The Chief’s Second Son stands a boy amongst the men, a scrawny teenager surrounded by the muscular men of his village, looking even more diminutive as he seems to shrink inside himself, trying to somehow withdraw from the scene in which he finds himself reluctantly playing a leading role. Second Son’s eyes are wide, almost startled, he wants to be somewhere else, anywhere else. The other custom dancers stamp powerfully to the beat, sending vibrations through the ground to where we sit, but Second Son barely lifts his feet. A large, black pig is to blame.
In Vanuatu pigs symbolise status and they are currency, pigs feed people and are ceremonial, pig tusks adorn elders and represent power in the village. Their symbolism is a long held tradition, and similarly, their end is also traditional.
I was out for an early morning paddle, getting my Zen top up for the day by gliding across the vibrantly clear emerald water, scanning the depths for the turtles and dugongs that live in this bay. Without warning a violent squeal shot across the water to rip me from my reverie. I guessed a pig was being killed, but the tortured cries continued, making me wonder how it could take so long. Surely the pig’s throat is slit to bring a swift end to its life? No. Tradition is still strong in Ambrym and so pigs die as they always have, by being clubbed to death. It is a shocking revelation for someone from a sanitised society.
The following day at the custom festival, we sat amongst the locals to witness the songs, dances and costumes that have been part of their culture for hundreds of years. It is for the people of the village, so there is almost no commentary, leaving us to interpret what is before us and feel what is happening. The arrival of the Chief with a small, hog tied pig in one hand and a ceremonial club in the other comes without warning. I race over to the Squid and Dolphin, huddled under an umbrella with other cruiser kids. We have no opportunity to explain this custom or provide them with some preparation for what is rapidly unfolding. With only time to say “A pig is going to be killed, you don’t have to watch”, they drop the umbrella to shield them from the sight, but there is no refuge from the sound. Dull thuds of wood hitting skull mixed with anguished squeals. Thankfully the Chief is skilled and the pig goes quiet, yet still twitching. We go for a short walk to recover and let the dancing continue.
It is now the final day of the festival, and before us stands Second Son. We have more understanding of how things unfold now and the sight of the big, black pig gives meaning to how Second Son is behaving. Before him stands his father, the village and visitors from boats. Everyone has expectations, none greater than the expectations Second Son has placed on himself and his performance today. While the other dancers are swept along in the tidal flow of sound and rhythm, Second Son is clearly somewhere else, knowing what he must do, wondering if he can do it. We look with empathy at the fear in his eyes, all of us knowing what Second Son knows. This is the way it has always been, this is the way it will be today.