"Do you have any sugar?" I ask. "No, I'm low on stock just now, as you can no doubt see. There is a
Chinese store not far from here and they probably have some. They also have excellent
bread, but you'd best arrive before noon or likely as not they'll be sold out."
I do a double-take at his perfect English with its clipped accent.
There is a sparkle in his eyes and the play of a smile around his lips. No simple country
man this. I look at him and he looks at me and we are instantly friends. Freddy and I
stroll out towards the lagoon with him.
He is Kitchner Wheatley. His father was an Australian who came to
the Solomons before the turn of the century. The man, so Kitchner says, who invented the
Australian crawl swimming stroke. Also a man of great amorous skills. His genes are
widespread in the Western Solomons. Kitchner's mom is a Solomon Islander who is now around
100 years old. His sister, Agnes, owns the Guest House here in Munda. Kitchner has a small
island just off the village and, as he happens to be going home for lunch, he invites us
to follow him there. He sets off in a dugout canoe with a Yamaha outboard with Freddy and
me in our Avon in hot pursuit.
We land next to a boatshed on the beach where Kitchner shows us the
new canoe he is building. It is 36 feet long, 4 and a half feet wide and expertly carved
from a single gigantic log. The stern is flat to take a large outboard motor. Its perfect
lines, smooth and symmetrical, testify to Kitchner's skill. He is sculpting it by hand,
using primitive hand tools. Kitchner obviously enjoys my admiration. He leads us through a
lovely flower garden to a genuine World War II Quonset hut nestled in the greenery. "Purchased from the U.S. Military for $5." he grins.
"At the end of World War II?" I ask, amazed at the lack of
rust.
"Well naturally," he chuckles and I wonder how old this
man is. I can't guess by looking at him. But if he was old enough to buy this hut in 1942
he must be well into his sixties now.
Kitchner keeps slipping one surprise after another into our
afternoon. He's retired from Government service. What did he do? He was a medical doctor,
trained in Fiji and New Zealand. This matches my estimate that he must be sixty something,
until he adds he retired 20 years ago. If he retired at 65, as is normal for the civil
service, he would now be 85 years old. This is absolutely impossible. He really looks like
he's in his late 50's. An engaging, intelligent man with such a quick wit, 85? If his
mother is 100 years old, she would have been 15 when he was born. Possible, I suppose.
Magic Plants
Mrs. Wheatley shows us her delightful gardens, explaining the use of
all the plants she has collected. "And this one is for wrapping fish while baking
them," she has a pleasant New Zealand accented voice. "And this one is the magic
plant for fishing."
"Whoa..." I interrupt, "tell me more about that one,
it sounds like just what I need."
"Well, if you touch it like so it makes the fish bite when you
go fishing."
Over lunch, I question Kitchner about the magic plant but he is
evasive. His daughter says, "Oh, come on daddy, tell him a magic fish story."
Laughing, he agrees to tell me a story providing I agree not to
misunderstand it. I sip the ice cold coconut he has given me (Where did he get an ice cold
coconut on an island with no electricity?) and agree not to misunderstand.
 "Our son-in-law, an
Australian," he begins, "was staying with us. He had been going out fishing with
us for several days and not doing very well. My daughter came to me one morning as we were
preparing to go out and said, `Daddy, you're going to have to fix him up with the magic
plant.'
"OK," I said going along with the thing for a laugh, I'll
try. I made a garland of leaves from the bush and with grave sincerity I laid it around
his neck. Of course, I mumbled a few words for effect and off we went in the canoe to do
some fishing."
"A few yards from the beach a school of huge mullet the biggest
mullet you'd ever see around here began leaping out of the water. `It's working already' I
called back to my daughter standing on the beach. Exactly then, perhaps startled by my
loud voice, a frightened mullet leaped out of the water and hit the small sail I had up
and fell to the floor of the canoe. We had a true believer as I nodded my head and looked
solemnly at him."
We all guffaw for a couple of minutes and continue to eat in
silence. I begin to think about the wind. The wind which, for us, is always on the bow. I
sort of have it in mind - just for the fun of it - to look for a witch doctor and see if I
can get him to do something about our peculiar (and rotten) luck with the wind. So, as
Kitchner says, "Butter, please," I blurt out "What about the wind, being a
fisherman you must be familiar with the stories about the old sayer who could control the
wind and rain."
