ESPIRITU SANTO AND A CANNIBAL FEAST
For two days we developed films and plates. On the third, we attended
what might be called the New Year’s celebration of Vao. Fires are made
among the islanders by the primitive method by rubbing two sticks
together. Though the operation takes only a minute, the savages are too
lazy to light a fire every time they need one, so once a year, in the
largest house of the village, they make a big fire, which is kept
burning to furnish embers from which all the other fires may be lighted.
At the end of the year, the fire is put out with great solemnity, and a
new one is lighted. The ceremony lasts all day and all night. It is
called “killing the Mankki.”
On the morning of the festivities, bush natives began to arrive before
daylight. The young boys of Vao served as ferrymen. A group of men would
come down to the beach at Malekula and shout across the water, and the
Vao boys would put out in their funny little crooked canoes—for wood is
so scarce that even bent trees are made to do duty as dugouts—and bring
back a load of passengers. Natives came from other islands near by. By
night, there were more than a thousand people on the islands.
From early in the morning, there was dancing and pig-killing in the
clearings of the three villages. The different tribes did not mingle
together. One group would come out of the bush into the clearing, dance
its dance, kill a score or so of pigs, and then retire into the bush
again.
It was bad weather for photography. It rained all day—a fine, drizzling
rain. But I worked hard, hoping to secure some good film, for the dances
were unusually interesting. One especially good dance was a snake dance,
in which the natives brandished small snakes tied to coconut leaves.
They are deadly afraid of snakes. They have a saying that holds good
pretty much the world over, to the effect that snakes with blunt tails
are always poisonous and those with long, pointed tails are harmless. I
noted that the snakes used for the dance were very small and of a
long-tailed variety. At the end of the dance each man killed his snake
and fed it to a pig. Then each man killed a pig.
The slaughter of pigs was enormous. I am sure some five hundred must
have been killed during the day—far more than could be eaten. As each
pig was killed, his tusks were removed and placed upon platforms that
had been erected to hold them. Pigs’ tusks are always carefully
preserved. They ornament the houses. They form necklaces for the
devil-devils. They are placed in the crotches of trees.
I was convinced, as the day wore on, that pork was not the only meat on
the bill of fare. It seemed to me that I was at last hot on the trail of
cannibalism; the men from Malekula had brought with them strange
packages wrapped in leaves, which, I suspected, contained human flesh.
The action of the blacks confirmed my suspicion, for they guarded their
packages carefully, and would not let me come near with my cameras.
They were threatening in their attitude all day. Even my tobacco did not
thaw them out. The Vao people tolerated me, in return for a case of
tobacco, but their eyes were far from friendly, and the old men muttered
evilly every time they looked our way.
By dark things were getting lively. The mob of savages surged back and
forth from one village to another, shouting and singing. I made a great
discovery for thirsty America—that people can actually get drunk on
imagination. The natives had no intoxicating liquor. Their only drink
was water, and yet they lurched drunkenly when they walked, and sang as
only drunken men and women sing.
I did not see the fire put out and the new one built. As it grew later,
the mob became wilder. I began to think of the long, dark trail to the
bungalow, where we would be absolutely at the mercy of lurking savages,
and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. So Osa and I
went home. We slept with our guns handy—and we did not sleep much at
that, for the boo-boos sounded all night and the shouting and singing
sometimes surged very near.
We spent the next few days in visits to the northern coast of Malekula,
but we did not dare venture inland, for the attitude of the natives was
at once suspicious and threatening. We talked the matter over and
decided that we had seen about enough of Malekula and Vao and might as
well pursue our investigations elsewhere. Espiritu Santo was some forty
miles away. In the southern portion there was reported to be a race of
dwarfs, and cannibalism was said to be general there, as on Malekula. We
had almost despaired of getting actual proof that man ate man in the New
Hebrides. We ourselves had seen enough to be convinced that “long pig”
was on many a bill of fare, but we could not prove anything; for, since
the Government metes out severe punishment to eaters of human flesh, the
savages are careful not to be caught at their ghoulish feasts. Still,
our luck might turn, we thought, if we changed islands, and we should
find the evidence we had been seeking for so many weeks.
