The achievement of simultaneity:
Kastom in contemporary Vanuatu
Benedicta Rousseau
St Edmund’s College
Department of Social Anthropology
University of Cambridge
This thesis is submitted in partial fulfilment of the degree of Doctor of
Philosophy
2004
1
Abstract
This dissertation provides an ethnography of kastom in contemporary Vanuatu. An
assessment of previous anthropological literature on the topic of kastom in Vanuatu
indicates a search for a single definition of the term. Instead it is argued that the
plurality of indigenous definitions demonstrates the continuing efficacy of the term.
Rather than attempting to enforce some form of interpretive stasis on kastom, it
needs to be seen as a term used in exercises of categorisation and objectification,
which, in turn, effect available models of subjectivity within the country. Kastom, as
it now exists in Vanuatu, has transcended the former “evaluative dualisms” that
previously existed.
Viewing kastom as a term denoting a category, this dissertation explores what
behaviour signals a mobilisation of that category, and to what effect. Ethnographic
material collected during eighteen months of fieldwork is used to show how ideas of
kastom and not-kastom are used to classify modes of behaviour in Vanuatu. These
include divisions between urban and rural areas; the activities of politicians and jifs;
and law expressed as state law, customary law, and kastom loa. Resisting the urge
to resolve these conflicting domains, it is argued that kastom provides a totalising
logic that defies temporalisation along simplistic lines of “tradition versus
modernity”.
In this way, kastom represents an assertion of indigeneity in that it
provides a critique of, and alternative to, modernity expressed more through attitude
than behaviour.
The shifts between the categories of kastom and not-kastom are viewed with
reference to the types of relationships that are able to occur within each one. It is
argued that kastom relies on the formation of temporal and spatial simultaneity in
order for its use to be legitimized, and relations to be reformed. This is explored in
relation to the urban setting of Port Vila, in particular the way in which links are
made to places that can serve as a source of such legitimisation. The final chapters
analyse the ways in which temporal and spatial factors are also used to form
demarcations between kastom and not-kastom with specific reference to the
administration of justice.
In conclusion, I point to the recent promotion of “civil
society” as a sphere of power whose logic matches that of kastom, thus indicating
the potential for a return of “evaluative dualism” that threatens the current
achievement of simultaneity between kastom and not-kastom.
2
Acknowledgements
Completing this thesis has occupied more than four years of my life,
so it is not surprising that there are many people whose help and
friendship needs to be acknowledged.
My time in Cambridge has been made more enjoyable than I expected
through the company and support of friends, colleagues and academic
advisors. I have encountered nothing but good will from all the other
students in my year, as well as others who were “writing up” at the
same time as me. To those who had to share office space with me
during this time, thank you for your tolerance.
Inevitably though
there are some people who I would single out for their particular
friendship during this time:
Magnus Marsden, Vera Skvirskaja,
James Suzman (FMF), Soumhya Venkatesen, Jon Woolf. Mark Elliott
and Hebe Gouda have been the best housemates I could hope for, as
well as valuable friends. Special mention goes to Fiona Scorgie who
has been my best Cambridge friend (almost) to the end, and I doubt I
would have reached the finishing post without her.
Many of the staff of the department of Social Anthropology have
provided encouragement and assistance in both the formulation of my
original research proposal, and the production of this thesis.
Leo
Howe acted as my supervisor for my first year, providing useful
comments on my work and instilling in me a calm optimism that
fieldwork could be an enjoyable as well as productive experience.
Nikolai Ssorin-Chaikov stepped into the role of faculty advisor in the
last few months of writing up, and provided encouragement and
assurance that the task was completable.
Marilyn Strathern has
acted as my supervisor for the majority of my Ph.D, and I owe her
much gratitude: for the patience she has shown me in allowing me to
develop my arguments at my own (perhaps painfully slow) pace; the
practical assistance she has provided me with in negotiating the
3
sometimes arcane bureaucracy of Cambridge; and the warmth with
which she has treated me at all times.
Funding for my Ph.D came from the Cambridge Commonwealth Trust,
the William Wyse Fund, the Ling Roth Fund, the Emslie Horniman
Fund, the Richards Fund, the Smuts Memorial Fund, and the Board
of Graduate Studies.
I owe thanks to so many people in Vanuatu, and I have to apologise in
advance if there are any names accidentally left out. Firstly, I must
thank the Vanuatu Cultural Council and the Director of the Vanuatu
Cultural Centre, Ralph Regenvanu, for granting me permission to
carry out my fieldwork. In terms of friendship and hospitality, there
are many people I would like to thank: Aleks Collingwood and James
Bakeo for providing a home, friendship and many introductions to
people and places around Port Vila (and kava).
The staff of the
Cultural Centre, all of whom welcomed, supported and assisted me in
a variety of ways – in particular, Emily Niras and the YPP staff and
fieldworkers, Martha Kaltal, Jean
Tarisesei, Ralph
Regenvanu,
Joemela Simeon, and Richard Shing. Helene Amos, for her friendship
throughout my time in Vanuatu, and as my first Bislama teacher –
tankiu tumas. The Licht family welcomed me into their home, looked
after me, treated me as a member of the family, and continue to treat
me in this way – I cannot thank them enough.
Viviane Licht, in
particular, was my friend and guide throughout much of my time in
Vanuatu, helping me understand what was going on around me, and
(trying, at least) to set me back on track whenever things went wrong.
On trips to the islands I enjoyed the welcome and hospitatlity of a
number of people: Leisaruru Tanearu and family on Nguna; Richard
Leona, Lolowia and family in Loltong; Tanni Fraser on Uripiv.
4
Tankiu tumas long ol fren blong mi long Vanuatu – mi glad tumas
long ol friendship, givhan, mo gladhat we yufala i soemaot long mi
long taem we mi stap long kantri blong yu. Lukim yu i no longtaem!
Other friends in Vila and beyond have provided support, friendship
and laughter throughout my fieldwork.
Dennis Hyslop, Katherine
Holmes, Haidy Geismar, and Maggie Cummings all deserve special
mention for the fun we had together in Vila.
In Auckland, Aaron,
Jenette, Rachel and Carolyn welcomed me back – even though I never
seemed to come back for the best of reasons – and I am so grateful
that our friendships have endured despite my prolonged absence. The
same is true of my friends in Melbourne, Astrid, Jack and Amanda.
Again, I must single out Jack Taylor. He has been my number one
friend for more than a decade.
Our shared academic paths are a
product of that friendship, but not the basis of it. Thank you John for
all the fun we’ve managed to have over the years, and for all the help,
advice, encouragement and listening that you’ve done when it comes
to the Ph.D. (And you did manage to beat me – only just though!)
Lastly, I thank my family who have provided me with numerous
different sorts of help, love and support.
My parents have never
questioned that I was doing the right thing when it came to the Ph.D,
but have put up with my own doubts and frustrations at all times.
They have provided unconditional love and pretty much unconditional
financial assistance too.
I am so glad that they made the trip to
Vanuatu to visit me during fieldwork, so that I could introduce to
them my life, friends, and “family” there. My family in London – Mary,
Naomi, Toby, Sam and Josie – have provided me with much needed
mental and physical escape from Cambridge over the last few years,
almost always been happy to see me, and been the frontline in
preventing me from taking myself or academia too seriously.
This thesis is dedicated to Giovanni Intra.
5
Note on language
For the most part all conversations and interviews in my fieldwork
were conducted in Bislama – the Vanuatu form of Melanesian pidgin –
with occasional additions and lapses into English.
There are
exceptions to this – in the case of conversations with people whose
skills in English exceeded my Bislama the choice of language was
obvious.
However, in this thesis quotations taken from interviews
represent my own translation from Bislama, unless otherwise
indicated.
The parliamentary debates quoted in Chapter Three are
also translated from Bislama.
The court judgements quoted in
Chapter Six were all written in English, although, in my experience,
much of actual court proceedings is conducted in Bislama –
particularly criminal cases.
The speeches from the Tanna/Tongoa
meeting quoted in Chapters Five and Eight were all in Bislama. All
newspaper articles quoted in this thesis were originally published in
English.
Following Lindstrom (1998) I use the Bislama word “jif”, rather than
its seemingly obvious English cognate, “chief”.
This serves to
emphasise the dissonance in the relationship between those two
words.
Also, “jif” in Vanuatu has a variety of connotations that
sometimes relate to the multiple methods of attaining rank and status
present throughout the country, but also serve to differentiate
between what is considered kastom and not-kastom. These ideas are
spelt out in more detail in Chapter Two and Three.
A number of Bislama words are used frequently throughout this
thesis. Where they occur in the plural – eg: jifs – I have chosen to add
an “s” in the English manner, and italicise the whole word.
While
strictly such plurals do not exist in Bislama, - eg: olgeta jif is the
plural of jif - I have adopted this convention to enable a fluidity of
style.
While attempts are being made to standardise the writing of
6
Bislama, the use of plurals such as these is not unknown within
Vanuatu. For the most part, though, I have attempted to follow the
conventions set out in Crowley (1995), the closest to an authoritative
source that exists for Bislama spelling.
7
8
Table of contents
Abstract
Acknowledgements
Note on language
Map
Table of contents
1
2
5
7
8
Preface
10
The Vanuatu Cultural Centre
The Juvenile Justice Project
Methods and sources
Kastom and anthropology in Vanuatu
Chapter One – Kastom
12
16
18
20
22
Issues of definition
Origins
Re-evaluations of kastom
The end of “evaluative dualism”
Legitimation
Structure
22
24
27
34
39
41
Chapter Two – Jifs
46
Jifs in the ethnographic record
The etymology of jifs
The colonial interaction of authority
The move towards independence: conflicting sources of authority
and intergenerational relationships
The role of jifs in the lead-up to independence
The Malvatumauri, politics, and jif-politicians
Chapter Three – The demonisation of politik
Kastom in the giaman nakamal
The legitimation of titles
Titles, jifliness and power
46
48
53
58
63
66
72
75
79
86
Chapter Four – Yu blong wea?: Kastom, ples and indigeneity
in Port Vila
92
Kastom and rootedness
Kastom, place and land
Port Vila
“Once there was a drive-in movie theatre; now there is a garden”
“In town you have to talk more because there aren’t actions”: the
Young People’s Project and kastom in town
Conclusion
Chapter Five – “Making places travel”: legitimating kastom
through ples in Port Vila
Port Vila and non-geographical community
Dispute between Tanna and Tongoa in Vila
The reconciliation ceremony
Kastom as “correct procedure”
The achievement of simultaneity
Objectification
9
92
96
98
104
112
119
121
123
129
132
137
139
144
Chapter Six – “This is a court of law, not a court of morality”:
kastom, “customary law” and state courts
147
Constitutional and legislative provisions
Magistrate’s and Supreme courts
Kastom as a negative factor
Kastom as mitigation
Kastom as evidence
Kastom as (potential) indigenous jurisprudence
Kastom vs. custom; morality vs. law
Kastom editorialising
Island courts
The Juvenile Justice Project
The National Summit Meeting on Juvenile Justice
Reactions to the Summit Recommendations
Chapter Seven – Bifo i nogat: rape, kastom loa and change
How kastom loa is described
Rape and stealing women
Kastom, change, respect, and trousers
Conclusion
Chapter Eight – Namba 6 blong naora: spatial aspects of
justice in Vanuatu
Police violence and movement
Co-operation
Non-co-operation
How jifs stay still
148
150
151
152
155
160
162
165
167
172
175
178
182
182
185
192
199
200
200
206
210
215
Conclusion
221
Jealousy
From disciplinary societies to societies of control
The “withering” and rejuvenation of civil society
223
228
229
Appendix: Vanuatu Cultural Research Policy
232
Bibliography
246
10
Preface
The Bislama dictionary (Crowley 1995) defines an anthropologist as
“man we i stadi long kastom” – a person who studies kastom. While
my original research proposal and theoretical orientation resisted that
definition, this thesis would seem to prove its truth.
This preface
provides an introduction to the context of my fieldwork. It points to a
number of reasons as to how I ended up being an anthropologist in
the Bislama sense of the word – my association with the Vanuatu
Cultural Centre and affiliation with their Juvenile Justice Project; Port
Vila as the location of fieldwork; and the focus on kastom that has
permeated anthropological studies of Vanuatu for more than two
decades.
Vanuatu is an archipelago of around eighty islands located in the
south-western Pacific. Formerly known as the New Hebrides, it was
jointly governed by a British and French condominium administration
from 1906 until the achievement of independence in 1980. Since that
time, it has been an independent republic.
Vanuatu contains an
immense linguistic diversity, with around 110 extant indigenous
languages being spoken. In addition, English and French are national
languages, and, as a hangover from the colonial era, schools – and to
some extent, the population – are divided into Anglophone or
Francophone.1 Due to the multiplicity of languages present and the
fact that the two introduced languages have only limited effect,
Bislama – the Vanuatu form of Melanesian pidgin2 – is the lingua
franca of the country.
A programme has been recently introduced to provide the first year of schooling in
the local indigenous language. Although most ni-Vanuatu will have some knowledge
of English or French, levels of fluency vary. This is, in part, due to the large number
of people whose schooling does not progress beyond Year Six. The 1999 census
indicated that around 59% of the population over the age of 15 had no schooling
beyond Year Six. Just over 18% had never attended school (National Statistics
Office 2000: 23).
2 This grouping includes Solomon Island Pidgin and, in PNG, Tok Pisin.
1
11
My interest in Vanuatu stemmed from the reading of two – at that
time – recently published ethnographies focusing on the island of
Tanna (Bonnemaison 1994; Lindstrom 1990).
My original plan for
Ph.D research had consisted of an extension of work done for my M.A
dissertation, looking at the links between aetiologies relating to crime
and social policy in New Zealand, and their relationship to the
formation of subjectivity. On my way to Cambridge I spent two weeks
in Vanuatu, visiting a friend carrying out fieldwork there at the time. I
decided to redevelop my research to allow for fieldwork in Vanuatu,
while maintaining some of my previous theoretical preoccupations.
Luckily, this was met with approval from the members of the
department in Cambridge.
I decided to focus my research on the
urban setting, in particular Port Vila, the capital town of Vanuatu.
This was partly due to personal reasons – I was unsure as to whether
I would enjoy or “survive” such a long period of time in the village
setting. However, the main reasons for this choice were the relative
novelty of urban fieldwork in Vanuatu, and the physical co-existence
of state institutions and jifs in the town.
Prior to the mid-1990s, little anthropological research had been
carried out in Vila, with the work of Tonkinson (1968; 1977) and
Philibert (1981; 1986; 1988; 1989) in the peri-urban villages of MeleMaat and Erakor being the main exceptions to this. Recently, more
studies have focused on "peri-urban" areas.
Greg Rawlings (1999;
2002) has completed a dissertation based on two years fieldwork in
the village of Pango, published papers looking at the relationship of
Pango to Vila, and now focuses his research on the effects of
Vanuatu’s status as a tax haven.
Nick Thieberger, a linguist, has
worked in Erakor, the same village where Jean-Marc Philibert
conducted his fieldwork in the 1970s.
Jean Mitchell (2000), a
Canadian anthropologist, spent three and a half years carrying out
research in the settlement of Blacksands on the outskirts of Vila from
1996 to 1999. In association with the Vanuatu Cultural Centre she
12
helped set up the Young People's Project which aims to broaden the
focus of Cultural Centre activities, in particular to include those living
in town.
Annelin Eriksen has conducted research amongst north
Ambrymese women resident in Vila, building on connections made
during previous fieldwork on Ambrym. This approach has been used
by other researchers who have focussed primarily on an island
fieldsite, but later worked with the equivalent town population (eg:
Susannah Kelly; Chihiro Shirakawa).
Even less research has been
carried out in Santo. Miriam Myerhoff, a linguist, studied rural and
urban forms of Bislama, comparing the island of Malo and Santo
town. Masanori Yoshioka (2002), a Japanese anthropologist who has
previously worked on north Pentecost, has recently published an
article on kava bars in Santo. In addition, Margaret Rodman (1999;
2001) has shifted her research focus to include the colonial and settler
history of Vanuatu, producing material on Vila as well as other
provincial centres such as Lakatoro and Isangel. During the course of
my fieldwork other graduate students were conducting fieldwork in
Vila – Rebecca Silverstone (Concordiat) worked with YPP fieldworkers,
looking at their research role; Haidy Geismar (UCL) (2003) focussed on
the contemporary art market, property relations and copyright; and
Maggie Cummings (York) carried out research in conjunction with the
YPP on young women and beauty.
The Vanuatu Cultural Centre
The recency of the surge in urban fieldwork in Vanuatu can be
explained in part by a moratorium on social sciences research in the
country that was in place from 1983 until 1994.
In lifting the
moratorium, the Vanuatu Cultural Council made agreement to and
compliance with its Cultural Research Policy (see Appendix One) a
prerequisite to gaining approval for fieldwork. The implementation of
the Policy is managed on a day-to-day basis by the Vanuatu Cultural
Centre (VCC), meaning that any anthropologist working in the country
is affiliated to that institution. The VCC started life in 1959 as the
13
Vila Cultural Centre, an expatriate institution providing a library and
museum. The process of indigenisation of the Cultural Centre did not
begin until the mid-1970s, with the development of the Oral
Traditions Project by New Zealand linguist, Peter Crowe.
The ni-
Vanuatu trained to participate in this project formed the nucleus of
the fieldworker programme that continues to this day.3 Kirk Huffman,
curator of the Cultural Centre from 1977-1989, oversaw the shift of
the VCC to the indigenous institution it now is, aiming to inspire niVanuatu interest in ‘the documentation and revival of their traditional
cultures’ (quoted in Bolton 2003: 36). At the same time, he resisted
the creation of simply a ‘conventional museum’ (Bolton 2003: 39). As
the model of the fieldworker programme shows, the VCC is not just
confined to its physical location.4 The VCC operates as a statutory
body, rather than a government department, managed by the Vanuatu
National Cultural Council. It incorporates the museum, library, the
National Film and Sound Unit, the Cultural and Historical Site
Survey, the Women’s Culture Project, the Oral Traditions Project, and
– at the time of my fieldwork - the Young People’s Project, as well as a
number of shorter term projects.
It is currently under the
Directorship of Ralph Regenvanu, a ni-Vanuatu in his early thirties,
who trained in anthropology and development studies at ANU, and is
also an artist and musician.
The affiliation of anthropologists to the VCC can work to the
advantage of both parties – as with others, I made use of some of the
facilities available at the Cultural Centre, and enjoyed the friendship
and hospitality of many staff members – while contributing time to the
Juvenile Justice Project as the fulfilment of my “service to the nation”
as stipulated in the Research Policy.
The extent of anthropologists’
involvement with the Cultural Centre does vary. Being based in Port
The development and role of the fieldworker programme is discussed in more detail
in Chapter Three.
4 Bolton (2003: Chapter 2) provides a comprehensive account of the history of the
VCC.
3
14
Vila and working on a project at the Centre meant that I was a more
frequent visitor than those conducting research in the islands.
However, the network of Cultural Centre fieldworkers is spread
throughout the entire country, and they act as guides, gatekeepers,
hosts, research assistants and friends to the majority of researchers.
One effect of this involvement is an immediate link between the
anthropologist and the work of the Cultural Centre, whose mandate is
to preserve and promote kastom.
As part of this work the VCC broadcasts a weekly radio programme on
the shortwave network of Radio Vanuatu, which can be received in
most parts of the archipelago. As Bolton (1999) has argued, radio has
a wide-reaching effect in Vanuatu, being ‘the pre-eminent form of
communication and engagement over distances’.
And programming
relating to kastom has been a popular part of the radio experience for
ni-Vanuatu since the 1960s, culminating in the “Kastom, Kalja mo
Tredesin” [Kastom, Culture and Tradition] programme now put
together by the VCC.5 The ubiquity of radio, even in remote areas,
guarantees a high level of awareness of the work of the Cultural
Centre. While the programme features recordings of songs, dances,
and stories, there are also interviews with staff members on current
projects and, on occasion, with anthropologists on fieldwork they are
undertaking.6 As a result of this, I suggest that many ni-Vanuatu are
equipped with some definition of what an anthropologist – or, to use
A programme of this title was originally produced by Paul Gardissat, an employee
of the French embassy’s information department, during the 1970s. Bolton outlines
how he envisaged a distinction between the three terms - kastom describing
indigenous practices; culture denoting the entirety of contemporary ni-Vanuatu life;
and tradition being applied to introduced practices. As she demonstrates, this
distinction did not take off with the local audience. The tripartite structure of
“kastom, kalja mo tredesin” is used often in speeches, conversation and interviews,
showing the resonance that this phrase had for ni-Vanuatu listeners. However the
more nuanced distinctions put forward by Gardissat have not lasted, with the three
terms now being used together to add emphasis to talk about kastom (Bolton 2003:
31).
6 I was never interviewed myself.
5
15
the more common Bislama term, riseja7 - does. Or, more specifically,
they have an idea of what it would entail to wok long saed blong
Kaljoral Senta [work in association with the Cultural Centre]:
the
Cultural Centre studies kastom; anthropologists study kastom.
I find it hard to gauge to what extent the information people
volunteered to me, or the directions of enquiry that they pointed me
in, were shaped by their knowledge that I was affiliated to the Cultural
Centre. While the majority of my fieldwork was spent in Port Vila, I
made a number of trips to villages on other islands - Nguna (just off
the coast of Efate), Pentecost, Santo, Gaua, Vanua Lava, Tanna, and
Malakula. The amount of time spent in these places varied, with the
longest period being three and a half weeks spent on Pentecost.
During these visits I was either staying with, or frequently in the
company of the local VCC fieldworker, thus making my involvement in
its work more explicit. For the most part I found that people roughly
over the age of thirty never found it strange that I would be interested
in topics that they would consider to fall within the ambit of kastom.
Yet it is not necessarily the case that this related directly to my VCCoriented persona. While tourism “off the beaten track” is still in its
infancy in Vanuatu, it is not uncommon for yachts to pass through
some of the remoter parts of the country, stopping at safe anchorages.
Although my knowledge of Bislama separated me from the majority of
yachties, in some of the places I visited a white person8 wanting to
find out “how the locals live” is not necessarily an anthropologist.
Interestingly, this word does not appear in the Bislama dictionary. It was the term
I generally used to refer to myself, and is also the term that appears in the Cultural
Research Policy.
8 The term waetman is commonly used in Bislama to refer to any European. I use it
as it was the way that people referred to me in Vanuatu - often using the term misis.
Strictly speaking, this has been the female equivalent to masta, and, although it
does not seem to me to imply the same extreme of inequality, I generally felt it as a
term used to mark a certain level of separation. On some occasions I was referred to
as sista, anti, or, by friends, as tawi, the Bislama term used for in-laws. In my
experience, descriptions of ethnicity in Vanuatu were predominantly limited to the
broad categories of waetman, blak man, haf-kas [half-caste] and Chinois - the latter
encompasses settlers of Chinese and Vietnamese descent, while blak man
designates a floating category that can include other Pacific islanders and Indians,
7
16
In Vila the picture was different. The presence of a white person did
not arouse as much interest, and some form of regular office work was
the norm for many resident Europeans and ni-Vanuatu: to work at
the Cultural Centre had connotations of 9-5, as much as it did an
interest in kastom.9
Furthermore, the networks I established were
often removed from the immediate context of the VCC.
The Juvenile Justice Project
A further factor to influence the shape of my fieldwork was my
affiliation with the Juvenile Justice Project at the VCC.
The research
proposal that I sent to the VCC for approval prior to fieldwork was
based on the idea of a study of “the exercise of jifly authority in Vila”.
The Director’s initial comments were not encouraging, suggesting – as
did others – that, as a woman, I would find it hard to gain access to
the male world of jifs. Subsequently, the Director came up with the
suggestion that I assist with the JJP in order to both fulfil my “service
to the nation”, and gain useful contacts.
I include parts of the
funding proposal for the JJP in Chapter Six, outlining its foundation
and aims.
The Project started in May 2000, three months before I
arrived in Vanuatu.
As a result of this, I did not take part in the
research design, or the research trips made to a number of islands
throughout the archipelago.
My role in the Project was Vila-based,
consisting mainly of assistance with the analysis of data, interviews in
Vila, taking the minutes of the National Summit meeting, and editing
the final report.
Despite this, the effect of my participation in the
Project was not limited to Vila.
but not necessarily. After the events of September 11 2001 I encountered an
increase in unfavourable attitudes towards Indians on the grounds that many of
them were Muslim, that now being a factor that automatically engendered mistrust
and fear.
9 In fact, the mother of the family that I lived with for much of my time in Vanuatu
would still ask me after several months if I had the day off from work when I spent
time at home during office hours.
17
As discussed above, radio programming from the VCC has a wide
audience throughout the country, and several items about the JJP
were broadcast on Kastom, Kalja mo Tredisin. This meant that many
people I encountered outside Vila were already familiar with the
Project, thus my affiliation to it gave me a recognisable identity to
them.
At the same time, the goals of the project – to find ways of
making kastom and state law work together in the best interests of
young people - were frequently interpreted as coinciding with a desire
on the part of jifs for increased empowerment by the state. For this
reason, I found myself in the sometimes uncomfortable position of
being seen as a promoter of the role of jifs in Vanuatu. Bolton (2003)
describes her experience working on the Women’s Culture Project, and
the ways in which she was forced into a position of advocacy.
Instead of listening to women to ascertain what they thought about
kastom and whether they classified any of their activities in such
terms, I found myself telling my audience that they, as women,
“had kastom too”…and that the textiles they made and used were
kastom and were important. I became an evangelist (Bolton 2003:
152).
In formulating the way in which she should present the project to
audiences, she relied on VCC staff to provide a template for how to
talk about the importance of kastom:
‘I attempted to minimize my
own effect by reproducing the Cultural Centre discourse about kastom
wherever possible and by being responsive to…reactions to the
Project…Thus the understanding I developed about what kastom
meant…became a matter of recording how people dealt with my
activity’ (Bolton 2003: 153).
In terms of the JJP, I was not in an evangelical role – I did not have to
make public statements about the objectives or importance of the
project. And, perhaps unlike Bolton, I was not always in accord with
the way some ni-Vanuatu wanted to see the research deployed.
Yet
at times it was hard to resist the welcome that I got on account of my
affiliation with the Project, and I admit to not always verbalising my
18
misgivings regarding the further empowerment of jifs to the extent
that I might have. At the same time, these reactions were useful too.
As Bolton indicates, her study of kastom was in part the result of how
people reacted to her presentation of it. For me, the ways in which
people sought to co-opt, adjust, criticise, or valorise the work of the
JJP illuminated the debates surrounding the desired place of kastom,
kastom loa and jifs in Vanuatu.
A further contributory factor in the orientation of my research towards
kastom was my location.
While the fact that the majority of my
fieldwork was in Vila obviously shaped the form of my research, and
the type of material to which I had access, I believe it can also be seen
to have encouraged a focus on kastom. At the time of fieldwork, Port
Vila had a population of around 30,000, with ni-Vanuatu constituting
the vast majority.
Despite the very obvious Melanesian face of the
town, there is still a discourse of urban space as somehow foreign,
and the indigenous population as transient. These points form the
central concerns of Chapters Three and Four, so I will not dwell on
them here. Suffice to say, the ideology of Vila as a not-kastom place
made it tempting for me to try to “find” kastom.
Methods and sources
Much of the ethnographic material presented in this thesis is based
on “public” occasions. This reflects the fact that much of my research
was concerned with interaction between state institutions and jifs.
Frequently the negotiation of power between the two groups was
played out in public forums – parliament, courts, the media, or open
meetings – making access to such data easier to gain as an outsider.
This is not indicative of the entirety of my research though.
I
conducted formal interviews with those identifying themselves as jifs,
court staff, members of the judiciary, civil servants, and police
officers.
Much of my research was less formalised.
The type of
networks formed in the urban setting are different to those of the
19
village. This is not to say that villages supply clear-cut boundaries to
research. Rather, the distances you need to travel in pursuit of your
object of study are often smaller than in town.
However, the
geographical spread of town also offers opportunities to move in a
variety of different circles. On first arriving in Port Vila, I lived with a
couple (a ni-Vanuatu man and English woman who was brought up in
Vanuatu) who rented out rooms in their house, mainly to overseas
volunteers and anthropology students. I stayed there for six months,
before moving into the family home of a Young People’s Project staff
member. I remained living there for the rest of my time in Vanuatu.
These different living arrangements enabled me firstly to experience
two radically different lifestyles within Vila; and, secondly, to make
friends, acquaintances and contacts in different milieu. These were
supplemented by my colleagues at the Cultural Centre, many who I
came to count as friends and socialise with beyond work hours. In
addition, Vila provides a number of public spaces in which it is
possible to have both chance encounters, as well as striking up more
lasting relationships. For me, these included frequent kava drinking
at a variety of nakamals, visits to nightclubs, and strolls around the
market. While many of the people that I met and talked with in those
places are not directly quoted in the text of this thesis, my interaction
with them obviously informs much of what I have written. I do not
wish to imply that Vila and its residents greeted me with open arms at
all times.
The fact that my research interests frequently revolved
around potentially contentious issues – the work of jifs, dispute
resolution, social control – made access to some people and occasions
difficult.
As well as issues of access, I was not always comfortable
treating other people’s problems or difficulties as data. This, again,
goes some way towards explaining the propensity of “public” material
presented here.
20
Kastom and anthropology in Vanuatu10
As mentioned at the start of this preface, kastom has formed a central
preoccupation in anthropological studies of Vanuatu, Melanesia and
the Pacific in general for over twenty years. Three special issues of
journals have been devoted specifically to the topic, (Keesing and
Tonkinson 1982; Jolly and Thomas 1992; Lindstrom and White 1993),
while other volumes have been produced that relate closely to it (Otto
and Thomas 1997; Linnekin and Poyer 1990; Foster 1995). Although
this area of research predates Hobsbawm and Ranger’s (1983)
influential volume, the study of kastom through the 1980s became
entangled with debates on the “invention of tradition” and questions of
authenticity.
Prior to and during fieldwork, I felt that this area of
investigation had been “done to death”; it appeared to have become a
self-perpetuating body of literature that I did not want to become
enmeshed in. I positioned myself instead as part of the “new wave” of
researchers working in Vanuatu in the years following the lifting of the
research moratorium.
Indeed, I was tempted to read the ongoing
production of articles on kastom as a direct effect of the moratorium –
anthropologists had no access to new data, and so had to find a way
of occupying themselves in the meantime.
I now prefer to view this body of literature as an historical resource, as
much as an intellectual stimulus: the preoccupations expressed by
anthropologists writing close to the time of independence provide
valuable ethnographic illustration of the way that ni-Vanuatu
conceptions of kastom were changing at that time.
What I do not
choose to engage with to a great extent though is the question of
(in)authenticity of kastom or its relationship to a “real” body of
tradition (eg: Babadzan 1988; Handler and Linnekin 1984; Hanson
1989; Keesing 1982).11 In line with others (eg: Lindstrom and White
1993), I assert that kastom exists in the present. What is of interest
This body of literature and my positioning within it is explored in greater detail in
Chapter One.
11 Jolly (1992) provides an excellent summary and critique of these debates.
10
21
to me, and what is explored in this thesis, is how its use is legitimised
and to what ends it is used in contemporary Vanuatu.
22
Chapter One – Kastom
A survey of the anthropological literature focusing on kastom in
Vanuatu leaves the reader with a variety of definitions for the term.12
This variety could be explained by a number of factors:
fieldwork
being carried out in differing locations at different times; changing
theoretical interests within the discipline; alternative research focuses.
One effect of this body of literature has been to keep kastom as a
central concern in any anthropological writing on the country.
A
further effect has been a continued search for definition; a continuing
attempt at refinement, with each new offering building on what has
come before it. I would argue though that this has served to privilege
“kastom as an anthropological term”, with each author eliding
multiple instances of indigenous usage in the interests of their own
creation. That is not to say that this thesis will transcend the perhaps
necessary task of progress through generalisation.