He stops eating, gives me a level look and then answers, "You
happen to have been born into a strange era or the truth of those stories would be evident
to you. Here in the Solomons, before the war, the weather followed certain patterns
religiously. At the new moon it would rain. In certain months the wind would invariably
blow from a particular direction. Changes would always be foretold by specific natural
signs."
He hesitates, as if pondering something, chewing his lunch with a
distant look in his eye, "There is a small crab that lives in the mangroves. We call
it the Southeast Trade Caller because if you look out over the flats at low tide, and the
crabs are waving their claws in a particular fashion like this you can be positive the
southeasterly trades will begin in a day or two.
"But of course the crabs know nothing about the wind. In those
days, just before the Southeast winds would blow, we normally had a very low tide. The
crabs were merely enjoying the low tide for a bit of courtship. But the low tide attracted
one's attention to the exposed flats and the crabs....well, you know.
"The old men who supposedly could control the weather really
were observant meteorologists who remembered the conditions prior to weather changes.
Because of the reliable cyclic nature of the weather here, they always knew exactly what
to expect. They could, therefore, dramatically stand before the village and pronounce
'Tomorrow, I will make the wind blow or stop or I will produce rain or whatever'."
This all sounds very reasonable and I nod my head in agreement and
understanding. He gives me one of his twinkle-in-the-eye half-chuckle looks and continues, "That reminds me of a quite remarkable piece of luck I once had with the wind.
"Last March, I took my sailing canoe to Rendova to pick up a
log for my new canoe. All the way there we sailed with the wind blowing on our stern. We
went into the forest and spent several days felling the tree, trimming the branches and
fighting the log down to the sea. I had arranged with a friend to come over with an
outboard canoe so we would tow the log back. It would, we knew, be directly into the wind
and thus impossible to sail back towing a bloody great log. Well, as it turned out, the
man didn't come. I tried to get someone from Rendova to tow me back but couldn't find
anyone."
"Shortly, we had run out of food and I had no money and didn't
want to abandon the log. My helper asked me, 'Well, now what do we do?' 'Don't worry,' I
said, 'Tonight I make prayer. Fix everything. Tomorrow we sail long home.' The next
morning the wind shifted right around and was blowing in the opposite direction. Right out
of the West Sou'west. Very unusual in March, you understand. I said, 'OK, lets go.' and we
hoisted the sail. It took us four hours to make it here towing the log. Exactly one hour
after we arrived, the wind stopped and blew from its normal direction again. We had just
finished rolling the log up into the shed when it changed back. I turned to my helper and
said, 'OK. You can paddle back to Rendova now."'
We all giggle at his story and the way he mimed every action with
his face and body. His wife says, "His helper told everyone what had happened and it
helped reinforce the people's idea that he was a sorcerer."
Kitchner throws her a "Be quiet look," but I perk up at
this and inquire where he got such a reputation to begin with.
"Ahhhh, that's another story." He gets up from the table
and we repair to the front of the Quonset hut where he has some lawn chairs. He settles
into one and as Freddy and I sit down he closes his eyes leans back and begins, "One
time, quite awhile ago, I was returning one night from a trip to Gizo. I decided to stop
by the shop for a few things before coming to the island. I walked directly from the ferry
landing to the store and right inside. Of all things there was a man there in the process
of robbing the store! I was quite frightened but so surprised, I just kept walking into
the store. I walked right up to the man, took him by the arm (he was as startled as I was)
and calmly said, 'Come along with me, please' and quickmarched him directly to the police
station.
"Shortly before that incident an old man well over 100 years
old who we were taking care of had died. He was a very wise old man and knew many things.
He was considered to be a sayer.
"When I walked so purposefully from the ferry right into the
store and popped out again an instant later with the thief, the people assumed I a spirit
had told me the thief was there. A small congregation of the village people came to my
store the next day and asked me 'Did the old man bless you?' Well, of course it was too
good an opportunity to pass up, so I put on a serious expression and simply nodded my
head."
"But Kitchner," I turn to look at him, "What did make
you go to your store at exactly that time and why did the trades reverse direction for
just the time you needed to return home and why did the mullet jump into your boat at
exactly that time? Do these things happen to you often?"
He laughs for a long time at my question. Finally, he agrees a large
mullet had never before jumped into his canoe, especially not when he was playing a game
with his son-in-law about magic and that his store had not been robbed often before and
never afterwards. "The wind does seem especially favorable for me," he smiles
"most of the time."
"Not for me," I grumble. "We have a shocking record
of having adverse winds. We need a 'sayer' to fix our problem with the winds. It's always
on the nose." I look hopefully at Kitchner but he just sits there, looking back at
me.