The very day after we made this decision, a small cutter nosed into the
passage between Vao and Malekula. The owner was a full-blooded Tongan
trader, named Powler. He was on his way to get some coconuts he had
bought from a native on an island near by, but he promised to return in
a few days and take us to Santo. When he arrived, we had our equipment
packed and were ready to go aboard. The natives helped us with a will
and showed real regret at parting with us, for they knew that they would
never again get so much tobacco in return for so little work.
The wind was favorable, and we fairly flew along. Shortly after dark we
anchored off Tongoa, a small island a stone’s throw from Santo. To my
great delight, Powler agreed to remain with us. He was a great,
good-natured giant, never out of sorts and strong as an ox. I wished we
had met with him sooner. The natives trusted him. His dark skin and his
ability to grasp the languages of the island tribes stood him in good
stead. Besides, he had the reputation, among both natives and whites, of
being absolutely honest in his dealings—a trait as rare in the South
Seas as elsewhere. In his company, we went ashore early on the morning
after our arrival.
We found the men of Santo, who gathered on the beach to greet us, quite
different in type from the Malekula bush savages. They were smaller and
more gracefully built. They wore flowers and feathers in their hair.
They had a curious custom of removing part of the bone that divides the
nostrils so that the bridges of their noses had fallen in and they
appeared to be always scowling. To enhance their fierceness still
further, they put sticks through their noses.
Such nose ornaments are characteristic of the blacks of the South Seas.
The Solomon Islander wears a ring fashioned from bone or shell and
highly polished and ornamented. The native of Santa Cruz adorns himself
with a piece of polished tortoise-shell shaped like a padlock. But the
man of the New Hebrides thrusts into his nose anything that he happens
upon—usually a stick picked up along the trail.
To my great delight, the Santo men wore a geestring of calico. As I have
said before, the dress of the men of Malekula, if you can call it dress,
draws attention to their sex rather than conceals it. On my first visit
among them, I had taken motion-pictures of them as they were. When I
returned to America, I found that naked savages shocked the public. Some
of my best films were absolutely unsalable. On this second trip,
accordingly, I managed, whenever possible, to persuade the savages to
wear geestrings or loin-cloths or aprons of leaves. Since “costuming”
was very difficult (the blacks, naturally enough, could see no reason
for it), I was glad that I should not have to spend time in persuading
the men of Santo to put on more clothing.
At daybreak on the following morning, we started for the hills. With us
were Powler and three of his boys and fifteen trustworthy Tongoa
natives. We were bound for a village of pottery-makers—but we never got
there. We had tramped for about three hours when we came suddenly upon a
group of little men. They were too surprised to run, and too frightened.
They were all, with the exception of one of their number who carried a
gun as big as he was, armed with bows and arrows, but they did not show
any hostility. Instead, they just gathered close together and stared at
us in terror.
These were the dwarfs I had heard about. I got out some presents for
them. Soon their timidity wore off, and I persuaded them to walk one by
one under my outstretched arm. Although their fuzzy wool stood out in
great bushy mops, not a hair touched my arm as they passed under. There
were sixteen of them, all told. Five were old fellows with grizzled
whiskers, ten were of middle age, and one, the tallest of them all, was
a boy of about fifteen.
We settled down near a stream and I took pictures as long as the light
lasted. That night, our little friends camped close by, and the next
day, when we set out for the beach, they followed us. We showed them
everything we had in our trunks. They were as pleased as children, and,
when I allowed the old chief to shoot my big automatic revolver, he
fairly danced with excitement.
