The Native Iowan

This is the first “guest post” to this blog. Enjoy…

To review the bidding: when last heard from I was heading out in a small boat to run to another island a couple hundred miles away (300 km). I’m Willis, and this is a tale of a South Pacific wedding.

We embarked on a beautiful morning, up before tropical dawn, sky almost clear … except in the far distance, between the launch ramp and the nearest island, sat one lone renegade thunderstorm that had refused to die the night before. I reckon it was night-adapted, and sitting where some warm currents met.

We put the boat in just before sunrise, floated off the trailer and headed west. Things were going swimmingly, we ran at thirty mph (45 kph) for about an hour, boat was feeling good. Then the alarm goes off, “Low oil reserve”. Say what? Oil injected two-stroke engine, we check the oil reservoir, it’s working perfectly. Full to the brim. Engine is running well, but we decide to err on the side of caution and come back to port. Looks like we’re flying out west to the wedding. Better than drifting out to sea for the wedding. Ah, well, it was another part of life’s rich pageant, and a beautiful one. In the morning I thought the dawn thunderstorm would build up with the day, but to my surprise, it faded quickly with the morning warmth. Always something new to see. Any morning spent messing about in a small boat on a vast island-studded ocean is a very good morning.

Plus I got to fly over and around the thunderstorms instead of boating under and around them. What’s not to like?

So, we flew to the wedding. The airstrip is on a tiny, exactly one airstrip sized island just offshore from town. The town is small, about five thousand people. Despite that, it’s the second largest city in the country, which tells you something. It is a seaside provincial capital in a country where everyone travels by canoes large and small. The town stretches a couple of km along the harborside on both sides of a single road, with calm clear water everywhere in the harbor. On the sea side of the one unpaved road are mostly Chinese shops. These are built on land and extended out over the water on pilings. Along the waterfront are boats of all sizes, from the inter-island trading ships at the main wharf, to the small paddle and sailing canoes tied up everywhere from the main market to the far end of town.

When we got to that little town, where the wedding was to be held, everybody knew about the wedding. All the guys in the boat taking us from the airport to town knew about the wedding. Social event of the season. For me a rare chance of watching the social whirl while being outside of it. I’m well known in that town, I lived for three years on a nearby island, I’m some kind of custom uncle to the groom.

The wedding, like all island weddings, was a long, complex affair. Mike (the Native Iowan and the father of the groom) and I had absolutely nothing to do with putting it together. It was all “sait blong Meri” (“side belong Mary”), which means women’s business. So his wife was in charge, we were just out of town guests. Mike’s house is atop a hill overlooking the harbor and the endless ocean. You can see over a dozen islands from the house. It has a roofed second story verandah all around the house, tropical style. We sat up on his verandah watching the wedding preparations fall apart and come together. When we got there they were putting stakes in the ground to hold up the bunting at the entrance to the reception.

Now, everything in the South Pacific islands happens by consensus. As a result, we watched as it took an ever-changing assembly to put a small waist-high stake in the ground. No sledgehammer, of course, so they found a stone. Much laughter, comments and speculations, jokes about still being in the Stone Age. After the stone didn’t work, Mike’s oldest son, about 35 now, a bear of a man, came up with what looked like the gearbox of a long dead bike, gears and all. More laughter. He gave the stake a few strokes of the gearbox. Just enough to show how easy it is. At least it’s easy if you have biceps the size of my thighs, as he does. He then handed the gearbox to some younger guy, probably a relative, and walked away. His part was done.

The younger relative staggered, the gearbox was much heavier than it looked. He quickly set it on the ground to think things over. This was followed by a lengthy discussion among the assembled stake advisory group. The talk was about where and how the stake should be. All of this was intermittently audible from where we’re drinking up on the verandah. Different folks squat and look at the stake. Under their direction, the gearbox man pulls the stake back to vertical. He gives it a stroke. Then they decide it’s in the wrong place. It is pulled up. Then it is held up several places, to much discussion. They finally settle on a spot a few inches from where it started.

