Cruiselinertm from blommendaal.com
Time Warp at Bounty Island
Let me tell you a story.
A true and astonishing story.
Somewhere at he end of the seventies, 1978 or 1979, a team of 4 American anthropologists landed at the island of Jumai.
This bounty paradise lies in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. White sandy beaches, palm trees, sing-song birds, turtles laying eggs on the beach at moonlight, bamboo home on stilts, an impressionist palette of tropical fish surfing the surf.
Sometimes itĖs just rain, rain, rain, and then the sun bursts through again, ferociously bouncing off the waves, warming the land.
The special thing about this island was that no white man, or for that matter anybody else, had been there ever before. There had been no visitors from the outside world to this island; the only people living there were the original Polynesian settlers, come from way across the ocean a long, long time ago.
It was one of the last uncontaminated pieces of the ancient world. Not yet exposed to any of the vagaries of modern civilisation. Land before time.
The anthropologists arrived with a true anthropological mission: observe, learn, take part but do not intervene.
They landed by canoe, some time in the morning, in clear site of the main village, to make sure the locals could see them coming. And see them coming they did, the brown skinned people gathering on the shore, the men in front, women and children sheltering behind them, forming a horseshoe of primitivism around the encroaching Westerness.
The anthropologists had made sure they looked the part as much as possible, dressed in muted cotton, leather sandals, straw hats, you get the picture.
They tried to take along as little modern stuff from the good old USA as possible, so no shavers, radioĖs, torches, can openers, pocket knifes and such, but of course they had to bring along some tools of their trade like cameraĖs, tape recorders, writing papers and ballpoint pens.
So the anthropologists arrived, walked onto the beach, stood still and waited for contact. They was all lot of staring from both sides, a lot of giggling from the kids, a lot of whispering amongst the women, and a lot of dark muttering amongst the men.
The men were armed with spears and heavy ended clubs, and swung with the all the primitive muscular power of a Polynesian tribe boss man, that club could crack your skull like an egg. Yes, these guys leisurely wade into the surf to club basking sharks to death for dinner, so some caution on part of the anthropologists was understandable.
But unnecessary.
The local boss man stepped forward; the Shaman at his side, and with gestures and a speech welcomed these visitors from outer space.
The Shaman was particularly friendly, coming up to the anthropologists free and easy, touching them, pulling on their sleeves, talking to them incessantly, and pointing to the hard blue sky above.
Despite the intimidating appearance of the bird feathers circling his head, the monkey skulls hanging from a rope around his neck, and the turtle shell on his back, Mr. Shaman was very impressed and very humble.
Well, thought the anthropologists, we have been here before, in the Amazon basin, the jungles of Africa, amongst the seal hunting people of Greenland, the barbarian tribes in the forests of Mongolia.
Their gods have landed and itĖs us. Obvious.
As we will see later they were very wrong.
There was a feast that evening, lots of food, monkeys were dragged screaming from trees and Bar-B-Qued on the spot, their best hunters waded into the ocean and speared the juiciest fish, a couple of grey skinned pigs were roasted, the most succulent village women offered themselves to the visitors, an offer which of course they declined. Taking part was one thing; taking advantage was certainly not.
The visitors were given a spacious hut on the edge of the village, roughly woven palm bark sheets on the ground functioning as beds, some basic furniture hewn from palm trunk, and provisions of fresh fruit, dried meats and coco milk.
Not a bad life being an anthropologist.
They immersed themselves into the village life, into the tribeĖs life, into the complete island culture. They learned some of each other languages.
The anthropologists each had his own specialisation. One was specialised in social behaviour, one in technology and adaptation, one in creativity and speech, and one in religion and Shamanistic cultures.
All three progressed satisfactorily with their studies, and so did the fourth one, up to a point.
Lets call this anthropologist John. John and his colleagues had been on the island for nearly one year now, and John had made very good friends with the Shaman. The locals were very content with their Shaman it seemed, and this rubbed off on John.
John was allowed, no even, insisted upon to take part in most of the religious rituals, which involved lots of chanting at the sky, wading into the surf waving torches, summoning of Gods and such.
In the middle of island, about an hour walk away was the main and only temple. The temple was different from the other huts. The temple was square instead of round, had no windows, and twice as tall as the other huts. Imagine a large American garage stood on its end and you get the idea.