I shrug and ask, "Tell me more about the magic fishing
plant."
"Oh, more of that." He gets up and leads us into the
garden and selects a plant with long oblate leaves striped with red. "First you take
some of these leaves, like this, and tie them around your neck." He braids them
together as we walk off towards his boatshed. "Then you fold another leaf in half and
wipe it, just so, along the fishing line from the hook upwards. Muttering a few mystic
words, of course." He reaches into a nook in the boatshed and brings out some
elegant, hand carved pearl shell fish lures. Freddy's eyes go wide. She loves traditional
fish lures. Kitchner shows us how to wipe the hook and line.
"Do you think the leaf might have a smell attractive to the
fish?" I sniff the broken leaf, it has a sweet, astringent aroma. "Or perhaps it
might disguise or clean off the smell of the fisherman's hand?"
"Well, I don't know," he is thoughtful. "Perhaps,
though I have always suspected the effect is more on the fisherman than on the fish."
He holds up the wreath of leaves and lures and pronounces with a theatrical voice,
"With my magic necklace and magic lure I am unable to be lethargic. I paddle to the
best place. I paddle hard without getting tired. I fish energetically and with
determination." He lowers his arms, "Perhaps, without the magic, and a few
spirits looking on, I feel less certain of myself and begin to think about my garden or
tea or how boring the canoe trip is and I fish with poor attention and less
actively."
"You're probably right. But people do have metabolites in their
skin which have shown to be repellent to fish. Some people have more than others. Perhaps
there is an element of true effect as well as the psychological one."
"Well, yes. Yes. Of course, I would list the psychological
effect as a true effect, but you may be right. When several men are fishing for tuna say
three or four men are paddling and another holds the fishing pole. If the fisherman
doesn't catch a fish after a few minutes, we frequently change men. Often, the new man
will immediately catch a fish."
"But, most of the plants used by the men on headhunting
expeditions were clearly to focus their minds. Potana gave powers to the hunter
from his spirit ancestors. A plant called Vina Puta would make you invisible. Doma
would hypnotize the enemy. Mamahelo gave tremendous stamina and strength (it looks
much like the magic fishing plant with red streaks through its leaf, here, this one), Puji
allowed you to gorge yourself during a feast, and Vina manavasa had the wonderful
property of inducing hospitality in all you met. The power of suggestion. Plus, perhaps,
some elements of herbal magic." As Kitchner talks, he points to some of the plants he
is describing. I find it more than of passing interest that this alleged sayer has all of
these magic plants growing in his garden. On the other hand, he is a medical doctor....so
an interest in herbs would not be out of the ordinary.
I continue with fish - a safe topic, "Walter Starck thinks reef
fish which stay in one area get to recognize certain lures and fishing techniques and
somehow can communicate this recognition to other fish. When the fisherman changes tactics
and lures he often catches one right away."
Kitchner nods agreement, clearly happy to be off the subject of
magic. "A well equipped fisherman for Bonito or tuna must have five or six different
types of lures," Kitchner shows us a selection of his lures in the old coffee can.
"When I approach a school of fish I observe the birds; what kinds are there, what
they are doing. If I see man of war birds present and active I use this silver lure for
surely there are large sardines.
"If there are only gulls, I might use this white lure, this
transparent lure, or this white and red lure. It depends on the feeding behavior of the
fish. If the fish are actively tearing up the water, I use the red or red and white lure.
If they are not leaping but merely striking swiftly, I use the white bait. If, however the
fish only nibble the surface....ahhh, this is the most difficult, for they are feeding on
almost transparent bait.
"I have a number of lures for any occasion and can almost
always select the correct one for the particular moment by reading Sea's language."
Kitchner pauses to put away his lures, wrapping them in a leaf of the magic fishing plant
before putting them back in the can. My mind clings to the way he said "Sea's
language." He verbally capitalized Sea and used the possessive form. Odd, because his
English is otherwise so perfect. Yet not odd, in a way, if you personalize the sea. He
continues, "Each lure must also be fished differently. But the choice of lures, and
this type of fishing, is peculiar to the migratory fishes like tuna and bonito. Walter is
quite correct with the reef fish. They do learn to recognize certain boats and fishing
techniques. Once they learn, they are very difficult to catch. As a bit of exaggeration,
the local people here insist the fish in some areas know each fisherman's canoe, the way
he paddles, his particular lures, and perhaps his name."
We laugh and stroll down to the water. The lagoon is brilliant in
the afternoon sunlight, "You know, when I go fishing for tuna I talk to the fish.
