The Native Iowan

His name was Yapo. Born “before time blo missionary”. His home was the wild eastern Solomons. The island of Santa Cruz was his birth place.

It was on these islands that Alvero de’Mendana eventually died. Long before the other islands of the Solomons saw a “white-man” the Eastern Islanders had not only seen but had defeated and eaten these new comers. They found both the killing and the eating to their liking.

Yapo’s tribal affiliations were harsh and demanding. Before memories of her were formed, his mother had been carried off and murdered by marauding tribal enemies. She did though, before her unfortunate disappearance, carry out the ritual piercing of his ears and nose. Such were the signs of a warrior.

Yapo had been “traded” around the tribe’s available wet nurses and by the time he was 5 years old he lived in the house of Kapu, a respected and powerful chief-of-chiefs.

It was at this age when he was “given” away as intertribal collateral or security and it is here that our story begins…

In “island custom” there are times when one tribe may hold claim over another. Such claims my be for minor  (or major) transgressions. Basically, the tribal party of the first part lays a claim against the tribal party of the second part. They would seek “compensation” for the perceived wrong. In lieu of payments as demanded and to be negotiated, collateral, in this case Yapo, was often sent to the aggrieved tribe. The aggrieved tribe could not dare harm or even inconvenience such collateral. Until the “due-date, that is. If they did, a counter claim would quickly be laid against them.

And perhaps the ancestors would become displeased.

In Yapo’s case his tribal benefactor had “one moon” to make a payment of acceptable value or, sadly, young Yapo’s life would be forfeit.

In the Eastern Islands of the Solomons payment could be in the form of pigs, garden produce, human currency (preferably young females) or the prized and rare belts of red-feather money, “Twau”.

Twau is unique to the Eastern Solomons and is a story unto it’s self.

Made of woven bush-materials and the breast feathers of the male “Mzgza” bird. Each Twau takes years to make. Birds are trapped, the desired feathers removed, then  it is released. The feathers are cunningly glued to the belt to make a lush, brilliant red coil of feathers and string. Measuring up to 5 meters in length, each single belt is a masterpiece of singular beauty. Each belt possesses a story of provenance stretching from the time of its inception, through the many years of its development and use. Each Twau is tribally important and to hand one over to “another tribe” is both a disgrace and a financial set back.

It was feather money, not pigs or women that Yapo’s captors were waiting for. Feather money, or blood…

As is the case throughout the Melanesian archipelago: Each region has it own unique peculiarities. In the Savage western islands the tribes traveled in  massive war canoes. Paddled by over 40 warriors, these dreadnaughts of the islands ferried the blood feuds from island to island. These warriors favored long shafted fighting axes with strong, woven shields for defensive aggression. Malaitan warriors favored a strangely shaped wooden club, which could double as both a spear, a shield and at times even a paddle. The eastern warriors were multi hulled sailors and favored bows and arrows to close-hand fighting. For hand-to-hand combat they preferred  spears or heavy “iron-wood” clubs…

Old chief Kapu was terribly unhappy about the claims being levied against his tribe.

One of the younger males had been caught on the wrong side of the tribal boundary. He was of course caught with a young maiden and as such the transgression was compounded. Rather than standing and fighting like a true warrior, this young fool ran when he was found-out. And he ran straight to Kapu. Begging for protection he had led the perusing warriors to Kapu’s village.

As a respected leader, a well known warrior and a chief-of-chiefs Kapu found the armed entry into his compound terribly hard to accept. Yet, with the cringing youth at his feet he could do little. He could not lie. He could not laugh or bluff. He had to stand tall. He felt lucky that he had his feathers of station standing proud in his nose holes. His carved bone piece was held level in the hole between his nostrils. As he stood he new he cut an imposing image.

He collected his war club, stood to his full height and cast a baleful eye on those entering his home, unwelcome. His stare slowed them down but, and it was unfortunate, the eldest son of his friendliest enemy, Maena, had led the group. Maena’s son was no callow youth. He was being trained to replace his father and knew the custom ways well.