The entrance of the temple was through a small doorway in front of which hung a pigskin curtain.
Day and night this entrance was guarded by one or two of the ShamanĖs acolytes. Heavily armed, there was no way in for anybody except the Shaman. And John, but only if the Shaman was with him.
Inside the temple hut it was dark, the space lit only by turtle grease torches, flickering, casting a spooky light.
John had observed that the temple actually was made up of three temples: about two meters in there was another bamboo wall with a curtained doorway.
In the first part there were the usual tools of the Shamanistic trade: animal skins, animal skulls, wood carved objects, some sort of incense smoking away, small sand sculptures and pride of place for sharks jaw.
Go through the door into the second part, and the space is smaller, denser, just two torches lighting up an area of about eight square meters, strangely empty, except for mysterious writings in the sand of the floor, made hard with some white substance, possible wax.
John had visited this second chamber only twice, once as sort of tourist to be shown around, once by accident when he had followed the Shaman inside and was forcefully ejected and send back to the main chamber.
But John had already noticed that temple chamber two also contained a small doorway, leading presumably to temple chamber three. Standing outside the temple John estimated the size of temple chamber three to be about the same as number two.
How often the Shaman entered temple three John could only guess. But he very much wondered what was in there.
Something so private, so important, so central to the islands religion that it was absolute forbidden territory.
The second year of the anthropologists visit had just started, everything going along fine, when disaster struck the small community.
From out across the vast expanse of the Pacific swept in a typhoon, a tropical storm of biblical proportions, a hammer of the gods, announcing its imminent arrival around midday with a chaotic twisting of the winds around the compass, an eerie silence on the sea, the swell ominously subdued, the island animals gone deadly silent, and far on the horizon the sky as black as the demon night.
Panic broke out amongst the island inhabitants. On a mountainless island the size of about twenty square kilometres they is really nowhere to hide when the whip comes down. Go more inland and it is much the same as the rest of the island, tropical ocean climate jungle, elevated at its highest point to only twelve meters above sea level.
As the wind started picking up speed, the panic increased along the same curve. Typhoons were very rare here; none of the inhabitants could remember the last one, not even the grandpaĖs and grandmas.
Now there was something on the way which would indiscriminately wipe them out, tear their village to shreds, eat up their children, devour all before it, scour bounty island and sweep it clean off life.
The islanders tried to flee into the jungle leaving all behind. The anthropologists went with them. Behind them on the ocean waves were climbing to the size of palm trees, not breaking on the shore anymore, but riding up the shore, lurching inland, smothering the lush plantation. The rumble shook the ground.
Then the rains came, drowning everything from up above, and then the wind itself came, riding in last, after its advance troops had cleared the way.
The typhoon lasted two days, and annihilated the island culture.
More than half of the people were swept away, buried, drowned, picked up and broken in two, sucked into the ocean, devoured and never seen again.
Two of the anthropologists died too.
The village was obliterated, with all that went with it, including provisions, the stock of food and fresh water.
In the middle of the island the devastation was less, but still horrendous. The wind rooted out most of the trees leaving empty patches of jungle like scabs on a dying skin.
The temple however, by some miracle, remained standing. And the temple guards stood their ground and still let nobody in. And the Shaman remained in there during the storm, doing whatever Shamans do.
In the aftermath of the storm the survivors fled into the arms of the Shaman and the two remaining anthropologists.
There was no food, nothing to drink, nothing to hunt or fish for or with. They were doomed. Two more days passed.
The Shaman came out of the temple, eyes red rimmed, face drawn, shaking and pale from tiredness, looked at his followers, desperate and starving, only a hundred left, wailing babies, and went back in.
Very obviously the Shaman was calling for help in there.
Another day gone.
More people, more children gave up and died.
Another one of the anthropologists also died, already weakened by diarrhoea. John clung on. Feverishly dreaming of home, somewhere in Virginia, wheat fields and sparrows singing, forever summer.
On the fourth day the Shaman came out, stumbling, exhausted, one eye closed, swollen, mouth encrusted with spit. He came up to John.
He mouthed words in JohnĖs language: ÎhelpĖ he said clearly.
Fumbled for his arm, took his hand, motioned towards the temple. John summoned up the last remaining energy, got up, the Shaman pulling with all the strength of a sick child, and the two of them dragged themselves to the temple.