When I see a school of fish I paddle toward them and say, 'Hello fish, it is Kitchner
Wheatley again. You remember, from Munda. My grandfather and my great grandfather came out
to see you. You remember me. I always paddle this canoe. You will recognize my lure if you
come back to me.'
"I have seen many schools of tuna stop moving away from me,
turn, and come in my direction when I talk to them. Soon, I'm in the thick of it and I
coax them to bite and they always do. But I believe the talking is mostly for my own
benefit. It keeps my mind focused on the job and improves my fishing technique."
We talk until it is dusk. About fishing and ancient customs and
magic. I learn a thousand things about the Solomon Islands. I am sure we will go back to
visit again tomorrow. But I want to write down his words, as nearly as I can remember
them, because he gave me a really wonderful perspective on what he called "Sea's
Language".
It's true, Sea does have a language, although few people understand
it. Each wave, each cloud, the colors of the sky, the way the birds fly and the crabs
walk, the way the shore trees hold their leaves, the smell of the air and the reflected
look of the moon and stars, the texture of the currents.
Ancient navigators could go between these islands and perceive
exactly where the other islands were from hundreds of miles away. Just by knowing Sea's
language. I can understand how those who are completely captured by the social scene of
the village and the hardships of island life would be unable to understand how men like
Kitchner know what the wind and the sea will be doing for days in advance.
Magic plays a large role in this awareness. I don't know why.
Perhaps, as Kitchner says, you must quiet the busy social mind to listen to Sea's
language. Ritual magic quiets the mind and allows ones attention to focus on the nonhuman
language of Sea. Yes. I think that may be so. A magic talisman would stop the constant
inner blabber and allow the person to be inwardly attentive. I think our understanding of
Sea's language, or of the planet in general, comes from our unconscious mind a deeper,
more primitive mind underlying our talkative social selves.
Why, that's .... No. Not exactly. But somehow this is close to how
the Moirae work. I'm sure of it. Something about the way the natural language works. But
Moirae are more than natural events. If a man reads Sea's language he can say what will
happen because he sees....I want to say dedications of events.
He sees a chain of events which, causal or not, he knows means a
series is being spoken. Like the first notes of a familiar jingle, once the first signals
are made the other events will surely follow. The crab itself has nothing to do with the
wind velocity or direction but it is part of a series of environmental events which predicts an outcome of weather trends.
The Moirae effect carries the prediction one step further. Or onto
another level of dedication of events, for it deals with predictions (dedications) of
events involving the most complicated behavior patterns on the Planet, Mankind.
I'm not saying this right. I don't understand it yet. It's a hazy
image and I see its outline but can't name it. Kitchner's synchronicities not to mention
my own and Carl Jung's and many others convinces me the Moirae exist. But it is not
determinism or fatalism. After all, a man able to read Sea's language is less likely to be
accorded the fate of a nature illiterate when exposed to Sea's fickle nature. Reading the
signs, the knowing man has the opportunity to react, and survive. The signs are there,
read or not. If unread, the chain of events seem like magic. Magic is a chain of events
one cannot see or understand.
I sit for awhile and contemplate this idea. Magic is a chain of
events one cannot see or understand. I like it.
The Moirae are not supernatural, they seem, to me, to be
magic only because I can't figure out how they work. They are beyond my direct perception
but I know they are there because I can observe their behavior. I also know they have
something to do with the directionality of evolution. It's an explanation of how creatures
evolved. A behavior mandating a vector of development in response to environmental (I was
going to say pressures but I really want to say) opportunities.
I've lost the thread. (Bad pun).
FAST BUCKS
The swelling in my foot (from a big yellow mud wasp) has gone down.
I want to go ashore to see the display of wood carvings for the man from Keita who is
flying down this morning to buy them for his export business. I have not been ashore for
three days.
A nifty little Cessna circles the lagoon, zooming Moira. Must be the
buyer. Business can't be too bad if he can afford a plane like that to buzz around in.
Freddy helps me into the Avon and we go ashore to see the carvings. We find them laid out
in a big circular area on the lawn next to Agnes' Guest House. It is a good turn-out, all
the best carvers from the Western Solomons are here. These guys do some really fine work.
I look over a circus of wood fish, sharks, masks, and especially Nusa Nusa Heads.