Then the gearbox man gets the nod. He’s young and strong, but clearly not a man to make weighty decisions like when to whack a stake. He gives the stake a few more strokes, and sets the gearbox down again. The sun blazes. Someone (not the gearbox man) pulls the stake back to vertical. More laughter. More strokes. Now, clearly, the stake is almost deep enough to hold. The question of whether it is in fact deep enough to hold brings much hilarity and extended discussion. The decision is finally made for a few more strokes of the gearbox.

Unfortunately, during the discussion the gearbox man had walked away to do something else. After time and further discussion, another man is selected, and he picks up the gearbox. Another couple strokes. More discussion. Finally the verdict is in. The stake is good, everyone is satisfied. For now. And next … next, Mike and I opened another beer, and watched them put in the second stake.

All this time, a constantly changing cast of lovely folks has joined and left the stake advisory group. In the South Pacific, the number of advisors rises proportionally to the complexity of the problem. This second stake had the additional needs of being level at the top with the first stake, as well as parallel to the first stake. With the added challenge of being both level and parallel added to the stake problem, a larger group of advisors was inevitable. The opinions of people walking past were solicited and discarded. Soon, it was clear that there were factions developing among the advisory group. Some advised moving the first stake. Someone would tilt the stake to the right, and then someone else would tilt it back to the left. Another couple of blows with the gearbox.

And all of this accompanied by the laughter, and the comments, and the total lack of any sense of hurry that make the South Pacific such a great place to live. Yes, it did take a group that varied between three and ten people at least an hour to drive two stakes in soft soil … but I tell you it was an hour spent in joyful pursuit of a social interaction that had absolutely nothing to do with productivity. It was a pleasure and an honor to have the opportunity to watch them contribute their part to making a fun reception for everyone. We drank another beer.

Mike’s kids and their in-laws were out in full force. Every single one was there, the oldest son in from his house on the island the holy man gave Mike. The groom. Mike’s youngest daughter, who is a lawyer. His most traditional son and his wife are in from the family’s ancestral village on another island. Mike’s two youngest sons (aged 21 and 24) are there, and his oldest daughter and her husband and kids. Scads of grandchildren. People had already built the floors of the pavilions for the grooms and brides parties on the hillside outside Mike’s house. They rolled out some tarps, and they started to wire up some lights so they could work after dark … but by then it was heading towards dark, and people had put in a full day. Then everyone went home.

The work wasn’t done, and the wedding was going to be the next day, and the lights weren’t wired. I scratched my head … Mike and I had another beer, watched the sun set into the ocean.

Then, this being the South Pacific, after a couple hours half-dozen guys came back. To the accompaniment of much joking and horseplay, they wired up the lights after dark using flashlights … I nodded my head. Had another beer. When the lights were finally wired up, they continued working into the night, laughing and putting the tarps up over the floors in case of rain.

Next morning they had the wedding. Assuming that our compadres would find us there, and assuming that a stiff drink was likely the proper foundation on which to start a wedding day, the father of the groom and I wandered down to the bar of the only hotel in town. Finding both assumptions perfectly true, we sat on the second story with our friends. We watched what seemed like the entirety of the little town stream by on their way to the church. It was 10 AM, and already hot. I had on my suit, but I hadn’t put on the coat and tie. The wedding was to start at 11:00.

So we sat overlooking the wharf. A whole passel of kids, kids all the colors of the rainbow, took advantage of a ship with a high bow. They were climbing up the ropes from the dock and jumping into the sea. Boat’s crew worked and watched. I sat sweating in my suit, envying the kids. At 11:00, one of the sons called us to make our appearance. I tied my tie, put on my suit coat, and went out to face the music. We walked the few blocks to the church. It was very hot by eleven.

Of course, this being the South Pacific, it was a false alarm. They weren’t ready for the father of the groom. But about then his wife drove up with the truck. She parked it across from the church and we got in and sat in air-conditioned splendor watching the folks arrive. Finally, they did require the father and mother of the groom. At which point they went to get pictures taken. The bride looked ravishing, everyone was duded to the max. All four of the groomsmen were Mike’s sons. The angelic looking young ring bearer was his grandson. And no angel in real life, I assure you.