However, it will
see the multiplicity of instances of kastom in Vanuatu as a virtue
rather than a hindrance. This chapter will provide an introduction to
the manner in which anthropologists have approached the study of
kastom in Vanuatu over the past twenty-five years. In this survey I
want to highlight three approaches in particular: kastom as practice,
kastom as objectification, and kastom as assertion of difference.
These will then be related to my own formulation of kastom as
presented in the following chapters.
Issues of definition
My pre-fieldwork reading of the large number of articles, chapters,
and books that dealt with kastom in introduced me to the importance
of the term – for anthropologists at least. So, while I did not set out
The literature of this type focusing specifically on Vanuatu includes Bolton
(1999b), Facey (1995), Jolly (1982; 1992a; 1992b; 1992c; 1994a; 1994b), Keesing
(1982; 1993), Larcom (1982; 1990), Lindstrom (1982b; 1993), Philibert (1986),
Tonkinson (1981; 1982a; 1982b),
12
23
with kastom as the central focus of my research, I was attuned to uses
of the term throughout my time in Vanuatu. My post-fieldwork rereading of the same writings left me frustrated that no-one seemed to
have produced a definition of kastom yet that resembled what I had
encountered. At the same time, I was not able to produce a definition
myself that could cover the range of actions, practices, and verbal
expressions of kastom present in Vanuatu. On reflection, it appears
that the problem may be the search for a single definition. If it is true
that everything is necessarily pinned down through definition, then
there may be logic to the belief that when presented with a single term
– ie: kastom – there is a single definition to be found. However, in this
case, the solution to this dilemma has been to try to formulate a
definition broad enough to fit all the contrary or contradictory aspects
of kastom that must appear to anyone undertaking fieldwork in
Vanuatu.
In defining kastom, Bolton states that ‘[t]he word provides a way of
summing up what the ni-Vanuatu understand to belong to themselves
and to their place in opposition to all that contact with other people
and other places has introduced into their way of life’ (1999: 1).13 She
goes on to make a distinction between “term” and “category”,
suggesting that ‘kastom is thus a flexible term used to denote a
category of knowledge and practice, the content of the category is left
largely undefined’ (Bolton 1999: 1).
Where I would differ from that
formulation is with regards to the process of definition. I argue that
usage supposes definition – in other words, the term is purposefully
chosen to ‘denote a category’ on the basis of a pre-existing
understanding of what that category implies – this is different though
to what it contains. I admit that there may be “lazy” uses of the term
I note that Bolton most recently presents a formulation that differs slightly from
this: ‘Kastom is the word that people in Vanuatu use to characterize their own
knowledge and practice in distinction to everything they identify as having come
from outside their place’ (2003: xiii). I have chosen to stick with the version cited in
the text above in order to preserve the flow onto the following quote.
13
24
– making recourse to kastom as an explanatory term for actions in the
face of persistent questioning from anthropologists, for example.
Overall, though, I would assert a purposefulness in its use: people
choose to invoke kastom with certain ends in mind.
Origins
Kastom is an inherently modern term, it use and thus its definition
depending on the introduction of potentially oppositional concepts. In
attempting to trace the history of the word’s use in Vanuatu,
Lindstrom (1982: 317) notes that “kastom” was not included in
Bislama word lists or dictionaries until 1977 (Colomb 1913; Schmidt
1956-57; Camden 1977).
This provides a rough timeframe for the
increased usage of the term in the country, with its move to
prominence most likely occurring in the late 1960s to early ‘70s. This
relates to political developments in the country at the time, which will
be addressed below. Most anthropologists trace kastom’s origins back
to colonial encounters with traders, planters, missionaries, labour
recruiters, Condominium officials, and co-workers on plantations both
within Vanuatu and overseas.
The first encounters between ni-Vanuatu and Europeans were
fleeting. In 1606 a Spanish expedition led by Fernandez de Quiros
visited the archipelago, landing at and naming the island of Espiritu
Santo on which they hoped to found a settlement.
unsuccessful.
This was
In 1774, Captain Cook sailed through the islands,
mapping them, naming them the New Hebrides, and recording such
sights in his journals as the volcano on Tanna and patterns of
cultivation on Pentecost – apparently reminiscent of the English
countryside. The visit was brief, but still remembered in some parts of
the country. Although he never set foot on Pentecost, certain stones
and markers are now associated with sites Cook is said to have visited
on the island (Jack Taylor, pers. comm.).
More regular contact
occurred from the 1820s on, with the arrival of traders, principally
25
interested in the sandalwood found in the southern islands (see
Shineberg 1967). Missionaries arrived soon after: Presbyterian and
Anglican in the first instance, followed by Catholic. From the middle
of the nineteenth century labour recruiters were active throughout the
archipelago, taking ni-Vanuatu to plantations in Queensland, Noumea
and Fiji.14
Throughout this initial period of contact no moves were
made to formally annex the archipelago as a colony. However, by the
1870s tensions between British missionaries and French planters led
to pressure on those two governments to impose some form of control.
The first stage of this was the signing of a Joint Naval Agreement in
1887. Under this, both countries agreed to allow their navies to patrol
the islands, and protect the interests of their respective resident
nationals.
In 1906 this arrangement morphed into a more obvious
form of colonialism through the establishment of the Anglo-French
Condominium government, although the rules of procedure for this
were not cemented until the London Protocol of 1914.15
In describing the effect of this history of encounter Lindstrom (1982:
317) uses the term ‘culture shock’. However others urge caution in
overstating the amount of cultural rupture that took place, citing the
long
history
of
mobility
and
trade
consequent exposure to difference.16
amongst
ni-Vanuatu
and
As Bolton argues, ‘there is an
implicit vanity in the suggestion that the advent of Europeans created
an intellectual trauma in islanders sufficient to invoke a new selfconsciousness of difference’ (1993: 80). She prefers to see kastom as
emerging particularly from the actions and discourse of missionaries:
‘I suggest that the self-conscious formulation of difference was not the
product of an encounter with Europeans. Rather…the formulation of
the idea of cultural difference as a category, as kastom, was itself a
Studies of the labour trade and its effects include Adams (1984; 1986; 1998), Jolly
(1987), and Shineberg (1991; 1999).
15 For a history of the Condominium period, see MacClancy (1980).
16 For an account of trade networks in pre-contact Vanuatu, see Huffman (1996).
14
26
European introduction, emphasised in particular by the practices of
Christian missionisation’ (Bolton 1993: 81).
The
recognition
of
difference
thus
predates
encounters
with
Europeans; what arrived with Europeans was a new way of thinking
about and articulating it. Key to her argument is the creation of two
oppositional categories of
kastom and skul.17
Conversion to
Christianity (or resistance to conversion) involved ‘not merely the
recognition of difference, but the rejection of one set of beliefs, and
some associated practices, for another set of beliefs’ (Bolton 2003: 10).
This must be preceded by their establishment as ‘two distinct
categories’ – kastom and skul (Bolton 2003: 10). She concludes:
The development of kastom as a category was, I suggest, the
creation of missionary endeavour, the formulation of islanders’
ways of living as a category which could be opposed to European
practices conveyed in a package with Christian beliefs. As a result
the
New
Hebridean
recognition
of
cultural
difference
was
crystallized into a matter of self-conscious choice (Bolton 1993:
84).
To some extent Bolton’s argument follows that put forward by Jolly
and Thomas (1992).
They, too, emphasise forms of contact with
difference that pre-dated European arrival in the Pacific – for example,
the relationships entailed by ‘indigenous forms of colonization’ such
as those previously found in parts of PNG and Polynesia. But they go
on to argue for ‘a more extreme contrast’ between ways of life
emerging from European colonization, with objectification – rather
than the creation of a category – as the final result (Jolly and Thomas
1992: 242):
Both projects of prohibition and denigration…and projects of
codification and celebration entailed the objectification of local
cultures…And in this process, not just isolated elements or traits,
While Bolton (1993: 83-84; 2003: 9) gives a number of examples that illustrate the
oppositional nature of kastom and skul - and those who followed each of those two
“roads” - she also asserts that the extent of this opposition did vary geographically
and according to denomination.
17
27
but ultimately entire ways of life or cultures were objectified. This
did not entail the wholesale adoption or rejection of European ways
in practice, since in most places an accommodation of ancestral
and introduced practices was effected. But very often in rhetoric
they were depicted as absolute alternatives, as divergent paths
(Jolly and Thomas 1992: 242).
Re-evaluations of kastom
Beyond initial European contact, the main time period in which
anthropologists have viewed kastom as objectification is in the lead-up
to independence, focussing on the attitudes of indigenous politicians
towards kastom. The achievement of independence will be addressed
in more detail in Chapter Two.
However, it is necessary here to
provide a brief sketch of the main political developments that took
place from the late ‘60s onwards, particularly the uses made of
kastom by indigenous protagonists indigenous protagonists involved
in pro-independence politics.
The Nagriamel movement started on the island of Santo in the 1960s
in reaction to land alienation. The founders were Jimmy Steven and a
local man of rank, Buluk. They established a settlement on disputed
land at Tanafo18 where Steven took on the mantle of leader.19 Soon
support for the movement spread throughout many of the northern
The name of this settlement is also sometimes written as Fanafo or Vanafo. I have
followed the spelling used by Jimmy Steven in his own account of the Nagriamel
movement (Steven 1995). The same is true with the spelling of Steven’s name – he
is often written about as Jimmy Stephens or Stevens. Steven was apparently his
own preferred spelling (Van Trease 1995: xix).
19 This settlement still exists today, as does Nagriamel to some extent. Men from
Tanafo wearing the kastom dress of malmal (a small mat or cloth covering the penis)
can sometimes be spotted on their shopping trips into Santo town. It is still possible
to buy Nagriamel t-shirts from a store in Santo, although the only takers seem to be
overseas volunteers (and anthropology students) interested in retro political chic,
and ‘genuine’ Nagriamel members. I was always too scared to wear mine in
Vanuatu, but was surprised when one of the (ni-Vanuatu) women I lived with
borrowed it to wear on a training course one day. I asked her what sort of reactions
she had got – they ranged from mild teasing to a few more pointed comments about
being a Jimmy Steven follower (all from young people). My t-shirt has subsequently
been complimented by other ni-Vanuatu friends, including the son of a former
Vanua’aku Pati cabinet minister, and has now been “borrowed” by a ni-Vanuatu
friend living in London.
18
28
islands of the country, particularly in areas experiencing similar land
alienation by settlers. Nagriamel has been typified as a kastom-based
movement, focused primarily on respect of kastom ownership of land,
but also advocating the incorporation of other markers of kastom such
as clothing and grade-taking. Jimmy Steven, under the patronage of
Buluk, carried out pig killings to move through the ranks of the local
graded society, attaining the rank of moli.
He also practiced
polygamy, marrying women from different areas to cement support for
Nagriamel (Bolton 1993: 86).
The Vanua’aku Pati started life as the New Hebridean Cultural
Association. Formed in 1971 by two men from Lelepa island (off the
coast of Efate), it aims were to promote, to preserve, to revive and to
encourage New Hebridean culture. To seek the advancement of the
Hebrideans socially, educationally and politically in relation with New
Hebridean culture and Western civilization’ (quoted in Miles 1998: 69).
This organisation soon transformed into the New Hebrides National
Party, the first indigenous Western-style political party, before
renaming itself the Vanua’aku Pati in 1977.
The leadership of the
party was generally well educated and Anglophone, and the party had
particularly close links to the Anglican church.
In contrast to Nagriamel’s initial position,20 the VP were more
consciously nation-state oriented.
And this focus necessitated the
inculcation of a nationalist sentiment amongst the general population
of the archipelago. Many accounts of this period of history focus on
the VP preoccupation with the promotion of an awareness of national
Despite their early opposition to land alienation, from the early 1970s Nagriamel
became more closely linked to the French administration and population, who were
generally more reluctant to see independence achieved. Eventually, Nagriamel was
aligned with the so-called “Moderates”, a collection of Francophone political parties
with close ties to French planters, as well as American libertarians keen on the
establishment of a “free republic”. This tied in with Nagriamel opposition to the VP,
which was seen as too closely connected to Christianity, and thus less kastom. The
product of these oppositions and alliances was an attempt at secession “on the eve
of independence” (as many accounts sensationally phrase it), which was eventually
suppressed by troops from PNG, called in by the new VP government.
20
29
identity.
They argue that in doing this the VP chose kastom –
arguably the most localised and diverse aspect of New Hebridean life –
as a unifying feature of the country, thus creating a national version
of kastom that moved away from it’s “actual” meaning.
As one
anthropologist put it, VP pro-independence politicians ‘used kastom as
a rallying cry to evoke a distinctive non-European national identity’
(Tonkinson 1982: 306).
Tonkinson’s assessment of this situation focuses on two aspects of
what he terms ‘the problem of kastom in Vanuatu’:
the suddenly
positive revaluing of kastom in relation to Christianity, and differing
interpretations of kastom – as ideology on the part of politicians; as
pragmatic practice on the part of ‘the populace’ (Tonkinson 1982:
306). These two aspects are linked in that practices are seen to be
used
as
markers
skul/Christianity.
of
the
opposition
between
kastom
and
Tonkinson (1982) recounts the uncertainty
involved in the interpretation of the new “valued” kastom on the part
of
people
of
south-east
Ambrym
as
presented
to
them
by
representatives of the VP (in this case, a local Presbyterian pastor):
People in some rural areas took the message quite literally. They
worried about a return to grass skirts and penis-wrappers, spears
and bows and arrows, and wondered whether they would have to
destroy non-kastom things such as hunting rifles, aluminium
dinghies, outboards and so on (Tonkinson 1982: 310).
At a meeting of the local council of chiefs the issue of sorcery was
raised: it ‘had once been a legitimate and powerful weapon of chiefly
social control’ and was therefore kastom, so why was it suppressed by
the church? Did it not subscribe to the ‘rallying cry’ of VP activists to
embrace kastom? In response, a church leader made the distinction
between good and bad kastom, with sorcery falling into the latter class
– ‘he made clear that the kind of kastom whose revival was being
called for was that which does not contradict Christian teachings and
values’ (Tonkinson 1982: 311).
30
For Tonkinson, the formulation of kastom in the lead-up to
independence
was
so
generalised
as
to
become
ideology.
Furthermore, this was necessary due to the “loss of kastom” since
European contact:
kastom has at no stage [in independence politics] been subject to
clarification, codification, subdivision or any kind of close analysis
or scrutiny.
It is, however, hardly surprising that kastom has
remained undifferentiated in political discourse, because its utility
as a rallying point depends heavily on its confinement to an
ideological level, indivisible and unexamined. The reasons for this
are obvious, given the circumstances of cultural transformation in
Vanuatu, where in
many islands a great deal of
kastom
disappeared virtually without trace and where new patterns of
mobility led to widespread diffusion of much of what remained
(Tonkinson 1982: 310).
He goes on to argue and demonstrate that the effect of this “national
level” approach to kastom has been an intensification of “local level”
debates surrounding ‘what is or was our kastom, what is and is not
true kastom what rights do we have to other people’s kastom, and is
kastom something to be traded or jealously guarded’ (Tonkinson 1982:
310).
In this way an equation is built up between local/practical
kastom and national/political/ideological kastom.
Tonkinson seems
to suggest that the confusion engendered by this dissonance of
interpretation was expressed through the questionable revival of
kastom practices: a ‘village chief’ decided to build a tru kastom men’s
house, but had to ‘import’ a man from another area to tell him what
that might consist of; men whose personal names were linked to
grades in the nimangki - which had ‘collapsed rapidly’ after European
contact – tried to use these in order to claim ‘chiefly status’, ‘thus
confusing the achieved and non-heritable ranked status with that of
ascribed, inherited status’ (Tonkinson 1982: 311).
While Tonkinson posits confused and “improperly” revived practice as
the outcome of the ideological mobilisation of an ill-defined kastom in
31
the achievement of independence, he is by no means as vitriolic in his
assessment of the situation as Philibert (1986). He argues that ‘the
proto-bureaucratic “class” is attempting to gain control over a
symbolic code derived from traditional practices (kastom) so as to
promote social cohesion and establish a civil polity (1986: 1).
His
argument rests on the accentuation of a high level of class
differentiation in Vanuatu at the time of independence – in particular,
the construction of a homogenous ‘elite’, composed, it seems, of
indigenous politicians. Their use of kastom in the promotion/creation
of a national identity is called into question as much for who they are
as for how they have defined it:
It is tradition as defined by members of an acculturated political
elite living in an urban environment, many of whom were, prior to
independence, Presbyterian clergymen or civil servants in the
colonial administration.
In other words, this kastom policy is
endorsed by those least able to define or codify such customs. In
fact, one could go further and state that it is a political symbol that
could only have been devised in an urban context, away from areas
where “traditional” culture has remained a lived practice (Philibert
1986: 3).
He equates the urban environment, overseas education and state
political involvement with a lack of kastom (or ‘dead custom, empty
practice’ (1986: 8)) – ‘far from being a closely integrated, functionalist
view of culture, the view of kastom to emerge from the political circles
of the capital is one of a set of survivals. This is so because those who
have to decide what kastom was/is are precisely those who have lost
theirs’ (1986:8). Philibert goes on to offer an example from the urban
setting of how the “new” notion of kastom is played out in the form of
“incorrect” practice – in this case kava drinking.
In setting up his
critique, he outlines the “traditional” use of kava – the prohibitions
put on women drinking it; the ceremonial aspects of preparation and
sharing; its separation from alcohol.
He argues that the changing
pattern of kava drinking in town can be related to government
32
promotion of it as an alternative to alcohol as well as the state
formulation of kava as ‘an integral part of the Melanesian cultural
heritage’ (Tri Independens Selebresen 1983 quoted in Philibert 1986:
6).
For him, the adoption of kava drinking by urban ni-Vanuatu serves to
exemplify the temporal dissonance between them and “true” kastom,
and the hollowness of their attempts to claim connection to it:
The drinking of kava is not reserved for the less modern among
villagers, quite the contrary, as it is expensive to buy. It is also
among the évolués that one is likely to see women drink kava.
Wealthy villagers living in concrete houses with all the modern
amenities have now started to build small thatched huts in their
yard where they can sit on a coral floor covered with mats, like the
poor, to prepare and drink kava with friends.
Such huts are
miniature traditional houses. Tradition then becomes a spectacle
in which one indulges to express facets of one’s identity, the way
preserving one’s regional accent may be in many countries a
statement of connectedness (Philibert 1986: 7).
Philibert’s arguments rely on a strict dichotomisation of urban and
rural, which is expanded to include a temporal dimension related to
authenticity. Larcom (1982; 1990), too, portrays a centre/periphery
movement in the effect of the form of kastom presented nationally at
the time of independence.
She recounts the lack of interest in the
past that she encountered during her first fieldwork with the Mewun,
in South-West Bay, Malakula in the early 1970s. Bernard Deacon, a
Cambridge anthropology student, had visited the area some fifty years
earlier, and Larcom was keen to build on the ethnographic material
provided in his posthumously published papers (Deacon 1934). When
she enquired about slit-gong beats and rhythmns – a focus of
Deacon’s interests – ‘no-one…was able or willing to demonstrate them
for me’ (Larcom 1982: 331).
Enquiries relating to other areas of
supposed ethnographic interest were no more successful: ‘Questions
about their parentage or traditions were greeted with about as much
33
interest as a question on the breakfast diet: they could, of course,
have told me what they had just eaten for breakfast, but why would I
possibly want to know about such things?’ (Larcom 1982: 331-332).
On her return in 1981, Larcom found the situation on Malakula much
altered, in line with changes in the national arena. Now the Mewun
were ‘acutely aware of kastom as a body of past traditions to be
revitalized’ (Larcom 1982: 332). She states that ‘kastom was now a
critical national and local issue, something representing past
authenticity in counterpoint to Western values’ (Larcom 1982: 332).
For Larcom, the expressions of kastom that she now found did not
tally with previous Mewun usage: ‘Specific information on the role of
kastom in the Mewun past tends to support a view of historic social
life as inventive.
Kastom glossed today as revealed and revitalized
authentic tradition has little to do with earlier use of kastom in
Mewun’ (Larcom 1982: 333).
She emphasises the role of trade,
exchange and purchase of kastom in the past – an ‘inventive flow’ that
was also ‘mirrored in the looseness of group boundaries’ (Larcom
1982: 333). In Larcom’s assessment the major change wrought by the
model of kastom presented in independence politics was the
imposition or adoption of fixity on the “local” level. She presents this
elsewhere as the establishment of a “museological” version of culture:
By endorsing a museum culture of its own, the nation implicitly
challenges a most distinctive aspect of Vanuatu social life – its
emphasis on relationships, creativity, and exchange.
For many
local groups, including the Mewun, the unabashed invention of
artifacts as emblems and invitations for relationships may come as
close as possible to an authentic ni-Vanuatu culture (Larcom
1990: 188).
Larcom and Philibert’s assessments of kastom c.1982 share a
similarly negative tone towards the effect of political rhetoric.
For
them, politicians have chosen kastom – arguably the most localised
and diverse aspect of ni-Vanuatu life – as a unifying feature of the
34
country, but have thus created a national version of kastom that
moves away from it’s “actual” meaning. Their analyses – along with
that of Tonkinson (1982) – rely on the dissonance between “the
national” and “the local” outlined above. However, temporal aspects
are added to this through the equation of “old” kastom with the
village, and “new” kastom with town. Their arguments also rely on the
proposal of undifferentiated populations in those two locations:
Philibert (1986) presents the laughable ‘évolués’, who have lost their
kastom and now recreate the physical environment of ‘the poor’ in an
attempt to gain connection with the village/past; Larcom (1982; 1990)
presents “the Mewun”, a group adopting a static model of kastom not
of their own choosing – nor of their own past - through the ‘decrees’ of
the state.21
The end of ‘evaluative dualism’
Lindstrom’s (1982) article, published in the same volume as those of
Tonkinson and Larcom, presents material that poses a challenge to
both of the trends outlined in the previous paragraph. In his account,
the positive revaluation of kastom promoted by state politicians
appears as part of a ‘political history’. Focusing on Tanna he shows
that, while not without controversy, the form of politics on the island
allowed for an easier acceptance of rehabilitated kastom as a source of
legitimate power and practice:
…political prestige and authority, on Tanna, depend less on
economic
manipulation
than
they
do
on
the
control
of
communication of knowledge…Kastom knowledge and other bodies
of knowledge (e.g., Christian, commercial, schooled, or political)
become political capital and their bounding, definition and moral
evaluation become political competition (Lindstrom 1982: 320).
Lindstrom demonstrates that the “current” (time of independence)
national status accorded to kastom allowed it to appear on Tanna as
The title of Larcom’s 1990 article is, “Custom by decree: Legitimation crisis in
Vanuatu”.
21
35
less oppositional than before:
it no longer encapsulated moral
divisions between black and white, kastom and modernity, or kastom
and Christianity. In this way it became useful political capital. Yet, a
result of these changes was the freeing of kastom from an ‘evaluative
dualism’, making the relationship between modernity and kastom less
clear.
New questions arose:
‘When should people act according to
kastom and when according to the new?’ (Lindstrom 1982: 326). In
his formulation, the “national” version of kastom had effect on the
“local”, but in ways that relate to a continuous historical account of
Tannese political activity that gives more agency to the indigenous
population than that put forward by Tonkinson, Philibert and Larcom.
His analysis is indicative of linked processes through time, rather
than rupture, dissonance, discontinuity.
What is important here for my arguments regarding kastom is the idea
of the simultaneous existence of different modes of acting, each of
which find their legitimation in two separate spheres – kastom and
modern.
While kastom and modern are oppositional, they are no
longer necessarily defined as “what we do” and “what they do”.
Rather, the same people are able to act in accordance with the two
spheres – “what we do sometimes but not always”. Lindstrom cites
the example of a circumcision, which could be performed ‘in either a
kastom or modern fashion’ (1982: 325), with the determination of
which sphere it belonged to depending on practical matters such as
exchange items used, types of dancing, and beverages consumed.22 As
he goes on to demonstrate, the negotiations involved in deciding what
mode of behaviour is to be followed is not without controversy.
In
response to the question cited above - when should we act in kastom
or modernity? - Lindstrom states that ‘a codified answer is usually
non-existent; people must reach this, or fail to reach this, in debate’
(1982: 326).
See also Lindstrom (1982a) for a further analysis of the place and meaning of
alcohol and kava on Tanna.
22
36
Lindstrom’s (1982) arguments bring us back to the material presented
earlier in this chapter in relation to the origins of kastom, in
particular, Bolton’s (1993; 2003) assertions regarding the creation of
kastom as a category through the experience of missionisation.
As
she argues, the existence of kastom was not simply a reaction to the
recognition of difference, rather it depended on the opposition of ‘two
distinct categories’ – in this case, kastom and skul (Bolton 1993: 83).
Can it then be argued that what kastom represents is the introduction
of categorical thinking into Vanuatu? And, if so, what does such an
exercise represent?
I argue that categorisation involves a specific
subject/object relationship formed through the act of definition of a
category. Categorisation defines with the aim of integrating the object
into an existing mode of being.
The act of categorising does not
indicate a desire to make any change in the categoriser.
My approach to categorisation would tally with missionary confidence
in the rightness of their task of conversion. The aim of missionaries
was not question Christian beliefs in the face of alternative worldviews, but rather to create new Christian subjects.
In this way, if
anything was being objectified, it was ni-Vanuatu-as-kastom, rather
than kastom itself.
exemplars
acceptance
of
of
objectification
the
Unconverted ni-Vanuatu could stand as
category.
However,
kastom-as-a-category
of
that
person
“as
that
conversion
disallowed
kastom”.
The
implied
a
an
further
process
of
missionisation, too, can be seen as predominantly integrative – most
obviously in the very fact that missionaries came to live in the same
place as those they sought to convert.23 For some denominations this
I am speaking roughly here as this does gloss over the more exact nature of
missionary settlement that often involved some degree of physical separation
between locals and missionaries.
Also, the formation of new villages, the
“reclamation” of areas considered tabu, and the increasing physical split between
converts and others, often equal to a sea/bush split. Full integration of local
(particularly unmarried women) into the “ideal household” of the mission though
was also practiced in some places, based on the premise that immersion in the
23
37
is also demonstrated by the adaptation of some supposedly kastom
practices to fit the new way of life, such as dances, women’s
handicraft skills, and “traditional” building styles. Also, in some parts
of Vanuatu – as in other areas of the Pacific – the resuscitation of
indigenous “culture-heroes” as evidence of innate monotheistic
tendencies that could now be fully realised in the adoption of
Christianity (eg: Tagaro on Maewo and Raga).
The incorporation of indigenous practice into Christianity is seen by
Jolly and Thomas (1992) as part of the process of objectification that
marks the establishment of kastom. As they say, this objectification
did not depend on ‘the wholesale adoption or rejection of European
ways
in
practice’
due
to
the
manner
of
incorporation
and
accommodation I have argued for (Jolly and Thomas 1992: 242).
However, the effect argued for does not seem much different to that
attained by the introduction of the kastom as an exercise in
categorisation – the contents of kastom were not the crucial factor. It
stood in opposition to Christianity in such as way as to render both as
totalising categories. Once you were in one, its logic could govern all
practice.
Following Lindstrom (1982) I argue that what was brought about by
the model of kastom put forward particularly by the Vanua’aku Pati
around the time of independence was the end of the ‘evaluative
dualism’ that had rendered kastom as an exclusively oppositional
category. Such a division may have been lessened in practice, but, as
Jolly and Thomas (1992) argue, rhetorically an equation of kastom
with a “heathen” lifestyle, or a way of living consciously used to
express resistance to European incursion or separation from Christian
neighbours hindered the opportunities for movement between the
oppositional categories.
Anthropologists seem to have been drawn
domestic environment was the best way to educate future wives in the “correct”
management of a Christian household (see Jolly and Macintyre 1989).
38
into this strict division as the examples cited above indicate.
The
introduction of a generalised version of kastom as a common feature
of all ni-Vanuatu challenged the previous view of kastom held by
anthropologists, thus necessitating the creation of new divisions on
their part such as town/village or national/local.
The major result of the new formulation of kastom as introduced by
the Vanua’aku Pati was the spread of the idea that Christianity and
kastom could coexist. Coincident to this was the indigenisation of the
state. This ending of evaluative dualism provoked the breakdown of
the most important oppositional relationships between kastom and
other categories such as Christianity, modernity and Europeans. Yet,
kastom still relies on opposition to exist. I argue that the generalised
nature of kastom that entered into ni-Vanuatu thinking from the late
1970s has resulted in an equally generalised oppositional category of
“not-kastom”. Like kastom, this category is not a stable collection of
practices that show “which is which”. Rather, it is a way of being that
can be invoked in exercises of objectification that are used to reform,
re-establish and reiterate relationships.
My use of objectification differs from that put forward by Jolly and
Thomas (1992) quoted above.
I would argue that the term
“objectification” implies a different form of subject/object relations
than that of categorisation. As I state above, categorisation defines
with the aim of integrating the object into an existing mode of being.
Objectification, on the other hand, defines a creative interaction
between subject and object, in which change in the subject is the
desired outcome.
This distinction, which forms one of the central
strands of my overall argument relating to kastom in contemporary
Vanuatu, is backed up to some extent by Miller’s (1987) interpretation
of objectification:
…the term objectification…describe[s] a dual process by means of
which
a
subject
externalizes
39
itself
in
a
creative
act
of
differentiation,
and
in
turn
reappropriates
this
externalization…This act eliminates the separation of the subject
from its creation but does not eliminate this creation itself:
instead, the creation is used to enrich and develop the subject,
which then transcends its earlier state…
The particular aspect of this process emphasized by the term
objectification lies in the act of externalization which may be
considered as synonymous with the creation of particular form
(Miller 1987: 28).
Unlike this form of objectification, categorisation does not include the
aspect of transcendence referred to here. The aim is not to effect any
change in the subject, but rather to make the object fit into the
subject’s mode of being. As argued above, there can be seen to exist
in Vanuatu two categories – that of kastom, and that of not-kastom.
Either of these can be invoked by ni-Vanuatu in exercises of
objectification. The question of interest here is why one or the other is
being chosen – what is being achieved, and is this successfully
achieved? This thesis shows how these two spheres operate within
contemporary Vanuatu, focussing on the areas of politics, law, justice
and dispute resolution.
Legitimation
I argue that the key to successful invocation of kastom lies in the
ability to demonstrate its legitimacy. Lindstrom’s (1982) analysis of
the simultaneous existence of spheres of kastom and modernity on
Tanna discussed above introduced the idea that ni-Vanuatu were
making choices as to which sphere to operate in on certain occasions.
One factor that emerged from his examples was the necessity of
demarcation – some form of marker that shows what mode you are
acting in, whether it be one type of dance rather than another, beer
rather than kava, or tinned food rather than aelan kakae. In those
examples, objects and practices are used as such markers. Yet, in the
material I present, the sources of demarcation are not always so clear:
40
if a church service can be held in a nakamal, or calico used in a
kastom exchange, to what extent can objects or practices be divided
into kastom and not-kastom?
To what extent can they be seen to
provide legitimation?
I argue that this is particularly relevant to the urban setting in
Vanuatu. In some ways this is for solely practical reasons – it is not
always easy to get hold of the “correct” goods for an exchange. For
instance, it is illegal to keep pigs and chickens within the municipal
boundaries of Port Vila. Also, many Vila residents have limited access
to garden space, meaning that the growing of food for ceremonial
purposes is not always possible. The cost of buying such items, or
having to arrange to have them sent from the islands impose further
constraints on the nature of kastom activities in town. Thus in town it
is harder to make clear that you are operating within kastom. In my
formulation this is achieved in two ways: by showing a “correctness”
of manner, bearing or behaviour, and through connection to place.
These two factors can be equated to the concept of respect, and
recognition of a “home” island.
I am willing to concede that this version of kastom and its legitimation
may not match that found in the islands.
