“Well, I'm out of petty cash right
now but if you come back at 3:00 this afternoon I'll have returned
from town and can pay you then.”
With that, Ps Peter, Ps Falau and I
headed back to the car—a bright green Ssaynong Musso.
What's that? Not intimately familiar
with the Ssaynong brand? Well, our family hadn't heard of such a
thing either until we were face to headlights with this unique vehicle.
This Chinese made car/ four wheel drive
truck is a bit of an eye sore but has been a massive blessing to our
family. Not only did it provide us with the ability to get around
the 30 mile wide-50 mile long island we called home for the past two
years, but was used to transport all kinds of goods. This particular day was no
exception.
The two pastors and I had ventured up
the east coast of Espiritu Santo in the island nation of Vanuatu to
sell around 800lbs of root vegetables to Matevulu College. Ps Peter
had called ahead to make sure the president of this vocational
college was going to be around since the last couple of sales had not
gone as planned.
Today was supposed to be different.
Today the president was going to be present. Today we didn't have
the luxury of postponing payment for weeks. Today Ps. Peter and Ps.
Falau needed money to purchase a pig.
Pigs hold a lot of significance in
Vanuatu's culture. They are killed for a host of different special
ceremonies, used in lieu of money, and, as in this case, to show
honor to someone worthy of respect.
Another missionary, Bryan Webb, had
recently returned to the field after being away for two years. He
and his family were to be the guests of honor at a feast to celebrate
their being back in the South Pacific. The reason for the trip that
day—for the sale of goods grown at the Bible training center's
garden—centered around purchasing a pig to be the centerpiece of
this special meal.
“What do you two want to do?” I
asked, leaning against the Kermit colored car-thing.
“I'm not sure missy. We could wait
here until he returns, get the money we're owed, then head up the
East Coast Highway to buy the pig. What do you think we should do?”
Ps. Peter turned the decision to me.
“It's only 10:00am now. We could
wait, but there's really no guarantee this guy's gonna show up at
three.”
“Yes, but the vice-principal said he
would be back around then.”
“Right...but when you talked to the
President, he told you he would be
here—no
exceptions. So, I don't think we can be totally sure he will be
here at three either.”
Falau chimed in, “Why don't we just
head back to the school and then you can go home and rest.”
I love Falau. He is always genuinely
concerned that I am working too hard and need more rest. As I have
written in other posts, there is great effort put forth to ensure the
white missionaries don't overdo it.
And, really, what had I done so far to warrant the need for rest?!
Falau
continued while not making eye contact, “You could take us back to
Jubilee Farm, go back to your house, take a rest, come back to pick
us up again, take us back to collect the money we are owed, then go
to Hog Harbor to purchase the pig. Or...we could just forget the
whole thing. Wanem tingting blong yu (what is your opinion)?”
Here is a little
glimpse into ni-Vanuatu culture. “Wanem tingting blong you?,” a
very important part of decision making conversations in a place which
utilizes indirect communication. Falau knew of a solution. But, to
tell me outright would be “pushy” and might be perceived as
aggressive. Now, to figure out what he was truly wanting me to do.
I'm no good at
puzzles...never have been. So, attempting to decode a message given
indirectly is something I struggle greatly with. Fortunately for me,
this was a pretty easy one to solve.
“Hmm. Alright.
Let's see if this would work. Since we're already halfway to Hog
Harbor, would it be OK if we just continued up to the coast and
bought the pig? Wanem tingting blong yutufala (what do you two
think)?”
“Missy,” Ps
Peter demanded my full attention by forcefully drawing his fore and
middle fingers across my arm. Twice.
“Missy. How
will we pay for the pig?”
“How 'bout I
cover the cost of the pig until you get paid by the college
president?”
Ps. Peter and
Falau glanced toward each other, at which time I caught a small gleam
of approval in their eyes. With smiles playing at the corners of
their mouths, then nodded their consent to my proposal.
I had passed.
The code had been successfully deciphered.
Coconut
plantations whizzed by as the three of us approached the area of Bene
where we were to pick up Ps. Elvis. Elvis had been to the pig farm
before and was coming along for the sole purpose of guiding us along
a series of winding back roads.