A charming gentleman was at the front of the church. He asked which family I’m with. I said the grooms. He directed me to the left side. I found a spot directly under a fan. But this is the South Pacific, so after a while the same man came up to me and called me by name … no idea how he knew it, I’d never seen him. He said he’s sorry, but I’m on the wrong side. I look around, he’s right. I get up, go round, and find a spot near a fan on the other side. I continue to sweat.

All the dignitaries were there. The Premier of the Province. Provincial Members. The local holy man who gave Mike an island was there. His eyeballs always look like they might spin like pinwheels at any moment. Interesting guy. The church was jammed, packed to the rafters, with people standing outside and people looking through the windows.

The officiating minister gave an alternately impassioned and inaudible sermon, with the impassioned part blasting out of the poor overdriven church speakers in an almost incoherent stream. We stood. We sang. We sweated. We sat. We said “amen”. We watched the groom sweat in his immaculate white suit. Mercifully and to general relief, it was over soon. Everyone streamed out laughing and fanning themselves with the programs.

The next three hours were consumed with setting up for the reception. The hot stone motu cooked food was brought to the central location. Last minute adjustments were made to the bunting. The wedding cake set up under the cake tent. People started streaming in, every family bringing one and often two big trays full of food. People milled around, talking story, laughing, and chasing flies off the food.

Since it was almost time, Mike and one of his many sons and I went down to pick up the holy man. He is in fact a British OBE as well as being very strange. He’s bought an old dive boat that he travels and lives on. I went on board. It’s like a floating village. I mean it’s just like a village, people sitting around, things hanging everywhere, boxes scattered around on deck, general disarray, bunches of fruit hanging off of the winches. There he was, chewing betel nut and with his hair totally frizzed out. He remembered who I was. He got in the truck with his people, and Mike’s son and I rode in the back of the truck up the rocky, rutted hill to the wedding. The holy man got out and was led to his easy chair. Notable people sat in plastic chairs, there were enough chairs for maybe forty people, and hundreds of others stood or sat on the ground.

When everyone had arrived the speeches began. The Master of Ceremonies was the groom’s maternal uncle. He’s the highest-ranking man in that branch of the family. Entranced with the sound of his voice, he spoke too softly to hear, and even those who could hear him were not paying attention. The PA system wasn’t much help either, but with maybe three hundred people there, all of them wanting to talk to each other, the PA system didn’t really have a chance.

He was followed by the father of the bride. I wandered around in the crowd, sometimes able to hear the speaker, sometimes not. I drifted around the tables where some food was already placed. When I came around the far side, I found a long string of kids. They were sitting on a very long, low bench made of boards laid on beer crates. I sat down with them to watch the show. I could see why the kids liked it, you could hear the PA system, you could see everyone at the bride’s and groom’s tables from there, plus you could see all the people in the chairs and standing round. I sat down at the end of the line of kids.

After the bride’s father finished his speech, the MC gave a rambling monologue and turned it over to Mike, the father of the groom. He gave a much more rambling and slightly inebriated monologue about family. He thanked everyone, he mentioned a whole bunch of people in particular, pointing them out in the crowd, but they were hard to see.

Then he mentioned my name, and pointed me out. But because I can see everyone, everyone can see me. Everyone in the seats looks over at me, the only adult sitting in the sun on a twelve inch high bench with a bunch of school kids, the crazy gringo. People standing up behind the seats look over at me. Heck, even the whole row of my six to ten year old ex friends, at the end of whose line I was sitting in peaceful anonymity, turns as one child and look at me, their eyes wide. I tip my hat and smile to one and all, pull the brim down over my eyes, and study the ground until Mike mentions other people in the family and the carnival moves on …

I laughed about that as I drifted back through the crowd. Timing is everything, I thought. I went back up to the second story verandah. I could feel a thunderstorm brewing. The MC kept MCing, and he had almost gotten to the food part, when the father of the bride decided he wanted to talk again. I could smell the rain was coming, and he wanted to talk some more. Finally he gave up the microphone, and the people were loosed on the tables of food. I heard a couple more peals of thunder.