In discussing the
relationship between the Bislama word, “kastom”, and its most
obvious English cognate, “custom”, Bolton states that, ‘the English
word refers to specific practices, rather than to the whole interlocking
network of knowledge and practice denoted by “culture.” In Bislama
kastom has always had this implicit reference to specific practices, or
a groups of specific practices, rather than to the whole of life’ (2003:
11). I do not find myself in agreement with her assertion, but suggest
that this may be a product of both the urban setting, and my
concentration on state institutions and their interaction with the
sphere of kastom. As I argue above, kastom and not-kastom represent
categories that, as such, entail a totalising logic that governs all
41
actions that take place “in their name”. This does not make kastom
equivalent to culture, in that it is not the only option available to niVanuatu.
However, if you choose to operate “within kastom”, the
objectifying effects of its invocation reach beyond ‘specific practices’ to
effect changes in subjectivity and relations.
So that is the view of kastom that I have adopted throughout this
thesis. It may be that the urban setting introduces a heightened need
to prove legitimacy, which makes that the aspect of kastom
emphasised over and above practices. The tension between town and
island, as both locations and lifestyles, involving particularly a
disparagement of “town” claims to kastom on the part of island
residents – and sometimes similar sentiments on the part of Vila
residents - may add to this insecurity. These tensions are explored in
more detail in the following chapters.
Structure
Ethnographically, this thesis is primarily concerned with the agents,
institutions and techniques of control found in Vanuatu, and the
people and locations they act upon.
This material is used to show
how the exercise of authority is viewed from “within kastom” – this
involves examples of both the legitimate use of kastom authority, and
the “failure” of other forms of authority. The following two chapters
involve an examination of the relationship between jifs, kastom,
politics and politicians. I provide an account of what or who jifs are,
and outline their role in relation to the state, both before and after
independence. This acts as an introduction to the contentious area of
politics, or politik in Bislama.
I argue that negative conceptions of
politik
independence
have
emerged
since
and
this
has
had
ramifications for attempts by both jifs and politicians to use kastom in
their exercise of power. My discussion of the activities of politicians in
Chapter Three introduces the theme of legitimation, showing how
certain ways of talking can and cannot be kastom – legitimate use of
42
kastom can relate to questions of style over content.
Using the
example of the use of jifly titles on the part of politicians, I show how
their invocation of kastom can be read as an attempt to enforce
simultaneity on the conflicting forms of subjectivity involved in the
modes of behaviour required of them.
Chapter Four provides an introduction to the physical location of Port
Vila, as well as an assessment of previous writings on the town.
These are linked to the body of anthropological literature that focuses
on “rootedness” and connection to place as the essential ingredients in
ni-Vanuatu conceptions of kastom and, thus, indigeneity. I argue that
such a definition of indigeneity is both challenged and reinforced by
the setting of Port Vila. Descriptions of the town have treated it as
“foreign” space, and portrayed ni-Vanuatu residence there as
temporary.
These sentiments appear also in the statements of
politicians, jifs, police and long-term residents, especially in relation to
“law and order”. To some extent, though, the continued importance
and use of an island-based identity by the majority of Port Vila
residents suggests this temporary nature.
Using examples drawn
from the Women Fieldworkers’ workshop at the VCC, I illustrate how
the use of such identities is not without tension:
while they may
appear to offer a form of legitimation through links to the island for
those living in town, this is disputed by those from the islands
themselves. Again, this example relates to differing valuations of talk,
as well as the concept of “research” as a legitimate tool for learning
kastom.
Chapter Five continues this examination of legitimation of kastom
through place.
Using material from other parts of Melanesia, in
particular the work of Strathern (1991), Hirsch (1995), and Battaglia
(1995), I investigate the manner in which ni-Vanuatu in Vila “make
places travel”.
This is explored primarily through the example of a
dispute between people from the islands of Tanna and Tongoa
43
resident in Port Vila.
This example shows the activation of “non-
geographical” communities in Vila, and how these form a crucial
component of the exercise of jifly authority in town. When viewed in
tandem with the process of kastom dispute resolution, I argue that
two forms of temporal and spatial simultaneity are brought about: the
first relates to the legitimation of the use of kastom through the
invocation of place; the second relates to the form of convergence of
historical understanding between the two parties required to bring
about resolution. This again involves objectification in order to reform
subjectivity in a manner which enables the establishment of “correct”
relations between the groups for the future.
Having introduced the ways in which kastom is used as a method of
social control and dispute resolution in Vila, Chapter Six focuses on
the manner in which kastom is brought into state court proceedings,
through both legislative measures and the actions of the judiciary and
participants in court cases. Using state court judgements, I pinpoint
five ways in which this happens:
kastom as a negative factor in a
case; as a mitigating factor; as a source of evidence; as a potential
source of jurisprudence; and as a matter of attitude on the part of
judges and members of the legal profession. This material is used to
show the incomplete or unsuccessful integration of “customary law”
and state law. Despite this, it is argued, a common attitude exists
that such integration is necessary.
However, proponents of such a
project approach if from different starting points:
on one side,
integration is seen to provide an avenue for an increased state
empowerment of jifs; on the other side, the formalisation of kastom is
promoted as a way of reigning in, or placing controls on jifs in an
effort to enforce compliance with the rights and freedoms provided
under the Constitution and international conventions to which
Vanuatu is a signatory. Controversy surrounding the outcomes of the
Juvenile Justice Project is used to demonstrate the difficulties in
reconciling these conflicting approaches to the same goal.
44
The next two chapters address the difficulties involved in the
integration of state law and kastom, with the first focusing on
temporality and the second on spatial aspects of the administration of
law.
Chapter Seven uses material from the Men Fieldworkers’
Workshop at the VCC to show how kastom loa is portrayed as an
entire entity that does not need contributions from beyond for its
continued logical existence. I use the examples of rape and “stealing
women” as a way of showing how certain offences can and cannot
exist under kastom loa.
While the category of “stealing women” is
recognised as existing in kastom, rape, although similar in practice, is
not. I argue that this is because the explanatory factors involved in
rape can be linked to not-kastom forms of relations.
The
incorrectness of these relations is, in turn, linked to the adoption of
not-kastom practices.
A temporal element is introduced into the
relationship between rape and stealing women – although technically
similar, the practices that they are causally tied to allow for the latter
to exist in kastom, but for rape to be coupled with a form of notkastom modernity.
The final chapter continues to illustrate the expression of dissonance
between kastom and not-kastom, this time focussing on space. Using
interviews from the Juvenile Justice Project on the exercise of
authority in Port Vila, it is shown that comparisons made between the
work of police and jifs rely heavily on locational factors.
What
emerges from this material is a model of police as mobile and
intrusive, opposed to jifs as static and appropriate.
On further
investigation this dichotomy is seen to make less sense in practice,
with jifs moving and the police constrained in terms of location.
However, this contradiction provides a way of tying together the
strands of my argument so far:
in kastom, place as a source of
legitimation can be called upon from any location; the inverse is not
true - the police lack a place, but jifs need no location.
45
The majority of this thesis attempts to show the exercise of authority
and establishment of relations from “within kastom”.
In the
conclusion, I introduce the possibility of new forms of relationships
based in “not-kastom”, but show the difficulties that these are met
with – in particular, they are viewed as sources of negative emotions
that threaten the kastom ideals of respect and peace. A comparison of
the two categories and the relationships that emerge from them
indicate two differing approaches to power operative in contemporary
Vanuatu, that interact to both constrain and enable each other.
Despite co-operation between the two spheres, and the ability of
people to choose to invoke one or the other, a fundamental
incompatibility exists due to the need in kastom for the achievement
of simultaneity in time and space, matched by a convergence of
understanding achieved through objectification that enables relations
to be re-established and continue into the future.
In addition, the
expectations of kastom introduce a component of control that makes
other relationships hard to sustain.
I go on to introduce the
development of “civil society” in Vanuatu as an incorporative zone of
power promoted, for the most part, by overseas aid-funded NGOs. I
argue that this form of “civil society” matches the totalising logic of
kastom – both represent “societies of control”. The logical similarities
between “civil society” and kastom suggest the reintroduction of an
‘evaluative dualism’ that disallows the achievement of simultaneity on
which the relationship between kastom and not-kastom depends.
46
Chapter Two – Jifs
The next two chapters will examine the relationships between jifs,
kastom, politics and politicians in both the past and present.
A
common attitude exists in Vanuatu that kastom and politics are
necessarily oppositional domains – of power and behaviour.
This
chapter will address that ideological assumption in the context of the
participation of jifs in politics, starting by providing an historical
overview
of
the
relationship
between
jifs
and
the
colonial
administration and missionaries, before moving on to the place
assigned to jifs in the independent state. This will illustrate the falsity
of a direct correlation between jifs and kastom – and, importantly, the
relative novelty of a coherent category of “jif”.
Furthermore, the
historical evidence suggests that the strong idea that jifs should be
removed from, or even somehow above, state (and other forms of)
politics is of recent origin.
More precisely, I would argue that its
origins lie in changes in indigenous political participation in the buildup to, and achievement of, independence in 1980, and a redefinition
of the idea of politics that occurred concurrently.
Jifs in the ethnographic record
Professional
anthropological
activity
in
Vanuatu
pre-dates
the
formalisation of the colonial administration, going back to the visits of
Rivers, Haddon, Speiser and Codrington around the turn of the
century.
In ethnographic writing the issue of indigenous political
activity has been addressed by a number of anthropologists. The first
instance of “traditional” fieldwork – a longer term stay in a single area
– occurred with the 1914-15 visit of John Layard, a student of Rivers,
who worked in the so-called Small Islands off the north-east coast of
Malakula.24
While the writing up of his research was delayed by
illness and other distractions, his 1942 volume Stone Men of Malekula
24
Uripiv, Wala, Atchin, Vao
47
represents the first comprehensive ethnography written on Vanuatu.
Much of his work focuses on the nimangki, the structure and process
of “status alteration”25 practiced on Malakula and other parts of the
central and northern islands of Vanuatu. Further research on this
topic was carried out by Bernard Deacon on Malakula and Ambrym in
1926-27.
This was curtailed by his death from blackwater fever at
South West Bay, and an edited volume of papers produced from his
notes was published posthumously (Deacon 1934).
English-speaking
anthropology,
there
is
a
large
In terms of
gap
in
the
ethnographic record from Deacon until the 1970s. During that time
though
a
number
of
French
researchers
were
active
in
the
archipelago. In relation to the study of jifs, Jean Guiart (eg: 1963) is
the most pertinent of those.
The 1970s saw a sudden increase in research interest in Vanuatu,
with many graduate students – especially from Australia – carrying
out fieldwork. Allen (1981) provides a compilation of papers written
by members of this “new generation”, with many of them focussing
specifically on authority, rank and status (Allen 1981; Blackwood
1981; Facey 1981; Patterson 1981; Rubenstein 1981; see also Allen
1984). Although not included in that volume, Lindstrom (1982; 1984)
provides theoretical and ethnographic contributions to the study of
political power in Vanuatu.
That period also saw an increase in
publications addressing the impact of colonisation and missionisation
on indigenous political structures.
Throughout the 1970s and ‘80s
William Rodman published a number of articles focussing on jifs and
other leaders in west Ambae, emphasising in particular their
I adopt this terminology from Bolton (2003). As she argues, previously used terms
- especially “graded society” – do not sufficiently convey the form that these practices
of attaining status involve: ‘What is common to all these rituals is the achievement
of status, but this status is not always a matter of an explicit movement upward
through a series of named grades. Sometimes there is no specific sequence in which
the individual rituals must be performed, and an individual’s negotiation of them is
a matter of opportunity and ambition…More specifically, this terminology does not
allow for the variety of forms that women’s systems take. For this reason I prefer to
use “status-alteration systems” as an umbrella term that includes all the various
forms these rituals take’ (Bolton 2003: xxxii-xxxiii).
25
48
interaction with colonial structures, and the effects of independence
politics on the position of jifs in their community (W.Rodman 1982,
1985, 1993). Based on fieldwork carried out in the early 1970s, Jolly
(1994) provides an account of social change in south Pentecost,
especially in relation to colonisation.
Her book represents the first
extended study of gender in Vanuatu, highlighting its intersections
with
kastom
and
responses
to
colonialism.
In
addition
to
ethnographic accounts of men’s grade-taking, it also covers the
acquisition of rank by women.
Two further ethnographies have focused on the southern island of
Tanna. Bonnemaison’s (1994[1986]) work encompasses many aspects
of Tannese history, tracing a narrative through myth, colonial history,
and the conflict surrounding independence.
While not explicitly
focusing on jifs – in part as the relevance of that category on Tanna is
debatable, a point I will return to later – his concentration on
relatively recent political events inevitably highlights the actions of
powerful men. The same is true of Lindstrom’s (1990) Knowledge and
Power in a South Pacific Society. He applies a Foucauldian approach
to the analysis of talk on Tanna, and its relationship to the
acquisition, maintenance, and loss of power. Lindstrom (1998) also
provided the first summary of the contemporary position of jifs in
Vanuatu on a national scale, addressing some of the issues
surrounding the interplay between jifliness and state politics, and the
existence of urban jifs. In a similar vein, Bolton (1999a) has used the
life history of Jif Willie Bongmatur to explore the ‘incorporation of
chiefs into the Vanuatu state’.
The etymology of jifs
Withstanding any anthropological attempts at “unpacking”, the term
“jif” is now firmly embedded in Bislama vocabulary and everyday
discourse in Vanuatu - it appears in media reports, conversation,
legislation, court proceedings, information leaflets published by NGOs,
49
government documents, public speeches, even on signs in shops to
deter thieves.26
This term subsumes a broad category, eliding the
multiple forms of status acquisition present within the archipelago, as
well as the divergent roles of those designated “jif” (both by themselves
and others), both now and in the past. As with the term “kastom”, it
is not entirely clear when “jif” became so widely used.
Lindstrom
(1997) states that colonial administration documents from the 1950s
used terms such as “assessor” and “big man” rather than “chief”.
Again, as with “kastom” (and Bislama itself), the word is a product of
colonial
encounters,
whether
with
administrators,
traders,
missionaries, or labour recruiters.
It is difficult now to challenge the use of the term “jif”, or even to
question its origins. This is well illustrated by an exchange that took
place at the Men Fieldworkers’ Workshop in 2001. The topic of the
workshop revolved around issues relating to kastom loa and the work
of jifs.27
Many of the reports and much of the discussion at the
workshop foregrounded the role of jifs in the past.
However, debate
arose on a couple of occasions over how they should be properly
referred to. One example in particular shows how firmly entrenched
the term jif now is.
The facilitator of the workshop (an Australian
linguist) cautioned the participants against the use of the word jif,
stating that, when referring to taem bifo (pre-contact or distant
history), it was appropriate to use the term ‘big man’ as previously
there were no jifs.
This was not met with universal compliance or
approval from the fieldworkers.
In his closing speech to the workshop a high-ranking man from Santo
addressed this issue, using missionary documents to prove his
argument for the presence of chiefs ‘bifo’.
He stated that when
A sign on the door of the Video Centre store in Vila reads: “Lukaot!...Sipos mi luk
ol stil man, hand blong polis mo jif i kasem yu!...” [Attention! If I see any thieves,
you’ll end up in the hands of the police and jifs]
27 This workshop is discussed in greater detail in Chapter Seven.
26
50
missionaries came to Santo they went to some of the offshore islands
(Malo, Tutuba, Tassiriki) and then on to west Santo and north Santo.
At every place they met a jif. This proved that before there were chiefs
all around Santo. Every part of Santo had jifs before. He went on to
state that in 1982 he had met every Santo jif as part of the formation
of the Santo Island Council of Chiefs. The name given to this council
incorporated the word ‘supwe’, used before to refer to jifs. In response
to this the facilitator said that that name actually referred to ranks
coming out of the namangki and means leader, but not chief.
The
fieldworker went on to reiterate the purpose of their choice of the word
‘supwe’ – ‘This is to tell you that it’s not like some of you think; we did
have chiefs before’.
He referred again to the missionary text as
evidence for his assertions, this time mentioning the name of the
author, ‘Mr Miller’, and page reference where he mentioned meeting
chiefs when he visited Santo.28
This recourse to missionary
documents to back up contemporary conceptions of jifliness is worthy
of investigation in its own right. However, it also introduces the early
stages of “chiefly” interaction with outsiders in Vanuatu, and the roots
of the use of the term jif itself. To some extent, the existence of jifs
derives from the European imagination. An example from nineteenth
century Tanna illustrates the ways in which Europeans assumed the
existence of “chiefs”, and how that belief in the ubiquity of “chiefs”
was, in turn, transferred onto the local population.
In the mid-nineteenth century, missionary attempts at conversion on
Tanna were dealt a blow by a measles epidemic that devastated the
population of that island, as well as Aneityum and Erromango. An
effect of the huge number of deaths was a strengthening of resistance
to missionaries: on Erromango, a missionary couple were killed; on
Tanna, they fled.
Five years later, John Paton returned to Tanna,
accompanied by a British naval vessel, aiming to ‘get even’ with those
I think that the book he was referring to is actually a series of collected writings
from missionaries who worked in Vanuatu. It is edited by J. Graham Miller.
28
51
who had rejected him earlier (Bonnemaison 1994: 56). The naval crew
bombarded part of the south-eastern coast of the island, before going
ashore
to
burn
houses,
gardens,
and
canoes
in
the
area.
Technologically outmanoeuvred, the Tannese had little ability to fight
back.
Paton prepared, on their behalf, a “surrender” document which
outlined their desire to open themselves to missionaries and repent of
their former behaviour.
The awe felt at the superior power of the
British - and by extension, the missionaries, church and Christian
god - was explained in this way:
Formerly we had been guilty of so many murders that we feared
men-of-war could come and punish us; we all though and said
they durst not try, and so we delighted in our bad conduct. Then
we had no idea of the multitude of fighting men in a man-of-war,
and of her awful power to destroy us and our lands; but now we
have seen it, and our hearts have failed us. We are all weak and
crying for fear. The great inland chief, Quantengan, who came to
help us fight the man-of-war, was cut down by one of [its] chiefs…,
and many more are hurt, and we know not how many are shot and
dead…We never saw anything like this, and plead with the chief of
the man-of-war not to punish us anymore…Tell him to inform your
good Queen Victoria that we will kill no more of her people but in
future be good, and learn to obey the word of Jehovah (quoted in
Bonnemaison 1994: 57).
In this case, it is not just the indigenous population who are believed
to have “chiefs”. Rather, Paton portrays the Tannese population as
unable to comprehend the exercise of power outside of a hierarchical
model based on the existence of “chiefs”.
In missionary and anthropological sources from the 19th century
onwards the English term “chief” has been used to refer to men
assumed to be in positions of authority within their communities. In
one of the earliest ethnographic sources for Vanuatu, Codrington
(1891), mocks the manner in which Europeans show such an
52
eagerness to find - and make use of - “chiefs” in their dealings with niVanuatu:
...chiefs exist, and still have in most islands important place and
power, though never perhaps so much importance in the native
view as they have in the eyes of European visitors, who carry with
them the persuasion that savage people are always ruled by chiefs.
A trader or other visitor looks for a chief, and finds such a one as
he expects; a very insignificant person in this way comes to be
called, and calls himself, the king of his island, and his
consideration among his own people is of course enormously
enhanced by what white people make of him.
The practice
moreover of the commanders of ships of war by which local chiefs
are held responsible for the conduct of their people, and are
treated as if they had considerable power undoubtedly increase
their importance, nor can that result be regretted (Codrington
1891: 46).
Codrington’s comments were based not on actual visits to Vanuatu,
but rather on interviews with a number of informants carried out at
the Melanesian Mission station on Norfolk Island. He describes these
men as ‘natives...who well knew what they were speaking about’
(Codrington 1891: 46-47).
They would also have been of the first
generations to either benefit from or be harmed by the experiences
offered by increased European intrusion into their islands - through
the labour trade and - in this case, most obviously - missionisation. It
is perhaps as a result of this that Codrington’s account, while titled
grandly enough following the pervading ethnological tradition of its
time - The Melanesians: Studies in their anthropology and folklore also
focuses
on
recent
cultural
changes
and
cross-cultural
interaction.29
This may also be a result of missionary/trader rivalry, in that Codrington
reproduces the relatively familiar model of fleeting encounters on the part of traders
resulting in lack of understanding of “local culture”, as opposed to missionary
attempts to “live amongst” and thus understand the indigenous people - of course,
while trying to alter their culture radically at the same time.
29
53
As the above quote indicates, the usefulness of “chiefly” recognition
could work both ways: traders gained access (perhaps often without
realising it’s circumscription) to local people and resources; niVanuatu men became “king of their island” through their new
designation, and, most likely, through the fact that their brokering
role gave them access to trade goods.30 Evidence of this mutual gain
can be found in the ethnographic record relating to the colonial
period.
While the term chief continued to be used by some
anthropologists to designate those “of rank”, a number of new
terms/offices were introduced by the colonial administration and
missionaries - in particular, those of assessor and deacon or elder offices whose holders would frequently now be glossed - by niVanuatu - as “jifs”. I would argue that these innovations relate to the
development of the concept of “jif” in that these offices and titles were
the first to exist uniformly throughout the country.
However, the
interpretation of these roles in different localities was not uniform.
The colonial interaction of authority
As part of their conversion project, some missionaries set up parallel,
replacement or novel power structures in the communities in which
they worked. It has been suggested that this was often due to their
previous experiences in Polynesia where hereditary, paramount chiefs
were common, thus missing the nuances of the multiple power
systems operating in Vanuatu.
Rawlings (1999) and Rubinstein
(1981) both provide accounts of the effects of missionaries on local
leadership. It is important to stress though that this process was not
a simple imposition of a new hierarchy on existing structures.
As
Rubenstein shows, the ‘thearchy’ that came into being on Malo was in
many ways a ‘reaction to the existing (traditional) power structure’
(1981: 137). Furthermore, the logic of both systems was recognisably
Although, labour recruitment could provide lower-ranked men with the
opportunity to gain the material wealth necessary to increase their status on their
return home. Access to new forms of knowledge in the course of overseas
experience could also lead to a change in role on return.
30
54
similar for local people, with both centred on ‘the circumstances of
power within Malo society’ (1981: 137). Structures of inequality were
maintained, albeit predicated on different types of knowledge:
‘Despite these changes, the notion of “following” continued to order
social life. Lesser men still followed greater men, in this instance the
greater men being those who were best versed in Christianity; women
still followed men.’ (1981: 143).
Using evidence from the south Efate village of Pango, Rawlings (1999)
shows changes in methods of chiefly succession brought about by the
presence of missionaries and the acceptance of Christianity. In 1909
the second born son of the previous chief was “elected” as his
successor, rather than his elder brother.
Rawlings states that the
younger man’s literacy in English and the local language combined
with his Christianity made him the preferred candidate in the eyes of
the missionaries. This was related in part to missionary fears at the
time of a French takeover of the colony. As well as factoring these
new attributes into the choice of a chief, Rawlings shows that the idea
of patrilineal succession – although “imperfectly” performed in this
case – was also new. He sums up this transformation:
The complicity of missionary involvement combined with changing
local values brought about major transformations in the chiefly
succession. The method of choosing a chief within a matriclan by
selecting the son of a current chief’s sister had been replaced by a
system which emphasised patrilineal rights of succession, new
codes of education, the acquisition of English language, a
commitment to Christianity and the ability of a chiefly candidate to
use these skills to negotiate relationships with foreign power (1999:
82).
Their
level
of
involvement
in
local
power
structures
is
also
demonstrated by a missionary’s estimate that during his time in south
Efate he had ‘installed over a dozen [chiefs] at different villages’
(Mackenzie quoted in Rawlings 1999: 82), thus indicating that
55
church-based legitimation had been incorporated into the rituals of
title acquisition.31
As the above example hints missionaries were not the only “outsiders”
who effected change in local power structures. The formalisation of
British and French colonial power through the creation of the joint
Condominium administration in 1906 led to the establishment of the
new position of “assessor”. Under this joint administration the British
were subject to British law, while French residents were subject to
French law. Any other foreigner resident in the New Hebrides had to
choose between the two systems.
The indigenous population was
subject to a Native Code that was administered by the District Agents
(DA).
The Condominium divided the New Hebrides into four
administrative districts. Each district was presided over by a French
and British District Agent who were responsible for hearing any cases
within their area. To assist in this work, a network of assessors was
established. This can be explained by the size of the area that each
District Agent was responsible for, the inaccessibility of some
communities
government
and
of
the
the
generally
indigenous
“hands
off”
population
approach
that
to
the
typified
the
Condominium. Assessors were meant to mediate settlements of minor
cases, report other cases to the District Agent, and then, if requested,
advise the DA on any matters relating to the people involved or local
practice that might have bearing on his judgement.
However, the
actual activities of assessors appear to have diverged from this model.
Based on fieldwork carried out through the late ‘60s and ‘70s on
Ambae, Rodman states that ‘the de facto system of justice in rural
areas of the New Hebrides bore little resemblance to the theory of
This was true too on Nguna off the coast of Efate. In 1900 the Reverend Peter
Milne ordained twelve jifs, using a church service to replace local (non-Christian)
legitimating rituals (Facey 1981: 304). Facey also outlines how a similar change in
succession was introduced at the time of conversion. The loss of matrilineal
succession also led to the loss of “spiritual powers” that were passed on to new jifs,
thus affecting perceptions of their legitimacy and efficacy (Facey 1981: 300).
31
56
district administration represented in Condominium law’ (W. Rodman
1985: 605). Assessors came to play a bigger role in dispute resolution
than that set out for them, and, as with the “missionary chiefs”
discussed above, they interacted in novel ways with the existing power
structures. Rodman outlines how the office of assessor came to be
viewed by local men of high rank. They were supportive of both the
office itself and of the men (of lower rank) who occupied it. However
the reasons for this support differed from the perceptions of the
colonial officials:
Big Men defined assessors as coadjudicators who had the special
talent of being able to bring down the wrath of the colonial
government on troublemakers. They supported the advance of the
government appointees through the graded society; assessors
emerged from the process with high rank (but not too high),
prestige, legitimacy, and many debts, both financial and moral,
owed to the Big Men who had sponsored their rise.
District agents defined the role a bit differently.
assessors
were
the
government’s
To them,
men-on-the-spot,
trusted
middlemen with responsibility for bringing disputes to the
attention of the government, invaluable informants and advisors
on matters such as matrilineal land inheritance, pig-killing, and
menstrual taboos (W. Rodman 1985: 607).
While in that example from Ambae assessors themselves were
generally men of lower rank, in other areas it seems that the
combination of existing high status and newly granted government
powers resulted in the creation of new regimes of discipline presided
over by the assessor.
On Malo Pastor Winji exercised power with
missionary and government backing, combining ‘a knowledge of the
techniques of traditional big-manship with the newer tools and
opportunities of his times’ (Rubenstein 1981: 145). Although he had
withdrawn from the local namangki at the time of his conversion, he
instilled such respect in all community members that the Sabbath
was universally recognised by Christian and non-Christian alike.
Rubenstein collected a number of comments reflecting the scale of his
57
power – ‘there was no one else like him in Vanuatu’; ‘his word was
law’; ‘he was like the government’ (Rubenstein 1981: 145, 146).
Pastor Winji exerted complete control over the legal sphere, even
setting up his own prison. On another occasion he successfully called
on the British officials in Santo to send a naval ship to the island to
take away a murderer, thus illustrating his connections with the
“foreign” administration. He showed this alliance in other ways too,
such as furnishing his house in the Western style with tables and
chairs.
While there seems to have been an aspect of paternal nuturance to his
regime, it involved at least an equal part of self-interest, involving a
move away from locally accepted practice:
At the height of his power he began to bend and abuse many
traditional Malo legalities, supporting such practices as marriage
without payment, transmission of land without proper authority or
payment, and abusing or altering land tenure rules for his own
ends. Not only could he do these things but he could also get a
substantial number of persons to agree with him that these were
proper and correct activities (Rubenstein 1981: 146).
I encountered an example similar to this on Pentecost, combining
government-backed authority with perhaps exploitative self-interest.
The assessor in question was also the “founder” of a new village in
which he was developing a copra plantation.32 As with Pastor Winji,
this man instigated the idea of prison in his area. People would be
sentenced to work on his plantation, cutting roads and working in the
gardens, usually for a period of a few weeks. I was told about this by
the man’s daughter-in-law, who emphasised what a tough man he
had been with the fact that women too would be sentenced to
“prison”.
This coincided with a general move in north Pentecost from the inland areas, to
the coast, resulting in the setting up of many new settlements (Jack Taylor, pers.
comm.).
32
58
The move towards independence: conflicting sources of authority
and intergenerational relationships
While those examples indicate manipulation on the part of ni-Vanuatu
of the new offices/sources of authority offered by colonial encounters
dependent on local circumstance, they also show the development of a
national-level notion of an indigenous figure of authority. Although
“the national” may at that time have been a concept more obvious to
colonial officials than to many ni-Vanuatu - and the offices themselves
creations of European minds - the biographies of many of the first
wave of indigenous politicians indicate that the church and the
Condominium administration were their main training grounds, thus
suggesting that an awareness of “a nation” was engendered through
participation in these novel uniform institutions.
In 1971, the New Hebrides Cultural Association was formed by two
men from Lelepa island, near Efate. The aims of the Association were
‘to promote, to preserve, to revive and to encourage New Hebridean
culture.
To seek the advancement of the Hebrideans socially,
educationally and politically in relation with New Hebridean culture
and Western civilization’ (quoted in Miles 1998: 69). This organisation
soon transformed into the New Hebrides National Party, the first
indigenous Western-style political party. The leadership of the party
was generally well-educated and Anglophone, and the party had
particularly close links to the Anglican church. The Party put out a
newspaper, Viewpoints, which was distributed as widely as possible
given the infrastructural hindrances. This provided an outlet for the
nationalist and pro-independence sentiments of the Party.
It’s
eventual leader, Father Walter Lini, an Anglican priest from Pentecost,
also toured around the country, addressing local meetings about the
possibility of independence and attempting to foster a sense of
national identity. In fact his own statements on this topic preceded
the founding of the party.
Rodman cites a speech given by Lini in
1970 in his capacity as district priest of Longana on Ambae:
59
‘Lini
surprised everyone:
in a voice filled with conviction and hope, he
urged members of his audience to view themselves in a national
context, as New Hebrideans rather than primarily as people of a
particular island’ (W. Rodman 1985: 608).
The novelty of this idea indicates the uneven distribution of national
consciousness throughout the ni-Vanuatu population. I do not want
to suggest that the indigenous population was insular in every sense:
the importance of locally-based identity to ni-Vanuatu is indicated by
the fact that, in some cases, it was strengthened by exposure and
travel to the world beyond their own area or island (Adams 1998), and
also by the continued emphasis on island of origin amongst the
second generation population of Vila.
Rodman’s analysis indicates
this pervasiveness too. He states that Lini’s speech went against the
worldview of most Longanans:
Lini proposed nationalism; Longanans were comfortable with
microparochialism.
Men identified most strongly with their own
village and secondarily, but still strongly, with their district and
finally (on well separated occasions) with their half of the island.
They felt little unity with individuals from the other half of the
island, a place with different customs, different values and, for
more than half a century, a different religion….Longanans did not
view the New Hebrides as a group of islands sharing certain
elements of culture in common. Instead, “the New Hebrides” was
the government, a remote, powerful, but largely unobtrusive
colonial order (W. Rodman 1985: 608).
This example suggests that, as much as anything, the increase in
indigenous political participation in the lead up to independence
involved the emergence of a split in ni-Vanuatu conceptions of
national government. On the one hand, distant, unknowable, foreign;
on the other, something that could be made indigenous, and that ni-
60
Vanuatu could take an active role in.33 Although not a founding
member of the party, Father Walter Lini became leader of the
Vanua’aku Pati and is still generally known as the Father of
Independence.34
political
His career exemplifies the development of a new
sensibility
amongst
some
ni-Vanuatu
-
one
that
acknowledged the necessity to engage in Western-style party politics
but attempted simultaneously to incorporate and valorise “Melanesian
values”.
Lini (1980) has charted his own political development in his
autobiography, Beyond Pandemonium:
From the New Hebrides to
Vanuatu, a development which was closely linked to his role in the
Anglican church. Father Walter Lini was born in north Pentecost, and
educated in Vanuatu and the Solomon Islands. Following secondary
school he initially wanted to train as a doctor, then as a lawyer.