Ensuring he broke no rules of etiquette the young chief stated his claim, stated the deadline and demanded security on the claim then walked out of Kapu’s village without a backwards glance. The security would be delivered within one day or the deal of one month’s grace was off. It would be full tribal war. War until suitable retribution was reached. And in times of war, retribution has a way of adding up; each act of injurious warfare added to the list of retribution required.

This encounter had left old Kapu both shaken and invigorated…

Kapu had a great reputation as a warrior and raid leader. In these islands there were no real battles. There were never enough men to stage a head-to-head fight. Rather the warring parties would stage “raids”. Small numbers of warriors would attack a work party in the gardens. Or steal a few women or children who were too far from male protection. Seldom would a raid be carried out on a village. Such would be much to costly in terms of killed, maimed or injured warriors.

Kapu had been shaken because young Maena had addressed him as an equal. He knew that his strength was no match for these younger men. His blood boiled when he knew he could not curse the young warriors for trespassing. Could not order his young warriors to snarl and dance with war promised frenzy.

Age was a burden that sat heavy on Kapu’s shoulders that day. He was frustrated. Frustrated by the impediment of age. Frustrated that his relaxed life had been disrupted. Frustrated that his young clan member had been stupid enough to get caught with the maiden. Frustrated that the young clan member had run to him for protection rather than be dealt an honorable beating if not an honorable death.

Kapu had also been invigorated by the prospect of war. It had been many years since he and Maena had come to terms and settled generation-old disputes. They had traded pigs and taro. Maena had received a handful of young maidens and in return Kapu had received the same from Maena’s blood lines.

Each tribe had exchanged one belt of feather money. The symbolism here was that each tribe held a singularly valuable item of importance to the other tribe. The history, provenance of each belt was given with the belt ,making each tribe a caretaker to part of the other tribes’ past.

Kapu had seen into the situation clearly: This incident was a chance for Maena to either have his original belt of feather money returned or to gain one more belt from Kapu’s treasury.

Kapu found this proposition unacceptable and, with the taste of the slight he’d endured fresh in his month, experienced the warmth of the flow of war-juices in is veins.

Being a wiley and wise leader Kapu chose to sleep on the situation and decide what would come, tomorrow.

Before he slept Kapu sent word to the head of the clan of the young fool who had caused the problem. He wished to see him first thing in the morning.

That next morning was so lovely Kapu almost forgot he had problems. His youngest wife made such a pleasing sight, child on hip, breasts full and bouncing as she boiled yams for the morning meal. He had been content and even pleased with life.

Then Maneiapi, his kinsman, arrived as he had been ordered. He approached Kapu’s cook-house politely and scratched quietly at the door. He bowed low and entered with great respect after Kapu had gruffly acknowledged his presence.

It was obvious Maneiapi had been up all night. His eyes were red with smoke and lack of sleep. Being older than Kapu he was less excited than frightened by the prospects of war. He was beyond his raiding years and could only lose from the situation that had transpired. The perpetrator herein was a foolish, least favored nephew and Maneiapi had spent the night in an apoplectic rage. He was now, answering Kapu’s summons, drained and quite uncertain.

Kapu had every right to disown Maneiapi and his kinsmen. To pull his protection away, leaving Maneiapi and his small clan unprotected and at the mercy of Maena’s tribe. With no real wealth in Twau and little land he could bargain with, Maena could easily devour Maneiapi’s tribe, assimilate it into his own. It could well be the end of his “line”.

He needed Kapu’s good graces for the survival of his clan. He needed the backup of his Twau. The strength of the numerous warriors Kapu could command.

And Kapu had chose to show compassion. Maneiapi was an old and dear friend. Unhappy as he was, he could not disown Maneiapi. He was though unsure what he would do.

It was at this moment that Yapo stumbled onto scene. Literally. He had been sitting quietly by the fire but, being impatient for his breakfast and jealous of the baby at the teat Yapo had inadvertently overturned the stone pot of boiling yams.

Thus it was that Maneiapi was taxed with delivering Yapo to Maena’s village…

And the moon had passed quickly.

Old Kapu had paid little attention to the Yapo case. He was a busy man. He was not young any more. He had many wives. Many children. And had basically forgotten about Yapo.

He had given Maneiapi the chore of coming up with a solution. He had made it clear he would not part with another belt of feather money. Maneiapi would have to decide what could be done, offer a number of pigs and some of his line’s land or entice old Maena, perhaps, with a couple nice young maidens.

