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The Cannibals.

Joaquin the Spaniard and I sat at the bar talking late in the afternoon. As usual, Nathon Town on Koh Samui island in Thailand was stinking hot. Running the fans onto yourself just made the salt crystallize on your skin like grains of white sand. The occasional breeze coming off the sea nearby brought coolness but also set up little whirlwinds of dust in the street which settled on the tables and the bar. Mai pen lai.

Better to let the perspiration run and learn to live with it, or just go and sit in the air-conditioned bank on the corner. But you could not drink in there and drinking is what Joaquin and I were doing on this particular day. We had decided that we were quite lucky to be alive and well on the island, so we were celebrating.

Joaquin had finished his days work re-wiring the lights for a small resort. My days work never really finished; I ran the bar when I was on the island. Other times I spent up in Bangkok working with computers. Joaquin had a bar and restaurant also, but he was not opening until the high tourist season. Right now was "dead season".

Above the bar, amongst the weird mixture of American Indian, Thai Antique and Harley Davidson paraphernalia was a poster. On the poster were 9 pictures of natives with crazy hair styles. Joaquin looked up at the poster. "I been mean to ask you, what are these people up here" he said as he pointed his Singha Beer bottle at the poster.

"Those are the nine great chiefs of Fiji, the one in the middle is the guy who gave Fiji to the British to stop the cannibal wars." I said. "The what?" asked Joaquin. "The cannibal wars" I repeated. "At the end of the last century, the whole of the island nation of Fiji was at war". "The country was split up into several main regions and tribes and they were all fighting for control of the country." I told Joaquin.

"Go on, tell me about that, for this thing I am very interested to know" said Joaquin. I went on; "The sale of sandalwood and beech de’mer to the French and British traders had allowed the tribes to purchase firearms from the black marketeers. Of course, once armed with these weapons the wars became very bad, very bloody".

"The Fijians were cannibals - they usually killed all the warriors in the loosing tribe in a war and then ate some of the flesh. That one Chief in the middle, King Cakobau, went to Britain and asked the British to take over the government of the country and save his people."

I looked up at the wall to the poster there. The crazy hair styles looked like something out of a London punk neighborhood, standing up on end, big wedges of hair, cut in stripes and stars, all weird. My mind began to drift back to my days in Fiji working with these people.

"You know Joaquin" I said to the Spaniard, "once I was up in Vanua Levu, the second largest island in the group". I paused to take a sip on my beer and looked up again at the poster. "I was invited to a big ceremony up in a village in the mountains. My Fijian friends had told me that no foreigners had been up to this village for over ten years, so they’d make a special welcome for me".

"One of the sons of the chief of the village had ‘come of age’ and the ceremony was about various initiations he had to go through over a period of days". I began to relate my visit to the village to Joaquin.

"We walked for a whole day to get up there, I was so tired when we arrived. The people of the village came out and made a great fuss about the arrival of this white man in their midst."

"The chief and his wife greeted us and my friends and I were invited to sit with he and his family in his ‘bure’ (a Fijian style house). Once seated the inevitable drinks of yaqona were served. This drink is made from the roots of a plant of the pepper family and contains a small amount of sedating and intoxicating drug. The drink is common by the day in Fiji. As we drank several of the ‘boys’ sitting around began to clap their hands and sing a local song. The rhythm of the singing worked together with the yaqona drink and in not too much time I was clapping and singing along, thoroughly intoxicated and enjoying every minute".

"Six women walked in wearing grass skirts and ‘tapa’ top covers. Tapa is a kind of cloth made from the bark of the paperbark tree. They began to dance, swaying their massive hips and breasts in time with the singing and clapping. I became completely mesmerized, I was transported to another time. A time in which the victor ate the flesh of the defeated".