However, as he recounts, a combination of work experience in the
Anglican church office at Lolowai on Ambae, encouragement on the
part of family members, and a number of dreams, led him to the
conclusion that ‘the only way to be involved with others and to serve
the people was to become a priest’ (Lini 1980: 14). He went on to train
at St. John’s theological college in Auckland, New Zealand.
In his
autobiography he records his growing frustration with Western-based
education, which eventually led to his desire to return to Vanuatu.
The “foreignness” that he felt on his course in New Zealand influenced
his request to the Anglican church in Vanuatu to include ‘Melanesian
culture and traditional thinking’ as part of their school curriculum, a
request which was rejected (Lini 1980: 15). At the same time he was
And, essentially, this is still the model - only now, it is “civil society” that is being
made into the ni-Vanuatu institution - generational thing again.
Central
government may be full of ni-Vanuatu, but again has become distant, unknowable.
34 Father Walter Lini died in 1999. The consideration in which he is held by many
ni-Vanuatu could be seen by the length of the period of mourning that followed his
death. In November 2001, shortly before the end of my fieldwork, I attended an
event marking the 1000th day – and official end - of the mourning period. During
that time, fires had been kept burning at nakamals both in north Pentecost where
he was from, and at Pentecost nakamals in Vila.
33
61
instrumental in setting up an association of Western Pacific students
in New Zealand which published a magazine, Onetalk, and provided a
forum for the examination of ‘some of the very important issues back
home’ (Lini 1980: 15). Despite these activities Lini himself portrays
his experience in New Zealand as a potentially damaging one: ‘Life in
Auckland grew frustrating for me and I felt that the western ways and
influences there were almost overwhelming me.
I think I got away
from New Zealand just in time’ (Lini 1980: 15).
The very negativity of his experience of the Western style of education
and thinking though is shown in his autobiography to contribute to
the formulation of his political philosophy, frequently summed up as
“Melanesian socialism”. The formulation of Melanesian socialism was
influenced by political discourses present in the wider Pacific at the
time, in particular “the Pacific way” and “the Melanesian way”, both of
which were connected to the process of decolonisation underway since
the 1960s.35
The dissemination of these ideas was facilitated by
attendance at regional educational institutes such as USP and UPNG.
Also, the Vanua’aku Pati forged links with proponents of African
socialism, particularly in Tanzania, who assisted in the theoretical
and practical development of party policy.
However, the term
Melanesian socialism was not used by Lini himself until the time of
independence to sum up the program of the first post-independence
Vanua’aku Pati government. The aspect of socialism embodied in it
can be traced to Barak Sope, Secretary General of the Pati, who
argued that ni-Vanuatu village life was ‘the basis of socialism itself’
(1975: 53, quoted in Regenvanu n.d. [1993]: 7). This assertion points
to one of the basic tenets of Melanesian socialism – the valorisation of
indigenous practice and morality as an existing and ideal way of
governing/organising an independent nation.
See, for example, Narokobi (1980). For a more recent Vanuatu application of “the
Melanesian Way”, see Sokomanu (1992). For a ni-Vanuatu critique of Melanesian
socialism see Regenvanu (1993).
35
62
Parallel to that concern was a focus on social justice and opposition to
any form of neo-colonialism.
The connection between the VP and
church has already been noted.
However, it is important to
emphasise the way in which their attitudes towards ni-Vanuatu
independence allowed for the inclusion of Christianity within the
political thinking of Lini and other VP members. Both the Anglican
and Presbyterian churches in Vanuatu had become self-governing by
the early 1970s.
This was seen as an indication of support for ni-
Vanuatu self-determination on the part of overseas church hierarchy,
as well as the indigenisation of the churches as institutions. Lini was
always clear on the compatibility of Christianity and anti-colonialism.
His autobiography includes a section on the relationship between
church and politics, emphasising how a belief in social justice spread
necessarily from Christian faith to political action. This was as much
true of churches as institutions as it was of individuals:
The Church must play politics and Church and politics are two
sides of one thing: man’s existence or man’s life. The Church is a
body which should uphold moral standards of justice. Politics is
the way in which moral judgements are effected, that is, it tears
down that what [sic] is old and unjust and creates new structures
through which right judgements are channelled….Church and
politics are essential for man’s existence and one could not do
without the other (Lini 1980: 19).
As a priest Lini also saw it as his duty to address perceived injustices.
However, this should be fully inclusive and conducted through the
right
channels,
thus
providing
the
justification
for
his
involvement in party politics:
Does the minister of the Church condemn from the pulpit?
No.
The right place is with the government and the people who are the
exploiters and with the people who are being exploited.
It is
important to work through the right channels in order that the
whole community is involved and decides which way to develop
(Lini 1980: 19).
63
own
The role of jifs in the lead-up to independence
As argued above, the development of the Vanua’aku Pati can be read
as the development of a group of ni-Vanuatu who were able to
envisage
an
indigenisation
of
political
structures
within
an
independent national government – the centralised provision of
government that fitted with “Melanesian values”.
This also had
ramifications for the continuing development of the category of “jif” in
the country. As the previous section has suggested, the new offices
offered by the colonial administration and missionaries did not
necessitate a complete rupture with the pre-existing exercise of
authority in different localities.
However, the advent of indigenous
Western-style political activity introduced further new styles and
personae into the repertoire of power existent in Vanuatu.
It
broadened
of
access
to
political
activity
through
new
forms
legitimation - party membership, election and public office.
The
indigenisation of national politics included a role for “traditional
leaders”. As a result, the potential for national-level action on the part
of those whose status found its legitimation in (perceived non-colonial)
indigenous structures changed.
This is most obvious through the
founding of the Malvatumauri National Council of Chiefs.
In 1975 a Representative Assembly was set up by the Condominium
administration of the New Hebrides as part of the move towards
autonomy for the country. It was decided that, amongst others, there
would be four elected ‘chief representatives’, each representing one of
the administrative districts.
The elections of these representatives
assumed greater importance as it became clear that the chiefs would
hold the balance of power in the Assembly (Woodward quoted in
Bolton 1999a: 7). Problems occurred in the Northern district due to
disputes between Anglophone and Francophone candidates, and
similar rivalries almost thwarted the elections in Central District 2.36
See Bolton (1999a) for a full account of the election day dispute and discussions
in CD2.
36
64
In the Southern District elections could not proceed due to the
Condominium’s view that there was a ‘lack of any clearly defined
system of Chieftainship on the principal island of Tanna’ (Woodward
quoted in Bolton 1999a: 7). Ultimately only two chief representatives
were successfully chosen.
The Representative Assembly eventually
collapsed due to a Vanua’aku Pati boycott, which included the CD2
chief representative Jif Willie Bongmatur. When the formation of an
Assembly was attempted again in 1977 chiefs were not included as a
specific category of representative. Instead, that year saw the parallel
formation of a National Council of Chiefs.
The idea of a separate chiefly body came from an informal meeting of
the Representative Assembly in June 1976, held to find a solution to
the
unsuccessful
election
of
chief
representatives
which
was
preventing the proper functioning of the assembly (Bolton 1999a:8).
The role of the Council was to act as an advisory body to the
Assembly, providing expertise on matters pertaining to kastom,
including land, hunting and fishing (Bolton 1999a: 8). The Council’s
first meeting was held in February 1977, with Jif Willie Bongmatur
being chosen as the first president, and at their next meeting in April
that year it renamed itself Malvatumauri, the name by which it is still
known. Bolton (1999a) has argued that the original inclusion of chief
representatives in the Representative Assembly, and the subsequent
setting up of the Malvatumauri, represents a change in the orientation
of jifs in relation to the state.
In their dealings with the colonial
administration and missionaries, jifs acted as liaison between these
outside institutions and their communities; now, however, jifs were
being put in a role in which they represented indigenous matters to
the outside/state:
They [jifs] became advisors to the Parliament but had no direct
political power…People elected to the Representative Assembly
were, by the establishment of the National Council of Chiefs,
defined as representing their community in the context of the new
– the Condominium, services, development – the very contexts in
65
which chiefs were formerly appointed to work. The chiefs were now
prevented from commenting
on
the
new,
except
from the
perspective of the old, the kastom concerns of their communities.
The creation of the National Council of Chiefs constitutes or
formalises a modification in the role of chiefs themselves.
Although the processes are highly complex, there is a basic
alteration in the role: from being associated with what comes from
outside…chiefs have been redefined as exemplars of what belongs
in the place (kastom) (Bolton 1999a: 8).
I would argue that these changes represent the start of the strict
ideological delineation between jifs and politics now encountered in
Vanuatu. In the lead-up to independence many jifs took an active role
in political parties – Jif Willie Bongmatur being a prime example.
However, the Vanua’aku Pati does not appear to have viewed these
participants as necessarily separate from other party members.
In
fact, quotes from the Fifth Party Congress in 1977 published in the
Party newspaper, New Hebridean Viewpoints, indicate an antagonistic
attitude towards jifs in general on the part of some in attendance.
Addressing
the
relationship
between
jifs
and
the
colonial
administration, one speaker criticised jifs for their co-operation with
Condominium officials and lack of effort: ‘Our chiefs give too much to
the District Agents. They sell our young boys like bags of copra, they
then heap them up and go off to get a boat to take them to prisons.
They don’t try to settle the matter themselves’ (Peter Napur quoted in
New Hebridean Viewpoints, February 1977: 13).
A Pastor present
argued against the participation of jifs in the Representative
Assembly, implying that they would be unsuited to that environment:
‘Leave the chiefs out of the Assembli to deal with their islands. Taking
a jif into the Assembli is like bringing a lion and a sheep to fight. The
chief has no power’ (Pastor Simbolo quoted in New Hebridean
Viewpoints, February 1977: 13).
66
These comments suggest that those involved in the Vanua’aku Pati
perceived a difference between jif-as-category and those jifs who chose
to enter into party politics. The second speaker indicated that jifs did
not have any special role to play in the activities of the Representative
Assembly, and did not have the power necessary to operate in that
type of political arena.
The first speaker’s antagonism towards jifs
rested on too close a connection between them and colonial agents,
suggesting perhaps that previous involvement in government –
particularly as assessors - had tainted them in the eyes of some niVanuatu.
The Malvatumauri, politics and jif-politicians
The role of the Malvatumauri in the independent nation was
formalised in the Constitution. Chapter 5 is devoted to the National
Council of Chiefs (as it is referred to throughout the document),
containing the following provisions:
National Council of Chiefs
29.
(1)
The National Council of Chiefs shall be composed of
custom chiefs elected by their peers sitting in District Councils of
Chiefs.
The Council shall make its own rules of procedure.
The Council shall hold at least one meeting a year.
Further
meetings may be held at the request of the Council, Parliament, or
the Government.
During the first sitting following its election the Council shall elect
its Chairman.
Functions of Council
30.
(1)
The
National Council
of
Chiefs has
a general
competence to discuss all matters relating to custom and tradition
and may make recommendations for the preservation and
promotion of ni-Vanuatu culture and languages.
The Council may be consulted on any question, particularly any
question relating to tradition and custom, in connection with any
bill before Parliament.
Organisation of Council and Role of Chiefs
67
31.
Parliament shall by law provide for the organisation of the
National Council of Chiefs and in particular for the role of chiefs at
the village, island and district level.
Privileges of Members of Council
32.
(1)
No member of the National Council of Chiefs may be
arrested, detained, prosecuted or proceeded against in respect of
opinions given or votes cast by him in the Council in the exercise of
his office.
No member may, during a session of the Council or of one of its
committees, be arrested or prosecuted for any offence, except with
the authorisation of the Council in exception circumstances.
Other Articles of the Constitution also relate to the Malvatumauri:
Article 20(1) states that Malvatumauri elections will be subject to
supervision by the Electoral Commission, and Article 76 says that a
‘national
land
law’
shall
be
formulated
by
Parliament
‘after
consultation with the National Council of Chiefs’.
The status given to the Malvatumauri in the Constitution continues
the advisory role set in place by the Representative Assembly in 1976.
However, while the Constitution stipulates that Parliament are bound
to consult with the Malvatumauri on certain issues (eg: land), it
appears that this consultation has been sporadic. Provisions for the
role of jifs are given elsewhere in the Constitution (insert references),
thus suggesting a specificity to the role of the Malvatumauri as an
institution in contrast to jifs themselves – the Malvatumauri is
separate from, but related to central government.
I would argue,
though, that, as its political role has dwindled through lack of
consultation
and
recognition
on
the
part
of
Parliament,
the
Malvatumauri has increasingly sought to portray itself as a protector
of kastom and taken upon itself a policing role in relation to
correct/true jifly activity.
This has involved a deliberate distancing
from party politics, which is illustrated by the views of the chairman
and secretary at the time of my fieldwork, Tom Numake and Sandy
Ishmael on the role of the Malvatumauri and the correct relationship
between politics and jifs.
68
When asked what the main work of the Malvatumauri is, both
chairman and secretary started with the role set out in the
Constitution. In the case of the secretary this was explained to me
very matter of factly:
As you know the office here was set up through Chapter 5 of the
Constitution.
It’s here as an advisory body to the government.
With any bill that the government wants to pass relating to
customs,
culture
or
tradition,
they
must
consult
the
Malvatumauri. Or any bill concerning customary land, they must
consult the Malvatumauri. (Sandy Ishmael, 2nd November 2001).
The chairman covered most of the same points. However, his answer
suggested a need for protection of kastom from government threat,
rather than a co-operative relationship between the Malvatumauri and
parliament:
The main purpose of the Malvatumauri is to always be here to
advise the government. It’s like a chiefs’ advisory body so that if
the government does something that affects people and kastom and
culture, OK the Malvatumauri must talk to the government and
say that if you do this, it will destroy the kastom and culture of us
ni-Vanuatu. (Tom Numake, 10th August 2001).
Moving away from the original mandate of the Malvatumauri, the
tasks of protecting kastom and upholding “proper” jifly behaviour and
practice were spelt out more explicitly in further comments from both
men:
Then the Malvatumauri must make sure that it is acting to protect
our kastom and culture and our traditions.
And then it must
make sure that everyone, all the chiefs in the islands, they must
carry out their work in accordance with their kastom laws. And if
someone goes outside of kastom law then it’s the role of the
Malvatumauri to say that each of you must work in accordance
with the kastom of your islands. (Tom Numake, 10th August 2001)
And also, we are here to protect kastom, culture, and language,
and to promote kastom, culture and language to ensure it is not
69
lost as the mother tongues of all of us ni-Vanuatu. So those are
the reasons that the office was set up, and we are here to protect
all our chiefs, all the island councils of chiefs, so we advise them
too…. When they come to the meetings they give their views, they
give a report on what each island council of chiefs is doing. So
they have to give their report, and then we have a file at the office
for each island council of chiefs. When they are in the islands they
send letters or ring us any time they need advice. Then we ring
them or give advice to them. The way of installing chiefs, kastom
chiefs, is different on each island – how to ordain a new chief
taking over from his father. This we do according to each island
since our kastoms differ a little bit in relation to the installation of
a new chief.
So us here at the Malvatumauri can’t take on the
right to say, “No, the Malvatumauri says that if you want to install
a chief you have to do it like this, this and this.” We leave this
open and free for them to exercise their right. But for just a few
matters, our office exists to say, “This is how it is”.
(Sandy
Ishmael, 2nd November 2001)
The shaping of the Malvatumauri into a self-appointed centralised,
policing agency for jifs throughout Vanuatu can be seen to have begun
with the 1983 publication of their Kastom Policy (Malvatumauri 1983).
The authors describe it as ‘the basic principles of kastom and culture
in the Republic of Vanuatu’ (Malvatumauri 1983: 3). Describing the
content of the Policy, Lindstrom sees it as aimed at ‘village-level delict
and disorder’ with ‘much of it…designed particularly to keep women
and youth under closer control and to make chiefly supervision of
village activities more muscular’ (Lindstrom 1997: 219). This appears
true in some of the sections: controls on movement of people between
villages and islands; penalties for assault, theft, or damage to other
peoples animals; marriage rules; provision of free labour for
community projects; protection of natural resources; illegitimate
children; adultery.
However, it also contains sections relating to
correct jifly work and organisation. In Lindstrom’s interpretation the
‘codification of kastom policy has attempted to empower jifs at home
by cuing their state-sponsored official paramountcy’ (1997: 220).
70
However, I prefer to read the Kastom Polisi as an assertion of
Malvatumauri paramountcy – particularly given that it is the
Malvatumauri who are referring to themselves as “paramount chiefs”,
rather than giving that title to all jifs covered by the policy
(Malvatumauri 1983: 1).37
The Kastom Policy does not make specific mention of any sanctions
against political involvement on the part of jifs. Article Two, dealing
with peace ceremonies, does mention “fasen blong politic” as a
potentially divisive phenomenon:
‘When a kastom peace ceremony
takes place following proper, strong kastom, people cannot break the
peace through politics, religion or any other fashion that could cause
divisions to re-emerge’ (Malvatumauri 1983: 4). However, this does
not necessarily indicate state politics, as the Bislama term politik is
often used to suggest disagreement or argument between two sides,
rather than political parties.
Despite no clear statement in the Kastom Policy, though, Tom
Numake was adamant that Malvatumauri procedures existed to limit
the political activity of jifs. When I asked him about the presence of
jifs in parliament and whether it was possible or appropriate for jifs to
work as MPs, he started his response by outlining the fact that there
are many people throughout Vanuatu now who misuse the title “jif”:
There are plenty of people on each of the islands of Vanuatu who
aren’t proper jifs. They use the name jif for personal gain. And
some of them…might have killed one pig or two pigs to become a
jif. But to become a high chief it’s not just one or two pigs. You
have to gain a high rank to become a jif. So some of them, maybe
they come from a jifly family but they aren’t jifs; they just use this
name jif. Some of them, maybe they belong to the proper jifly line,
but they get involved in politics, they go into politics and they still
use this name. But even if he’s a jif at the time, once the influence
of politics gets into him, his authority will be small. The authority
Authorship of the Policy appears to be credited to “Paramount Chiefs
Malvatumauri” on the title page of the document.
37
71
of a jif who is involved in politics a lot will be small (Tom Numake,
10th August 2001).
He went on to explain why he was also of the view that there were no
“true” jifs in parliament, nor had there ever been, basing this certainty
on the existence of Malvatumauri policy on the issue:
I don’t know that there has ever been a jif amongst all the MPs or
Ministers who say they are a jif who has actually killed a pig.
Because the jifs’ policy states that if a jif who is a true kastom jif
wants to go into politics, he must resign as jif. He must give a pig
and kava to his island council [of chiefs]. Then he stops his work
as jif and goes into parliament. Win or lose, when he finishes and
comes back [to the island?], he has to kill a pig and give that and
kava to the island council and then he is accepted again. To this
day no-one has done this. So all those who say they are jifs, they
haven’t passed through that stage… they are actually “full
politicians” (Tom Numake, 10th August 2001).
These comments indicate a both a firm belief and a strong desire that
jifs and politics should not mix. In the following chapter I expand this
discussion to look at the ways in which kastom enters into
contemporary
parliamentary
politics.
Using
the
example
of
parliamentary debates on the Customary Land Tribunal Bill, it seems
that MPs themselves adopt a similar division between the practice of
kastom and that of politics. At the same time, though, they can be
seen to employ kastom as a way of overcoming the conflicting models
of subjectivity that arise through their actions as politicians.
I will
examine this process through the example of the use of jifly titles by
politicians. This will also provide an illustration of the ways in which
such behaviour is not universally accepted by other ni-Vanuatu.
72
Chapter Three - The demonisation of politik
Tom Numake’s comments - quoted in the previous chapter - on the
diminishment of a jif’s power through involvement in politics echo the
opinion of many people in Vanuatu, not just the Malvatumauri. The
majority of people I encountered – both jifs and others – were opposed
to political involvement on the part of jifs, sometimes using the
disparaging term “political jif” to describe those who openly engaged in
party politics.
I would argue that this has much to do with ni-
Vanuatu definitions of politik and an ensuing ideological opposition
between that and the maintenance of peace and unity – that being the
responsibility of jifs. The Bislama word politik is used broadly, but
usually in a pejorative sense:
projects fail due to tumas politik;
meetings can’t reach decisions from we politik i kam insaed. When I
asked for definitions of the term, they generally incorporated ideas of
opposition (wan man i toktok, afta wan nara man hemi toktok agensem
hem), argument for argument’s sake (oli talem wan samting we oli mas
winim no mata se hemi tru o no), or greed (oli triem blong winim wan
samting). Politik is viewed as an essentially divisive phenomenon.
I would argue that the demonisation of politics for many ni-Vanuatu
is, once again, a generational division. The colonial era appears as
almost an apolitical period in terms of national-level political
engagement.
With the advent of independence, state political
institutions became indigenised, thus necessitating an incorporation
of national politics into ni-Vanuatu thinking – people had to develop
an opinion on this new form of behaviour.
Possibly due to the
factionalism and violence at the time of independence, or the ongoing
failure of successive governments to provide adequate services for the
country, combined with self-interest and corruption, the opinion that
has developed is predominantly negative. I would argue that this lack
of stability has led to an ideological equation between jifs, peace and
lack of political participation.
73
This argument is borne out to some extent by the views of Jif Willie
Bongmatur, first president of the Malvatumauri, on politics and jifs’
political participation, as well as the more openly political engagement
of Malvatumauri members in the late 1970s.
For instance, the
political affiliations of all the members of the first Malvatumauri were
known (14 Vanua’aku Pati supporters and 10 “Moderates”) (Bolton
1999). In contrast, these affiliations would not be declared or talked
about so openly now, and not well received by those who prefer their
jifs impartial.
On the setting up of the Port Vila Town Council of
Chiefs, the chairman, former President of Vanuatu, Jean-Marie Léyé,
emphasised that the council would be non-partisan with regards to
political parties. However, in early 2001 - soon after that statement,
and in an atmosphere of increasing political upheavals – articles
appeared in newspapers stating that he had joined the Vanuatu
Republican Party, resulting in criticism expressed both in private and
through the media.
Jif Willie recounted to me a story from a meeting of the Constitutional
Drafting Committee in 1979 at which the topic of jifly involvement in
politics was raised. Ironically, while discussing the provisions to be
made for the Malvatumauri in the Constitution, it was Jean-Marie
Léyé who spoke out against the members of the Council at that time.
He described them as ‘oranges that had fallen into a tin of paint’,
indicating that they were tarnished by politics. Jif Willie’s response to
this was to say that even though they had paint on them, if you cut
open one of the oranges it would still be an orange inside. In his view
there was nothing inherently wrong with a jif being politically involved.
Rather, it was the type of politics that you chose to engage in.38
In a further statement that hinted at the political divide between these two, Jif
Willie said that it was Jean-Marie Léyé who had ‘pushed the oranges into the paint’.
38
74
This could well relate to my argument that the negative ramifications
of politik emerge from the particular style of government that has been
the norm in Vanuatu since independence, and a feeling that
parliament is not an indigenous space, nor does it subscribe to the
“correct” goal of peace and unity. Along similar lines, Jif Willie makes
a distinction between “white politics” and “black politics”:
Every man in the world is able to talk politics.
When someone
comes back from the garden, they cook, they eat with their wife,
the two of them talk, they decide what they’re going to do the next
day…This is politics, it’s domestic politics…But with politics there
is just one thing you have to decide: what kind of politics will you
play – white politics or black politics?
decide.
That’s all you have to
But there isn’t a person in the world who is free from
politics because God and Satan, the two of them are the
foundation of politics (Jif Willie Bongmatur, 4th December 2001).
Jif Willie’s more sanguine approach to - and broadness of definition of
- politics, which allows everyday human interaction to enter into the
category, involves a positive orientation towards politik that I did not
encounter often amongst ni-Vanuatu.
It appears that Rodman’s
comments quoted in the previous chapter on Ambaen conceptions of
national government in the 1970s are pertinent to the current
situation too. He described the foreignness of Walter Lini’s statement
on national identity to the majority of his audience for whom central
government was a remote entity with little impact on their lives.
I
would argue that a similar conception of state government exists now.
However, it is tempered with a higher level of dissatisfaction than that
conveyed by W. Rodman.39
As I have argued, the lead-up to
independence involved a reconceptualisation of western political
institutions. The Vanua’aku Pati approach involved a recognition that
While W.Rodman does not really suggest or address anti-colonial sentiment on the
part of his informants, other examples – eg: Jolly 1994a – show how kastom was
used as a tool of resistance to a government that was perceived as antithetical to the
interests of ni-Vanuatu. In other words, Rodman’s model of perhaps passive
contentment with a locally-oriented identity may overstate acceptance of the colonial
order: elsewhere, privileging of the local did not denote a lack of awareness of the
national.
39
75
these structures could be indigenised to some extent.
It appears
though that this has not worked in the minds of many ni-Vanuatu.
Government remains as remote, disappointing, and not-kastom in
that it threatens an ideal of peace and unity: parliamentary practice
does not subscribe to what are perceived as indigenous modes of
decision making; participation in party politics is divisive. The fact
that it is ni-Vanuatu themselves who are now the national politicians
means that it is a question of appropriateness of style that provides
the grounds for criticism. To engage in a practice that threatens that
ideal makes a politician an “incorrect” type of person.
In removing
themselves from political engagement, jifs are able to assert a stronger
position of indigeneity and closer alignment with kastom.
I would
suggest that this “strategy” has also acted to strengthen the existence
of the category of jif throughout the country, in that it has given jifs
something to not be.
So how do politicians deal with this division? In the following section I
use the example of parliamentary debates on the Customary Land
Tribunal Bill to examine this. It appears that politicians are able to
incorporate a similar division into their work, recognising the
foreignness of parliamentary practice when it comes into contact with
kastom. However, through the adoption of jifly titles, politicians seek
to bridge this gap, and provide kastom legitimation for their status. I
argue, however, that their activities as MPs are not enough to
legitimate such titles, leading to a dismissal – or, at least, open
criticism – of this practice.
Kastom in the giaman nakamal
When parliament is sitting Radio Vanuatu broadcasts its debates live.
These make popular listening around Port Vila, with many buses and
taxis choosing to play parliament rather than music. On one bus trip,
I overheard a discussion between the driver and a passenger about
the debate that was being broadcast. Their overall tone was negative,
76
and the conversation culminated in the driver referring to parliament
as a “giaman nakamal we toktok i no kam long hat”.
This would
translate into English as “a fake meeting house in which the talk
doesn’t come from the heart”, encapsulating the commonly-expressed
derogatory view of the activities of politicians in Vanuatu outlined
above - in particular their reliance on talk.
Politicians do talk about kastom, and the debates concerning the
Customary Land Tribunal Act, which was passed in December 2001,
provide a good example of this. The Act introduced a system of Land
Tribunals throughout the country which would enable all cases
involving land disputes to be dealt with at a local level – village, area
and island – rather than through the other levels of state courts. This
was a response to both the amount of time and resources that land
dispute cases occupied in the state courts, and the opinion of many
that those courts were not able to deal with the type of evidence
needed to assess such cases.40 The reasons for that opinion are
twofold:
the evidence of land ownership is frequently “emplaced” –
stones marking boundaries or the site of pig-killings; nasara no longer
in use but whose location is still remembered;41 secondly, expatriate
judges are not always seen as capable of adjudicating disputes which
rely on conflicting historical and genealogical accounts of ownership.42
At the final reading of the Customary Land Tribunal Bill many
sections were passed unanimously, inspiring little debate from the
MPs.
Some, however, caused more discussion, with much of it
surrounding the effect of such legislation on kastom. Through their
Such complaints about the suitability of the existing state courts for the
processing of land disputes are not new. See Bakeo (1977) for a pre-independence
recommendation that separate land courts be set up; see Hardy-Pickering (1997) for
a more recent account of the problems encountered in land cases.
41 Section 27(5) of the Customary Land Tribunal Act (2001) stipulates that ‘A land
tribunal must inspect the land in relation to which there is a dispute and, if
possible, must walk around the boundaries of the land.’
42 The ways in which kastom is incorporated into state court judgements is covered
in detail in Chapter Six.
40
77
comments, the MPs appeared to be critiquing the very institutions
which parliament represents.
As one MP said, courts are a rigid
system, whereas kastom is flexible; it can change.
years time will be different to today.
Kastom in fifty
His fear was that the rigidity
enforced by the formalisation of local land dispute settlements could
lead to dispossession of land.
Kastom, on the other hand, offered
accommodation of the whole community through its communal ethos.
In other contributions MPs seemed to adopt a schizophrenic approach
to their task, speaking about the legislation almost as if they were not
the ones who were devising and passing it. This was achieved by a
constant shift back and forth from what procedures the legislation
would bring in and what was practiced as kastom.
Often this was spoken of as if a common understanding of kastom
practice could be taken for granted. For instance, several MPs reacted
negatively to the proposal that Tribunals might have to reach their
decision by vote if they were unable to reach a unanimous decision
through consensus (Section 29(2)). As one MP explained, the kastom
way of making a decision isn’t through a vote. Rather, a dispute will
lead to a hearing in the nakamal. After that the jifs will withdraw and
decide amongst themselves how the decision is to be given.
In his
opinion, this sub-section defeated the purpose of resolving land
disputes through kastom as voting is not a kastom practice.
This
theme was taken up by another MP, who claimed that through voting
“we are adopting foreigners’ kastom”. Under kastom the settling of a
dispute is discussed by the jifs until resolution at which point the
“chairman” will announce their decision – they speak with one voice.
In his opinion voting could also lead to antagonism towards jifs who
voted against one of the parties in the dispute. He concluded that it
was pointless to give jurisdiction over land disputes back to jifs if
kastom wasn’t actually going to be followed.
78
This discussion of decision making procedures is interesting in that it
shows MPs to be imbued with the same desire discussed above to
delineate clearly between kastom and politics. Parliamentary methods
of decision-making - and the very mode of their own election - seem to
be viewed as “kastom blong foreigner” by MPs themselves.
The
statements quoted above lead me to suggest that this provides a clear
example of the objectifying capacity of kastom. Here, the invocation of
the category of kastom as something to be discussed and acted upon
brings about a change in subjectivity on the part of the politicians,
which, furthermore, enables them to present ideas that appear to
undermine their alternative status as MPs. To speak about kastom
with effect involves submitting to the totalising nature of its logic.
Legislation such as the Customary Land Tribunal Act is not the norm
in the schedule of the Vanuatu parliament – politicians do legislate for
kastom, but a glance at Acts passed in the last year indicate that more
prosaic matters fill most of their time.43 Yet this is not the only way
that kastom infects their work. As mentioned above, many politicians
use jifly titles in the course of their official, public work.
It is
interesting to keep in mind the formulation argued for above when
reflecting on this usage. Lindstrom (1997) gives an example of how
such titles are introduced by politicians in Vanuatu:
On March 2,
1994, Jean-Marie Léyé was elected Vanuatu’s third state president.
Two months later, when he delivered his first official speech to
Parliament, he had stretched his name to Jean-Marie Léyé Lenelgau –
attaching a chiefly title, Lenelgau, to the previously frenchified Léyé
(Lindstrom 1997: 211).
This is not exceptional.
The two prime
ministers in office during my fieldwork both performed the same
technique:
Barak Sope became Barak Sope Mautaumate; Edward
Natapei became Edward Nipake Natapei. Their extended names were
adopted in press coverage of their activities and used in their formal
These - and many other legal resources on Vanuatu - can be accessed on the
website of the University of the South Pacific as part of its Pacific Islands Legal
Information Institute at www.paclii.org.
43
79
introduction at public events.
In Lindstrom’s reading, ‘political
leaders…set about collecting chiefly titles and pose themselves as
hybrid jifs/presidents, jifs/members of Parliament, or jifs/ministers of
state’ (1997: 211). He suggests that the use of these titles illustrates
the ‘jointly constitutive arrangement between state and jif’, implied too
by jifs viewing themselves as leaders on an equivalent level with
politicians and priests, pastors and elders of the church (Lindstrom
1997: 211).
I argue that politicians are more in need of legitimacy or good opinion
than either of those two groups; the relationship between them and
jifs is not viewed as mutually constitutive by the majority of niVanuatu.