But Maneiapi had fallen ill after his night of aggravation and anger. The walk to Maena’s village (a fair hike for an elderly gentleman) had done little good. He was distraught and unwell. And nothing had been done about Yapo.

Until word had been sent to Kapu from Maena.

The moon had passed and a feast would be held in the honor of Yapo’s death. The pigs Maneiapi had sent would be cooked with his yams and taro. These would be prepared by his maidens. Next eve, Maena’s warriors would feast and dance. Dance themselves into a killing frenzy and young Yap’s blood would be spilt on the ground as Maena’s spears and clubs drank deeply.

As the words of death were carried to him by Maena’s emissaries Kapu felt his fondness for Yapo.

Yapo was a finely knit youngster. Engaging and animated. Broad of shoulder and healthy of wind and muscle. With no blemishes he had often entertained Kapu as he played or assisted the women in their work. Kapu had seen in Yapo a fine warrior and potentially a strong leader.

It was at this moment that Kapu decided to save Yapo. If he could.

Technically he was almost out of time. The attempts of restitution made had been rejected. No single measure or action on Maena’s part had been contrary to custom. He had every right to take anything offered to him but he alone stood to judge as what he deemed as fair compensation for the crime committed.

It was then that Kapu decide what he would do…

Yapo had initially been angered then frightened by the situation which he could not understand. He was sitting merrily by the fire, had made a minor mistake and upset the breakfast pot but had not expected to be lifted bodily by his hair and chased out of the village. Upsetting the pot was worth a good whipping but the resulting anger and violence had left him confused and frightened.

Kapu had grabbed him by the hair and handed him to Maena. Maena being too old to lift the stout child had snatched up a sago palm switch and started whipping the child, driving him ahead of him as he walked out of Kapu’s Village.

Yapo had screamed for help but understood quickly, by a single glance at Kapu, that no help was forthcoming. Instead he had attempted to stay out of range of the switch and was summarily marched through the jungle until he arrived at Maena’s village.

Old Maneiapi was unhappy with the situation, with Kapu’s reaction and even more with the long walk to Maena’s village. In his anger he employed the switch ruthlessly. Only once had Yapo attempted to run back, dodging around Maneiapi only to be grabbed by the hair, thrown to the ground and whipped until he scurried out of the old man’s reach.

Upon entering the strange village Yapo had been frightened beyond all possibilities. The warriors of Maena’s tribe had known of Maneiapi’s arrival and had lined the path leading to the Chief’s  house. In full regalia the warriors were imposing with their polished earplugs jiggling, their nose feathers swaying and their feet stamping as they performed their aggressive dance. As they brandished their spears and clubs and screamed ferociously.

Even old Maneiapi was frightened for his life. There was no telling how well these young warriors would control his blood lust once danced into frenzy. Maena and Maneiapi had never been friendly. Maneiapi was jealous of Maena and had laughed at him when he could. He was far from certain that Maena would let him leave unharmed.

Then everything changed…

The imposing figure of Maena was waiting outside his house. The double line of warriors led to him. He stood tall, composed and imposing. As those near him danced, stamped and screamed, Maena stood with a distant look on his face.

Maneiapi had changed. He held Yapo close to him, protectively, knowing that the warriors would be less inclined to club him if he was close to the child. His self-preservation was misinterpreted by Yapo as affection. He clung to Maneiapi, and cried with fear.

With an unseen sign from Maena all noise stopped. He looked long at the sky then slowly lowered his gaze to Maneiapi and the child. His face was full of contempt as he gazed at the cowering old man. This was not the way for an honored elder to act. He should hold his head high and show no fear of death. To cling to the shell of life as the body became weak was disgusting. He glared at Maneiapi for a long moment as the old man groveled with the child in his arms.

Maena’s countenance changed as he surveyed the child being sent to him. A fine, strapping young male. Wide of shoulder and attractive in the face. His skin the color of a young coconut and his hair as bright as beach sand in the sun. His teeth were white and straight. He would make a good sacrifice and would ensure the loyally of warriors gone too long without blood. It would actually be a shame to allow such a fine child to be given to the ancestors. But a fine sacrifice would ensure happiness and prosperity for Maena and his tribe. He was well pleased.