[Illustration: DWARFS OF ESPIRITU SANTO]
The next day, I sent messengers into the hills to hunt for a chief about
whom Mr. King had told us. This chief had achieved a great reputation as
a prophet and a worker of magic. A year before, he had been nobody—just
a savage. Then he had gone mad. He had once been recruited as a member
of the crew of a mission ship, where he had heard hymns and Bible
stories, which he now adapted to his own use. He told the natives there
was going to be a great flood, which would cover Santo. He himself,
however, would not be drowned, for he was going to bring Hat Island, a
little island off the coast, over to rest on Santo Peak. Hat Island was
a barren and undesirable piece of real estate, but the prophet said that
he had made arrangements to have twenty European steamers come regularly
with food and tobacco for the inhabitants. Since he had been fairly
successful in foretelling the weather, the natives believed in him, and
each clamored for a place on Hat Island. But the salvation offered by
the old savage came high. Reservations on Hat Island could be secured
only at the price of ten pigs each. Soon the prophet had cornered most
of the pigs in that section of Santo. Seeing his power, he raised the
price of admission. He secured, in addition to the pigs, the most
desirable women in the vicinity. In fact, he appropriated everything he
wanted, and occasionally he ran _âmok_ and killed several of his
compatriots—as he said, to put the fear of God into them.
The next recruiter that came to Santo was besieged with savages begging
to be allowed to go to work on copra plantations. He soon learned that
the natives had not suddenly grown industrious, but that even work
seemed pleasant in contrast with the reign of terror of the inspired
chief. The chief saw possibility of profit in the desire of his people
to escape and made the recruiter pay heavily in tobacco and calico for
every native taken away.
Reports of his rule had reached the Government officers at Vila, and
Commissioner King, who had sent for him several times to no avail, had
given me a letter to present to the old fellow, in case I should go to
Santo. I now sent word to the chief that I had an important message that
could be delivered only to him in person. To my surprise, two days after
the message had been delivered, the prophet appeared.
I had made everything ready for a motion-picture show to entertain my
pigmies. Just before dark, as I was testing my projector, thirty armed
natives came down the beach. The dwarfs wanted to run, but we made them
understand that we would protect them, and they huddled behind us,
frightened, but with perfect faith in our ability and readiness to take
care of them in any crisis.
The newcomers were a nasty-looking lot. The prophet, ridiculous in a
singlet and overalls and a high hat, came up to me with no sign of
hesitation and held out his hand. I could distinguish words in the
greeting he grunted at me, but they had no connection. His eyes were
bloodshot and wild, his lips were abnormally red, and he drooled as he
talked.
I presented Commissioner King’s letter, which was an imposing document
with a red official seal. In high-sounding language it enjoined the
chief to give me and my party every possible aid, and ended with an
invitation to his prophetic highness to come to Vila on the Euphrosyne
the next time she passed that way and the promise that he would not be
harmed if he would do so.
When the prophet saw the red seal, his assurance fell from him, and he
rolled his eyes in terror.
“Me sick; me sick,” he repeated over and over. I tried to explain that
Commissioner King realized that he was sick, and for that very reason
wanted to see him and help him, but I doubt if he understood anything I
said.
After dark, we started the show. The dwarfs chattered and giggled like
children, but our other guests were unsmiling and ominously silent. Only
the prophet kept talking. One of the boys told me afterward that he was
telling his men that he had sent for me in order to work his magic
through me—that I and my projector had nothing to do with the pictures;
he himself was responsible.
But halfway through the performance he apparently began to doubt his
power. Rocking back and forth, he repeated over and over, “By-em-by me
die, by-em-by me die.” He was looking forward to the day when he would
be captured and carried off to Vila and, as he imagined, put to death. I
was glad when the show was over and the prophet and his followers
withdrew for the night. It had not been an especially merry evening.
Early next morning a delegation of the prophet’s followers sought me out
and begged me to take their chief by force to Vila and have him hanged.
“He bad. He takem plenty pigs; he takem plenty women; he killem plenty
men,” they explained.
I was sorry for them, but I could do nothing. I tried to make them
understand that I had nothing to do with the Government and consequently
no authority to arrest a man, but I could see that they did not quite
believe me. They went off muttering to themselves.
In a few minutes they departed with their chief in quest of a certain
kind of shellfish to be found about five miles up the beach, and we
decided to take advantage of their absence and visit one of the villages
in the prophet’s territory.
We walked for about three hours without seeing any signs of a village.
Then we heard, faint in the distance, the sound of a tom-tom. Soon we
were within hearing of a chanted song. We advanced with caution, until
we reached the edge of a village clearing. From behind a clump of bushes
we could watch the natives who danced there. The dance was just the
ordinary native hay-foot, straw-foot, around the devil-devils in the
center of the clearing, now slow, now gradually increasing in tempo
until it was a run.