Nusa Nusa heads, often carved in ebony and inlaid with Nautilus
mother of pearl, are stylized replicas of decorations once used on the prows of
head-hunting canoes. Normally, a head-hunting canoe carried three Nusa-nusa heads. One was
resting its chin on a flying bird. The headhunters mounted this one on the bow as their
canoe went off on a mission. Another was resting its chin on its folded hands. When
mounted, it meant the canoe was returning without any heads. The last was resting its chin
on a smaller head. They put this one up front when the hunting party was successful, and
the fuzzy afros of their neighbors were tickling their toes in the canoe. The symbols
enabled the village women to know how to greet their men as they returned without having
to risk ego-embarrassing questions.
On the lawn in front of Agnes' Guest House, is the most splendid
display of carving I have ever seen. I hobble around, favoring my sore foot, saying hi to
some of the men I recognize.
"There's Beni Jonga from Buruku," Freddy points. He's got
a terrific collection of his work. I stand and chat with him until The Man from Kieta
comes striding confidently up the path, flanked by two local guys. He's all business.
His first move is to breeze around the whole area glancing at each
mans work and rushing on to another's, like a lion tamer strutting around his beasts with
his whip held high. He has, in his hand, a big brown paper bag and keeps reaching into it
and hauling out great stacks of Solomon Island money; all one dollar bills. He waves these
in the air. Even I am impressed. It looks like an enormous amount of money but is probably
only a few thousand dollars. The islanders all stand up and practically paw the air.
When he stops at Benny's display his otherwise deadpan face squinges
up into a look of utter contempt and he hurries away. Benny has some of the best carvings
in the display. He is visibly upset. "Don't worry Benny," I say, "He's just
trying to make you lower your price. Don't come down on your prices. Your work is very
good."
"Him no like work, going to pay nothing. Better something than
nothing." He is really worried.
I can't convince him the man lied because the man said nothing. His
face said plenty. This was really a sharp move on the buyer's part. Solomon Islanders are
very expressive with their body language and, like most of us, impressions gotten from
body language are usually absorbed unconsciously and therefore believed.
I limp after The Man and watch his technique. On each round he only
buys one kind of carving, starting with the less expensive small fish, sea horses, and
crocodiles. He points to the ones he wants and peels off some one dollar bills, making a
big show of counting them silently two or three times right under the seller's nose. He
ruffles and shakes and fans out the cash, snaps each bill as he counts it. When he's done
he hands it to the artist and, if the man takes it, he walks off instantly to another
display. His assistants quickly gather up the carvings in large burlap sacs while the
artist counts the dollars one at a time, slowly, out loud. The two helpers whisk the
carvings off towards the guest house. They are long gone before the carver gets finished
counting.
I saw many carvers finish slowly, painfully, counting the money only
to look up, confused and unhappy. The carvings had, somehow, not yielded what they
expected.
When the buyer comes to Benny, he has already bought out most of the
other displays. He stands in front of Benny with his head turning around, looking at the
remaining carvings, the dregs, in other displays. Finally he seems to notice there are
still some carvings here, in front of him. He says, "Well, are you going to give me
those things or sell them to me?" 
Benny looks shocked and worried. "Let's see," the man
surveys the carvings. "One....Two....Three....ummm 9 carvings. OK, here you go.
Righteeo?" and he sticks a wad of 26 scrunched up one dollar bills in Benny's hand
and is gone, his assistant snatching up the lovely carvings each worth from 10 to 40
dollars in Kieta and more in the U.S. In seconds, the men are running off after the buyer
in the direction of the airport. Benny says nothing. But his face says a lot.
Looking around at the men gathering up what's left of their work, I
am reminded again of the rain forests. The representatives of lumber companies are even
more adroit at razzle-dazzle than the Man from Kieta. Instead of a paper bag full of
dollars, they arrive with suitcases full of dollars. A few bottles of cheap whiskey are
thrown in for effect. The ramifications are even more befuddling for the local people,
since they don't have to actually do anything to get the suitcase full of cash. Just sign
a little release form.
I can see, in the future, thousands of faces of Solomon Islanders
with the same expression Benny's wears as I leave him on the lawn at Agnes' Guest House.
The Holy Mama would soon
show us a different Solomon
Spirit...
Go
To |
CD
Ordering Information | Contact
| This Magic Sea | Thread
of Awareness |
| Log of the Moira | Definitions
| References
and Links |
|
Along the road
we discover a series of small villages in separate clearings in the Lantana. Each little
village is like a display in a big Museum, showing how people live in this part of the
world. Each one we come to is unique, separated by the bush and by the style and
distribution of the houses, the dress of the people, even what's going on. 