Cargo
Letter Four
Letter Four
Dear Susan
Before the sun even rose in the morning, the natives lead us up an incline repeating the words “English” several times. They seemed to be in a hurry for
us to meet this English-speaker, leading us up a dirt path at first, which quickly transformed itself to a series of rocky steps, which then transformed itself
into a wooden pathway, surprising us all. At this pathway the natives stopped, gesturing to us that they couldn’t go further. Yet, they pointed us on,
encouraging us to keep going up the pathway. “English,” they said. “English.” They sat along the steps, watching us anxiously.
The first thing we noticed as we walked up this pathway was the sound of classical music, becoming louder and louder as we rose further up the hill.
Then I heard the sound of chopping, as if a tree was in the process of being felled. Finally, as we approached the peak of the hill, I heard the sizzling of a
frying pan, and the three sounds combined with the smell of bacon emanating from the hut that suddenly popped in front of us from the pathway.
Off to the left was a tall white man in a sweaty Yankees hat chopping a log in the brush. He sort of doffed his hat at us as we stopped where we were,
and he took a few more strokes.
“You all like bacon?”
He was an American!
“Sure do,” Josh said. We were still hungry from the weeks of starvation, and some good old American food was a gift from God.
“Good thing, because I got a couple whole hogs up here. Can only eat so much myself,” the man said, pointing to a pen where two pigs rooted in the
mud and trampled leaves.
He wiped his hands on his dirty pants and apologized for his state, inviting us inside for breakfast. You would not believe this place. On the outside it
looked like the thatched huts of the natives, but on the inside it was like a fully furnished vacation house—television, radio, refrigerator, lamps, a full dining
table, the works. He even had some sort of makeshift exercise machine. We walked around in a daze.
“Jesus,” I said.
“Yeah,” the man said. “My own retreat from all of this.” The man waved his hand casually.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “The name’s Carrol Frith. Resident anthropologist.”
We all shook his hand in awe, and he brought out biscuits and some sort of island fruit to go with the bacon.
“Sorry I don’t have milk or anything. No cows on the island, though we’re working on it.”
We asked him all kinds of questions, but he never seemed annoyed or angered at all by our curiosity. He acted as if he expected us almost, matching
the natives in their lack of surprise.
This is the basic gist of what he told us: Frith was originally sent here by a secret agency in the states (of course, he couldn’t mention names) to uncover
as much information as he could about the Melani, the natives of this island. “Why?” we all asked. “Essentially, because the agency had heard wild
stories about the Melani attempting to buy President Gerald Ford for a boat load of pigs. It’s incredible, but it’s true. The Melani are thought of as a minor
security threat.”
Frith told us that the people of this island believed in what anthropologists call a ‘cargo cult.’ A cargo cult is any religion that believes in a land of the
dead. However, not only do they believe in a land of the dead, but the Melani believe that white people are their ancestors who returned from the land of
the dead with a bounty of goods that will improve their lives. This is the cargo. As we listened we continued to scarf down as much of Frith’s biscuits and
bacon as possible.
“But the cargo isn’t just goodies to those people. No. The Melani believe in a sort of day of reckoning,” Frith said. “They call it Capaganga. On that day,
all of their ancestors will return from the land of the dead. In addition, the whole world will change. Fish will fly. Birds will swim. Black people will be as
powerful as white people in the world. White people will fill the shoes of blacks. And they will get all the worldly goods that the white man has now.”
I think my mouth was agape, concentrating on every syllable and gesture that the man made.
He went on to tell us that the Melani actually worship the United States, and are, of course, no security threat at all. They learn English for their chants
only because they believe the U.S. is now the land of the dead. One hundred years ago it was England. Now it’s the U.S. “This is an adaptable religion. It
used to be boats that would bring the cargo, now it’s planes.” Just last week they finished making a landing strip for the hopeful arrival of their cargo.
More later.
Love,
Charles
Before the sun even rose in the morning, the natives lead us up an incline repeating the words “English” several times. They seemed to be in a hurry for
us to meet this English-speaker, leading us up a dirt path at first, which quickly transformed itself to a series of rocky steps, which then transformed itself
into a wooden pathway, surprising us all. At this pathway the natives stopped, gesturing to us that they couldn’t go further. Yet, they pointed us on,
encouraging us to keep going up the pathway. “English,” they said. “English.” They sat along the steps, watching us anxiously.
The first thing we noticed as we walked up this pathway was the sound of classical music, becoming louder and louder as we rose further up the hill.
Then I heard the sound of chopping, as if a tree was in the process of being felled. Finally, as we approached the peak of the hill, I heard the sizzling of a
frying pan, and the three sounds combined with the smell of bacon emanating from the hut that suddenly popped in front of us from the pathway.
Off to the left was a tall white man in a sweaty Yankees hat chopping a log in the brush. He sort of doffed his hat at us as we stopped where we were,
and he took a few more strokes.
“You all like bacon?”
He was an American!
“Sure do,” Josh said. We were still hungry from the weeks of starvation, and some good old American food was a gift from God.
“Good thing, because I got a couple whole hogs up here. Can only eat so much myself,” the man said, pointing to a pen where two pigs rooted in the
mud and trampled leaves.
He wiped his hands on his dirty pants and apologized for his state, inviting us inside for breakfast. You would not believe this place. On the outside it
looked like the thatched huts of the natives, but on the inside it was like a fully furnished vacation house—television, radio, refrigerator, lamps, a full dining
table, the works. He even had some sort of makeshift exercise machine. We walked around in a daze.
“Jesus,” I said.
“Yeah,” the man said. “My own retreat from all of this.” The man waved his hand casually.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “The name’s Carrol Frith. Resident anthropologist.”
We all shook his hand in awe, and he brought out biscuits and some sort of island fruit to go with the bacon.
“Sorry I don’t have milk or anything. No cows on the island, though we’re working on it.”
We asked him all kinds of questions, but he never seemed annoyed or angered at all by our curiosity. He acted as if he expected us almost, matching
the natives in their lack of surprise.
This is the basic gist of what he told us: Frith was originally sent here by a secret agency in the states (of course, he couldn’t mention names) to uncover
as much information as he could about the Melani, the natives of this island. “Why?” we all asked. “Essentially, because the agency had heard wild
stories about the Melani attempting to buy President Gerald Ford for a boat load of pigs. It’s incredible, but it’s true. The Melani are thought of as a minor
security threat.”
Frith told us that the people of this island believed in what anthropologists call a ‘cargo cult.’ A cargo cult is any religion that believes in a land of the
dead. However, not only do they believe in a land of the dead, but the Melani believe that white people are their ancestors who returned from the land of
the dead with a bounty of goods that will improve their lives. This is the cargo. As we listened we continued to scarf down as much of Frith’s biscuits and
bacon as possible.
“But the cargo isn’t just goodies to those people. No. The Melani believe in a sort of day of reckoning,” Frith said. “They call it Capaganga. On that day,
all of their ancestors will return from the land of the dead. In addition, the whole world will change. Fish will fly. Birds will swim. Black people will be as
powerful as white people in the world. White people will fill the shoes of blacks. And they will get all the worldly goods that the white man has now.”
I think my mouth was agape, concentrating on every syllable and gesture that the man made.
He went on to tell us that the Melani actually worship the United States, and are, of course, no security threat at all. They learn English for their chants
only because they believe the U.S. is now the land of the dead. One hundred years ago it was England. Now it’s the U.S. “This is an adaptable religion. It
used to be boats that would bring the cargo, now it’s planes.” Just last week they finished making a landing strip for the hopeful arrival of their cargo.
More later.
Love,
Charles