Huffer and Molisa (1999) exemplify some of the negative
evaluations of politicians’ use of jifliness to reinforce their position:
…the term “big-man” is used both in the parliamentary and
customary contexts to refer to a leader and is a source of confusion
and a hindrance to governance. Although there is a perception in
Vanuatu that chiefs have been neglected in the overall framework
of governance, politician frequently attribute to themselves a
chiefly or “big-man” aura…which they use to profit from their
functions as parliamentarians…Some politicians for instance claim
that it is uncustomary to criticise chiefs and that therefore they
should not have to put up with public criticism through the media
or through the ombudsman’s reports (Huffer and Molisa 1999: 7).
Those comments indicate a disparaging attitude towards attempts on
the part of politicians to make use of kastom legitimation for their role
through titles.
The legitimation of titles
As shown above, the acquisition of status varies throughout Vanuatu:
connections to land in the south; inherited titles in the central
islands; and an economy of pig-killings and exchanges establishing
inequalities in relationships, and thus status in the north.
While
these appear various, I argue that they are all based on forms of
kastom knowledge that requires some form of embodied legitimation 80
whether it be the actuality of land, genealogical links illustrated
through a person’s physical existence, or the accumulation of tusks,
namele, or stones marking occasions of pig-killings. These methods
give meaning to titles due to the knowledge that lies behind them, not
simply in and of themselves - you can kill pigs, yet not gain a title due
to a lack of support for your actions from those of higher rank; you
can claim a title through genealogy, yet not have that claim accepted
due to the history that you base your claim on.
Mosko (n.d.) highlights the anthropological urge to explain instances
of “incorrect” succession to chiefly status as exceptions. In the case of
Vanuatu the need for contextual analysis of status acquisition is
backed up by the examples from Rawlings (1999) and Facey (1981)
cited previously. The balance between the ideal and the actual is not
necessarily the most pertinent question to address when looking at
the gaining and use of titles. Rather, what process did someone see
themselves as following to gain their rank?
This process is put
forward clearly by Silas Ngarileo in his “life story”, written in
collaboration
with
his
son,
Russell
Nari,
and
a
Japanese
anthropologist, Masanori Yoshioko, and published on the internet.44
Silas
- or Viradoro as he refers to himself in his life story - is a
verbose, egotistical, wily and charming man.
He is, by his own
reckoning, in his early eighties, sports a large white beard and similar
hair, has a wiry frame, carries a stick which he uses liberally to
provide emphasis to his speech, and is on his third marriage to a
woman many years his junior.
I found his company enjoyable, if
sometimes infuriating - others told me that he would never give me
I stayed for three weeks with Silas’ brother, Richard Leona, in the village of
Loltong, north Pentecost. During my stay their brother, Luke, died. Due to his
death Silas spent much of the period of my visit in Loltong, and I spent many hours
talking to him. I use quotes here from the published life story, but “legitimate” their
use through my own conversations with Silas. His life story can be accessed at
http://ccs.cla.kobe-u.ac.jp/Ibunka/kyokan/yoshioka/viradoro.html.
As
this
document does not have page numbers, quotes are referenced by the relevant
number of the section of the life story in which they appear.
44
81
any worthwhile information unless I paid him, assuming this was the
only reason I spent time with him. It is true that he “held out” on me
when it came to his work as an assessor under the condominium
administration - a topic on which I hoped to gain more information
from him. Ultimately, I feel I won our “standoff” to some extent - for
him, payment was only due for information recorded on tape. Saying
goodbye to him as I left Loltong he said I couldn’t leave, as I hadn’t
recorded him yet. I replied that all our conversations - which covered
many hours and many topics - were already stored in my head. Silas’
interest in money is reasonably common knowledge throughout
Vanuatu, and his explanation of this “talk” is covered in other sections
of his life story - Viradoro i stap askem mani long taon blong Pot Vila
mo Luganvil; Viradoro insaed long pokamasin.45
Essentially, he
believes that his status as a jif entitles him to support and recognition
from the general populace:
Vanuatu is the land of jifs - from the
Torres islands to Aneityum. He has worked to earn his position, and
deserves respect shown through material support.
While Silas’ current demeanour provides an interesting example of jifly
behaviour, his explanation of how he gained that status is perhaps
more relevant to this discussion. The life story presents an account of
his “career” which incorporates his becoming a jif, starting with a
similar account for his father, Nathaniel Bule. Silas was adopted by
Bule and his wife, Anika Butu as a young child. After some time they
went to live with ‘one of the high jifs of North Pentecost’, Viratiro.
According to this account, Bule used this time to ‘work hard so as to
show Viratiro that he wanted to become a leader’ (Nari and Yoshioka
2002: 2).
To do this he started planting cash-crops, following the
example of white settlers.
By 1926 Viratiro deemed Bule ready to
“Viradoro begging for money in Vila and Santo; Viradoro playing on poker
machines”. As Silas himself is willing to admit, there are many bus and taxi drivers
in Vila and Santo who refuse to pick him up knowing that he won’t pay them.
Personally, I am indebted to Silas for him being the only person I met in Vanuatu
who, when asked what a razorback hog we encountered on a walk together was
called locally, replied “wan big buggery pig”.
45
82
move to a place of his own and carry out what Nari and Yoshioka term
his praktikel46 (Nari and Yoshioka 2002: 2).
Bule, his family and
about seven other adults (children unspecified) moved further south
to the Aute district, settling initially antap at Lolvatu but soon moving
down to the coast at Loltong. The main reason given for the move is
the difficulty in transporting goods down to the sea. At Loltong Bule
continued his cash-cropping enterprise, this time employing people to
work for him.
They worked six-month contracts and were paid in
pigs.
Unlike his brothers and sister Silas did not go to school47:
‘His
training and education was to carry his father’s basket and
accompany him to different occasions such as meetings, feasts,
marriages, funerals or pig-killing ceremonies.
This is the way in
which Viradoro gained his education’ (Nari and Yoshioka 2002: 3).
The life story continues with Silas’ experiences working for the
Americans during the Second World War.
During a four month
contract working in Santo he was appointed by the Americans to look
after the 360 workers from Pentecost and act as a “middle man”48
between the two groups. This appointment is described as indicating
the extent to which Silas’ “leadership qualities” were becoming clear:
‘It is interesting to see that at this time the leadership role of Viradoro
had already begun to show. His limited education and lack of English
didn’t stop him from standing out as a leader’. On his return, Bule
began to give more responsibilities to Silas, ‘preparing him to become
a leader’ (Nari and Yoshioka 2002: 3). In the same way that Viratiro
had sent Bule to make his praktikel, Silas was now given 'the last and
hardest test’ by his father who sent him to found a new village:
This term (praktikel) is used in Bislama to indicate the practical component of a
training course – eg: those training to be a mechanic might have a work placement
in a garage for a short period of time as their praktikel.
47 One of his brothers, Richard Leona, went on to train as a teacher, eventually
becoming the first headmaster of Nazareth College in north Pentecost. His wife,
Lolowia, also worked as a schoolteacher.
48 The document uses the term medel man.
46
83
As part of the training to become a leader in the kastom style of
Pentecost there is a time along that road where your father or one
of your jifs must give you a test in order to see if you are suited to
lead people now or not yet. On 15th May 1952 Viradoro’s time had
come (Nari and Yoshioka 2002: 4).
The founding and consolidation of the village of Labultamata is
outlined in the next section of the life story.49 It is essentially a story
of centralisation. On arrival in the area, Silas started to plant cash
crops once more ‘to earn money and help everyone’ (Nari and Yoshioka
2002: 4). After three years he came to the conclusion that the usual
residence pattern of north Pentecost was causing problems. Rather
than living in small, nakamal-based groups it would be better to live
in a larger communal village. The two main reasons given for this are
the ability to undertake larger scale development projects and the ease
with which the colonial administration could provide services to a
centralised community. The main stumbling block in this plan was a
reluctance on the part of some people to allow others to use coconut
trees from their land to build new houses, so Silas allowed them to
use his. The achievements made by the 1970s included construction
of a large church, a dock, a new school, a large nakamal and the
installation of a water supply system.
In the life story the main
impetus behind these developments is clearly Silas: ‘There is only one
thing that made these developments possible, a leader with vision and
the full co-operation of all other leaders and their people’ (Nari and
Yoshioka 2002: 4).
The next section deals with Silas’ business enterprises – bisnes blong
stoa; bildim rod; bisnes blong trakta; and bisnes blong bot.
In
conclusion it addresses why the businesses are perceived as having
While I use the term ‘founding’ here there was already a small population resident
in the area that became Labultamata. The relevant section (4) is entitled “The village
of Labultamata is born”.
49
84
“failed” or, at least, no longer exist, turning that negative into a
positive through its relation to Silas’ other roles:
As an assessor, a jif, a community leader and a businessman
Viradoro tried to look after the interests and needs of all different
people to make sure that there was always peace, joy and unity in
each family, community and area that he was responsible for. As a
result of this, Viradoro’s businesses aimed to make a lot of money
but really the end result of them was to help everyone so as to
make sure there was trust and confidence in all the different
bodies Viradoro represented such as the government, jifs, church,
community leaders and businessmen. This approach meant that a
lot of Pentecost people and some important people from all around
Vanuatu had debts which still exist to the present day (Nari and
Yoshioka 2002: 5-5).
It is necessary to note that Silas’ lack of literacy is given as an
additional reason for problems in running the businesses. However, it
is the first of these two reasons that I want to concentrate on. I would
argue that Silas’ “use” of business to complement his other roles
indicates the use of practical or non-ritual actions to legitimate jifly
status.
This theme is made more explicit in the life story section
‘Viradoro’s involvement in the kastom of pig killing’.
As with many
men in north Pentecost, Silas took the first rank of tari as a young
boy. After that he did no more pig killings until the 1970s when he
attained the highest rank of vira. As he puts it, for a jif ‘pig-killing is
the final thing’; the culmination of a lifetime proving your ability
through actions:
Between 1924 and 1975 Viradoro worked hard to prove to everyone
that he is a leader. He had respect and a leadership role as the
first born child of his father Bule, during the Second World War, as
an assessor, as a businessman, as a leader in the build-up to
independence, and as an important jif. One message that this life
story wants to pass on is that it is hard work becoming a leader
and it is bigger than killing pigs and getting names that at the end
of the day are just like a flower which has no fruit (Nari and
Yoshioka 2002: 8).
85
This theme is returned to again later in the life story as Silas laments
the diminishing respect for jifs resulting from a concentration on pigkilling: ‘One of the big problems that we see today in Vanuatu which
seriously reduces respect for jifs and jifs’ work is the manner in which
people want to have a jifly title but they don’t work for it or
understand their responsibilities and role as a jif or leader’ (Nari and
Yoshioka 2002: 2.3). As a result of that sort of attitude many families
want all their children to take rank through pig-killing. This leads to
a glut of jifs in Vanuatu, and disputes as there are so many
inexperienced jifs who don’t understand that pig-killing comes at the
end of the ‘long road’ of work to become a jif.50 While not going as far
as to call them giaman jif (false jifs) what Silas means when he uses
the word “jif” is made explicit, and excludes some of the “newer” ways
of gaining that title. He acknowledges the fact that there have always
been different kinds of jifs in Vanuatu in the past; it is the way of
gaining jifly status that used to be uniform and has now changed:
Lots of our jifs now have emerged through different routes such as
through the hard work of their relatives, due to their wealth, on
account of land ownership, through pig-killing, from holding
important positions in government, church or business, and by
election. But for Viradoro, the type of jif he’s talking about already
existed in the past (Nari and Yoshioka 2002: 2.1).
According to Silas, previously jifs were selected tru long ae nomo, and
this was also the way in which he gained “promotion”.
Translated
literally that Bislama phrase would mean “by looking alone”, however
in this context it is used to mean an ongoing process of observation on
the part of older jifs or relatives of a person’s behaviour, actions and
In the case of north Pentecost economic conditions can affect the amount of pigkilling that goes on and, thus, the number of higher ranked men in existence at one
time. This is true in the case of the recent “kava boom”. As kava became more in
demand due to its (short-lived) reputation in the West as a herbal anti-anxiety
medicine, more and more people devoted their land to growing it as a cash crop.
The income from this was often channelled into accumulating the necessary pigs for
bolololi (Jack Taylor, pers. comm.).
50
86
bearing.
Silas explains the process with reference to his own
background:
The original Viradoro51 gave power to his child Viratiro, and
Viratiro he gave it to Bule, and Bule he gave it to Viradoro. If we
examine this closely, there has not been any election of who is
going to take whose place, rather ae blong man nomo has looked
and told who will replace who in the course that we see up to the
present day’ (Nari and Yoshioka 2002: 8).
He goes on to refute the suggestion that inheritance was really just
following a family line. That this happened in two cases is incidental;
it is the effort and obedience of the person that has resulted in their
gaining the “power”. In fact, he is of the view that this has been the
case throughout Vanuatu in the past, even in areas that have
inheritance of titles based on lineage:
‘No matter what manner or
path there is, the person who will be taking over these responsibilities
must prove also through his work and his behaviour that he is ready
to take over this job’ (Nari and Yoshioka 2002: 2.1).
Titles, jifliness and power
Silas’ account suggests a differentiation between power, title and
jifliness – the three may come to be conflated in a single person, but
their linkage cannot be presupposed. This is important to remember
when assessing politician’s use of titles. In his autobiography, Father
Walter Lini (1980) outlines the titles that he had gained up to that
point:
According to Pentecost custom, a new-born child is usually called
“Tari”….Traditionally each boy at some stage has to kill a pig or a
number of pigs and each time he kills a pig he is given a title which
is a little higher than “Tari”. The title I received when I killed my
first pig was “Molbwango”. The second name I received from the
next pig I killed was “Molkurua”. These titles were also given to my
grandfather and my uncle when they killed their first pigs.
Another chiefly title in Pentecost is “Livusi” which is usually given
when you have killed a pig with a curved tusk. This was a title
51
This Viradoro was a jif from Abwatuntura, the birth-place of Silas.
87
which was given to me when I killed a pig at the opening of the
seventh Vanuaaku Pati congress which took place at Labultamata
village, North Pentecost. The full title given to me, “Livusi Daliure”
means “one whose responsibility is to care for the whole village, the
whole island, the whole country, the whole nation or the whole
area”.
Another title was given to me by the custom chiefs of Tongoa….As
a sign of acceptance to a new rank I was given a chief’s mat and a
pig was killed by a local chief on my behalf….The custom chiefs of
Ambrym also gave a pig, and asked me to ceremoniously kill it so
that they could bestow the title upon me, “Mal Te Seli Hoo”. This
means – “the chief who has the right to speak for and on behalf of
the people who believe in Seli Hoo or Vanuaaku Pati”. The chiefs of
South West Malekula, after a custom dance was performed in my
honour and pig was killed by a chief on my behalf, bestowed on me
the title, “Tain Mal”. This name…is bestowed upon someone who
has responsibility for many people. This honour was given to me
in order to enable me to work together with Malekula people as one
of their chiefs (Lini 1980: 10).
In his narrative Lini’s active participation in gaining his first two
“grades” is obvious, and their historical meaningfulness is emphasised
by the mention that they are the same titles previously held by his
grandfather and uncle. In contrast, his account of gaining the title in
Ambrym indicates a difference – rather than being part of a processual
engagement with the local economy of power, he is asked to
‘ceremoniously kill’ a pig that he has been presented with. It appears
that this action is necessary for the Ambrym chiefs to allow/enable
themselves to give a local title to him. It should be noted too that the
meanings of the titles given to him could appear as requests or
encouragement to further action from his supporters, rather than
unconditional honorifics:
those of north Pentecost and south west
Malakula both emphasise his responsibility, while the Ambrym name
gives him the right to speak on others’ behalf.
None praises his
previous achievements or allows him to rest on his laurels. It is worth
88
noting too that Walter Lini’s most commonly used “added on” titles
came from the church and an honorary doctorate.52
As that example shows, titles are not necessarily viewed uniformly
either by those who hold them, or those who hear them. A further
case - mentioned also by Lindstrom - is that of Maxime Carlot
Korman, Prime Minister of Vanuatu from 1991-1994. At the time of
his election he was known as Maxime Carlot and gained the extra
name ‘after accepting a chiefly title from Erakor village’ (Lindstrom
1997: 221). With reference to this case it is appropriate to mention
that he is, in fact, from Erakor and thus his “title” is indigenous to his
“ples”. I was told that this title actually refers to a “man blong jif” or a
“jif’s warrior”.
The same is true of Barak Sope’s name – as PM of
Vanuatu he started to use the name Mautaumate, which apparently
has similar meaning to Korman, and is also a title indigenous to his
home village of Ifira. These examples show the need to avoid an easy
equation of title and jifliness. As Lini states above, new-born children
on Pentecost are called tari, a title denoting their rank. The same is
true for girls (mwei). For young men, at least, it is common through
the north of Vanuatu to take the first grade of tari (or equivalent in
each language group). For this reason, ni-Vanuatu are not in awe of
just any title, and recognise that a wide range of status can be
conveyed through name.
In some areas of Vanuatu, for instance,
names may denote belonging to the line of sorcerers who serve the jif,
those with responsibility for raising pigs, or those who can control the
weather at the jifs request.
Such examples reinforce several points regarding the use of titles by
politicians: they are not necessarily “posing” as jifs; their titles will
often come from their own “ples” (Huffer and Molisa 1999), rather
than being gifts of other areas; and, importantly, they themselves
To celebrate the twentieth anniversary of independence and mark his death the
main street in Port Vila was renamed Father Doctor Walter H. Lini Highway in 2000.
52
89
recognise the difference between such titles - as do other ni-Vanuatu.
So what purpose is served by this practice?
Even though these titles
may not be jifly, they are still rooted in kastom.
Returning to my
previous assessment of parliamentary debates concerning kastom, it
can be argued that the use of titles represents an attempt by
politicians to reconcile the division they experience in terms of
subjectivity between kastom and politics.
Kastom is most blatantly
objectified through the adoption of a name in an attempt to enforce
contemporaneity on the conflicting modes of behaviour that politicians
employ.
As I argued above, when you are in kastom there is no escape: its
totalising logic asserts itself at the expense of any alternative. It is for
this reason that we find politicians talking about kastom in a way that
undermines their own methods and institutions. The fact that this
can take place in the giaman nakamal also suggests the ability of
kastom to come into play even in a supposedly not-kastom space.
Thus, politicians do not lose the ability to enact kastom simply by
being in parliament; yet, they feel the need to assert this ability more
strongly once a conflicting alternative is present.
Too, their use of
titles is met with disparagement and criticism by many ni-Vanuatu. I
argue that this is because politicians are seen to base their efficacy on
talk rather than actions – and a style of talk that goes against the
ideological underpinnings of kastom decision making. As the process
followed by Silas Ngarileo shows, talk alone cannot legitimate the
attainment of titles:
in the case of politicians, their use lacks
meaning.
The importance of talk in relation to power in Vanuatu has been
investigated in most detail by Lindstrom (1984; 1990), who provides a
Foucauldian perspective on the ‘doctrines and disciplines’ that govern
the circulation of knowledge and power on Tanna. As he asserts, ‘only
those people who know the secrets of how to phrase a knowledge
90
statement in appropriate disciplinal or doctrinal terms, and who also
possess the right and opportunity to do so, will be heard’ (Lindstrom
1990:
30).
Already
a
communication emerges.
picture
of
control
and
restraint
on
Yet, this is further complicated by the
relationship of knowledge and place. In Lindstrom’s formulation, one
needs the ‘copyright’ to knowledge statements before you may make
use of them. This revolves around ‘geographic and other association
with a source’ (Lindstrom 1990: 68).
However, these are not
necessarily primordial connections governing a timeless “tradition”;
such rules apply equally to the legitimation of new bodies of
knowledge.
Lindstrom
presents
material
relating
to
communication of John Frum knowledge.
the
control
and
For much of the last
century, followers of the John Frum movement were portrayed as a
cargo cult. Lindstrom (1990) follows that definition to some extent,
but presents a more complex picture of both John Frum and the
discourse of cargo cults in his study focused specifically on them
(Lindstrom 1993a).
Who John Frum is or was is open to much
debate. Lindstrom (1990) focuses on “John Frum talk”, which started
in 1941 on the west coast of Tanna:
Here, a shadowy figure appeared in the night and made a number
of interpretive and prescriptive statements about island traditions
and
appropriate
colonialist.
relations
with
European
missionaries
and
Partly because of his continuing value within island
talk, John Frum’s identity still remains a mystery. This mystery is
part of his long-lived attractiveness (Lindstrom 1990: 2-3).
European interpretations and reactions to John Frum have been
predicated on both the anti-colonial nature of the talk, and the
incorporation of military material culture from World War II into ‘cult
91
mythologies’ (Lindstrom 1990: 2).53
One example of this was the
building of offices, which stood ready, awaiting the Americans whose
arrival would ‘open it for business’ (Lindstrom 1990: 1). As with other
bodies of knowledge, John Frum talk thus needed places from which
authority and legitimation could come. Lindstrom’s description of the
communication of John Frum talk illustrates this:
People knew that the official American would produce new wisdom.
The wires, stretching to America, transmitted some of this
information…Nampas and other cult leaders at organization
headquarters managed knowing how to know.
transmission wires converged at Sulphur Bay.
Information
At local village
terminals, wire-men managed the further transmission of incoming
statements to their fellow islanders (Lindstrom 1990: 10).
The mix of places, both near and far, required for the proper
transmission of John Frum knowledge - and, as Lindstrom goes on to
state, “customary” knowledge - introduces the themes that will be
explored in the next two chapters. Focusing on Port Vila, I explore
how access to legitimating places can be attained in town, and how
this affects the use of and transmission of kastom knowledge. As in
the case of politicians, I show again how “talk” is not enough.
Many prominent John Frum followers were punished or imprisoned by the
Condominium government (see Lindstrom 1990). For further analyses of John
Frum, see Bonnemaison (1994), Brunton (1981) and Guiart (1952; 1956).
53
92
Chapter Four – Yu blong wea?: Kastom, ples, and
indigeneity in Port Vila
Land, and its importance in the formation of identity have preoccupied
ethnographers of Vanuatu over the last twenty years. Such writing
has frequently involved the use of the term kastom as a gloss for the
elements or way of life that define that identity. Thus, an equation
between kastom and place has developed. This chapter will explore
the assumptions of that body of literature, arguing that they amount
to a de facto definition of indigeneity. Drawing on previous accounts
of the town, my own experiences through fieldwork, and the work of
the Young People’s Project at the Vanuatu Cultural Centre, I will show
how the relationship between kastom and place as played out in Port
Vila both challenges and reinforces that definition.
Kastom and rootedness
Jolly (1994a) entitles her study of gender, kastom and colonialism,
Women of the Place, thus emphasising the correlation between kastom
and place outlined above. The fieldwork for her study was carried out
in the 1970s with Sa-speaking self-identified kastom communities in
south Pentecost.54
For those people, she argues, kastom hinges on
land in that it provides the basis of social formation and reproduction:
‘Land...is thought to be the precondition of human culture, indeed the
human inhabitants merge with the earth in some sense. Thus, like
children, land is not so much owned as part of one’s human
substance’ (Jolly 1994a: 59). She goes on to outline the way in which
kinship is tied to land and vice versa:
Given this notion, it is not surprising that kinship is the strongest
basis of claims for land.
The patterns presented in myth are
‘This commitment to kastom, though much more than a spectacle for strangers, is
not naive adherence to tradition. It is self-conscious perpetuation of ancestral ways
and resistance to European values and practices. This is based on first hand
experience of Europeans, by most of the men at least, gained on frequent labour
trips’ (Jolly 1994a: 6).
54
93
clearcut - originally one buluim[descent group] was associated with
a discrete locale or territory...[O]rgin myths relate how buluims
originated in certain places, often from the roots of trees or from
the bodies of totemic animals - and from this origin derives the
name....This name also denotes a specified geographical site. The
spirits of the ancestors are thought to hover in this area, in these
sacred spots...which are left uncultivated (Jolly 1994a: 59).
The incursions of colonialism in the shape of missionaries, the
Condominium administration and the labour trade resulted in a
further, gendered relationship between land and kastom.
Jolly
outlines the metaphorical opposition between birds and banyans used
by Sa to contrast their necessary attachment to land with the mode of
travel (movement) exhibited by Europeans, which is, in turn, related
to varied forms of kastom.
In the words of one of her informants,
‘European kastom is like a bird that has settled, that has flown to our
shore just now.
But our kastom has been here like a banyan tree
since the world broke open.
It was here at the start’ (Bong or
Bumangari Kaon quoted in Jolly 1994a: 21). Jolly reports that the
local term for Europeans in use during her fieldwork was ai salsaliri,
meaning “the floating ones” - ‘the mobility of whites is thus
consistently contrasted with the rootedness of people of the place’
(Jolly 1994a: 22).
She goes on to show how this conception of kastom - and its
expression as opposition or resistance to European practices involves an enforcement (or at least ideology) of stasis on women:
they more than anyone must be “of the place”. As Jolly phrases it,
‘[t]he perpetuation of kastom, as an alternative to skul, depended
crucially on woman ples. The persistence of tradition was predicated
on immobilizing women in time and in space’ (Jolly 1994a: 10). One
key example that she uses is the opposition on the part of Sa men to
“their” women gaining knowledge of Bislama. On arrival in her field
site, Jolly was frustrated by her slow progress in learning the local
94
language. She started to teach Bislama to the women during their
time together, but was told by her “father” to stop this as she would
‘make whores of our women’ (Jolly 1994a: 8). For her this indicated a
desire on the part of men to ‘actively inhibit...women’s access to the
world outside’ (Jolly 1994a: 8) manifested through their connection of
Bislama with the European world/labour trade with prostitution. A
similar connection was later made with the colonial administration’s
moves towards local government in the lead up to independence.
Some of those in the villages she worked with opposed the imposition
of taxes by local councils, with some imagining that the building of
women’s accommodation houses in skul villages was the start of
brothels being used to raise money to pay taxes as well as providing
labour for the Condominium in the form of illegitimate children to be
“stolen” (Jolly 1994a: 51). The sexualising of women’s interaction with
the “outside world” thus provided a convincing argument for Sa men
to limit women’s mobility, contact with, or even knowledge of,
“European ways”.
As Jolly has shown elsewhere, women did
participate in the labour trade both within Vanuatu and overseas
(Jolly 1987). But this came to be denied by men, keen to locate “their”
women as “of the place”.
This can be read as an expression of
resistance and an assertion of difference in the face of further changes
wrought by colonial and missionary influence, and, importantly, in
relation to local inter-village rivalry over which rod to follow:
‘The
domination of women in kastom communities served more than
internal male interests - it also served to distinguish kastom from skul
and thus became an important marker of identity, as represented to
outsiders’ (Jolly 1994a: 53).55
The continuing efficacy of primordial connections to land through
myth is also present in Joel Bonnemaison’s ethnography of Tanna,
The Tree and the Canoe.
Echoing the words of Jolly’s informant
See also Jolly (1987) for an account of women’s participation in the labour trade,
and Jolly (1999) for a further assessment of Sa ideologies of fixity and mobility.
55
95
quoted above, Bonnemaison reports that the Tannese ‘deliver the
secrets of a “black history”, which is the deep-rooted counterpart of
the history lived and told by “white” actors’ (Bonnemaison 1994: 109).
Using the concept of heirophanes - ‘worldly manifestations of the
sacred’ (Bonnemaison 1994: 113) - he goes on to outline how the
telling of this history is linked to the ‘enchanted space’ of the island:
In Tanna, space itself is a live heirophane, and therefore the best
way to learn a myth in the island is to walk with “one who knows” one of the big men of kastom - through the space associated with
the mythical hero, from place to place and from stone to
stone....The proof of Tanna’s temporal myths is geographical: one
may challenge a man’s words, but who can question the genuine
tangibility
of
a
place
and
the
magic
associated
with
it?
(Bonnemaison 1994: 113).
Again, as with the Sa, kinship and land are linked. In Tannese myth
the emergence of space predates the emergence of humans, which
itself predates ‘society’ (Bonnemaison 1994: 109).
Bonnemaison
speaks of a ‘geography of creation’ incorporating ‘the names of
individuals, groups, and “canoes”, along with their essential deeds
and powers’ (1994: 113).
The practice of nightly kava drinking in
which men gather at their nasara serves to reiterate their present and
past connections through ancestors and space:
The sharing of kava in fellowship unites the men who drink it
together on the dancing place while simultaneously tying these
men to their ancestors’ spirits.
The individuals who meet daily
make up the core of a local group, a “canoe” or niko as it is called
on
the
island,
“canoe”...sharing
which
the
itself
same
is
often
territory
linked
and
to
mythical
a
larger
heritage
(Bonnemaison 1994: 108).
These two examples use groups that consciously identified themselves
as kastom communities in opposition to a specific set of historical
circumstances:
for the Sa, tensions and rivalry with surrounding
Christian villages and the encroaching apparatus of the colonial
96
administration; for the Tannese, the political upheavals of the lead-up
to
independence
(as
well
a
past
history
of
opposition
to
missionisation). And, as portrayed by their ethnographers, rootedness
formed a crucial element of that kastom identity.
Both Jolly and
Bonnemaison employ the term “place” when discussing this element
of identity - for Sa, being - or enforcing the ideal of being - “women of
the place”; on Tanna, being grounded in your place through the
metaphor of the tree. As Bonnemaison describes it,
...the man who lives within his place and who stands straight will
take root along with the tree.
Within his place, a man must,
according to the ethics of kastom, carry out his destiny and
exercise his power. As he becomes older, he then turns into a big
man....De facto, the individual who leaves his place and wanders
from the roads of his ancestors loses his power and his status - at
least until he returns (1994: 320-321).
That is what makes a Tannese (man) man ples, in the same way that
stasis and denial of knowledge of the outside world makes Sa women
“of the place”.
Kastom, place and land
So, is this connection of kastom and place based on attachment to
land
an
anachronistic
construction
on
the
part
of
these
anthropologists? While both carried out the majority of fieldwork for
their publications in the 1970s, neither monograph was published
until
post-independence.56
Bolton
(2003)
argues
that
the
interconnection of kastom, place and land in ni-Vanuatu vocabulary
occurred during the 1970s and ‘80s as a by-product of the proindependence movements’ concentration on kastom and opposition to
land alienation. Previously, place had been an important marker of
identity, but land came to be seen as equivalent to place and,
furthermore, necessarily the foundation of kastom.
She cites a
statement from Father Walter Lini made at the time of the drafting of
the Constitution:
56
‘Land is the root of kastom.
To deny customary
The Tree and the Canoe was originally published as La dernière île in 1986.
97
owners their land would be to deny kastom’ (quoted in Bolton 2003:
71). An important component of the Constitution itself was the return
of all land to customary owners as allowed for in Chapter 12, along
with the principle that ‘the rules of custom shall form the basis of
ownership and use of land in the Republic of Vanuatu’ (Republic of
Vanuatu
[revised
edition]
1988).
As
with
English,
Bislama
distinguishes between “land” and “place” through the terms “graon”
and “ples”, indicating that there is no a priori blurring of the concepts.
However, the result of the political agenda outlined above was a
change in their relationship to kastom:
Even though ples and graon are different words, in the 1970s and
1980s, this kind of distinction was not made articulate in Vanuatu.
The connection between kastom and ples was part of the
justification for the claim for local control over land. To belong in a
place was, properly, to own it (Bolton 2003: 74).
This analysis implies a new form of attachment to place, involving a
more rigid model of belonging. Even in those cases put forward by
Jolly and Bonnemaison, stasis was never complete – or, perhaps, it
appeared more as an ideal, tempered by the actualities of movement –
whether through conflict, natural disaster, marriage, or the new forms
of mobility introduced by European contact – missionisation and the
labour trade. For the Sa, Jolly explains, ‘there is no longer, if there
ever was, such an indissoluble unity of buluim and estate.