Now, there were three serving tables, which the MC had decided were Table One for the honored guests to get their food; Table Two was no pork (for the Christian Seventh Day Adventist followers); Table Three included pork dishes. But he announced this in a very confusing and inaudible way, and he was wrong anyhow, so everyone lined up for table 3 and the line stretched until forever … I sat on the verandah and watched … drank some more beer. Some people got some food and sat down to eat. Food was delivered to the bride and grooms tables and they began to eat.

Meanwhile, I could see the thunderstorm bearing down on us. I could feel the thickening of the air, the rise in humidity before the rain. Breaking my vow not to try to influence events in any direction, I went downstairs and out to the groom’s table, and asked the groom’s mother if she realized that the thousands of dollars worth of wedding presents were approaching inundation. She said yes. I said OK. I had given the happy couple cash in hand, so I wasn’t worried, my present was safe. I went back up topside to the verandah to watch things unfold. Meanwhile, the lightning and thunder had gotten closer.

Soon the first raindrops came. Fortunately, it started out light. This gave people a bit of warning. One of the groom’s sisters started to move presents. Some other people joined her, and as the rain increased, the tempo increased. Just before the last presents made it under the house, the sky burst open, pelting rain, with lightning and thunder blasting insanely close by all around. Half a second or less from the flash to the boom. It was so overpowering that a few people just covered their heads and whimpered at the intensity of the storm, but most everyone jumped up and vanished. Disappeared. It was amazing how fast people could move when impelled by driving rain, lightning and thunder. Within about ten minutes, all of the people were gone. Not only that, but every scrap of food on the place had vanished as well. All the food that had been put on the serving tables were picked up on the fly as people fled the storm, boxes were emptied into cars, every woman had found her own pots or plates, they folded it up and vanished. The family stayed, the folks under the tarps were ok, but the tent over the wedding cake was starting to go, and it was only screening on the sides. Two young guys grabbed a tarp and wrapped it around the tent to keep the cake dry, they stood there in the pouring rain cracking jokes until someone found a piece of rope to tie the tarp down.

The bride and groom, and the families, and me as well, were glad that the rain had driven the people away. Saved us having to pry them out of drunken corners at midnight. After the rain, it was clear again and cool. And besides, there was still the custom part of the marriage to attend to, so the bride went home with her father and her people to get ready for that.

Then the women of the groom’s family all painted their faces with stripes of yellow clay, and took some particular tree branches. They, and the men (except for the groom) all piled in the trucks and drove to the bride’s home. There, the women all yelled and waved branches and shouted for the bride to come out, to come with them to her new home.

The father of the bride came out. He explained that first off, he had returned two of the three bands of shell money that was paid as bride price, along with all of the cash money. This was because the bride’s family is from an island where the land passes through the matrilineal lines, and the bride’s mother is a princess in that line. So the first thing the bride’s father said was, even if the bride did go, unlike in most marriages here, she was not giving up all membership in her tribe to join her husband’s people. As symbolized by them returning two of the three bands of the shell money bride price, she retained some rights in her own line.

And then, with that over, he said what custom demanded, which was that in any case none of that mattered ’cause she wasn’t going anyhow. She was just too precious to them, it was all over, she was their little snowflake, they couldn’t let her go, forget about it, no way it would happen, the nice ladies from the other island might just as well go home.

At this, the women from the groom’s side redoubled their screaming, and they danced a threatening dance, with the branches held as though they were bird wings. Back and forth they danced, chanting some ancient half-understood chant. Then the women all rushed the bride’s house, where against token resistance one woman tried to pick up the bride … but the bride is a woman of gravity. So one of the larger aunties picked the bride up, tossed her over a shoulder, and carried her to the truck. They drove home screaming at the top of their lungs all the way, louder than I’d have thought possible, and when they arrived back home they once again picked the bride up. This time they didn’t mess about, six women picked the bride up and carried her into the house where the groom was and put her down. Everyone cheered, the bride and groom beamed in a kind of abashed fashion, and at last all of the marriage festivities were over.

Now that, I thought while sitting on the verandah enjoying the cool tropical evening and opening another beer for the father of the groom … that was a South Pacific wedding.