Only one guard remained on duty, emaciated and subconscious, half lying across the doorway.
The Shaman went in, John followed.
It was dark now inside the first temple part, the torches gone out long ago. The Shaman led, John fumbled behind him, holding on to the Shamans turtle shell, the dead animal now bouncing of the medicine man's bony shoulders.
Through the doorway they went, onto the second part, where one torch still burned, the writings in the sand eerily illuminated. John thought he recognised numbers in there, in those writings.
At the door of the third and most holy part the Shaman stopped turned around and looked at John. The light in his eyes still burning fiercely, he licked his broken lips, looked at John, took his hand, and led him through the doorway.
John thought it was pretty ironic: at deathĖs door he would be shown the holiest of holies, that which was at the heart of a once proud community, that which was at the centre of their religion.
Very likely the Shaman, exasperated and defeated, hoped John might help to summon help from above.
He followed the Shaman in.
Inside this part of the temple, there was light. Light from four or more torches. The space was the size John had imagined it. The walls were empty. No writing on the floor.
The Shaman let go of JohnĖs hand, came and stood next to him. Pointed. Spoke to John, croaked, urged him on ahead.
John blinked. Wiped his eyes. Stared at the tableau in front of him.
Saw it all at once; everything became clear at once, the hopelessness of it all, and the devious destruction of a unique culture.
There in front of him, carefully placed in the centre of the temple room, was a grey steel office desk.
Judging by the design and colour this was forties issue or thereabouts, and when John looked closed he saw writing on one of the two draw fronts.
In olive green it was stamped: US Army.
At the other side of the desk there was a matching office chair.
The Shaman pushed John towards the corner of the desk.
There, polished gleaming black and ominous stood a telephone. The telephone wire went over the desk, along one the legs and into the sand.
In a corner of the temple room John spotted a steel USAF crate stencilled: #1 Issue Biscuits.
The Shaman moved to the telephone, waved magic spells above it with quavering hands, started chanting quietly and picked up the telephone receiver.
Cradling it in one hand, he offered the receiver to John.
John took the telephone receiver in his hand, and the Shaman made him put it to his mouth and ear.
"You call. Yes. You speak. Yes." Said the Shaman.
"Help. Call food. Call water. Help from the sky. For us. Yes". And the Shaman backed away expectantly.
So this is what the Shaman had been doing: trying to get the US Army on the phone. To get the US Air Force to drop provisions on their isolated Marines, working in secret and ahead of the main force, securing the islands one by one on the way to the conquest of Japan, at the height of World War Two.
The white man had been here before all right, landed in a big hurry, marched right in, set up camp, installed themselves, used the power of the telephone to call up whatever was needed, which sometime later dropped from the big and open sky, dropped from gleaming and noisy chariots of the gods.
Day after day. Biscuits, water, fish, corned beef, Coke, chocolate.
Out went the local religion based on the King of The Sea and the Mistress of the Moon. In came the army desk, the telephone and help from above.
Then the USAF packed up and went, cleared up, but not so thorough and left the totems of western civilisation behind: the office chair, the office desk, the telephone.
And forgot about the top secret mission on the island of Jumai.
And these components of everyday US life became the centre of an island religion.
Imagine that.
Now imagine 5000 years ahead. Human civilisation wiped out and gone through a mean air carried killer virus. Nobody left.
Except for the island of Jumai, isolated and protected.
Imagine that from this island civilisation one day slowly starts up again. Taking its religion with it, spreading it across the world.
And in this religion, if you ask correctly and in the right speech, help will come from above. Miracles will happen, and drop right in the midst of you.
Except then they donĖt anymore, but youĖve got to keep on trying.
Sounds familiar no? Makes you wonder hey?
On the fate of the John and the island survivors I can reassure you: The National Geographic Society dispatched a state-of-the-art exploration ship to locate their missing anthropologists, knowing where they had last been dropped.
This mission succeeded and the ship sailed into the island bay some days later to save John and the natives from starvation and death.
Which to the Shaman and the remaining islanders exactly proved the point:
their religion worked and more than that:
If asked for in desperate times and the correct way, help would come.
And help would also come from across the sea.
ThereĖs the reward for believing.
See you next week.
Cruiselinertm © Laurens Blommendaal 2000
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