The
identity of men and earth was long ago complicated by the realities of
human dispersal’ (1994a: 59). On Tanna, as the quote given above
suggests, leaving the place involved loss of status, but this could be
reactivated on return. What emerges then is two conflicting models of
indigeneity – with the more recent favouring a literal interpretation of
belonging to a place in which the place itself (must) belongs to you. In
the following section I will show how both these models are presented
in relation to Port Vila, reflected in the actions and discourses of
98
residents, those in positions of authority - whether jifs, police or the
state - and ni-Vanuatu still living in the islands.
Port Vila
There are few anthropological descriptions of Port Vila, reflecting the
relative novelty of urban research in Vanuatu. Prior to the late 1990s
only Brown (1970), and the geographers Bedford (1973) and
Haberkorn (1989; 1992) had focussed primarily on populations in
town, while Tonkinson (1968; 1977) and Philibert (1981; 1986; 1988;
1989) examined the peri-urban villages of Mele-Maat and Erakor
respectively. However, other accounts exist that provide “snapshots”
of the town both in the past and now, coming from a variety of sources
such
as
European
settlers
and
development
reports.
These
descriptions encompass the shift in purpose of Port Vila from
European administrative centre to it’s current role as the capital of the
independent Republic of Vanuatu. This shift has involved a change in
both the size and demographic make-up of Vila: from “colonial space”
(Rodman 1999) dominated by the European population in the earlier
twentieth century, to overwhelmingly ni-Vanuatu at the start of the
twenty-first century.57
However, in many accounts the indigenous
population is ignored, or portrayed as being as foreign as the other
residents. Urban space is not indigenous space; ni-Vanuatu are illequipped for life in town. These ideas continue through to the present
day, especially in development literature, with ni-Vanuatu being
assigned the roles of either “problem” or “victim”.
To some extent
though they appear also in ni-Vanuatu’s own images and discourses
about town.
While recent anthropological work seeks to redress
imbalances in previous accounts by foregrounding the experiences of
It is important to state that this shift in population resulting in a ni-Vanuatu
majority does not correspond with an equally major shift in economic power – “town”
is still the centre of non-indigenous businesses which continue to control a
disproportionate amount of the country’s monetary wealth. In fact, the gap in
wealth between indigenous ni-Vanuatu and expatriates has grown since
independence. The ratio of expatriate to ni-Vanuatu income went from 12:1 in 1983
to 16:1 in 1989. In that year expatriates earned 25% of national income, while
accounting for less than 5% of the population (Connell and Lea 1993: 52).
57
99
indigenous urban residents, it is necessary to concede that many of
those residents are unwilling to assume a completely urban identity
themselves.
The European settlement at Port Vila came into being after earlier
attempts to settle at Havannah Harbour on the north-west coast of
Efate were abandoned due to a high incidence of malaria. Before the
formalisation
of
the
Condominium
primarily as an entrepôt for traders.
administration
Vila
served
From 1906 onwards it also
housed the headquarters of the colonial administrations. Despite it’s
foundations as a European settlement though Vila has rarely been the
“white space” that the Condominium government promised (Rodman
1999: 489). An indication of the variety of inhabitants of Vila even in
the earlier stages of colonialism can be found in the letters of
“Asterisk”, the pseudonym of Robert Fletcher, an Englishman resident
in Vanuatu from 1912 to 1920. His writings have later been described
as ‘the “confidential whimperings” [Fletcher’s own term] of a sensitive
Englishman foundering in an insupportable world of heat, disease,
ignorance – white and black – and the appalling cruelty of white
colonists to native islanders’ (Young 1986: vi). That these letters were
not intended for publication may go some way towards explaining the
“frankness” of his description of the mixed population of Vila. In 1913
he wrote:
You should just see some of the things that haunt the “beach” in
Vila.
Their only sustenance is absinthe and cigarettes, so fever
takes them properly. They earn a precarious living by selling grog
to Kanakas and gambling in the Chinese opium hovels. It is rarely
that they venture out in the daylight, but if one does chance to see
them the object lesson is salutary. I am sorry for some of the poor
devils. They are all “libérés” from Nouméa, not allowed to go back
to France, unfitted for work, and with every man’s hand against
them….Talking of Chinese, there are about 150 Orientals even in
this little town – Javanese, Tonkinese, Japs, etc.
They’re a foul
mob – the Tonkinese at any rate – but they can cook. They rob the
wretched Kanakas right and left and teach them to smoke opium,
100
which kills them off like flies. The wise Condominium Government
places no restrictions on their coming and they are arriving by
every steamer. The Tonkinese, of course, are French subjects, so
they do get looked after a bit, but the rest can do what they like
(Asterisk 1986 [1923]: 82-84).
This air of seediness and transience appears again in a 1939
assessment of Port Vila. A French visitor described it as ‘ni port, ni
ville’, a town where ‘affluent planters seemed content to live in wooden
huts roofed with corrugated iron, although they were a little ashamed
of the ugliness of their town’ (D’Obrenan 1939 quoted in Rodman
1999: 486).
However, the type of interaction implied by Asterisk’s
account is not present in one of the earlier anthropological studies of
the town. Brown’s assessment of Vila emphasises the “plural” nature
of the town, ‘a medley of peoples who mix but do not combine’ (1970:
95):
‘[Vila] is a small multi-ethnic community….[T]he ethnic
categories are highly visible racially, linguistically, and culturally; the
categories are also differentiated politically and economically; and
mixing is selective and present in some institutional contexts only’
(Brown 1970: 96).
She presents an overview of the limited interaction between these
ethnic groups in a variety of sporting and social events. Here is her
description of one of the weekly dances held in varying locations
around town:
Since most European young people over fifteen are away at school,
those who attend the dances are mainly Vietnamese and Métisse
girls and Métis boys of lower socio-economic position than the
older French and British couples who attend. The boys and girls
go separately, largely, in groups – the girls sitting at tables and the
boys circulating among dance partners.
watch from the street (Brown 1970:
New Hebrideans often
114). 58
This description reminded me of scenes in the main street of Vila on “cruise ship
days”. The Mamu Bar in the centre of town closes its doors to “locals”, catering to
‘tourists only’ as the sign outside reads (although, in reality, anyone white enough
with good enough English and, preferably, an Australian accent can get in). It is not
58
101
For Brown, New Hebrideans are the most peripheral group in Vila,
and the least amount of mixing occurs between them and Europeans:
[A]
few
Europeans
mix
with
Asians,
Métis,
and
educated
Islanders,59 who are an intermediate class, and some of these mix
with New Hebrideans, but very few New Hebrideans associate with
Europeans outside work and official activities….[They] meet mainly
as master and servant, employer and employee, professional and
client, or administrator and subject (Brown 1970: 114).
What is ironic – and seemingly lost on Brown – is that her own
category of métis (people of mixed New Hebridean and European
descent) constitutes the second largest “ethnic group” in her census of
Vila (Brown 1970: 104). But at no point is this most clearly embodied
form of interaction acknowledged, or the possibility of “illicit” relations
contained within the “official” contexts of interaction.
The marginalising of the indigenous population and its actions may be
related to the preoccupation amongst social scientists with “circular
migration”.
Much of the literature published on Melanesian towns
throughout the ‘60s and ‘70s adopted this as its primary mode of
examining indigenous urban populations (eg: May 1977; Chapman
and Prothero 1985; Bonnemaison 1985), viewing wage employment
and urban residence as temporary, and the village as the primary site
of identity.60
However, not all of these accounts acknowledge the
limitations that were placed – both overtly and more subtly – on the
possibility of permanent residence in Vila for ni-Vanuatu: until the
late 1950s they were not allowed to stay in town without work and
were subject to a curfew (Haberkorn 1989); job opportunities were
limited due to lack of education and the use of indentured labourers
uncommon for the tourists’ behaviour to turn rowdy, at which times ni-Vanuatu can
be found watching from the street with a mix of curiosity and disdain. It is tempting
to wonder if this may have been the same for the dances observed by Brown.
59 This category covers immigrants to the New Hebrides from other Pacific islands.
60 Though as Chapman and Prothero point out in their introduction, this approach
was itself a move away from previous definitions of internal migration as strictly
about permanent shifts in place of residence: ‘movements that involve moderately
long durations of stay at a destination do not necessarily eliminate an eventual, and
equally “permanent” return to the places from which they originated’ (1985: 1).
102
from south-east Asia;61 most housing was provided by employers and
built only to accommodate “bachelors”.
Bonnemaison (1985), for instance, seems to ignore these restrictions,
instead developing an argument for the continuation of circular
migration based on “cultural factors”.
He outlines the types of
mobility that have occurred over the last century and relates these to
“traditional”
forms
of
movement,
emphasising
the
relationship
between territory and identity: ‘Territory is lived as a space of safety
but more deeply as a space of identity, and of communion with
magical powers and local divinities’ (Bonnemaison 1985: 59). He goes
on to state that stamba or “roots” are necessary for life, meaning that
trips outside of your territory had to be short and infrequent.
He
portrays “traditional mobility” as controlled, circumscribed and
purposeful, and manages to equate forms of circular mobility
practiced by ni-Vanuatu during the period of European contact with
these ideals. Through such an equation it becomes possible to see
circular mobility as the culturally-based norm and likely to remain so
as long as identity continues to rely on place: ‘Even today a villager
cannot live for too long outside his home place without alienating his
identity and his territorial rights….Mobility in Vanuatu is thus
dominantly circular and shall remain so as long as the actual
relationship between people and territory endures’ (Bonnemaison
1985: 77, 79).
As that example shows, permanent urban residence has been linked
generally with a change in the basis of identity for ni-Vanuatu. By the
late 1980s the idea of permanent residence in Vila was being accepted
in academic literature (eg: Haberkorn 1989; 1992).
However, an
In a particularly insipid passage that sounds as if it could have come straight
from the mouth of a colonial official justifying their “hands off” approach to the
indigenous population, Brown reports that ‘the governments do not discriminate
against the New Hebrideans, but they have not provided the necessary training and
have had to – reluctantly – bring in skilled and semi-skilled workers from outside’
(1970: 111).
61
103
ensuing loss of island-based identity was seen as a likely outcome,
especially for the next generation of ni-Vanuatu being born and
brought up in Vila:
a large number of Paamese in Port Vila are second generation
migrants and have to be regarded as urbanites….Some of these
second generation migrants may still have a stake in their parents’
communities…[h]owever, a future “return” by these young men
and women to a “home” they have never known appears highly
unlikely (Haberkorn 1992: 835). 62
A more negative picture of the future is given by Woi (1984),
commenting on the Freswota housing development completed in the
early 1980s:
whatever communal characteristics emerge from Fresh Wata [sic],
the second generation of inhabitants there will not be a tribal niVanuatu. Second generation Fresh Wata residents will come from
mixed marriages and will be unable, in most cases, to speak the
native language of either parent; they will have been brought up in
a completely different environment and culture from that of a
villager (Woi 1984: 64).
She goes on to predict the adoption of a Vila/Efate-based identity by
these young people:
The Fresh Wata project responds to a very apparent need in Vila,
but the implications for further generations are not good. All those
who have been born and brought up in Vila town will, in their
adult lives, argue with the “real” Efate islanders that they also
belong
to
Efate.
Transplanted
ni-Vanuatu
will
want
the
psychological security, social prestige, and the general public
acceptance that Vila is their home (Woi 1984: 64).
This assessment may be more accurate for Paama than for most of the islands in
Vanuatu as it is small and suffers from a shortage of land for gardens. Its proximity
to the volcano on the island of Lopevi has also led to problems, with the
contamination of water supply and damage to gardens through ash fall, as
happened following an eruption in 2001.
62
104
“Once there was a drive-in movie theatre; now there is a garden”
The title of this section is a playful inversion of the quote used by
Rawlings (2002) in the title of his dissertation, "Once there was a
garden, now there is a swimming pool". I do not use this example to
attack Rawlings’ work – he provides a comprehensive account of
economic and social change in the peri-urban village of Pango, and
links such change to a broader economic milieu.
My formulation
refers to an area of land near the present site of the Vanuatu Cultural
Centre, which was previously occupied by a drive-in movie theatre.
During my fieldwork, this same area was used as land for gardening
by residents of nearby Seaside.
I was surprised to find out its
previous incarnation, as, to my eyes, the gardens rendered it in a
“natural state”.
Rather than land that had been previously
“developed”, I saw it as land “waiting for development”.
I use this
example - and my own presuppositions regarding land use – to
highlight the ease with which commentators portray change in Port
Vila as both inevitable, and as following a linear narrative towards
“development”.
Looking back on the statements of Woi (1984) and Haberkorn (1992)
at least a decade later they appear rather pre-emptory. Island-based
identity continues to be a powerful social norm that operates as a
organisational factor in areas such as residence, ritual, recreation,
exchange, and the exercise of authority. Rawlings (1999) reports that
he heard the term man Vila used as an insult during the course of his
fieldwork in Pango, implying that the person has no place. While I did
not come across that particular usage myself, I met only one person in
the course of my fieldwork who identified himself as man Vila. People
from Ifira island, the source of the name Vila, use man Ifira to identify
themselves. For “second generation” Port Vila residents the question
“Yu blong wea?” (where are you from?) is generally answered with the
name of your parents’ island.
Children of mixed marriages will
generally have chosen for them which island they will state affiliation
105
to (ie: this is not always the father’s island).
The person’s island,
rather than their name, will often be used to identify actors in stories
being recounted, or, if you don’t know who a person being talked
about is, their island will usually be offered as an identifier before any
physical description.
That serves to illustrate how permanent residence is often seemingly
denied even by those born in Vila. This transience is also expressed
in the common question “Yu slip wea?” (“where do you sleep?”) used
instead of “where do you live?”.
Jean Mitchell, a Canadian
anthropologist who carried out fieldwork in the Blacksands area of
Vila, reminds us that these expressions of transience can be related to
the fact that Vila is not always viewed as a “final destination”, and the
reasons for being there are various. Nor do journeys always follow a
simple line from birth village to town, instead encompassing time
spent on plantations, or shifts due to marriage.
Going back where
you came from, or stating exactly where that is can be complicated.
As she says, though, ‘everybody plans to go back to the island; it is
difficult to imagine someone telling me that they are never going back.
There are many people, however, who have not been back for a very
long time’ (Mitchell 2000: 192).
She terms the overall mood of
Blacksands as one of ‘settled transience’ (Mitchell 2000: 191).
In tandem with the growth of a more permanent urban population,
representations of Vila life are entering popular culture – the films
Kasis Rod and Kilim Taem; the radio “soap opera” Famli blong Serah;
songs about meeting girlfriends at Club Vanuatu or even the
supermarket Au Bon Marché.
Yet positive representations of
contemporary life in town are hard to find.
Of the examples given
above, only the songs have been produced without assistance from
overseas aid donors. While they may present an upbeat image of the
possibilities
offered
by
Vila,
the
other
examples
emphasise
problematic aspects of urban life – unemployment, domestic violence,
106
reproductive health problems, “family breakdown”, crime, poverty,
discrimination
against
women.
This
emphasis
indicates
the
educational nature of these projects, rather than a simpler desire to
depict life in town - the Vila lifestyle is held up as an object lesson in
how people can go wrong.
A similarly negative attitude is also found in literature emerging from
development studies that focuses on urbanisation in Vanuatu (and
the Pacific in general). Many of these accounts centre on “failures” of
urban management, in particular “uncontrolled” land tenure practices
and lack of services for large parts of the population (eg: Storey 1998;
Connell and Lea 1993). I would argue that these representations of
Vila and urban life have a de-historifying effect in their portrayal of
the ni-Vanuatu population. They take a contemporary situation read
as crisis as their starting point, thus ignoring distinctions within the
population of Vila - length of residence, type of community lived in,
class (factors which are frequently interconnected, and which I will
return to later in this chapter).
Also, by focussing on a model of
centralised control, such writers miss the aspects of local control in
existence. Where they see chaotic land occupation it is also possible
to see history – a record of relationships established between people
and areas through the course of ni-Vanuatu settlement in Vila.
While
the
development
approach
towards
urban
management
presupposes or encourages unity as an ideal, the town is, in fact,
internally divided with many communities formed along the lines of
island identity.
This has been the case since the early stages of
permanent ni-Vanuatu settlement in Vila.
For example, Bedford
(1973) presents data from the early 1970s on the area of Seaside,
charting settlement patterns that often related to economic _ cooperation between kin in the purchase of land. Land in that area was
subdivided and put up for sale by a European plantation owner in the
early 1960s.
The first purchase was by an ex-British Police Force
107
member from the village of Matangi on Tongoa. In early 1965 two lots
neighbouring his were bought by the Tongoa Local Council which was
acting on behalf of seventy-two Tongoans who had contributed money
towards the purchase price (Bedford 1973: 105).
Two further lots
were purchased in 1967 and 1969, and Bedford states that by 1970
119 Tongoans were living on them, having built twenty ‘shacks’ along
with a number of kitchens. His diagram shows that people from the
four different villages that contributed money had divided the land
into ‘village “compounds”’ (Bedford 1973: 106-107). While there were
no obvious physical demarcations, those belonging to the same village
had grouped their houses together in discrete areas.
A further
diagram also shows that many of the nearby lots were purchased by
other Tongoans throughout the late 1960s.
The other main group to buy land in this subdivision were Paamese
(Bedford 1973: 106). Those two groups remain dominant in Seaside
to this day. In fact, the area is frequently referred to by the segments
of Seaside Tongoa, Seaside Paama, and Seaside Futuna. This pattern
is repeated in other parts of Vila. Sometimes, as above, it is made
explicit through the name given to an area – eg: Ohlen Matasso;
sometimes not – eg: Ohlen Nambangga (predominantly Tannese).
Even in those areas whose name indicates a coherence of population
though there will usually be residents from other islands, often living
there because of links through marriage. Furthermore, those living on
land that they own will sometimes build “rent houses”. While tenants
will often be family or connected through shared island of origin with
the landlord, this is not always the case.63 The majority of areas in
Vila though are what is termed “mixed”, meaning that no one island
group dominates.
These vary from the middle class – and whiter -
areas of Nambatu and Nambatri, to the mainly ni-Vanuatu Freswota
where permanent housing predominates, to Ohlen which covers the
One informant told me that the prospect of “outsiders” – people from an area or
island other than her own – living close by was the reason she chose not to build
rent houses on her land in Vila.
63
108
spectrum of housing styles, to “settlements” such as Blacksands
where temporary housing is the norm.64
The existence of such single-island geographical communities would
seem likely to allow for a sense of “ownership” on the part of some niVanuatu residents of Vila. And in some ways this is true. Particularly
for young people, walking through areas that are predominantly
populated by people from other islands can be an insecure experience
- a situation that has been commented on also for PNG (Banks 2000:
95).
However, this “ownership” is undermined to some extent by
“official” discourses that continue to portray the urban population as
necessarily (and hopefully) foreign and temporary.
As discussed
above, the Vanuatu Constitution provided for all land to revert to
customary ownership at the time of independence (Article 73, 74).
However, under Article 76, as part of a national land law to be
formulated by Parliament in consultation with the Malvatumauri, the
government ‘may make provision for different categories of land, one
of which shall be urban land’.65 The result of this was the formation of
VULCAN, the Vila Urban Land Corporation, which would manage and
distribute the assets and rents from leasehold land to the three
villages of Erakor, Ifira and Pango, the customary owners of the land
within the Vila municipal boundary. The corporation was dissolved in
1988 by the Minister of Lands over concerns about its management.
A few days after that decision people from the three villages staged a
protest outside the Prime Minister’s office. The Vanuatu Mobile Force
The 1999 census provides a breakdown of housing types in Port Vila – permanent
houses (46%); flats (9%); traditional and traditional/permanent (18%); temporary
houses (19%). The only major difference in housing types between Vila and Santo
was a higher proportion of traditional housing in Santo (12%). The percentage of
temporary housing in the two towns had fallen from 27.7% in 1989 (National
Statistics Office 2000: 27, 128).
65 Rawlings argues that this was part of ‘a pragmatic series of policies’ aimed at
ensuring the continued presence of foreign capital in the newly independent
Vanuatu. He suggests that the expropriation of urban land in line with the return of
all other land to customary owners would have resulted in ‘capital flight’. The
corporation thus represented a way for the government ‘to both maintain and attract
foreign investors and simultaneously satisfy the expectation of its electoral
supporters’ (Rawlings 1999: 76).
64
109
was brought in to disperse the protesters and the encounter between
the two groups resulted in injury and one death.
In 1992
compensation for loss of land was paid by the government to Pango
and Erakor, while Ifira refused to accept the payment. This series of
events means that the municipal area is now technically public land,
as allowed for under Article 80 of the Constitution.66
Despite the legal technicalities though, there is a sense that Vila is not
the property of all ni-Vanuatu equally, or even the government:
it
remains graon blong Efate [land belonging to Efate people].67 During
my fieldwork I found that this idea was most frequently articulated in
response to crime, violence or other forms of misbehaviour, which
were then painted as a show of disrespect to the kastom landowners.
This can be seen in a speech by Tom Numake, President of the
Malvatumauri, at a reconciliation ceremony between people from
Tanna and Tongoa who had been involved in a fight: ‘This is Efate
land, an Efate nasara. We must respect that. You rent this land, you
mustn’t soil it. It isn’t TAFEA, it isn’t Tongoa, it isn’t SHEFA. It is
Efate’68 (Tom Numake, Chiefs’ Nakamal, Port Vila.
5th February
2001). As part of their Crime Prevention 2000 programme, the police
force even composed a song reflecting the need for outsiders to respect
Efate and deal with their own problems before they affected anyone
else. Entitled ‘Efate, Island blong Blessing’, it was sung at the closing
of each of their public rallies:
Bifo long taem blong tudark (Before it was the time of darkness)
Taem ol Misi oli kam (Then the missionaries came)
Efate island nao emi senta blong yumi (Efate island is our centre
now)
‘Notwithstanding Articles 73 and 74 the Government may own land acquired by it
in the public interest’
67 Although for some ni-Vanuatu in Vila this may be made more prominent in their
lives through the informal arrangements they make with kastom landowners in
order to get land to live on or garden; arrangements that can dictate various aspects
of their living conditions (see: Mitchell 2000: 191).
68 TAFEA is the southern province of Vanuatu, which includes Tanna.
SHEFA
province is made up of the Shepherd’s group (including Tongoa) and Efate.
66
110
I kivim kraon mo haus mo ol narafala moa (It gives land and houses
and more besides)
Blong i mekem laef blong yumi i kam gud. (To make our lives good)
Yumi man blong nara island (All of us from other islands)
Taem yumi kam long town (When we come to town)
Yu mas save who nao emi pastor (You must know who your pastor
is)
Mo ol jif blong yu….YES (And all your jifs….YES)
Blong taem we yu gat trabol (So when you are in trouble)
Yu mas ko lukim hem (You must go and see him)
Blong mekem Efate island (So as to make Efate island)
I kam wan safe ples (Become a safe place)
(Vanuatu Police Force 2000: 18 – my translation)
In a similar vein to those examples, a utilitarian conception of Port
Vila operates: it is a place to work, not a place to live. A senior police
officer spoke publicly of the need to send “unnecessary people” back
to the islands; in a speech broadcast on radio the Prime Minister
equated crime in town with recent migrants living in “squatter
settlements”; at the National Summit Meeting of the Juvenile Justice
Project jifs advocated the introduction of a “passport” system
controlled by jifs for young people wishing to come to town. The right
of freedom of movement as provided in the Constitution was
frequently criticised by jifs as a hindrance to maintaining control over
their people, and thus preventing the overcrowding of town with
“unnecessary people”. As the Secretary of the Malvatumauri told me,
‘fridom blong muvmen i paralisem mifala’ [freedom of movement is
paralysing us].
A negative assessment of those moving to town was often given to me
by ni-Vanuatu who had been resident in Vila for a long period of time.
This was frequently expressed in terms of economic expectations and
obligations that were unfair on those working in Vila, and unevenly
reciprocated by those coming from the islands. This seems indicative
111
of a growing class division amongst ni-Vanuatu in town. Middle-class
status is more likely to be attained by those resident in Vila for the
longest,69 leading to an equation between recent migration, poverty
and dependence.
Most new arrivals will stay with relatives while
trying to find work, and this was complained about as an imposition
in terms of the extra strain placed on food supplies and sleeping
space.70 Middle class ni-Vanuatu friends sometimes grumbled to me
about not being able to go out to nightclubs as they would be expected
to pay for drinks for less well-off relatives they met there. Despite the
complaints, I would contend that such assistance is invariably given ni-Vanuatu who had travelled overseas would sometimes express
amazement and disgust at the presence of homelessness and begging
in foreign cities, and were proud that this was not the case in
Vanuatu.
But the continued flow of new arrivals to Vila was not
always considered positively: ‘for every twenty that go back to their
island, there’s another fifty arriving on the next boat’.71
I
would
argue
that
the
continued
existence
of
single-island
communities and the ideology put forward in the examples given
above suggest two things.
Firstly, an official discourse that
encourages denial of urban identity, asserting that the best/only
means of maintaining control on the part of police and the state - in
And to attain the trappings of middle-class status you are more likely to spend
time in Vila gaining education or work experience.
70 These complaints purposefully emphasise the negative aspects of having a new
arrival in the household, ignoring the fact that they can represent productive labour.
In the case of young women they will often act as unpaid “house girls”, looking after
children, cooking, cleaning and so on. Given the fact that many households in Vila
have no land for gardening, a productive role for young men may be harder to find.
Considering, too, that employment opportunities in domestic work and service
industries predominate in Vila, it is easier for an unqualified woman to find paid
work. It should be noted though that the amount of aelan kakae unloaded from
ships and airplanes arriving in Vila from the islands demonstrates that the provision
of food to family is not a one-way system. Relatives in the islands will often send
baskets of taro or yam – particularly varieties that are hard to find in Vila, or specific
to certain parts of the country. Added to this, kastom valuables such as mats are
sometimes sent, enabling town residents to participate in kastom exchanges and
ceremonies.
71 For an account of the development of class inequalities in Vila see Rawlings
(2002). For a comparative account from urban Melanesia see Gewertz and Errington
(1999).
69
112
the best interests of all - is the perpetuation of island-based
affiliations, especially through allegiance to and obedience towards
jifs. Secondly, the internalisation of the model of indigeneity outlined
earlier in this chapter that posits attachment to a ples (other than
Vila) as the only way of perpetuating an indigenous identity - relying,
too, on the belief that the islands are the true location of kastom. The
next section will examine how that model of indigeneity is expressed
in the context of the Vanuatu Cultural Centre, especially through the
concept of “research”.
“In town you have to talk more because there aren’t actions”:
the Young People’s Project and kastom in town72
The negative evaluations of Vila residents and new arrivals given
above are often directed at young people in particular. This could be
explained in part by the fact that they have come to make up the
majority of the population of Vanuatu;73 or perhaps it is because they
are the most prominent embodiment of changes occurring in the
country through their appearance, attitude and behaviour - they
become the physical realisation of what is not-kastom about life in
town. A rebuttal of such negativity was one of the founding aims of
the Young People’s Project, started under the auspices of the Cultural
Centre in 1997. Initiated by anthropologist Jean Mitchell, the Project
set out to produce research about young people in Vila, conducted
mainly by young ni-Vanuatu themselves. Its first two products were a
report, Harem Voes blong Yangfala long Vila Taon (VYPP 1999
translated into English as Young People Speak), and a film, Kilim
Taem, to accompany the report.
The Director of the Cultural Centre, Ralph Regenvanu, explained the
rationale behind the Project’s initial research in his introduction to the
This comment was made to me by the Project Manager of the YPP, Emily Niras,
when discussing the transmission of kastom in Port Vila.
73 The 1999 census indicated that 43% of the Vanuatu population was under the
age of 15 (National Statistics Office 2000: 17).
72
113
report. In it he argued that the type of talk that goes on in Vanuatu
about young people and their problems is ill-informed and unhelpful,
as it is not based on any understanding of the opinions of young
people themselves, or an accurate assessment of their situation. The
research carried out by the Project could ensure more appropriate
development planning, simply by asking young people about their
lives:
We can’t discuss development if we don’t know the fundamental
needs and opinions of those at the grassroots level... If we don’t
know the answers to those questions, then none of us - the
government and the people - can find the most appropriate way to
address issues facing young people in town today (VYPP 1999: 1
my translation).
This type of research, with its explicit involvement in the development
agenda for Vanuatu, indicated a move away from the “traditional”
orientation of the Cultural Centre.
This, too, was explained in the
introduction:
Starting in the 1960s, the Cultural Centre has been recording our
traditional culture to ensure that there is a record of it for future
generations. Now, in the 1990s, we can see that there is a new
culture emerging in Vanuatu - this culture is the young people’s
culture, many of who aren’t living kastom but nor are they living a
European life. This is a new culture for Vanuatu and it’s the work
of the Cultural Centre to study this new culture as well, to see how
it joins up with kastom and how it is changing our kastom. It is
also important to record this major change occurring at this point
in the country’s history so that we always have a record of it (VYPP
1999: 1-2 my translation).
As mentioned above, one of the key components of YPP activities was
to provide training in research methods and data analysis. Those who
carried out the research were all young ni-Vanuatu who were not
currently employed and had no previous experience of such work. Of
those involved in that initial phase of research, some remained part of
the project in the new category of YPP fieldworkers.
114
As such, they
participated in the annual men and women fieldworker workshops at
the Cultural Centre.
However, their manner of research and
presentation, and, in particular, the way this was received by the older
fieldworkers reveals much about the connection between ples and
kastom privileged in that forum.
In her analysis of the relationship between kastom, land and place in
Vanuatu, Bolton (2003) argues that the Cultural Centre has bypassed
the elision of place and land in relation to kastom that came into being
through the 1970s and ‘80s. A principal concern of anthropologists
writing on the topic of kastom around the time of independence was
the twin ability of the concept to unify and divide (eg: Keesing 1982).
Bolton cites the desire of the first Director of the Cultural Centre, Kirk
Huffman, to recognise “unity in diversity”, an ideal that was given
expression in the National Arts’ Festivals in Vila in 1979 and Santo in
1991. Those occasions provided the first opportunity for ni-Vanuatu
to present distinctive kastom to each other, whose originality - in both
the sense of origin and authenticity - was based on the fact that it was
“of their place”.
The Vanuatu Cultural Centre fieldworker programme was set up
around the same time. Started by the linguist Peter Crowe, the main
aim of the programme was to give training in the compilation of
dictionaries of indigenous languages, and provide encouragement and
equipment for the collection of kastom stories in each fieldworker’s
home area. Thus, fieldworkers were linked through their work to both
“their” place and kastom.
The closer the connection of land and
kastom, the more controversial kastom stories could become. Once
kastom became the source of land ownership, certain types of kastom
story became worth more - restricted knowledge – through their tie to
ownership.
Bolton states that the Cultural Centre has been
consistently opposed to the involvement of fieldworkers in land
disputes. While some men fieldworkers are community leaders who
115
may be involved in the arbitration of such disputes, this should
remain separate from their role as a fieldworker (2003: 75). Similarly,
the use of kastom knowledge that has been collected in the name of
the VCC in land disputes is seen to be against the mandate of the
organisation (Bolton 2003: 74).
In fact, Bolton delineates types of
kastom into that which could be used for land disputes, and that
which subscribes to the VCC ideal.
A central component of the fieldworker programme is the annual
workshop, held at the Cultural Centre in Port Vila.
These last two
weeks and provide an opportunity for fieldworkers to come together
and present reports on a pre-announced topic.
Although question
and answer sessions are part of the format, Bolton argues that these
are more a forum for clarification than for argument. She describes
the Cultural Centre approach in this way:
Land, subject to ownership...can be a source of dispute.
While
local knowledge and practice, invoked and disputed in conflicts
over land, can be described as kastom, the kastom with which the
Cultural Centre deals is explicitly characterized as uncontroversial.
In the Cultural Centre context one fieldworker cannot dispute the
knowledge and practice reported by another because each reports
on his [sic] own place.
Kastom is characterized by regional
differences: different kastom derives from different places (Bolton
2003: 76).
