Jon Frum and The World Cup
While it may seem impossible that we had time to do anything else in Tanna (we were only there for four nights), we managed to get in one more tour: Jon Frum night!
I had a read a lot of information about the Jon Frum cargo cult, which was brought about in a The-God's-Must-be-Crazy kind of way--when US Troops arrived in Efate and Santo in the 1940's with their refrigerators, radios, and Coca-Cola, a lot of which dropped from the sky via divine parachutes or landed in majestic cargo birds.
There is a lot of contradictory information on Jon Frum, and Jon Frum villages often contradict each other. Jon Frum was formed as a resistance to Christian missionaries. No, it was the missionaries who promised them wealth if they turned to God. No, the movement has been opposed by missionaries. No, the movement has nothing to do with missionaries.
Jon Frum Day is February 15th, when supporters raise an American flag, wear blue jeans, and march in a military parade with bamboo rifles. Apparently a lot of journalists bring material goods like torches and toys to feed the myth.
One thing is for sure, though. Jon Frums everywhere are waiting for Jon Frum's return, when he will bring them an abundance of cargo goods. Some have even built airstrips for the cargo plane. They gather within their villages on Friday nights to sing songs about him and support the movement.
But who is Jon Frum?
Jon Frum is a god who lives in the crater of Mount Yasur. He's the brother of Mt Tukosmera. He's American. He's African-American. He's an American GI. He's Prince Philip, or any combination thereof.
In the village we traveled to, Jon Frum was in the image of Uncle Sam. There was a picture of him hanging on a piece of wood, overlooking the supporters as they sang and danced in his honor.
I was very intrigued about the Jon Frum movement and couldn't wait to pick the supporters' brains about their beliefs and traditions. When we arrived in the village, however, I quickly discovered that no one was interested in discussing Jon Frum. They were interested in discussing the World Cup. Did we have a television at our bungalow? Could we give them an update? Who did we support?
Although we only stayed for the first band, there are several that play, and the dancing goes until daylight. I don't know how the villagers managed. When our driver dropped us off around 8:00, everyone already looked very tired. The men were obviously drinking kava, but there were also children sleeping in the roots of a banyan tree or in their mother's laps, and Ashlinn, a teenager who sat beside me, couldn't stop yawning.
The gathering was small, as there was a flu going around the village. The music was lively. The songs were sung in their native language and sounded the same. The only word I recognized was, "Hallelujah." The band was made up of men playing guitars and drums and singing. The atmosphere was very relaxed. Men and women could sit and watch, or they could dance. But they don't dance together. The men tap their toes to the left of the shelter, while the women dance up and down in the shadows on the right.
Brett and I watched the colorful grass skirts swaying to the music in the shadows for a few songs. Then he decided to do some toe-tapping with the men and discuss the World Cup with Willie. I made small talk with Ashlinn, who was one of the few villagers who spoke English. She was also one of five who backed Brazil in the World Cup. Everyone else went for Australia. Go the Aussies!
Even though she looked like she was on the verge of sleep, Ashlinn invited me to dance. We went around to the women's side, where another teenager wrapped a grass skirt around me. I told her, "Merci," which sparked my first and only full conversation in French (other than the kastom village, everyone spoke English). I impressed myself, until she said something I could not understand, and the conversation ended.
We danced for an hour or so, and when our driver still hadn't returned, the girls teased me that he was drunk on kava. He was from their village, so I believed them. I started panicking, as given the dancing goes until morning; no one would have missed us at the resort.
Eventually he returned. It'd been a long day (see "Blue Cave" and "The Giant Banyan Tree"), so we said our farewells. On the drive back, it struck me like a slap on the forehead what the girl had said: World Cup.
I had a read a lot of information about the Jon Frum cargo cult, which was brought about in a The-God's-Must-be-Crazy kind of way--when US Troops arrived in Efate and Santo in the 1940's with their refrigerators, radios, and Coca-Cola, a lot of which dropped from the sky via divine parachutes or landed in majestic cargo birds.
There is a lot of contradictory information on Jon Frum, and Jon Frum villages often contradict each other. Jon Frum was formed as a resistance to Christian missionaries. No, it was the missionaries who promised them wealth if they turned to God. No, the movement has been opposed by missionaries. No, the movement has nothing to do with missionaries.
Jon Frum Day is February 15th, when supporters raise an American flag, wear blue jeans, and march in a military parade with bamboo rifles. Apparently a lot of journalists bring material goods like torches and toys to feed the myth.
One thing is for sure, though. Jon Frums everywhere are waiting for Jon Frum's return, when he will bring them an abundance of cargo goods. Some have even built airstrips for the cargo plane. They gather within their villages on Friday nights to sing songs about him and support the movement.
But who is Jon Frum?
Jon Frum is a god who lives in the crater of Mount Yasur. He's the brother of Mt Tukosmera. He's American. He's African-American. He's an American GI. He's Prince Philip, or any combination thereof.
In the village we traveled to, Jon Frum was in the image of Uncle Sam. There was a picture of him hanging on a piece of wood, overlooking the supporters as they sang and danced in his honor.
I was very intrigued about the Jon Frum movement and couldn't wait to pick the supporters' brains about their beliefs and traditions. When we arrived in the village, however, I quickly discovered that no one was interested in discussing Jon Frum. They were interested in discussing the World Cup. Did we have a television at our bungalow? Could we give them an update? Who did we support?
Although we only stayed for the first band, there are several that play, and the dancing goes until daylight. I don't know how the villagers managed. When our driver dropped us off around 8:00, everyone already looked very tired. The men were obviously drinking kava, but there were also children sleeping in the roots of a banyan tree or in their mother's laps, and Ashlinn, a teenager who sat beside me, couldn't stop yawning.
The gathering was small, as there was a flu going around the village. The music was lively. The songs were sung in their native language and sounded the same. The only word I recognized was, "Hallelujah." The band was made up of men playing guitars and drums and singing. The atmosphere was very relaxed. Men and women could sit and watch, or they could dance. But they don't dance together. The men tap their toes to the left of the shelter, while the women dance up and down in the shadows on the right.
Brett and I watched the colorful grass skirts swaying to the music in the shadows for a few songs. Then he decided to do some toe-tapping with the men and discuss the World Cup with Willie. I made small talk with Ashlinn, who was one of the few villagers who spoke English. She was also one of five who backed Brazil in the World Cup. Everyone else went for Australia. Go the Aussies!
Even though she looked like she was on the verge of sleep, Ashlinn invited me to dance. We went around to the women's side, where another teenager wrapped a grass skirt around me. I told her, "Merci," which sparked my first and only full conversation in French (other than the kastom village, everyone spoke English). I impressed myself, until she said something I could not understand, and the conversation ended.
We danced for an hour or so, and when our driver still hadn't returned, the girls teased me that he was drunk on kava. He was from their village, so I believed them. I started panicking, as given the dancing goes until morning; no one would have missed us at the resort.
Eventually he returned. It'd been a long day (see "Blue Cave" and "The Giant Banyan Tree"), so we said our farewells. On the drive back, it struck me like a slap on the forehead what the girl had said: World Cup.
posted by KrisT at 3:54 PM
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