A Yankee doctor in paradise

by S. M. Lambert

The donor of several boars with curled tusks is immediately exalted. Such things are important to the great Tamaz; for when a high-grade native dies his soul goes to a high-grade heaven. The commoner, known as “man rubbish,” must do with a pretty cheap Hereafter. Spiritual merit is achieved at the great ritual, but there is a minor ceremony known as “killing small,” which is more practical. Here the donor merely taps his pigs on the back, to show that they will be sacrificed when the time comes. The idea is to hold a surplus of pork, which might otherwise all be eaten at one grand party.

The Big Pig Ceremony goes on for weeks of splendidly rhythmed dancing, warriors chanting the saga of the tribe, grandees parading in elaborate masks while many curl-tuskers die for glory.

Sometimes a white man with an eye to business has gained chieftainship through feats of pig culture. One I knew attained high nobility by offering his collection of freaks. He took his rank seriously and went about in complete undress, save for a nambas and a pair of curled tusks around his neck. A friend who had known him in his other life asked him aboard his yacht, and was so shocked by the white chiefs fashionable nudity that he wouldn’t let him stay to dinner unless he put on a bath towel.

All through the New Hebrides there is a carefully guarded strain of sows which produce a certain number of pseudo-hermaphrodites with every litter; they produce them consistently and have a special name among breeders. I didn’t believe this until I saw several alleged bisexuals being tenderly cared for. Undoubtedly they had both male and female characteristics, but in every case one sex or the other predominated. They could not breed, of course; but I was informed that they were amorous. There was a general opinion that only the matrilinear people bred these ragwe for high sacrifice and that the patrilinear groups shunned them as devil-devils.

The communistic New Hebridean builds a stockade around his vegetable patch in order to keep out the roving pigs. With no knowledge of crop rotation he moves his garden every year. Neighbors pile in to help him break ground, and he reciprocates. He cleans his patch when the neurav blossoms and harvests his yams when the cicada sings. And here’s where the pig comes in, literally. Tribal law permits the yam-grower to shoot the low-bred trespassing hog. But if the interloper happens to be a tusked boar, hands off. Shoot him and you’re fined in pigs of equivalent value; or else the owner goes gunning for you. Hence many very ugly pig wars.

The pig-poor commoner can’t afford polygamy; women are scarce. Multiple marriage is a luxury for the rich, and for surprising reasons. I asked a wealthy chief on Aoba how many wives he had. Oh, about six, he guessed, but one of them might have died “of a pain in the heart.” He had about a hundred pigs to take care of and they were increasing so fast he’d need at least two more wives.

Pigs were increasing, humans thinning out. That was true of almost all the islands I visited. In most districts the birth of boys far exceeded the birth of girls—a danger signal that marks the decline of population.

******

Finally we were working into the forests of Malekula which Mr. Smith-Rewse thought too dangerous for a white doctor to tackle. Shaggy black men, each wearing a chronic scowl and a beard that would rival a Scottish terrier’s, lurked and peered or trooped down on us with their handy muskets. To make even an approximately accurate hookworm-survey was like trying to pry buttons from a live rattlesnake. When it came to yaws I found the men more obliging, for here as elsewhere they admired the needle, which New Hebridean pidgin called “stick medicine.” It was a trifle disconcerting, however, to “needle” a man who squatted with a loaded rifle across his knees, ready to repel a surprise attack from Little Nambas or to rebuke a Foundation doctor whose technique proved unsatisfactory.

A few years earlier the Nambas, Big or Little, had fallen upon white planters, butchered and eaten them. Then an Anglo-French naval force landed on a punitive expedition. They made about fifteen miles inland, burned some houses—and never saw a native. Another night came on, and the Commander knew that people were hiding in the bush; there was desultory firing and a few casualties. The landing party retreated in the early morning, the bush-fellows picking them off as they ran helter-skelter for their ship and safety. Their retreat was scattered, with wounded men and abandoned firearms. The forest cackled its jeering laughter, “Why don’t you come and get us?” The hidden savages had tied guns to the trees so that muzzles covered the trail. They had fastened long strings to the triggers and sheltered themselves behind rocks where they could pull at a safe distance—an old Malekula trick. There was plenty of meat for the ovens that night; and when the bad news straggled back to Vila the bi-national Government decided that there should be no more reprisals. Natives must be approached with tact. That was about the only policy the Condominium ever decided on, and we followed it, you may believe, in our subsequent task of cleaning the uncleanable. Working on my findings of 1925, I sent Inspector Tully down there, and later some of our best N.M.P.’s. What they accomplished in the face of native perversity was quite remarkable, and they had good government backing. Tully reported that one mission body rather resented his coming into their areas, because they had been charging a fairly stiff price for yaws injections, and we were giving them free. The missionary attitude was understandable, for we were buying the drug much cheaper than they could; and after we furnished them our source of supply and gave them the advantage of exchange, the difficulty was ironed out. When the missionaries charged for treatments the natives were more than willing to pay. The “needle” was always immensely popular with them.