Using the example of the women fieldworkers’ workshop in September
2001, I argue that the participation of YPP fieldworkers provides a
challenge to that straightforward manner of legitimation. As with the
men’s workshop, over a two week period the women fieldworkers each
give a presentation on a pre-selected topic, as well as a report on any
activities that have taken place in their area that year relevant to the
Cultural Centre’s interests. In 2001 the topic was Kastom Kalenda
blong Garen
presentations
[the
kastom
covering
calendar
what
for
gardening
116
gardening],
activities
with
took
most
place
throughout the course of the year; types of crops that were specific to
their area and how they had got there; kastom prohibitions relating to
gardening practice; and songs and stories relating to all of these. The
three YPP fieldworkers at the workshop made their presentation
together.
In this they referred both to “komuniti blong mi” [my
community] as well as providing information about/from other
islands. The fieldworkers were from Tanna, Paama, and Matasso, yet
they reported details of kastom gardening practice from Ambrym,
central and north Pentecost, and south east Malakula, having carried
out their research in a number of areas in Vila.74 Their presentation
was mainly met with “corrections” from the other fieldworkers: the
fieldworker from north Pentecost emphasised that you must work
every day in the garden, not infrequently - ‘if you miss one day, you’re
hungry for one month’; an Ambrym fieldworker corrected their version
of male/female co-operation in gardening - boys are just folem rod75,
rather than going to the gardens to help.
In response to the latter the YPP fieldworkers stated that this was
what they were told, but they were sorry for getting it wrong - an
apology that was repeated again later in the session.
Other
corrections were put forward by the older fieldworkers and, in
response to those, the facilitator suggested that practice might be
different in town because people haven’t been back to the islands for
some time, yet this could also be of interest.
general agreement.
This was met with
However, the overall attitude that the young
people’s presentation were in need of correction resulted in one of the
YPP fieldworkers breaking down in tears, apologising for her lack of
kastom knowledge, stating her desire to go back to her island to learn
proper kastom, but explaining that this was hampered by her
boyfriend’s demands on her and a lack of money. This was met by
sympathy from the other fieldworkers.
Blacksands, Ohlen Matasso, Seaside Tongariki and Freswin.
Literally, “following the road”. In this instance it implies that the boys are just
going to the garden for something to do, rather than work.
74
75
117
The tensions that emerged in the workshop’s responses to the young
people’s presentations seem due to the fact that they were either
reporting on places that they “belonged” to but were not living in, or
employing “research methods” to collect information on places that
they could not claim to belong to. They were not trying to speak about
kastom in town; rather, they attempted to fit into the dominant
paradigm of the fieldworker programme that locates kastom in the
islands and obscures research methods.
My own reaction to their
presentation was negative: at the time, I felt that their participation
was token and against the prevailing orientation of the workshop, and
expressed this in the notes I took as I listened to them speak:
This is all much more like reported information - ie: they’ve
conducted interviews and now report the information. Also, what
is the point - giving detailed descriptions of how to plant all the
common foods of Vanuatu - everyone knows how to do it, so why
repeat it unless it’s different or yours? Although some of the other
questions such as “what are your gardens called?” get a variety of
answers [from the YPP fieldworkers]. But then, giving [indigenous]
language names when they don’t know the language (and others in
the room do) - doesn’t it just typify the “floating on top” theory of
preserving kastom?
The last comment in my notes refers to the interpretation of kastom
put forward at one point by the facilitator of the workshop, Lissant
Bolton. In a talk given to the workshop by the Project Manager of the
YPP she stated that kastom is not just about learning a dance or
making a mat: it is stret fasin blong mekem samting [the correct way
of doing things]. So when young people do something wrong, this is
because they don’t know kastom.
At this point the facilitator
suggested that kastom is like the deep sea: you have to dive down to
experience all of it; you can’t just float on top.
In retrospect, I see my own comments on the YPP fieldworkers’
presentations as having been influenced by the prevailing approach of
118
the workshop. As Bolton (2003) argues, legitimation for knowledge in
the context of the fieldworker workshops relies on connection to place
- with this you are unassailable. Yet how that knowledge is obtained
is not always made clear. The position of fieldworker brings with it
certain opportunities and “privileges” - a yearly visit to Port Vila, paid
for by the Cultural Centre; access to - and some control over - visiting
researchers; and a title that connects the fieldworker to a national
institution.
Most fieldworkers show a strong commitment to the
mandate of the Cultural Centre - blong leftemap kastom - however, the
urge for financial gain or the use of their title in local “politics” is not
unknown.
While
the
Cultural
Centre
sees
fieldworkers
as
representatives of areas beyond just their own village (or family) there
is no imperative placed upon them to indicate how representative the
knowledge is that they present at the workshops. Conflict may come
from disputes between families or villages in an area, or sometimes
between adherents of different religious denominations (sometimes
with differing valuations of kastom).
For the most part, fieldworkers do not make explicit their sources of
information.
All fieldworkers tend to be of reasonably established
status within their village: for men, jifs or of high rank, or connected
to a family known to be knowledgeable in kastom; for women, married
to such men, or respected as strong women in the village or church
hierarchy.
For this reason, they can speak without recourse to
legitimating sources; their word is enough - they present themselves
as “natural” informants.
This is not the case for YPP fieldworkers:
they are open to correction due to both their age, and their lack of
personal authority.
Their use of interviews to gain knowledge from
women of islands other than their own makes clear their inability to
speak authoratively. But, within the workshop model, no legitimating
claim can arise from “research”. The suspect nature of “research” has
been noted by the Director of the Cultural Centre: a researcher is still
perceived as someone who comes to Vanuatu, finds things out but
119
neither brings back the knowledge, nor comes back themselves.76
Also, when urging women fieldworkers to find out more information
from olfala [elders] in their area, the facilitator of the fieldworkers’
workshop suggested that they emphasise that “this is not just
research”; rather the women want the knowledge so as to be able to
live it in their own lives.
Conclusion
It is useful at this point to return to the statement quoted at the start
of this section – “in town you have to talk more because there aren’t
actions”.
Through this statement it was asserted that verbal
transmission of kastom replaces practical instruction in the urban
context.
This seems to be weighed out by the example of the YPP
fieldworkers - talk was the basis of their knowledge.
However, the
quotes given above suggest that talk can be equated with the use of
“research” which, in turn, is equated to a lack (or loss) of indigeneity
through connection to place. Whether or not there is kastom in town
is itself open to debate – more talk.
While the introduction to the YPP report quoted above suggested that
young people in town “aren’t living kastom”, the prevalence of
participation and interest in kastom was one of the areas covered by
the YPP research.
It was found that 81.5% of those interviewed
believe it to be important to learn kastom [ting hevi blong lanem
kastom].77 The report argued that this statistic provides a rebuttal of
the idea that young people in town aren’t interested in kastom as they
are living a European lifestyle (YPP 1999: 21-22). Interviewees were
also asked if they had participated in any kastom themselves, with the
majority answering yes (60.3%). Examples were then given of these
Paraphrased from Ralph Regenvanu presentation to the “Walking About: travel,
trade, migration and movement” conference.
ANU; Canberra, October 2000.
Anthropologists are generally referred to in Bislama as riseja.
77 Female interviewees were slightly more likely to disagree with the importance of
learning kastom – 20.2% as opposed to 17.4% of males (YPP 1999: 22).
76
120
“kastom activities”: kastom dance; circumcision; marriages; funerals;
weaving baskets and mats; learning to cook laplap using hot stones;
being given kastom medicine; having a special kakae at the time of
your first period; and having compensation paid to your aunts due to
your injury.78 Although elsewhere in the report a broader definition of
kastom is given, the “proof” that young people don’t subscribe to the
popular stereotype – they do have kastom - is based on practice and
action.
In this sort of case, if a child were in an accident, parents would pay the child’s
aunts as an admission of their negligence in allowing the accident to happen.
78
121
Chapter Five - “Making places travel”: legitimating
kastom through place in Port Vila
The account of the participation of YPP fieldworkers in the annual
women fieldworkers’ workshop examined the relationship between
place, talk, and the legitimation of kastom knowledge. I argued that
talk alone could not provide adequate legitimation for such knowledge
as practice and actions are the privileged basis of kastom.
That
analysis expanded on the material provided in Chapter Three,
illustrating the devaluing of talk in Vanuatu through the work of
politicians.
The authority of politicians is based on talk.
For this
reason, it does not subscribe to accepted kastom models of the
acquisition
of
status,
which
involve
physical
manifestations
demonstrating the necessary knowledge to hold rank and titles.
This chapter will continue the exploration of how embodiment of
knowledge is connected to place, and the challenge this sets for
residents of Port Vila. I aim to transcend the static model put forward
in the analyses of Bonnemaison (1985; 1994), Haberkorn (1992), and
Woi (1984) as outlined in the previous chapter. They posit a passive
form of interaction between ni-Vanuatu and – particularly – town:
removal from “your” physical place will result in a necessary change of
identity.
This formulation does not allow for the improvisational
manner in which people approach the “problem” of separation from
“their” island. I am influenced in part here by Strathern’s contention
that in Melanesia people ‘make the places travel’ (1991: 117). As she
explains, ‘insofar as “places” can appear now in one person and now
in another, then it is the places that seem mobile’ (1991: 117). This
will be illustrated through the presence of parallel authority
structures in Vila and the islands, which are becoming increasingly
common despite – or, perhaps, because of - the length and
permanence of residency in town.
122
In the second part of this chapter I will provide an ethnographic
illustration of the operation of such authority in Vila.
I use the
example of the explanation and settlement of a dispute between
people from Tanna and Tongoa to explore a number of issues.
I
expand on the idea that, in defining kastom, ni-Vanuatu are also
defining a “correct” type of person – an argument that was touched
upon in my account of perceptions of politicians and jifs presented in
Chapter Three. This example provides a further opportunity to show
how this correctness is demonstrated and recognised not only through
actions and behaviour but also procedure. I go on to reflect on this
material using Hirsch’s (1995) argument relating to the achievement
of temporal and spatial simultaneity, and Battaglia’s (1995) analysis of
“practical nostalgia”.
Port Vila and non-geographical community
In the previous chapter I outlined the historical formation of
communities in Port Vila, and argued that an understanding of their
formation undermines the de-historifying effect of developmentoriented writings that speak of “uncontrolled land tenure” and the
“chaotic” development of the town.
In this section I will show how
certain notions of community operate in a different way in Port Vila.
Space is important but not necessarily in terms of constant
geographical proximity. Rather, its continued existence depends on
the opportunities for a community to re-establish relationships – both
within the community and with those outside. A key aspect of this is
allegiance to a jif or similar figure of authority; in a sense, these are
communities of control.
Other forms of interaction and social
relations exist in town, but these are not relationships founded on or
legitimated by kastom. For this reason, they cannot be relied on for
the same purposes - such as the restoration of peaceful relations –
123
and they may result in negative feelings, in particular the concept of
“jealousy”. Some types of relationships are hard to have in Port Vila.79
In interviews conducted for the Juvenile Justice Project, young people
living in Port Vila were asked if they had a jif where they live. Only
one out of the ninety-three interviewees said they did not (Rousseau
2003: 35). This indicates the ubiquity of jifs for the majority of Port
Vila’s population. They appear to be essential in the constitution of
community - both in the sense that a jif’s people make up a
community, as well as a jif being necessary for people to function as a
community.80 In the area that I lived for the majority of my time in
Vila there was no jif. Some of the people in the “yard” I lived in were
related, or went to the same church, which meant that their social
lives overlapped at times. For the most part, though, the people living
in that area did not come together formally as a group. Of course,
interaction did take place – sitting and chatting by the sea; playing
games of petanque; drinking at the local kava bar; young people
sneaking off into the nearby bush to drink alcohol; children swimming
or playing together. However, public life was not generally formalised.
One exception to this that I was told about was the celebrations of the
millennium at the start of 2000.81 Many areas in Port Vila arranged
some form of celebration to mark this occasion, and in “my” area an
organising committee had been set up in advance to plan the
programme. As they mapped out all the necessary components of the
event, it was realised that there was no obvious jif who could speak in
the slot that had been allotted to such a speaker as a matter of
course. It was thus necessary to find a person to occupy this role.
The man who was chosen by the committee to speak as jif is the
These ideas will be investigated in more detail in the Conclusion.
When I relayed this statistic to a Tannese jif in town, he expressed surprise that
there was even one person who said they didn’t have a jif. He saw this as a failing
on the part of the jif as they should be able to account for all of their people.
81 I lived in this area from January to November 2001, so was not actually present at
these celebrations.
79
80
124
current owner of land in the area that has been in his family for
several generations. On being selected he protested that he was not
qualified to act as jif when there were other people living in the area
who did, in fact, have titles. Their response to this was that they were
only temporary residents, renting houses or living in accommodation
provided through their employment.
He, on the other hand, was a
respected man who had more permanent and historically justified
links to the land.
As that example indicates, jifs facilitate or enable correct procedure to
be followed on public occasions.
Yet life in town necessitates
improvisation in terms of finding who is equipped to occupy that role.
In a survey that I conducted as part of my research into the presence
of jifs in town, a similar picture emerged to that found in the JJP
interviews cited above.82 However, rather than using the specific term
jif, interviewees were asked simply if there was any person who looked
after their community.83
Of the fifty responses only one person
answered no, while other answers demonstrated the variety of
authority holders in Vila in a way that the JJP interviews did not.
Others identified as exercising authority over town populations
included pastors and other church elders, landlords, and those viewed
as senior members of specific communities.
Jifs, too, do not
constitute a coherent category in Vila: those working as jifs in town
are not necessarily “full jifs”; rather, they act as jif representatif [jif
representatives]. This category has its roots in the earlier period of niVanuatu residency in town, during which time predominantly younger
men came to work for shorter periods. Due to their age, there would
not always be a senior jif amongst them, in which case someone would
The sample for this survey was fifty. Those surveyed had an average age of 30.5
years; 44% were male with 56% female; island of origin reflected the same spread as
that found for the Vila population in the 1999 census. YPP fieldworkers assisted in
carrying out this survey, and I am grateful for their help.
83 In Bislama the question was phrased, “I gat wan man we hemi lukaotem komuniti
blong yu?”.
82
125
be selected to act in that role temporarily.84 This practice continues
today, but often on a more permanent basis. The term jif representatif
does not necessarily imply that the holder does not have some title or
rank himself. However, their authority to exercise control over a town
population is legitimated by a jifly title in existence (and use) on their
home island.
In this way, they are jifs of people, rather than jifs of land. The idea of
territory cannot operate in Vila as it can in the islands. While titles
directly connected to pieces of land are present only in the southern
and central parts of the archipelago, a relationship between rank and
land has existed in the northern islands too. Using the example of
Pentecost, Bonnemaison (1985) reports that higher rank enabled men
to exercise authority over a larger territory. During my visit to north
Pentecost I was told that this was no longer possible due to the
introduction of a stricter system of jifs’ councils. While high rank men
could previously involve themselves in the affairs of areas beyond their
own, boundaries created by the council structure must now be
adhered to. This suggests that the connection of rank and territory
has become more constrained in the island setting.
At the same time though, the organisation of jifs on the islands
provides a blueprint for those acting as jifs in town, with parallel
structures and procedures in the two locations as the organisational
ideal. This notion of temporal and spatial simultaneity is discussed
by Hirsch (1995) with reference to the Fuyuge in Papua New Guinea.
He starts by drawing on Anderson’s (1991) discussion of European
practices of naming colonised land as ‘”new” versions of…”old”
toponyms in their lands of origin’ (Anderson 1991: 187 quoted in
Hirsch 1995: 186).
Hence, New Orleans or New York exist
contemporaneously with their “old” versions.
For Anderson, this
Similar patterns are found in Adams (1998), who provides an account of the
perpetuation and adjustment of indigenous practices amongst Tannese labourers
working on plantations in Queensland in the 19th century.
84
126
provides a way in which the “new” populations of colonisers could
‘imagine themselves as communities parallel and comparable to those
in Europe’ (1991: 192 quoted in Hirsch 1995: 186).85 Furthermore,
the emergence of nationalism and revolution within empires could be
read as an attempt to rearrange power in such a way that the “new”
could usurp the “old” centre as the location of power. Hirsch goes on
to argue that similarities can be found between Anderson’s analysis of
colonising practices and naming practices of the Fuyuge:
Among the Fuyuge, the similarity arises because place-names, as
derived, for example, for the PNG capital of Port Moresby, exist
parallel and coterminous with their place-name counterparts in the
village – not as new versions, but as what we might call
“namesakes” (yasi).
The parallelism is also meant to imply
comparability, as in the European example.
The example of an
urban place-name in the village context does suggest that a desired
redistribution of power is implicit in this practice, but it is a
redistribution that is predicated on a different starting point from
that of the Euro-American example (Hirsch 1995: 186).
The presence of jif representatif exercising authority in someone else’s
name, or “namesake” jifs’ councils in town, following the same loa as
their island parallels, imply a similar sense of simultaneity as that
argued for by Hirsch. However, in the context of Vanuatu, it is hard
to imagine the “new” usurping the “old”:
the idea of place as the
legitimating basis of kastom ensures that the islands maintain their
centrality. This is enabled by residents of Port Vila through their own
(self-)naming practices – mi man Ambae; mi man Tanna.
It is also
supported by those in the islands, who frequently – like the
It is debatable to what extent this argument would hold up to close scrutiny. The
example of New Zealand springs to mind, with the name being unconnected to the
origin of the majority of the settler population. In the case of the New Hebrides, to
British colonists the name could as easily have reinforced a sense of peripherality or
isolation.
However, it is the cotemporaneous existence of names that is of
importance here.
85
127
fieldworkers quoted in the previous chapter – see their role as
providers of correct knowledge to their dislocated population in town.86
As the results of both JJP interviews and my survey have indicated,
recognition of a jif or similar figurehead is almost universal in Vila.87
My survey also revealed that for the majority of residents (80% of
interviewees) this jif exercised authority over a general island
population rather than a geographically bounded one in terms of place
of residence in town. For this reason, their existence is not reinforced
on a constant basis through visible evidence; their simultaneity is not
ensured.
Hirsch outlines how, ‘in ritual (gab) performed by the
Fuyuge, the creation of this [temporal and spatial] simultaneity is
conceptualized as an “achievement” of holding things together…Men,
women, and objects are thus simultaneously in the same space and at
the same time for the enactment…of the ritual’ (1995: 190).
For non-geographical communities in Vila, meetings [miting] may well
serve the purpose of the gab, achieving the simultaneity that cannot
be achieved/presumed through proximity. At the same time, “island”
and “town” are made simultaneous through the use of kastom in the
name of the island.
This appears similar to a further strand of
Hirsch’s (1995) argument.
However, it represents something of an
inversion of his ethnographic example. In the Fuyuge village of Visi, a
garden has been named Taurama “after” a commercial area of Port
Moresby.
Hirsch argues that this naming provides analogical
opportunities for the Fuyuge:
This attitude was expressed on a number of occasions by island residents who
spoke I with. When asked if there was kastom in town, they agreed that kastom
practices did take place in town, such as weddings or funerals, but that town
residents would often have to phone the island to check on aspects of procedure. In
such cases, the telephone could be seen to offer a further route to simultaneity.
87 It can be argued, too, that those not actually holding a title are still recognised as
occupying the category of jif. While my survey asked specifically who the person
looking after a community was, it was assumed by the JJP that interviewees would
respond to the general category of jif, eliding the identity of the actual authority
holder with that term.
86
128
Taurama among the Fuyuge is less a fixed locale than a context
from which analogies can be drawn.
It is about bringing
something into view; about creating a particular intentional space
– a particular relation between foreground [the garden]…and
horizon (Port Moresby). More generally, it is about displaying the
capacity to hold things together in a particular sort of way (Hirsch
1995: 204).
For Hirsch, this practice is equated with the “local”, as opposed to the
“metropolitan” (to use his terms). For me, his statements regarding
Taurama
encapsulate
the
efficacious
nature
of
island-based
identification in Vila.88 Referring to the owner of the garden, Hirsch
depicts him as ‘engaging in a cultural act that would be well
recognized by his ancestors.
It is through the analogies of naming
that he is attempting to “pull” that which is potentially “out of time”
and “out of place” into a context where it anticipates the simultaneity
achieved in the gab ritual’ (1995: 203).
In the following section I will provide an account of a meeting held in
Vila between members of the Tannese and Tongoan communities.
This will illustrate the “pulling together” that occurs in this context,
while foregrounding a further aspect of simultaneity that is touched
upon by Hirsch. With reference to the simultaneity engendered by the
gab, he states that ‘upon completion of the ritual, this simultaneous
spatial and temporal presence is abandoned, only to anticipate a
similar ritual in a different locale in the future where such a
simultaneity is again striven for’ (Hirsch 1995: 191). In terms of the
example that I present here, however, completion implies the desire to
maintain the simultaneity that has been brought about through the
meeting.
The aim of the meeting is to draw together a coherent
narrative of events that have led to this point of simultaneity, which
As Hirsch says (1995: 193), the research on which this article was based did not
include work with the Fuyuge living in Port Moresby. My fieldwork was the inverse
of this, having spent only a small proportion of my time outside the “metropolitan”
context, perhaps explaining my inverted reading of his statement.
88
129
can be seen to represent the desired form of relations between the two
groups, and the desired form of subjectivity of all involved.
Dispute between Tanna and Tongoa in Vila
I have access to several different explanations for this incident: the
first, from my own fieldnotes; another from one of the local
newspapers; and others emerging from the reconciliation ceremony
that took place soon after the initial violence. Each of these presents
a different idea of cause and effect – the first two consisting of a more
simple “reportage” of “facts”, based in a limited time period, opening
with the fight itself. Those put forward at the reconciliation ceremony
not only foreground kastom, but also involve the creation of an
explanation that encompasses a history of interaction between two
groups. The fighting itself (as an action) is not necessarily the main
issue, but rather a symptom of people straying from the path of
kastom.
I first became aware of this dispute on a bus on my way home when I
heard part of a radio broadcast by the President of the Malvatumauri,
Tom Numake, appealing for calm between the people of Tanna and
Tongoa. When I got home I asked around to see if anyone knew what
had happened.
No-one knew any details but one of the household
had heard that there had been fighting in a predominantly Tongoan
area. The next day I asked a Tongoan friend of mine who lived near
that area if she knew what had happened. She told me that – as I
understood it – a Tannese woman married to a Tongoan man
suspected him of adultery. She had then gone and asked for help in
dealing with this situation from her male Tannese relatives.
Their
reaction had been to launch an attack on the Tongoan area, damaging
property and houses as well as attacking residents there. Later on
that day, I heard that there had been further retaliatory attacks by
Tongoans on the original Tannese group involved. It was reported on
the radio that at least two people had been hospitalised. Two days
130
later, I spoke to my friend again and she said that a meeting had been
held at the Chiefs Nakamal the previous day to sort matters out.
However, this had dissolved into chaos, with further fighting taking
place at the meeting itself, resulting in more casualties. She implied
that it was the Tannese who had initiated this, as this was their way
of sorting out disputes. The next day, a further meeting was held to
reconcile the two sides. This was the meeting that I attended.
Though
much
of
my
version
of
events
was
garnered
from
conversations with one person who was affiliated in some ways to one
of the groups involved in the dispute, most of it was backed up
through casual chats and gossip with others not as directly involved,
and supplemented by information from the radio. What I have set out
above though is the “coherent account” of the dispute that I recorded
in my fieldnotes to provide the necessary “background” to my notes
from the reconciliation meeting.
I would argue that my narrative
portrays the dispute as a single incident with a simple structure – I
hear about the fight, find out the reason behind it, record the
unsuccessful attempt at settlement and the subsequent resolution of
matters. All these take place within the space of about four days, with
only the alleged adultery occurring outside of that time.
The main newspaper report on the fighting referred to it as a ‘feud
between the people of south Tanna and Tongoa’, subsequently labelled
‘the two warring sides’ (Trading Post 8/2/01: 1).
The article
foregrounded the arrests of sixteen people in connection with the
dispute, and gave a summary of the events that led to that:
According to police, two people from Tanna were seriously beaten
up and are said to be making a slow recovery at the Vila Central
Hospital while three others from Tongoa have been discharged
following the clash.
In addition, about four houses belonging to the people of Tongoa
located at Saratoka – behind Au Bon Marche at Tebakor, were
badly damaged by well over 100 Tannese who went on a rampage
131
last Friday on hearing that a Centre Point security guard from
Tanna had been seriously beaten.
Police were caught off guard as they watched helplessly upon their
arrival at the scene, according to an eye witness. An urgent radio
message was sent out on Sunday morning to all police officers on
leave to return to duty.
Had the chiefs not interfered quickly, many people feared that the
confrontation could have ended up like the Solomon Islands civil
unrest between the people of Quadalcanal [sic] and Malaita
(Trading Post 8/2/2001: 1).
Although adopting a slightly more sensationalist tone, in a similar
fashion to my summary the newspaper article centres on the fight, the
results of the fighting, and gives a relatively immediate preceding
cause for the hostilities. An extended time period is hinted at through
the mention of similar incidents from the past.
The reconciliation
ceremony between the two groups incorporated the payment of a fine
resulting from an incident in 1987. The article mentions this, while
making passing reference to a further dispute prior to that one:
…Monday’s peace ceremony also saw Tongoa community leaders
and their people settle a long standing fine they were supposed to
have performed in 1987 following a similar incident between the
people from the two islands.
Last week’s commotion is not the first. It could be referred to as
the third. The first incident would have to be traced back to the
period before the country’s political independence in 1980 followed
by the second in 1987 (Trading Post 8/2/2001: 1).
While this indicates a history of past (negative) interaction between
Tanna and Tongoa, the incidents are seen as just that – a series of
fights that don’t necessarily have any connection beyond the identity
of the protagonists.
The article’s interpretation of events stands in
contradistinction to those put forward in the speeches made during
the reconciliation ceremony.89
The role of the media in relation to crime and violence in Melanesia is addressed
by Gewertz and Errington (1999) and Chanter (2000).
89
132
The reconciliation ceremony
As with the first, unsuccessful reconciliation attempt, this meeting
was held at the Chiefs’ Nakamal (but in the outdoor area, due to the
number of animals involved).
The two main groups present were
about 40-50 people from each side.
After the initial carrying in of
dead cows, they arranged themselves as groups opposite each other.
In between them was a relatively large contingent of police and VMF
officers (about 15), although a number of those stood with the two
main groups (perhaps due to their own island affiliation).
Next to
them were the two jifs from each side – two of whom were dressed in
“kastom clothing” of mats and headdress - along with a “master of
ceremonies”90 who was not affiliated with either side. Further back,
and to one side, sat representatives of the Malvatumauri and the Port
Vila Town Council of Chiefs (PVTCC). Others present included a few
journalists, myself and a member of the Cultural Centre staff, present
in our capacity as researchers for the Juvenile Justice Project.
The Tongoan contingent moved forward from one direction, the men
carrying two dead cows and other exchange items, and the women
accompanying them on each side.
At the same time, the Tannese
group approached from the other direction. The master of ceremonies
spoke first, welcoming everyone on behalf of the Malvatumauri and
the Port Vila Town Council of Chiefs, and telling everyone to sit down.
He outlined the reason for today’s meeting, but, rather than focussing
on recent events, he talked about an incident from 198791:
The two piles of food that you see here, one of these is for the
incident that happened in 1987 – Tanna Tongoa, Tongoa Tanna –
we came to the nakamal then to make peace, but Tongoa didn’t
make friends so trouble has happened again. We’re meeting, now
they have to rewind things back again.
It’s a perfectly normal
thing, it’s a normal thing that we fight; we make peace. But we
didn’t do that. So there are two cows and other food here: one is
90 He was referred to as “masta blong ceremony” by some of the speakers.
91 I didn’t ever clarify what exactly had occurred at that time – partly as it is not always appropriate to ask about matters that
have been resolved.
133
for 1987; the other is because we want to say sorry to our brothers
and the jifs of Tanna.
He went on to explain that the process wasn’t over yet. Once the two
injured boys had left the hospital, the jifs would meet together again
to sort out any ‘small problems’ that remain. He then called on the
first Tongoan jif to speak, giving his title and the title of the jif that he
was acting as the representative of today.
Jif Douglas came forward holding a mat and a namele leaf.92
He
thanked the Malvatumauri and PVTCC, before listing the other
attendees – ‘ol bigfala jif blong TAFEA’, police officers, important
politicians, as well as those who were involved in the problem.
He
started his talk by emphasising that peace was the reason that we are
all here today, and that this explained why he had brought the namele
leaf. The leaf was associated with a pig-killing that he had done at
that nakamal previously, and he was using it as both a sign of peace,
and as a sign of his right to act on behalf of his people. He mentioned
the shame he was feeling as a result of what had happened, before
reiterating peace as the aim of the gathering today, peace which must
apply to every person. His next point was to emphasise that whenever
there is a problem, you must always come to the jif. Not doing so in
this case had resulted in damage to property as well as injury. He
then returned to the namele leaf, explaining again his commitment to
peace, and offering it to one of the Tannese jifs. As he came forward
to accept the leaf, there was applause from all sides.
Jif Douglas continued his speech, saying that the acceptance of peace
through the acceptance of the namele leaf means the end of the
matter. Any residual bad feeling, any ‘rabis toktok’, the blood of the
cow has run to cover this up. This was greeted with more applause,
especially from the Tannese contingent.
He addressed the issue of
92 Cycad (Cycas circinnalis). This plant is used as a symbol of peace in some parts of Vanuatu, and one is sometimes planted to
mark a ceremonial pig-killing, as is the case in this example.
134
intermarriage, alluding to the cause of conflict for the first time, and
said that this was a development that would continue – ‘woman
Tongoa i mared long Tanna, mo man Tongoa i karem woman Tanna’ –
and mustn’t become a source of conflict. He finished by pointing out
the purpose of the second cow, whose blood had run to cover up the
problems that occurred in 1987, and restated that he wanted everyone
to accept the settlement of matters as had been indicated through the
acceptance of peace between him as jif and the Tannese jif – ‘In the
name of Tanna, in the name of Tongoa, today I believe that there must
be peace’.
One of the Tannese jifs spoke next, once again starting by naming
those present – Port Vila Town Council of Chiefs, Malvatumauri
members, representatives of jifs from Vila, jifs of Tongoa and jifs of
other islands. He went on to outline how the situation had escalated
from a disagreement between ‘two families’ – each side had gradually
involved more and more people in the fighting until it became a fight
between Tongoa and Tanna.
Two men started it, but these two
weren’t jifs. He jokes that ‘boxing is good; boxing is a sport’, but that’s
not what happened here. In kastom these men didn’t have the right to
call on others to go and attack people of a different island. Only a jif
can send people to fight the people of another jif. And this talk today
is not just for the people of Tanna and Tongoa, it’s for everyone living
in town, as they must have respect for all the other people living here
too.
In relation to today’s meeting he mentioned the procedure for making
peace after someone is murdered – in that case a woman is given to
replace the dead man, and you come together with food (exchange
items) to make peace.
Today we meet for a different reason, but
similarly we must apply kastom rules to this settlement: the rules of
kastom can control our people. Our ancestors (bubu blong yumi) here
had rules for punishing people – that’s kastom – and now there is also
135
the “white people’s court” (kot blong waetman).
In conclusion, he
thanked the people of Tongoa for helping to ‘clear our road’. He said
that on returning to their “village”, and with the help of the police, he
would be sorting out the issue that caused the dispute (stamba blong
problem). He stated that peace had been made today and ended with
a reminder that when you make a kastom ceremony, it must be
respected. At this point, Jif Douglas spoke again. Firstly, he asked
that anyone who had any stolen property (refers to this as ‘ol samting
we i bin lus’) as a result of the dispute give it back to their jif so that it
could
be
returned.
Secondly,
he
emphasised
-
possibly
in
counterpoint to the last speaker - that his people wanted to return to
their houses and forget about this problem. He hoped that the police
will assist in this by giving them time to settle back into their lives.
The next speaker was the Tannese jif, Jacob Kapere, who had
previously come forward to accept the namele leaf offered by Jif
Douglas.
As
with
the
others,
he
started
by
thanking
the
Malvatumauri, the town council of jifs, and the others present whom
he referred to as brata [brother] and tauwian [in-laws]. He wanted to
tell all those present how heavy his heart was and how full of sorrow
he was for what had happened.