"Food was brought. The dancing continued. The night went on and eventually beer and whisky were brought out. We moved out of the bure and all sat around a large fire they had set up in the middle of the village compound. In the distance I could hear screams. It was the boy being initiated. I asked what they were doing to him but nobody cared to tell me other than to let me know ‘never mind, it hurts very much’. More plates and bowls with food were brought and the chief indicated to me to come over and sit by him".

"I obeyed his request and sat by him. An old man with a dry and heavily wrinkled face and eyes that appeared to glow with some ancient knowledge and power. A young man came up to the chief bowing very low and holding a large ceramic jar in his hands. He passed the jar to the chief while keeping his head down and below the level of the chief’s head. The jar looked very old and had a cork stopper in the top".

"In good English the chief said to me ‘here I have something interesting for you to try. It is meat of the special pig and is pickled’. He took the top of the jar and indicated for me to take a sniff of the contents. I did so and found the smell to be quite pleasant - acrid but pleasant. The chief went on. ‘This jar was prepared by my great grandfather over 100 years ago’. ‘What? He made the jar 100 years ago?’ I asked. ‘No’ said the chief ‘he prepared the meat 100 years ago. He passed it on to my grandfather who in turn passed it on to my father. Such is how it came to me. It is special meat we only use during the ceremony of the coming of age of my sons so that they may take my place after my time is done’ ".

"He reached into the jar with a sharp piece of bamboo and skewered out a small lump of black meat. He placed this in his mouth and chewing said ‘mmmm, that’s good, mmmm’. He then skewered another piece of the meat and passed the stick to me. Without hesitation, myself somewhat adventurous at times, I placed the meat in my mouth and began chewing. Sure enough, it did taste good. Very good. Spicy and piquant with a strong taste of vinegar mixed with alcohol and chili peppers".

"He took another piece himself, skewered another for me and closed the jar. We sat chewing the meat, it was a little tough but it was certainly tasty. The singing had stopped now and it was quite late. The fire had burned down and the embers glowed in the dark. The smell of the smoke and food mixed with the odor of the yaqona, beer, whisky and pickled meat to create a strange but pleasant atmosphere as the night wore on".

"We sat swapping stories until the wee hours then I was guided by two girls to a bure they had prepared for my nights sleep. The night was warm with a gentle breeze blowing. The woven grass mat was padded with coconut husks and was quite comfortable. They had placed a jar of water next to the bed and a mosquito net hang from an overhead beam. One of the girls motioned that she’d like to lay with me but I indicated that I was too drunk to do anything but she was welcome to simply ‘lay’. She looked very disappointed and said ‘never mind’ and left me to my sleeping".

"In the morning we woke early for the walk back down the mountain to the township. Breakfast of fruit and fish was prepared and served, the chief nowhere in sight. My friends and I ate and then packed our things for the long trek ahead. We left the village amidst clapping hands and requests that we return soon. We felt very well and fit regardless of the nights drinking and festivities".

"After several kilometers of walking, Bosoka, one of my friends said ‘how’d you find the long pig last night?’. ‘The what?’ I said. ‘The long pig that the chief shared with you from that old jar, how’d you like it?’. ‘It was fine’ I said. ‘A bit chewy and tough but it tasted good’ ".

" ‘What is long pig?’ I asked Bosoka. ‘Oh that’s what they used to call the flesh of the white man years ago’. ‘Oh I see’ I said. ‘So you just refer to this special pickled pork as long pig as a joke, I see’ ".

" ‘Oh no’ said Bosoka. ‘That was human flesh you ate last night, real human flesh’. My stomach began for a moment to turn. Then I thought ‘what the hell, it tasted fine to me and at one hundred years old, well what the heck’ ".

Joaquin had paled somewhat and asked me "Is that story for real?". "Sure Joaquin, as far as I know it is. Bosoka insisted for years later that it was indeed the flesh of a white man that the chief’s great grandfather had killed and butchered".

"I think we’d better have another drink" said the Spaniard, "and you tell me more of these people". So we poured ourselves another shot and both sat and reflected the pros and cons of cannibalism long into the night.