The difference between pig and long-pig

“After dinner, one hot evening, Martin and I went down to the beach. It was one of the most beautiful nights I had ever known. The reflection of a full moon was on the water; the stars of the Southern Cross were bright in a velvety sky and the sea purred heavily as it stretched itself along the beach. The air had a bloom-like softness. We sat idly watching the luminous trail of phosphorus marking the course of a shark, when we heard the soft swish of canoe paddles. Martin drew me into the shadows of a cluster of palm. The canoe beached at the pathway leading to the village, and we saw the savages lift from it a long, heavy object wrapped in leaves. It took some six of them to carry it. Instead of the usual chatter, they were silent, and moved quickly and stealthily from view. Whether or not they saw us there on the beach we didn’t know, but obviously they wanted to keep secret whatever it was they were doing.

“We crept back to the house where Martin handed me an automatic. Already the boo-boos were beating their horrible cadence; the natives beginning their weird chant. Martin sat with a rifle across his knees. The tropical night had lost its beauty and was filled with a grisly menace. We did not sleep that night nor until the boo-boos stopped, near morning. When we awoke, much later than our usual hour, we saw Paul Mazouyer’s schooner anchored not a hundred feet away. I can’t think when Martin and I had ever been happier.

“When the men were loading our apparatus aboard, I questioned Atree, and blandly and with relish he confirmed our suspicions; the long bundle had been a man, and the noises those of a cannibalistic orgy.”

—From I Married Adventure by Osa Johnson, 1940

This little piggy, feasting on coconuts, might be dinner tomorrow night. Photos by David Lansing.

Gorgeous evening last night but damn if I could find the Southern Cross. I laid on a teak chaise lounge on the beach staring up into the starry night, an Espiritu Diablo cocktail in my hand, searching, searching, searching but unable to say, with any precision, where, exactly, the Southern Cross was.

“Would you like another drink?” whispered Claire, a lovely ni-Vanuatu employee on Ratua whose main job seems to be in making sure my glass is never empty.

“Claire, do you see the Southern Cross?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you show me?”

And then she bent down so that her view of the night sky was the same as mine and pointed up into the night. “There. You see?”

Well, no, not really. There were just so many stars. I changed the subject.

Fresh caught lobster for Mr. Piggy.

“So what’s for dinner tonight?”

“A choice of Vanuatu rib-eye or lobster caught this morning.”

“Oh, god…Tough choice.”

Claire giggled. “Would you like both?” she whispered.

“Is that possible?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m being a little piggy, aren’t I?”

Claire nodded. “Being piggy is good,” she said.

“It is?”

“Yes. For us, a pig is even more important than money. So to say someone is piggy is to say they have much wealth. You know that when there were cannibals on the islands they called a man a long-pig.”

“Ah.”

“Today the men have caught one of the pigs on the island and tomorrow it will be cooked for dinner. Very special.”

“But not a long-pig.”

Claire clicked her tongue and waved a hand at me. “Not for many years.”

So at dinner I had a bit of rib-eye and a whole lobster. But what I was thinking about was that pig. And wondering if he was one of the ones I’d seen on my walk this morning rooting in the coconut groves. I’m sure not. Right?