This Little Piggy Went to Market

“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.