What interested me was the feast that was in preparation. On a long
stick, over the fire, were a dozen pieces of meat. More meat was
grilling on the embers of another fire. On leaves near by were the
entrails of the animal that was cooking. I do not know what it was that
made me suspect the nature of this meat. It certainly was not much
different in appearance from pork. But some sixth sense whispered to me
that it was not pork.
The savages had no suspicion of our nearness. As a matter of fact, the
keenness of sight and hearing that primitive peoples are generally
credited with are entirely lacking in the New Hebrideans. Many a time
Osa and I have quietly crept up to a native village and stolen away
again without being detected. Often on the trail we have literally run
into blacks before they realized that we were approaching. Even the
half-starved native dogs have lost their alertness. More than once I
have come suddenly on a cur and laughed at him as he rolled over
backward in an attempt to escape. With the natives lost in a dance, we
were quite safe.
For an hour we watched and took long-range photographs. The dance
continued monotonously. The meat sizzled slowly over the fire—and
nothing happened. Then I gave one of the Tongoa boys who accompanied us
a radium flare and told him to go into the clearing, drop the flare into
the fire, and run to one side out of the picture. He did as I asked him.
The natives stopped dancing and watched him as he approached. He threw
the flare into the fire and jumped aside. As they stooped down close to
the flame to see what he had thrown there, the flare took fire and sent
its blinding white light into their faces. With a yell they sprang back
and ran in terror directly toward us. When they saw us, they stopped so
quickly that they almost tumbled backward. Then they turned and ran in
the opposite direction. The half-minute flare had burned out; so they
grabbed the meat from the fire and carried it with them into the bush.
[Illustration: THE CANNIBAL DANCE]
My boys sprang into the clearing. I, with my camera on my shoulder, was
just behind them. When I came up to them, they were standing by the
fire, looking at the only remnant of the feast that was left on the
embers. It was a charred human head, with rolled leaves plugging the
eye-sockets.
I had proved what I had set out to prove—that cannibalism is still
practiced in the South Seas. I was so happy that I yelled. After
photographing the evidence, I wrapped the head carefully in leaves, to
take away with me. We picked the fire over, but could find no other
remainder of the gruesome feast. In one of the huts, however, we
discovered a quantity of human hair, laid out on a green leaf, to be
made into ornaments.
Some of the cannibals returned and, from a distance, watched us search
their huts. I then took their pictures. They grinned into the camera, as
innocent as children.
We arrived at the beach a little after dark. Powler had shot some
pigeons, fried their breasts, and made a soup from the remainder, and he
had cut down a coconut tree and made a salad of the heart. We did full
justice to the meal. After it was over, we sat and admired the roasted
head—at least I admired it. Osa did not think much of it. As for Powler,
he tried in vain to conceal that he thought me absolutely crazy to care
so much about an old charred head.
The next day, while I was printing pictures on the beach, a delegation
of cannibals appeared on the scene. They were good-natured and friendly.
I showed them a big mirror. It was apparently the first they had ever
seen. They were awed and puzzled, touching the glass with cautious
fingers and looking behind the mirror suddenly, to surprise whoever
might be fooling them. I photographed them as they peered at their
reflection and grimaced like a bunch of monkeys. We invited them to
luncheon. Their favorite dish of “long pig” was not on the bill of fare.
But they ate our trade salmon and biscuits with gusto and smacked their
lips over the coffee that Osa made for them—the first they had ever
tasted. They remained with us until the following day, when we picked up
our apparatus and sailed off on the first lap of our journey home.
In seven months in the New Hebrides I had exposed twenty-five thousand
feet of film, and had, besides, about a thousand “stills.” I was well
satisfied with my work; for I knew that my pictures would help the
Western world to realize the life lived by the fast-disappearing
primitive races of the earth; and I had actual evidence—my long-range
photographs and the charred head that I so carefully cherished—that
cannibalism is still practiced in the islands of the South Seas.
THE END
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.