Tribewanted: Vorovoro

I have a confession – my name may have been a latest entry in the ancestors’ blacklist. And perhaps my day of utter misfortune can be the testimony to that.

It all began during the four peaks challenge. There were no ill intentions, but I reckon I broke a taboo. Being the gentleman my mum has nagged me into becoming, I tricked Justine into giving me the backpack: we had agreed to share the burden between us and she had carried for way to long. But then, as we strolled past the graves of Tui Mali’s ancestors I had forgotten, quite tactlessly, to take it off my back and hand-carry it through the site.

From hindsight I should’ve known: I was a marked man.

My spending the afternoon reading and secluding inside the grand bure had become a norm since arriving on Vorovoro. That very Friday was no exception. I was warned of Tui Mali’s likely visit, when the piglets arrived. But heck, I was too engaged in the author’s accounts of his Congo adventure (Blood River by Tim Butcher) that I was pretty unwilling to think too far into the future.

So when the lali sounded I was caught pretty off-guard.

As I scrambled for the door, a sudden mental note reminded me to leave the book behind. Turning to the window sill by the bookshelves I perched the book on it, before heading to the exit once more – except my sprint was cut short when my foot got caught on the raised platform of the library corner. I tripped, and fell, palm slamming against the floor and left shoulder rammed into the wall.

Worst of all, Rob happened to be in the bure at the time and had witnessed my entire ordeal of utter embarassment.

The agony was so great, that soon after inspecting the piglets I rested on the hammock and had to sleep on the pain. As soon as I woke up, I found the grog session coming to an end. One penalty for the Kavaholic.

Wasn’t it symbolic, that only the left side of my body received retribution? Because soon enough, I’d realise I’d taken only half the punishment.

As the sunlight faded and aromas of dinner getting stronger, I was on the grog matt again being served by Tale the yaqona that was left from the session earlier. A few bilos later my maturity went out of the window. Some petty insults by Lucas later (you’re not strawberry blonde, by the way), I was chasing him up the platform above the storage compartment. Whether it was spiritual guidance or the kava talking, I slipped as I came down the ladder and, catching my right shin on a plank of wood, had a gash scored on my leg. Blood was splattered, and the pain was instant. Chief Charlotte and Jim came to the rescue and patched up my leg.

Unfortunately, this time round I had myself a decent-sized audience witnessing the deed. Including Rob. But then, it was called even when the grog took away quite a bit of pain.

All earthquakes have aftershocks of equal or even superior impact – hear it from me. Mine came two days later when I decided to change bandages. It was then when I discovered that Jim had, under the meagre guidance of dim light, taped over my cut. The spirits sure were unforgiving. And the sight was certainly not for the squeemish.

I guess I better take up the advice and have a quiet word with the Tui with some grog…Hopefully, by the time of my next visit, the ancestors will have let go of their rage.