We pulled into a
small area of freshly cut grass and waited patiently as Ps. Elvis
went to locate his wife. He had been watching his children as she
was across the street at the church leading a women's Bible study.
After about forty minutes, Pastors Falau, Peter, Elvis, and I climbed
into the Musso with pig on the brain. Each of us seemed excited to
have this experience together.
We all talked
and joked about various things while making our way along the only
paved road on the entire island. Since Ps. Elvis had come along to
serve as our guide, I happily tootled along the road at about 80kmph
while awaiting instructions of where to leave the main road to head
off into the jungle.
In the middle of
answering a question one of the pastors had asked me, I noticed the
feel in the truck had changed. What had just recently been a jovial
atmosphere, was now almost somber. Looking in the rear view mirror,
I couldn't get either Ps. Falau or Ps. Elvis to make eye contact with
me. I then shifted my focus to Ps. Peter who was staring out the
window at nothing in particular.
My immediate
thought was that I had mistakenly said something offensive. I tried
to replay the last few minutes of my still burgeoning Bislama but
couldn't think of anything that could have brought about the current
uneasiness.
The tension
elevated.
Ps. Falau rung
his hands while chewing his lips.
Ps. Elvis
sighed, looking nervously about.
Ps. Peter
shifted in his chair more than a hemorrhoidal patient sitting on a
barrel cactus.
Then a thought
struck me. It seemed far fetched, but I thought I'd ask anyhow.
“Did I miss
the turn?”
No response.
Rats. I did it
again. I asked a very direct question in which to answer in the
affirmative might embarrass or shame me—two big no-nos in this
culture.
Fortunately the
continuing unease and silence told me exactly what I needed to know.
I had indeed missed the turn-off.
Hoping to avoid
missing the road again, I politely asked Ps. Elvis if he would show
me the road since I had never been to this particular destination and
needed his guidance.
This tack was
successful and the four of us were soon bump-a-bumpin' down a
beautiful stretch of unimproved road amongst the tropical beauty that
is Vanuatu.
When we arrived
at our destination, a Chinese woman of about 50 years of age came out
to see what we needed. She spoke neither English nor Bislama and my
Chinese is pretty much limited to pointing toward menu items at
pagoda shaped restaurants.
After a few
feeble attempts to communicate verbally, it was clear that I would,
once again, be playing charades. Fortunately, I like charades.
Pushing my nose
up with my left index finger, I snorted a couple of times. Our
hostess smiled broadly and she motioned for us to follow her.
The pig pens
were expertly crafted and very well maintained. The swine were
separated by age and, therefore, size.
She pointed to
each pen with her left hand and indicated with her right hand how
much the various sizes cost. Each raised finger represented
one-thousand vatu (about $10).
My ni-Vanuatu
companions seemed to think the porkers in the 4000 vatu area would
suit our needs well enough. We then surveyed the pigs, narrowing our
choice to a fine looking little guy. The four of us were all in
agreement on a healthy looking pig about the size of a french bulldog
with a pancake sized dark spot on its right hindquarters.
I switched back
into charade mode to bring the proprietor in on our decision. She,
in turn, expressed that if I wanted the pig, one of us would have to
go in and get it.
I looked to my
companions. They looked at each other, then at me.
“Ps. Elvis?”
I inquired. “You wanna get him?”
Ps. Elvis
chuckled nervously then shook his head no.
“Ps Peter?
You?”
No eye contact.
“Ps. Falau?!”
My good friend
laughed nervously and stated, “No. Bae hemi kaekae mi (he'll bite
me.)”
Looks like it
was my rodeo now.
Vanuatu held a
multitude of surreal experiences. And, how much more crazy can it
get than a skinny white man wrestling a pig belonging to a Chinese
woman in the middle of nowhere? That just doesn't happen everyday!
As I prepared to
hop over the 4' high wooden railing, I looked over at Ps Falau who
was experiencing a major internal conflict. Two main fears waged war
inside him: 1.) Do I put myself in a position of mortal danger? or
(2.) Do I stand idly by while the missionary puts his life on
the line?
Now, if you
recall, this very pastor plead with me not to walk through ankle
length grass because it might cut me. And now?! Now this frail
little missy was about to enter the ring with a live—potentially
man-eating—cob roller? The poor man was trulyconflicted.
