Rajko Writes and Sketches:
Untoppable greeting
First arrival in the village was ridiculously good. Aside from the friendly mass welcome, we were then personally greeted by five topless local ladies who shook our hands and put flowers on our heads. THEN we went along a line of about 50 topless girls, shaking their hands and saying hello … after which they all sat down and sang us songs. No welcome could ever top that!
A night under the stars with Rich and Corey on the football pitch
The stars were so beautifully bright and clear that we decided to go and lie there and it was really, really nice. We joked around and I would say got to know each other better just through talking and hanging out. Two really nice guys and it will be good to get to know them more.
The dreaded axe!
Who’d have realized that an innocent walk out behind the village to cut a piece of wood for a cricket bat would end up so dramatic?
Chief Talaboa The father, Chief Talaboa, is surprisingly friendly for his position of authority. He comes around in his traditional pants, carrying his handbag of betel nut, and says some words in Trobriand to me. He smiles a lot and occasionally sings a local song in that beautiful way old people sing — gentle, emotive, almost strained, yet delicate and full of life. And the mum always has big smiles for me.
Editor’s Note: Check out Rajko’s new Web site: www.rajko.tv
Richard Writes:
I’m not someone who enjoys killing animals, but I’m definitely someone who enjoys a well cooked rasher of bacon. You’ll spot the conundrum then, when I was handed a spear and pointed in the direction of a large pig, helplessly bound to a branch of wood, and told to handle business.
It was hardly a classic case of man vs. beast, for the pig had no chance of escape, and what was worse, it knew it. Those well-informed about such things, vets and so on, tell the rest of us that goldfish are daft things without memories, yet they never cease to praise the brainpower of pigs. The clever beasts can tell when things aren’t looking good, and this one knew exactly what was coming.
Tirah pointed at its armpit, and gestured his instruction. It seemed a simple way of doing it: a sharp thrust of spear into the pig's heart, and I could only hope that it would prove efficient and quick. I gave the pig one last look; its eyes were rolled back and bore into me with an agonizing look of desperation. For a moment I thought of abandoning my duties, of handing the spear to Rajko or Corey, and asking them to deliver the blow. Had I done so, I might well have become vegetarian, for how could I have tucked into the resulting pork stew had I cravenly avoided the process by which that stew was made? To eat meat, there must be a prior acceptance of the death that delivered it. I thought of all the animals that died in abattoirs to fill our supermarket shelves, and how distant and sterilized a process it was. Here was death, in front of me. I had to face it, or I could never eat meat again with a conscience.
I can recall the exact feeling of the punctured belly as the plunging spear ran swiftly through flesh and sinew into heart, yet the accompanying noise is clearer still. A shrill and bloodcurdling screech filled my ears, the sound of blinding pain, and of fear. It was not over quickly. My nostrils flared as I pressed down with all my weight, filled with a deep wish that the pig would die quickly so its torment would be over. They later told me it lasted a single minute, but it felt so protracted, and as the dreadful screeching began to fade, and gargled blood frothed from its nose, I gave Tirah the spear. I sat down and watched the last breaths. In a daze, I gaped on as the islanders gutted the pig, working swiftly and precisely. They threw away the spleen to nearby dogs, and drained the intestines of the half-digested waste. Eventually I joined in, and was struck by how warm the hide was, how curiously it tore loose from the flesh, and how recognizable the organs were. It was neatly compartmentalized, and soon the pig bore no resemblance to the terrified beast of minutes before. It stacked smartly in piles: ears, tails, and trotters here, ribs, legs, and belly there. How easy it is, I realized then, to forget that meat once moved and breathed and played.
But I could not forget. As we sat several hours later, a bowl of pork in our laps, I was distracted from the buoyant conversation all around me. The meat seemed unnaturally warm, and with every bite I saw the eyes upon me as the spear came down. I was solemn and I had no appetite, but I ate a full two bowls with the most genuine and complete sense of gratitude I’ve ever felt. My appreciation was not for the beautiful weather, or to the splendid company that sat around, nor even to the kind man who handed me the bowl. It was to the pig.
