The Ordination of a Paramount Chief, Part 2
I wake up at my leisure around 8am, with plenty of time to attend the events beginning at “10am,” otherwise known as “later than 10am” here in Vanuatu.
Some class 7 and class 8 girls are hanging around with the headmaster’s niece, and they don’t look like they’re attending, as they aren’t dressed for the event (typical clothes for special events like this are Mother Hubbard island dresses for women). Elodie tells me it’s dangerous. I assume it’s dangerous in the same way it’s dangerous for girls to walk alone at night, or go near a wedding at night: drunk men, verbal harassment, fear of assault. But she instead surprises me with her answer.
“The custom around the nakamal is strong,” she explains. “When they are performing the ceremony, a gust of wind could blow it towards you and kill you.”
Celine, my former host sister from training (who now attends my school) cuts in. “But you can totally go, it’s fine. Just don’t go close to the nakamal.”
I am not too concerned, so I change into an island dress and head over around 10:30am.
I run into a friend, Mari, and her adorable toddler Belina. I ask Mari if anything has started yet. “Oh, it’s all over, finished!” I am shocked. I ask if there’s still any part of the ceremony to be completed, and she says no, it’s all over.
I am blown away...events here never happen on time, EVER. And the fact that this is a once-in-a-lifetime event for the PARAMOUNT chief of the island, I am shocked. Weddings don’t even start on time!
I walk over to the food pits where I see Mrs. Nasse, a fellow teacher. We look on along with the crowds of people ducked in the shade, to watch two men in custom dress walk around the food pits. One man (who I later learn is another teacher’s husband, David, and I didn’t even recognize him) is in a grass skirt, grass headband and tassled sash. The other is simply wearing a woven skirt. The man in the woven skirt walks around each fire pit three times and then hits the top of the sheet metal covering the pit with a long stick, shouting the family of the fire pit’s name, as David looks on. A woman nearby explains that they are hitting each fire pit to let out any spirits that may be inside. I come in time to see them do this to the final two pits of the twenty.
But that’s it. That’s all I witness, and that’s really nothing in comparison to the ceremony.
I ask around to discover what happened before. Alistha, a fellow teacher and friend, tells me that some of the chiefs from nearby Efate arrived early, and as they were the last chiefs to arrive, the ceremony began at their arrival. Based on others’ accounts, I would guess this was around 9am.
I learn that lots of people missed the actual event, because, as I mentioned before, things here NEVER start on time. Rena, whose husband David was involved in the custom dress I mentioned earlier, even missed it. Her whole family did. Other teachers I spoke to arrived before 10am and missed it completely.
I saw some class 7 and class 8 girls near the food pits, wearing brightly-colored dresses. I asked if they saw the ceremony. They did not. They, like Elodie and her friends, kept their distance, electing to sit by the beach to avoid catching any dangerous custom winds.
Those who did attend explained that it all began with a “pig killing” ceremony. I thought this would entail, you know, the killing of a pig. But when I was taking pictures, someone told me to take a picture of THE pig that the chief killed. The pig was clearly still alive. “Um, is this the pig? Like, the pig he killed? Because it’s still alive.” Bislama is a confusing language, though, and “kill” means “hit” and “kill dead” is to actually kill. So it was more of a pig hitting ceremony.
The other, smaller chiefs all surrounded Kolau and put their hands on his head to transfer the Meriwota title from the nakamal to Kolau. Kolau then hit the pig hard so it bled from the head, and he stepped into the blood, completing the ordination. Later on, I’m told, the pig will fully be killed, but in the mean time, it sits semi-conscious in a wooden cage to the side of the nakamal.
Some mamas in the village wore custom grass skirts and other accessories, along with shells on their ankles that clack when they dance. That’s right, there was even custom dancing. Custom dancing on my island is rare, and it’s not used ceremonially as much as it is on an island like Tanna. The only time I’ve ever seen custom dancing for my island was about a year ago, when some men performed at a church event because they were showing off what they were going to perform at the Pacific Mini Games in Port Vila.
The kava drinking ceremony began afterwards, in which the chiefs all drank kava before lunch.
This is around the time I arrived, as hoards of people flocked to the churchyard to form long lines to get food. I saw people walk away with woven plates made of leaves (I’ve never seen them done in this traditional way before, as paper plates or actual dishes are pretty ubiquitous at large events) piled high with island kakae: yam, cabbage, kumala, manioc, and of course, huge hunks of pork. Pork and beef are usually reserved for major events such as weddings, so having meat at a meal was thrilling. The plates smelled amazing. However, this is Peace Corps, so of course I am currently plagued with a stomach bug that renders my thoughts on the meal as “multiple trips to the toilet.”
I ask around and I get confirmation that all of the events have definitely ended. We missed the transferring of the chiefly title, the pig killing, the custom dancing, and the kava ceremony. We missed the ordination of the paramount chief of Nguna, an event that last happened when Peter’s father’s father died, which was over fifty years ago. The next time this happens could be another fifty years.
Now, all that’s left to do is sit in the shade and people watch or line up for lunch in the rainbow of 200 island dresses assembled near the church hall.
I talk to an older woman in the village, Leipakoa, who is both my friend and a teacher’s mother, and tell her how upset I am to have missed the events today. She, too, missed everything. She most likely will never again experience this ceremony in her lifetime.
“Leimara,” she tells me, “yesterday it was raining! I thought today it would rain. But today it’s so sunny and warm!”