Before he had a
chance to object, I was over the fence and staring death in
face...that is...if death comes in the form of shin-high, swishy
tailed, pink, oinking, piggy wiggies.
The pigs didn't
seem to pay much attention to me until I tried to reach down and grab
the one we wanted. Then, things became a little more difficult.
I thought I
could just reach down and grab the desired pig the same as a cat,
dog, or rabbit. My plan was to grab our new pet by the scruff of the
neck and take him over to where the owner was waiting with an empty
50# rice sack. As it turns out, pigs don't really have extra skin to
grab onto. This little bugger's flesh was taught as a trampoline.
He bobbed and wove his way around the other pigs, my legs, and the
feeding trough. Somehow, I finally got him alone and in a corner
where I scooped him up then gave him a bear hug to keep him from
getting away. He squealed, squirmed and flailed the 6' back to the
fence where I shoved him into the white woven bag.
Falau, Elvis,
and Peter were greatly relieved the moment I had some timber between
me and the now startled pig litter.
While the bag
was secured and an air-hole cut, I pulled out my wallet to pay for
our ham-sandwich-to-be.
We waved goodbye
to Ps Elvis after dropping him off at his house. The Musso gained
speed as we drove South toward Jubilee Farm—home to both Ps Falau
and Ps Peter. My facial expression dial was set to “perma-smile”
as I recounted the days events thus far. But, alas, the day was not
yet complete.
About 20 min.
after we left Bene and Ps Elvis, a horrid smell reached through my
nostrils, grabbed the bottom most part of my stomach and attempted to
pull the latter through the former. Since the Musso in all its
wonder does not have AC, all windows were already down. Having
copious amounts of fresh air coming in did little to combat the odor
of pig feces.
I looked in the
rear-view mirror to see how Falau was reacting to our plight. A look
of worry and sorrow gave away that there was more going on in the
back seat than just a pig with bowel issues.
“Missy. The
pig is loose.”
Ps. Peter was
nearly sent through the windshield when I applied every bit of
braking power the Green Bomb could muster.
Upon parking the
car on the shoulder of the road, I crawled back to investigate.
Not only was the
pig loose but it had been doing laps—using its own fecal matter as
a makeshift start/ finish line. What had at once apparently been a
single pile of poo was now spread all over the inside of the rear
interior section of the Chinese manufactured hatchback.
Somehow this
situation needed to be brought under control, but we knew we couldn't
safely open the rear hatch and maneuvering over the top of the rear
seats had plenty of drawbacks.
Due to the
responses back at the pig farm, I figured I was on my own to wrangle
this wee little pig into one of the burlap sacks which had held root
vegetables earlier in the day. How wrong I was.
This was a
crisis situation and before I knew what was going on, Ps. Falau had
the pig by the ears and was dragging it up and over the rear seats
and passing it to Ps. Peter who was already out of the car and ready
with a bag. No sooner was our pig once again confined and Ps. Peter
set off into the jungle to find some very large strong leaves to
clean up the pig's waste.
With the pig
bound and in the rear of the truck-thing, we were back on the road.
A few minutes
passed in silence until we all burst out laughing.
Now there was
only one more hurdle before we could put this wild day to bed.
Bryan was, at
this point, still without a vehicle and needed me to pick him up that
afternoon. Time was quickly running out but we still had a live pig
in the vehicle which was supposed to be a surprise gift to him later
that week.
“Missy. Why
don't you just drive into town with us. We'll all pick up Bryan,
take him where he needs to go, then you can drive us and the pig back
to Jubilee and he'll be none the wiser!” said Ps Peter.
“Sorry Ps.
Peter. I know Bryan has a lot on his mind right now, but I think the
overwhelming smell of pig poop will be a dead giveaway that something
is up,” I replied.
Laughter erupted
anew.
Everything
worked out better than hoped for. The feast in honor of Bryan was
wonderful, the pig tasted excellent thanks to the culinary skills of
Falau, and Bryan was completely surprised by the main course.
I'm sure there
are great benefits to being close to one's food source. I agree
completely. Ya just haven't lived until you've had to wrestle your
dinner.