Maena knelt slowly and with great kindness he reached out to the frightened child. He gently removed Maneiapi’s grasp from around Yapo and brushed dirt from his face as he drew him near. He held the child away from him and surveyed him closely. His face showed his pleasure and Yapo, with the skill of an orphan, read the pleasure in the stranger and gave a shy but teary smile in exchange.

With a word a woman appeared and swept Yapo into her arms. As Maena’s senior wife it would be her honor to care for this child, this sacrifice to the ancestors. She smothered him with kind words and caresses. He was promptly cleaned and fed. Such kindness was lavished upon him that he smiled and entertained his crowd of doting women and interested warriors. No children were allowed near him. He would be carried every where he went. He would be given the choicest foods. The next month would be some of the happiest times of his life.

Maneiapi was summarily chased like a cur out of the village…

And the Moon passed. Old Kapu had initially paid little attention to Yapo’s case. He was a busy man. He was not young any more. He had many wives. Many children. And had basically forgotten about Yapo.

He now called his senior warriors. Instructing them to scout the trails and boundaries joining Maena’s territory. He required to know who was watching. Was the message of death a cunning ploy or was Yapo to die?

He then paid a visit to Maneiapi. In exchange for his planned actions Maneiapi would “give” him the youth who had caused the problems. This coward would become a “slave” in Kapu’s house. Kapu had every intention of working this fool to near death before he married him to a minor niece in his household. But first he would travel with him to Maena’s village. With luck one of Maena’s warriors would be provoked into violence at the sight of the perpetrator. This could only serve to assist Kapu’s position.

Lastly Kapu went to his cookhouse and removed Maena’s Twau. He was loath to part with any of his wealth but returning this single piece would potentially be perceived as an insult and would protect the tribe from losing more of their history. He would act as though he cared little for Maena’s Twau. Once again, if his actions were reacted to, he would gain and possibly lay a claim of his own against Maena…

It was a feast day and everyone was excited.

Yapo had woke early. His Matron washed him thoroughly and dressed him in a beautifully made “tapa” loincloth. A finely engraved bone was placed in his nose-hole. Magnificent feathers were placed, two on each side, into the small holes on the side of each nostril. Small “gold-lip” plugs were placed in his ear holes. A chiefly breastplate of the same gold shell was hung around his neck. A headband of string, petrified clamshell and turtle shell was woven into his hair.

Yapo danced and played but was gently controlled by his matron. A finely woven pandanas mat was laid in front of Maena’s house and Yapo placed upon it. As Maena’s tribal members arrived for the proceedings they deposited gifts of fine delicacies and valuable trinkets on the mat in front of Yapo.

He tasted all the foods and played with all the trinkets.

The day passed quickly. Yapo sat with his Matron on the mat. Alternately eating, playing or napping. He was touched and patted by all. Everyone seeking good luck from the ancestors who was manifest in this young sacrifice. The gifts of food would make the sacrifice more pleasing to the ancestors. The trinkets were a show of respect.

The atmosphere was gay and festive. Everyone was happy.

Except the warriors chosen to do honor to the sacrifice. These men stood aloof. Lining, in social ranking, from most important to least; They were a guard of honor stretching from Maena’s house, where Yapo sat, through the center of the village and spreading our to create a picket around the village.

They stood tall and proud. Their feathers and bones creating an imposing visage. Their breastplates and headpieces gleaming in the sun. Their weapons held motionless yet at ready.

When the food had been cooked and distributed to each clan according to custom. When the entire tribe was gathered. The elders of each clan drew near to Yapo’s mat. The youthful males stood close behind. The women and girls gathered on the fringes. The warriors stood statuesque and frightening. Casting their protective stares over the masses of expectant spectators. No one fidgeted. Not a sound was heard.

When all was in readiness Maena appeared behind Yapo and raised his voice in greeting to the ancestors.

He called upon them by name. Welcoming them to this feast. Enquiring upon their well being and bestowing praise and honor on each, from the most to least important.

With the mention of each Ancient’s name the warriors would stamp and shout. With a loud “GHWAA” the earth would shake. For each of the names, spanning over fifteen generations, this salute was offered. And with each offering the warriors’ blood grew hotter.