She smiles.
Some class 7 and class 8 girls are hanging around with the headmaster’s niece, and they don’t look like they’re attending, as they aren’t dressed for the event (typical clothes for special events like this are Mother Hubbard island dresses for women). Elodie tells me it’s dangerous. I assume it’s dangerous in the same way it’s dangerous for girls to walk alone at night, or go near a wedding at night: drunk men, verbal harassment, fear of assault. But she instead surprises me with her answer.
“The custom around the nakamal is strong,” she explains. “When they are performing the ceremony, a gust of wind could blow it towards you and kill you.”
 |
| The nakamal and food shelter |
Celine, my former host sister from training (who now attends my school) cuts in. “But you can totally go, it’s fine. Just don’t go close to the nakamal.”
I am not too concerned, so I change into an island dress and head over around 10:30am.
I run into a friend, Mari, and her adorable toddler Belina. I ask Mari if anything has started yet. “Oh, it’s all over, finished!” I am shocked. I ask if there’s still any part of the ceremony to be completed, and she says no, it’s all over.
I am blown away...events here never happen on time, EVER. And the fact that this is a once-in-a-lifetime event for the PARAMOUNT chief of the island, I am shocked. Weddings don’t even start on time!
 |
| The mango ladies. |
I walk over to the food pits where I see Mrs. Nasse, a fellow teacher. We look on along with the crowds of people ducked in the shade, to watch two men in custom dress walk around the food pits. One man (who I later learn is another teacher’s husband, David, and I didn’t even recognize him) is in a grass skirt, grass headband and tassled sash. The other is simply wearing a woven skirt. The man in the woven skirt walks around each fire pit three times and then hits the top of the sheet metal covering the pit with a long stick, shouting the family of the fire pit’s name, as David looks on. A woman nearby explains that they are hitting each fire pit to let out any spirits that may be inside. I come in time to see them do this to the final two pits of the twenty.
But that’s it. That’s all I witness, and that’s really nothing in comparison to the ceremony.
I ask around to discover what happened before. Alistha, a fellow teacher and friend, tells me that some of the chiefs from nearby Efate arrived early, and as they were the last chiefs to arrive, the ceremony began at their arrival. Based on others’ accounts, I would guess this was around 9am.
I learn that lots of people missed the actual event, because, as I mentioned before, things here NEVER start on time. Rena, whose husband David was involved in the custom dress I mentioned earlier, even missed it. Her whole family did. Other teachers I spoke to arrived before 10am and missed it completely.
 |
| Class 7 and 8 girls in their colorful dresses |
I saw some class 7 and class 8 girls near the food pits, wearing brightly-colored dresses. I asked if they saw the ceremony. They did not. They, like Elodie and her friends, kept their distance, electing to sit by the beach to avoid catching any dangerous custom winds.
Those who did attend explained that it all began with a “pig killing” ceremony. I thought this would entail, you know, the killing of a pig. But when I was taking pictures, someone told me to take a picture of THE pig that the chief killed. The pig was clearly still alive. “Um, is this the pig? Like, the pig he killed? Because it’s still alive.” Bislama is a confusing language, though, and “kill” means “hit” and “kill dead” is to actually kill. So it was more of a pig hitting ceremony.
The other, smaller chiefs all surrounded Kolau and put their hands on his head to transfer the Meriwota title from the nakamal to Kolau. Kolau then hit the pig hard so it bled from the head, and he stepped into the blood, completing the ordination. Later on, I’m told, the pig will fully be killed, but in the mean time, it sits semi-conscious in a wooden cage to the side of the nakamal.
 |
| Nearly dead pig in a wooden cage |
Some mamas in the village wore custom grass skirts and other accessories, along with shells on their ankles that clack when they dance. That’s right, there was even custom dancing. Custom dancing on my island is rare, and it’s not used ceremonially as much as it is on an island like Tanna. The only time I’ve ever seen custom dancing for my island was about a year ago, when some men performed at a church event because they were showing off what they were going to perform at the Pacific Mini Games in Port Vila.
The kava drinking ceremony began afterwards, in which the chiefs all drank kava before lunch.
 |
| Storage shelter for food, holding bananas, yams, and more |
This is around the time I arrived, as hoards of people flocked to the churchyard to form long lines to get food. I saw people walk away with woven plates made of leaves (I’ve never seen them done in this traditional way before, as paper plates or actual dishes are pretty ubiquitous at large events) piled high with island kakae: yam, cabbage, kumala, manioc, and of course, huge hunks of pork. Pork and beef are usually reserved for major events such as weddings, so having meat at a meal was thrilling. The plates smelled amazing. However, this is Peace Corps, so of course I am currently plagued with a stomach bug that renders my thoughts on the meal as “multiple trips to the toilet.”
I ask around and I get confirmation that all of the events have definitely ended. We missed the transferring of the chiefly title, the pig killing, the custom dancing, and the kava ceremony. We missed the ordination of the paramount chief of Nguna, an event that last happened when Peter’s father’s father died, which was over fifty years ago. The next time this happens could be another fifty years.
Now, all that’s left to do is sit in the shade and people watch or line up for lunch in the rainbow of 200 island dresses assembled near the church hall.
 |
| The long line of mamas waiting for food. |
“Leimara,” she tells me, “yesterday it was raining! I thought today it would rain. But today it’s so sunny and warm!”
She smiles.
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