easy basics of “alo,” “tank yu,” and “banana.” People speak to each other in whole sentences, making it tough for foreigners to understand. Accordingly, seventeen hours later—at least, that's what it feels like—the last word he says is the only one that makes any sense to me at all. And that word is “John.”
Huh?
“Er … I'm sorry, what?” I blink myself awake. “Who's John?”
A BRIEF SUMMARY OF WHAT
THAT GUY WAS JUST SAYING
During World War II, Vanuatu, or the New Hebrides as it was still called at the time, was earmarked as a staging post for the U.S. military. At one point, three hundred thousand troops were stationed here at a base on the main island of Efaté.
On February 15, 1941, or so the story goes, an African American pilot from the Office of Strategic Services, on a mission to find places where the U.S. military could land their aircraft safely, proved why they shouldn't choose Tanna by crashing his, parachuting into the jungle like a flailing marionette, not in one of these newfangled chutes that refuse to open and let you hit the ground while you're still tugging at the cord, but with a real one, one that set him down gently in the vicinity of Namakara.
“Hi, how's everybody doin’? I'm John,” he announced cheerfully to the gathering ni-Van, probably handing out tights and cigars. “John from America.”
Awestruck, the natives instantly began fantasizing that he was the reincarnation of some ancient deity, possibly the rock creature Wuhngin, and started worshiping him.
Unfortunately for them, John's visit was short-lived. Just as they were thinking that their Dawn of Man existence was over and progress was within their grasp, the strange godlike airman was gone. No word on why. My guess is, his parachute got caught in a high wind and he was jerked up into the sky again. From here, as he was being yanked backwards through a chaos of undergrowth and branches, he yelled his lasting promise to the islanders: “Someday I'll return—ouch! Aaagh!—And when I—ouch!—do, I'll bring you—ow! Oh, God, that hurts so much—food and supplies, as well as—aaaaaaaaaghghgh!—twenty thousand soldiers, and we'll—OW! Goddamn freakin’ nettles!—take y'all back—aaaagh, sheeeeeyit!!—to America with us—OW!—okay? Byeeeeeeeee—”
And away he went.
Now, why he would promise to return with twenty thousand soldiers remains a mystery. But many of the natives took him at his word. Fracturing into small religious groups, they raced to make lengthy preparations for John's return, building fake radio towers out of bamboo with tin-can microphones swinging from them, so that he could address his people when he got here; a runway for his aircraft with fake planes on it; and, just to be on the safe side, in case John came by sea, they built a harbor too. They even flew American flags. These are hoisted and lowered daily, while ni-Van men dressed as U.S. soldiers salute them with toy rifles. Finally, once the frenzy of preparations was over, they flopped down, breathless, on the grass, their hopeful eyes pinned on the sky, and waited for John from America to return to Tanna, bringing them his precious cargo of refrigerators and record players and deodorant and whisky, and possibly