The heat increased and the warriors were soon ‘dancing”. Stamping and brandishing their weapons. They were working themselves into a frenzy. A frenzy of religious zeal, pent-up energy and promised bloodletting.

There was blood in the air as Maena offered Yapo, by name, to the Ancestors.  There was a palatable energy as Maena beseeched the Ancestors to protect the tribe from malevolent spirits, sickness, pestilence, bad weather, strong enemies, poor harvests, barren women, cowardly warriors and a long list of other potential woes.

Maena stood tall and erect. His voice trembled with passion. Tear streamed down his face. He stamped and shouted with the warriors and felt the juices of war flow through his veins. He raised his arms to the sky above, raising his voice proudly to the Ancestors he sincerely offered the sacrifice to the honor of those who had gone before.

The warriors were dancing into position to be part of the blood letting. Everyone was crowding forward. This was a fine sacrifice. One that would become part of their tribal history. It was important for each warrior to be part of the kill. To wet their weapons. To do honor to the Ancestors and to their clans. It was important for all present to actually witness the sacrifice. To be part of the bloodletting, even if only to view that magical movement when the suffice would become one with the Ancestors…

A loud and demanding cry was heard from the jungle path leading to the village.

All gathered had been so intent on the proceedings that none saw or heard Kapu’s approaching party. It startled and angered Maena’s tribe.

Kapu shouted again.

Calling out that he had, according to custom, come to redeem the crime of his clansman. That he came in peace and expected nothing less.

He entered the village standing tall. Dressed in his finest he carried Maena’s Twau on a stick over his shoulder. The Twau was exposed for all to see. To be recognized as the Twau of their tribe.

Behind Kapu walked his frightened clansman. Dressed as a warrior he had been warned that any show of fear or cowardice could possibly mean death, on the spot, by Maena’s warriors but would definitely mean death, once they returned home, by Kapu’s own hand. He stood firm but privately was shaken to his core.

Kapu strode directly to where Maena stood. He looked neither right nor left. He paid no attention to the shouts or taunts of the warriors on either side. His eyes were locked on Meana’s and he enjoyed what he saw.

Meana was visibly shaken. Kapu had timed his entrance perfectly. His intrusion would cost Maena dearly. The Ancestors do not like being called upon. And, once called upon, they would not like going without the promised sacrifice.

Kapu Stood before Maena as an equal. He shifted the Twau in the direction of the senior warrior on Maena’s right. With a simple movement he shrugged the load off his shoudler and toward the warrior. Caught off guard the warrior had to either accept the burden or let it fall.

Once accepted it could not be returned, without insult.

He then cast his eye toward Yapo. He smiled inwardly as he saw the finery and valuable items on and around Yapo. He had forgotten how much pleasure the sight of Yapo gave him. He was well pleased.

He glared hard at the Matron who cowered low, hiding her head with her hands. With a grunt from Kapu she crawled from Yapo’s side and off the mat.

With a swift movement Kapu collected Yapo and slung him high onto his shoulders, leaving his hands free. He then turned to survey the gathering. He looked each warrior in the eye until each looked away. He stared with recognition at each of the elders and reveled as they lowered their gaze to the ground. At last he returned his eye to Maena.

Maena looked like an old woman. The teary eyes and the dry lips. He did not look away but his gaze was weak and compliant.

With a curt nod Kapu motioned his companion to collect the mat containing the various offerings. With quick movements each corner was gathered and the entire mat was pickup, sack like. He looked tentatively at Kapu but, feeling the advantage, raised himself high and proud and turned to leave.

Kapu followed slowly. Savoring the victory. Savoring the submissive attitude. Savoring the damage he singularly had inflicted on Maena and his tribe. It was a great victory that would be talked about for generations… 

Yapo lived a long and fruitful life. His story was and is recounted often. And many times  over his long life, by himself, for the benefit of his large and eclectic family.

Yapo died in 1996. He was a respected member of the Anglican Church. He was buried with all church rights and tribal honors. He is buried at Lata, Temotu Province, Solomon Islands. His family lives near by and still passes his tale to the “next” generations.