He stated that he was glad that
everyone had been able to come here today to witness the actions and
hear the talk with their own ears. For him, the meeting was one of the
stages of making peace. He asserted that there are correct ways of
sorting out problems. In this case, he was standing there as he has
rank and had brought all his men with him (‘ol boe blong mi’) to make
this ceremony (‘mekem tabu ia’) so that the bad feelings could end. He
went on to talk about the necessity to ensure that when you make
kastom, you make it properly. If this is not done problems will arise:
‘when our children loose their way or go astray (‘mestem rod’), it’s the
fault of their elders.
Today, we lost our way.’
greeted with applause.
136
This statement was
He went on to address the purpose of jifs in resolving disputes:
If something happens, for example, a man ‘stealing’ a woman, this
is a matter to be dealt with ‘jif to jif’. If there is a fight, that doesn’t
mean that you do what you want without any respect for the jif –
you go and tell your jif. Whatever you plan to do, go and see your
jif.
Once again, he stated how sorry he was for what was done by his
people; ‘my heart is broken’. And he thanked all the participants for
their actions at the meeting: ‘What you’ve done today can’t leave you;
it’s already taken effect, and will continue to work today, tomorrow
and into the future. Your faith, the faith of the jifs, the town council,
the Malvatumauri, its power is there and we respect that.’ In the final
part of his speech, Jif Kapere addressed the actions of the police in
response to the fight:
When this problem happened, we [him and Jif Douglas] told the
head of police to take us around the nakamals of the two islands,
Tanna and Tongoa, to tell them the jifs are here, they’ve started to
solve the problem already. But I’m sorry to say that there has been
a disturbance in our work, they haven’t all respected our work. So
I want to say to the senior police that if they want us to work
together, we must respect each other.
In conclusion, he reiterated that the process that is being followed
must be ‘true kastom’, and it must be respected, and it must be
concluded properly, not left hanging:
‘Our history, Tongoa and
TAFEA, is the same – you know what you are doing today and you do
it wholeheartedly.’ His final wish was that the two sides would be able
to come together, to mix and to share in development – inside the
home, and in other areas too – and that both would try to stop any
trouble occurring.
The Master of ceremonies thanked Jacob for his speech and hoped
that everyone was able to hear alright. He then introduced the next
speaker, Jacobus from Tanna, who was present to accept the apology
for the 1987 incident.
Before he started to speak, Jacobus went
forward to accept a bundle of kava from a Tongoan representative,
137
indicating his acceptance of their apology. Once more, he started by
addressing the “dignitaries” present, before moving on to the jifs and
people of the two island groups. He thanked Tongoa for the kastom
they had made today.
He mentions the incomplete settlement of
1987, the effects of which have lingered up until the recent trouble on
account of which they were meeting today. He went on to talk about
the kastom of Vanuatu (blong yumi long Vanuatu), reminding them of
the theme already touched on by Jacob Kapere regarding acting in the
name of jifs:
When you come and argue with someone, you come and hit
someone, and you bring all your men with you, you’re using my
tabu (sanction?). If you go and murder someone or destroy a lot of
property, this is a reflection of my name (hemia i stap long nem
blong mi) - you are doing what I have told you should be done. So
this is one way in which jifs in Vanuatu have power, but this is not
such a good aspect of kastom.
He went on to emphasise that jifs must remind their people that when
someone comes to argue with you, or fight with you, it’s not good to
gather up a posse of your own. As a result of this particular case,
both Tanna and Tongoa now had bad names in town. This was met
with
applause.
He
reiterated
that
island
based
fighting
is
inappropriate as everyone should be getting along. So, in his opinion,
jifs should speak to their people about this sort of behaviour as it
prevents the two groups from coming together. He then concluded his
speech by exhorting each of the jifs present to make a “bye-law”93,
which will provide protection and ensure that proper kastom is
followed.
Kastom as “correct procedure”
The speeches given at the meeting provide an instance of how
“incorrect behaviour” is described, and, in particular, how its causes
are explained. The fighting itself was to some extent wrong, however
93
I heard this term used quite often in relation to the codification of so-called ‘kastom loa’, in particular the procedures to
be followed by jifs’ councils.
138
the reason for it being wrong had more to do with process than
violence. As one of the speakers put it, fighting is normal – “we fight;
we make peace”.
In a sense, the main emphasis was less that
something had happened, but rather that something had happened in
the wrong way. This involved two issues in particular: the fighting
was initiated by people who didn’t have that right; and secondly, that
a proper settlement had never been completed for the 1987 incident.
The first point was addressed by several of the speakers. The first
Tannese jif to speak focussed on the escalation of matters from a
disagreement between two families to a fully-fledged inter-island fight.
His main criticism was that, in kastom, only jifs have the right to send
their people to fight the people of another jif, and those involved in
this dispute had not respected that right. This issue was returned to
by the next Tannese speaker, who said that no action should be taken
without first talking to your jif. Disagreements should be dealt with
“jif-to-jif”, and to do as those involved in the recent fight had done was
to show a lack of respect for your jif.
The final Tannese jif also
covered similar ground in his speech. He emphasised that, in kastom,
jifs have the ability to send people to fight, but that this action takes
place in the jif’s name, with their sanction. For this reason, initiating
your own fight is wrong on two counts – it doesn’t abide by kastom
and it damages the reputation of your jif and, by extension, his
people.
The second point regarding the correct settlement of matters from
1987 was introduced straight off by the master of ceremonies, who
directly correlated the lack of settlement then with the current
meeting: ‘we came to the nakamal then to make peace, but Tongoa
didn’t make friends so trouble has happened again…now they have to
rewind things back again’.
Jif Douglas also alluded to the 1987
settlement, pointing out that the blood of a cow had now run to cover
up that matter too. The final Tannese jif to speak was introduced by
139
the master of ceremonies as being there specifically to accept the
apology for 1987.
In his speech the jif thanked the Tongoans for
completing that matter now, and also implied that the effects of the
“unfinished business” had lingered, being felt right up to the present.
The achievement of simultaneity
The incorporation of events from almost fifteen years earlier into the
current settlement and its role in explaining why the recent fighting
had taken place highlights a further aspect of the process of kastom.
Reconciliation necessitates a sense of completion – the dispute had to
be explained by and incorporated into a history of interaction between
the two parties, resulting in a comprehensible and complete chain of
events. As discussed above, this can be seen to represent a form of
simultaneity. This is a simultaneity of historical understanding, which
provides the basis of the meaning and intent of the future relationship
between the two groups, and depends on the physical actuality of the
meeting.
In Hirsch’s assessment of the gab, on completion
simultaneity is ‘abandoned’ (1995: 191). In relation to this example,
the achievement of simultaneity can be seen as an ideal not to be
consciously abandoned. People may go “wan wan” after the meeting
but the effect of what has taken place has changed them in relation to
all other participants.
A further example indicates that this
teleological drive towards simultaneity of historical understanding
enabling future relationships is a more widespread feature of
ceremonies that consciously ground themselves in kastom.
In late 2001 I attended a small ceremony at the house of a Vanua’aku
Pati MP to mark the joining of the party by a former head of the
Reserve Bank of Vanuatu. Also present was the Prime Minister and
leader of the Vanua’aku Pati, Edward Natapei, his wife, friends and
family of the hosts, and a number of party supporters from the
140
neighbourhood.94
Such ceremonies are not unusual, generally
involving either a high profile person (as in this case), or a jif who
brings with him “his people’s” votes. In this instance, the ceremonial
aspect of the evening was relatively brief:
the MP spoke first to
welcome everyone, this was followed by a speech from the new
member of the party, the Prime Minister responded to this speech,
and the three then drank a shell of kava each.95
After this, others
present who wanted to drank kava, and food and alcohol were served.
The speech given by the new party member explaining why he had
decided to join the Vanua’aku Pati focussed firstly on his personal
history. He said which village and island he came from, which church
his family had belonged to, and then talked about his father’s
affiliation with the Nagriamel movement in the 1970s.
He recalled
going to meetings of theirs as a child, as well as a demonstration they
organised that took place on his island.
From 1980 to 1992 he
studied and lived in Papua New Guinea before returning to Vanuatu
to take up the position at the Reserve Bank. At this point he spoke
about reports that he was a supporter of the UMP (Union of Moderate
Parties), historically the main rival to the Vanua’aku Pati.
He said
that this idea came from the fact that they were in government when
he was appointed to the Reserve Bank, so it was assumed that he
must be associated with them.
But, he emphasised, he had never
voted, and a major reason for being there today was to clear up the
confusion and misinterpretations surrounding his political affiliation.
His primary reasons for supporting the Vanua’aku Pati were its strong
leadership and faith in God, but he also mentioned his support for
their policies, especially their promotion of transparency and good
governance. He said he wasn’t able to bring many voters with him to
the party, but hoped he would be able to bring a few more people from
The high level of support shown for the party may have been enhanced by the
availability of free kava.
95 This is not strictly true – each person had someone to drink on their behalf as, for
a variety of reasons, none of them drink kava.
94
141
his island in at the time of the party congress.
In conclusion, he
presented the Prime Minister with two mats from Ambae, first, in the
usual Vanuatu manner, denigrating their quality and condition before
handing them over.
The Prime Minister’s response to the speech started by stating the
importance of every vote – “one person can make a difference”. He
also said that the party was not just gaining the new member’s vote,
but also his knowledge as a lawyer. Focussing on the new member’s
previous association with Nagriamel, he said that they had been
essentially the same as the Vanua’aku Pati at the time, with only their
desired schedules for independence indicating any difference between
them.
He went on to say that there was also little difference now
between any of the political parties in Vanuatu in terms of policy, so
leadership and unity were the main indicators as to which would be
most successful, thus backing up the new member’s emphasis on
leadership as the key factor in his decision to join.
I would argue that what is being accomplished in these speeches
follows a pattern not dissimilar to that seen in the reconciliation
between Tanna and Tongoa. In that example, what could be viewed as
a series of events is turned into more a history of interaction, in which
each part can be tied together in such a way as to make the present
seem a logical - or even inevitable - conclusion. In this example the
ceremony is framed almost as if a reconciliation is taking place. The
new member appears to be not just joining the party but also almost
atoning for his past association with the UMP – even while denying
that he had voted at all, his main purpose is to ensure that no
misunderstandings exist.
While involving a certain creativity in
interpretation of pre-independence politics – namely the relationship
between Nagriamel and the Vanua’aku Pati - with the help of the
Prime Minister, an integrative biography is formed, making the new
member’s current stance logical and complete.
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As I have argued, the legitimation of kastom relies on place. In the
example just given, place was called into play in two ways. Firstly, the
man joining the Vanua’aku Pati started his speech by naming his
village and island, thus “placing” himself. He also suggested that he
might be able to bring more new members from his place, in this way
connecting his joining the party to the village/island. Secondly, when
making a prestation to the Prime Minister to mark the ceremony, he
chose mats from his home island of Ambae.
Following on from
Hirsch, I argue that the legitimate use of kastom in Vila depends on
making “town” and “island” simultaneous.
The aspects I have
highlighted from the ceremony indicate, once more, that place as the
source of legitimate kastom must be present objectively; ‘it is about
bringing something into view; about creating…a particular relation
between foreground…and horizon’ (Hirsch 1995: 204).
Battaglia’s (1995) notion of “practical nostalgia” is also pertinent to
the example discussed here – in relation to the changes wrought in
those participating in the meeting, and the potential efficacy of their
actions on the future.
While acknowledging the warranted unease
with which nostalgia is viewed by other scholars, she argues against
the ‘assumption that nostalgia has a categorically negative social value
for indigenous actors’ (Battaglia 1995: 77). She goes on to suggest
that,
Nostalgia may in fact be a vehicle of knowledge, rather than only a
yearning for something lost. It may be practiced in diverse ways,
where the issues for users become, on the one hand, the
attachment of appropriate feelings toward their own histories,
products,
and
capabilities,
and
on
the
other
hand,
their
detachment from – and active resistance to – disempowering
conditions of postcolonial life (Battaglia 1995: 77 emphasis in the
original).
143
Her analysis focuses on a yam festival held by Trobrianders resident
in Port Moresby in 1985.
Using the festival and surrounding talk
about yams, gardening, and life in town and “Home”, she illustrates
the ‘transformative’ properties of nostalgia. Rather than ‘a nostalgia
that “mourns for what is missing from the present, and thus creates
representations of the past”’ (Strathern 1995: 111 quoted in Battaglia
1995: 78), she puts forward ‘a practical or active nostalgia. The latter
is transformative action with a connective purpose, and the affective
and aesthetic quality of an indulgence.
So that Home in this
construction is the excess, the luxury of experiencing an attachment
to sources…’ (Battaglia 1995: 78).
Her next point is particularly
relevant to my arguments about the Tanna-Tongoa case – nostalgia’s
relationship to the future:
It is in this variety that nostalgic connection may also be imagined
toward a past object without necessarily being the enemy of
unformulated future relationships. Indeed, nostalgia for a sense of
future – for an experience, however imaginary, of possessing the
means of controlling the future - may function as a powerful force
for social reconnection (Battaglia 1995: 78).
The transformative power of nostalgia is reiterated in her conclusion,
in which she asserts that ‘nostalgia has power to reposition within the
present those who engage it’ (Battaglia 1995: 93).
Her argument ties in with my contention that the achievement of a
simultaneity of understanding through the process of the meeting or
ceremony results in a basis for future relations between those
involved. Furthermore, the context in which this can occur relies on
kastom, the use of which, in turn, relies on the establishment of
temporal and spatial simultaneity between those participants and a
place – “Home” - that provides legitimation of the kastom that is being
called upon. The ‘nostalgic connection’ to “Home” thus enables the
transformation of subjects and relations.
144
Objectification
The two examples discussed here provide an opportunity to expand on
my interpretation of objectification in relation to kastom.
In
Introduction I discussed the “charges” of objectification levelled in
particular at ni-Vanuatu politicians by anthropologists around the
time of independence (eg: Keesing 1982; Tonkinson 1982; Philibert
1986). Also, the role assigned to objectification in the creation of the
concept “kastom” during colonialism (Bolton (1993); Jolly and Thomas
1992).
As in Chapter Three, here I want to emphasise the idea of
objectification in relation to the effecting of change in a subject. If we
return to Miller’s interpretation of the term, he focuses on the
possibilities
of
some
form
of
transcendence
through
the
externalisation involved in a ‘creative act of differentiation’ and
subsequent reappropriation of the externalisation on the part of a
subject. I would argue that this reading is applicable to what is being
effected by kastom ceremonies such as those outlined in this chapter.
In the Tanna-Tongoa case, a dispute was externalised through speech
and actions, and, as I have argued, it was made into a logical whole
that incorporated the history of interaction seen as necessary to the
explanation and conclusion of the most recent events.
Using the
medium of kastom, the meeting could be said, in Miller’s terms, to
have created an externalised object that was then reappropriated in
order to re-form the subjectivity of those involved.
The fact that Miller’s approach is grounded in the area of material
culture is appropriate to these examples, in that it encourages the
acknowledgement of the performative and material aspects of kastom in particular, the objects that indicate the source of legitimation. In
the cases cited above these include mats from Ambae, kastom clothing
worn by the Tongoan jifs, even the kava drunk by the Prime Minister
and others.
However, it can be argued too that the role of jif, and
indeed the “communities” of Tanna and Tongoa also appear as objects
through a conscious externalisation of legitimating sources. It may be
145
apposite to conclude with a return to Strathern’s argument quoted at
the start of this chapter, which helps explain how place can be
embodied in the Melanesian context.
She suggests that a person’s
identity might be found in a variety of objects - shell valuables or
contained in a bag – and it is these objects that travel, ‘are put on and
taken off, are turned upside down’ (Strathern 1991: 117). These are
not “metonymic objects” though, which, as Stewart argues, are ‘a kind
of dispossession in that the presence of the object all the more
radically speaks to its status as a mere substitution and to its
subsequent distance from the self’ (1993: 135). Rather, ‘[a] pearl shell
is a place, we might say that walks between persons. All these things
pass between people, decorate them and support them…Insofar as
“places” can appear now in one person and now in another, then it is
the places that seem mobile.
At least, Melanesians use locational
devices to make this fact itself appear’ (Strathern 1991: 117). In this
way place and identity are linked within a person through objects,
their use and consumption:
The externalizing locations that [“we”?] might imagine as giving
different perspectives on persons are here seen as attached to
persons themselves. People appear to have different locations or
positions on their own bodies, and thus different identities
according to what they hold in their hands or where the food they
eat came from. Things travel to and from them (Strathern 1991:
135).
The next chapter will continue to address dispute resolution, but this
time in the state courts of Vanuatu, in particular the role of
“customary law” in legislation and procedure. Using cases from the
island, magistrate’s and supreme courts, I will show how kastom
enters the courtroom in a number of ways. The following chapter will
examine the related but separate domain of kastom loa. Basing my
argument on material from the Vanuatu Cultural Centre’s Men
Fieldworkers’ Workshop in 2001, I will show how certain “offences” –
in particular, rape – can be said to not exist in kastom. In formulating
146
their
analyses
the
fieldworkers,
amongst
others,
provide
a
commentary on both what is not-kastom, as well as change within
Vanuatu.
Chapter Eight will then make links between those two
chapters and the ideas of temporal and spatial simultaneity that have
been elaborated in this chapter.
147
Chapter Six – “This is a court of law, not a court of
morality”: kastom, “customary law”, and state courts
This quote comes from a judgement passed down by the former Chief
Justice of Vanuatu, which is discussed in more detail below. I use it
here to introduce the delineations made by state courts when trying to
include – or exclude – “customary law”, “custom” and kastom in their
proceedings.
In this case, it is a demarcation between law and
morality. In other circumstances it took different forms: “this is the
island court; we don’t know kastom”; “this is not a village court; we
have to maintain order”.
Such statements indicate the confused
status of kastom and “custom” in relation to state law in Vanuatu.
Also, it points to the issue of how kastom loa stands in distinction to
“custormary law”.
Using written state court judgements and cases
that I observed, I show the different ways in which kastom and
“custom” appear imperfectly in state court proceedings. The chapter
concludes with the example of the Juvenile Justice Project, illustrating
the debates that occur regarding the integration of kastom and state
law outside of the courtroom.
"Custom" in relation to state law has had a formal legal position in
Vanuatu only since independence in 1980. Under the Condominium
administration
all
laws
were
derived
from
British
or
French
jurisprudence.
Citizens of either of those countries resident in the
New Hebrides would be subject to their respective laws, while those of
other countries would choose which code they preferred to be
governed by.
The London Protocol of 1914 which cemented
Condominium
procedures
included
the
provision
that
the
administration was to '"cause a collection of native laws and
customs"…and customary law (where not contrary to the dictates of
humanity and maintenance of order) "should be utilised for the
preparation of a code of native law, both civil and penal"' (Article
VIII[4] cited in Weisbrot 1989: 68). While this would have represented
148
the first attempt to codify kastom loa, in practice it did not occur.
Instead, indigenous residents of the New Hebrides were subject to a
Native Criminal Code based, again, on British and French law.
As discussed in Chapter Two, the office of assessor represented a
recognition of what could be termed indigenous "customs", in the
English sense of the word. Assessors acted as advisors to the French
and British District Agents whose job it was to enforce the law of the
Condominium on the indigenous population. While I have shown that
the interpretation of this office varied from place to place,96 from the
point of view of the administration the assessor acted as something of
a cultural interpreter. As W.Rodman describes the role, 'to [District
Agents], assessors were the government's men-on-the-spot, trusted
middlemen with responsibility for bringing disputes to the attention of
the government, invaluable informants and advisors on matters such
as matrilineal land inheritance, pig-killing, and menstrual taboos'
(1985: 607).
indigenous
In this way, the colonial administration recognised
practice
as
germane
to
the
explication
of
the
circumstances of a case. However, it was not necessarily or officially
seen to hold the key to resolution or punishment.
Constitutional and legislative provisions
The Constitution provides a larger role for "custom" and "customary
law" in relation to the state than that practiced during the
Condominium.
While the Preamble to the Constitution affirms
"traditional Melanesian values" as one of the cornerstones of the
Republic, the position of "custom" is spelt out most explicitly in
Section 95. That section outlines the carrying over of legislation from
the Condominium at the time of independence, stating that,
96It
is hard to be too specific about an "ideal form" of the office as its definition in law
was imprecise, and therefore open to interpretation on both sides. Also, exigencies
of time and location meant that, in many areas, assessors worked independently
and District Agents were infrequent visitors.
149
Until otherwise provided by Parliament, the British and French
laws in force or applied in Vanuatu immediately before the Day of
Independence shall on and after that day continue to apply to the
extent that they are not expressly revoked or incompatible with the
independent status of Vanuatu and wherever possible taking due
account of custom (Republic of Vanuatu [revised edition] 1988: 24).
The following sub-section also affirms that 'Customary law shall
continue to have effect as part of the law of the Republic of Vanuatu'
(Republic of Vanuatu (revised edition) 1988: 24). The use of the word
"continue" here seems to imply a recognition of the informal but
effective employment of "customary law" during the colonial period.
Elsewhere in the Constitution, provisions are made for the existence of
advisors to the courts, whose role appears close to that of assessors
during the Condominium.97
Addressing 'ascertainment of rules of
custom', Section 51 of the Constitution states that, 'Parliament may
provide for the manner of the ascertainment of relevant rules of
custom, and may in particular provide for persons knowledgeable in
custom to sit with the judges of the Supreme Court or the Court of
Appeal and take part in its proceedings' (Republic of Vanuatu (revised
edition) 1988: 16).
The limiting of this advisory position to the
Supreme Court and Court of Appeal may be explained by the further
provisions made for the creation of village and island courts. Section
52 states that, 'Parliament shall provide for the establishment of
village or island courts with jurisdiction over customary and other
matters and shall provide for the role of chiefs in such courts'
(Republic of Vanuatu (revised edition) 1988: 16). This provision was
realised through the Island Courts Act (1983), which will be discussed
later in this chapter.
Under the Criminal Procedure Code (1988) provisions are made for “assessors” to
participate in court proceedings. However, these are closer to jury members, rather
than “experts” or advisors. This provision is not actually made use of in state courts
(Edward Nalial, pers. comm.).
97
150
The island courts’ legislation explicitly foregrounds the inclusion of
kastom expertise in its operation through the inclusion as justices
those “knowledgeable in custom”. However, a potential role is given to
kastom in other state courts through Sections 118 and 119 of the
Criminal Procedures Code. Section 118 states that:
Notwithstanding the provisions of this Code or any other law, the
Supreme Court and the Magistrate’s Court in criminal causes
promote reconciliation and encourage and facilitate the settlement
in an amicable way, according to custom or otherwise, of any
proceedings for an offence of a personal or private nature
punishable by imprisonment for less than 7 years or by a fine only,
on terms of payment of compensation or other terms approved by
such Court, and may thereupon order the proceedings to be stayed
or terminated (Criminal Procedures Code 1988: Section 118).
Section 119 focuses particularly on the issue of compensation:
Upon conviction of any person for a criminal offence, the court
shall, in assessing the quantum of penalty to be imposed, take
account of any compensation or reparation made or due by the
offender under custom and if such has not yet been determined,
may, if he is satisfied that undue delay is unlikely to be thereby
occasioned,
postpone
sentence
for
such
purpose
(Criminal
Procedures Code 1988: Section 119).
While the specific difference of island court hearings - as opposed to
those of other state courts - will be examined later in this chapter, I
will first look at the ways in which kastom is included in judgements
handed down by the very courts that supposedly represent the
inherently alien nature of introduced law.
Magistrate’s and Supreme courts
The effect of kastom on the administration of state law varies from
case to case. I have identified a number of areas in which it came into
play in the magistrate and supreme courts: as a negative factor in a
case; as a mitigating factor; as a source of evidence; as a potential
source of jurisprudence; and as a matter of attitude on the part of
judges.
In the following section I will provide examples from
151
judgements that illustrate each of these three models. For the most
part the particulars of these cases are drawn from judgments
published on the website of the Pacific Legal Information Institute,
based at the Emalus Campus of the University of the South Pacific in
Port Vila. During my fieldwork I attended a number of court hearings
in Port Vila, Santo and Lakatoro.
However, my observation and
tracking of these cases was not entirely systematic. Finding out when
court cases were going to take place involved a weekly trip to the
courthouse to consult the schedule of cases for that week. Hearings
did not always run on time and, when a date was set for trial, this was
not always adhered to due to the unavailability of lawyers or police, or
difficulties in tracking down defendants or witnesses. I was deterred
from examining records by court staff, due to their confused state.
Also, any research carried out on the records Vila would have
necessitated me occupying both the office space and time of court
staff, an imposition I was not entirely comfortable with.
The
combination of these factors meant that both archival research and
systematic observation of court cases were de-prioritised in the course
of my fieldwork.
I am thus using the material published on the
internet to offer a richer contextualisation of the cases I did observe
than might otherwise be possible.
Kastom as a negative factor
Some evidence points to the decision to include kastom in state court
cases being a matter of discretion for justices.
For instance, the
extent to which kastom is believed to actually provide some
meaningful form of justice that can take its place alongside Western
jurisprudence differs.
A clear example of this is shown in the
statement of the former Chief Justice, Vaudin d’Imecourt, who
asserted during his assessment of the well-known “nangol case”98:
This case related to the nangol, or land-dive, that takes place on Pentecost a
number of times each year. Popularised as “the original bungee jump”, the nangol
is now a tourist attraction. In this case [find reference] a group from south
Pentecost attempted to stop a nangol being performed on Santo as a tourist event.
98
152
‘this is not a custom court but a court of law’ (quoted in Brown 1999:
2). However, the decision to question the role of kastom in a case does
not always imply a negative assessment of kastom, but rather the
reliance placed on it by those involved. In his judgment relating to
two defendants accused of rape, Justice Roger Coventry dismissed the
charges but ended his comments by stating that:
I
would
add
that
this
prosecution
was
properly
brought.
Furthermore whether or not a custom ceremony has been held and
whether or not any fine has been paid it is the Public Prosecutor’s
decision to bring proceedings.
Defendants cannot expect that
prosecutions will not take place if a custom ceremony has been
held and any penalty paid. It is for the Public Prosecutor to decide.
In the case of sexual abuse especially of young people, the public
interest requires a prosecution, except in the most unusual
circumstances (Public Prosecutor v Tariodo [2002] VUSC 37;
Criminal Case No. 004 of 2002 (6th June 2002)).
Kastom as mitigation
The specific reference made to the expectations of defendants may well
relate to the frequency in which custom reconciliation is taken into
account by justices in passing sentence. As Section 118 indicates, the
courts are, in some cases, required by legislation to “encourage and
facilitate” settlement through avenues other than state litigation.
However, the mitigating effects of kastom settlements are not limited
to cases that fall within the bounds of that section. In several of the
cases I reviewed sentences were reduced or suspended with prior or
planned kastom settlements being cited as a reason for this.
For
instance, in Public Prosecutor v Gideon (VUSC 118; Criminal Case No
028 of 2001 (18th December 2001)) the defendant pleaded guilty to a
charge of unlawful sexual intercourse with a 13-year-old girl. In the
judgment it is outlined how a “customary settlement” was performed
‘where the defendant paid VT30,000 fine to the girl’s relatives, also the
See Jolly (1994b) for a discussion of this case, and the relationship between the
nangol and tourism.
153
chief, a pig. 1 mat as customary settlement’. Imposing a sentence of
eighteen months imprisonment, Justice Marum stated that both the
guilty plea and customary settlement had been ‘taken into account’.
He went on to conclude that ‘on the basis of customary settlement the
court is of the view that a suspended sentence will serve and better
purpose’.
This example is not singular. In some cases customary settlements
were mentioned in a matter-of-fact manner in relation to sentencing: ‘I
accept you are very sorry. I also accept you have made a full custom
settlement’ (Public Prosecutor v Tor [2002] VUSC 28; Criminal Case
No 023 of 2002 17th May 2002)); ‘In sentencing the defendant the
following
additional
factors...were
taken
into
consideration
in
mitigation:...He has undertaken to perform and settle matters between
the complainant and her relatives in accordance with custom’ (Public
Prosectuor v Matavusi [2000] VUSC 42; Criminal Case No 0151 of
2000 (10th August 2000)).
In one case settlement through kastom
seemed to be even taken-for-granted as a precursor to the trial: ‘I will
presume you have tried to settle...matters in custom but not
succeeded’ (Public Prosecutor v Toka [2001] VUSC 59; Criminal Case
No 002 of 1999 (21st June 2001)).
In a further case involving charges of rape and aiding rape against six
defendants, the details of a customary settlement are set out in the
judgment:
‘[The victim’s] father arranged a meeting where the
defendants made apologies to the victim followed with shaking hands
and payments of ten mats, VT 10,000, two pigs, kava and some more
other island foods’ (Public Prosecutor v Wayane [2000] VUSC 57;
Criminal Case 008 of 2000 (20th October 2000)).
And the need to
take it into account in the sentencing decision is spelt out by the
judge:
The law under Section 118 of the C.P.C allows for reconciliation to
take place between the parties on a criminal ofence and section
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119 the court is to take into account of any customary payment
made by custom over the offence itself.... The Law recognise
reconciliation and customary settlement and the Court must apply
in terms of sentencing as that is the way of life accepted by the
community and recognize by law (Public Prosecutor v Wayane
[2000] VUSC 57; Criminal Case 008 of 2000 (20th October 2000)).
While the customary settlement was mentioned again later in the
judgment as a mitigating factor in terms of the sentence imposed, the
judge also made clear that his decision would not be compromised by
the expectations of those involved in the settlement:
In view of my stated reasons I will impose a custodial sentence as
opposed to other form of sentencing. This may not go down well
with the relatives of both parties and even the defendants as the
matter had been settled by custom and they may ask why punish
the offenders again when they had paid the price of what they did
in the custom. A defendant commits an offence must pay the price
for the penalty described by
such
offence and customary
settlement cannot exchange such punishment but can only use to
ease the ill feelings between the parties and their relatives and also
as stated above it benefits sentence ((Public Prosecutor v Wayane
[2000] VUSC 57; Criminal Case 008 of 2000 (20th October 2000)).
This statement raises the question of what is expected - or gained from a customary settlement, and how it should be accounted for in
weighing up a state legal judgement.
It can be argued that Section 119 encourages a more direct equation
between financial compensation - as paid in customary settlements and the amount due under state court fines. In Public Prosecutor v
Morsen James, the defendant pleaded guilty to a charge of unlawful
sexual intercourse. In the judgement mention is made of a meeting
held ‘in which the defendant paid a fine of VT1,000 for the offence he
committed, a further VT1,000 for trespass and further VT1,200 as
compensation’ (Public Prosecutor v Morsen James [2000] VUSC 66;
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Criminal Case 007 of 1999 (14th November 2000)).99 In sentencing,
the judge made a clear equation between the amount paid in fines
under the customary settlement and the defendant being convicted
and discharged of this offence:
‘Considering...the circumstances of
the defendant especially that he has paid a fine of VT3,200, that he is
of clean past record, that he is now married and maintaining a family
who have forgotten all about the case...the most appropriate I can
impose is a conviction and discharge (Public Prosecutor v Morsen
James [2000] VUSC 66; Criminal Case 007 of 1999 (14th November
2000) emphasis added).
Kastom as evidence
While still acting as a mitigating factor in terms of sentencing,
customary settlements are assimilated into judgements in a variety of
ways.
In Public Prosecutor v Wayane cited above the customary
settlement was seen to “ease ill feeling” between the parties involved,
rather than act as a punishment in itself.
In another rape case,
Public Prosecutor v Tariodo (previously cited), the role of kastom is
less clear:
in fact, it appears in the judgement as an explanatory
factor for why the case actually came to court.
As events were
recounted in the judgment, the woman made only one clear statement
that she had been forced to have sex.
Evidence given by many
witnesses had her using Bislama phrases such as “touchem nogud
hem” [touching her in a bad way], “pullem shirt mo shirt i broke”
[tugging her shirt and tearing it], “tufala i holem nogud mi nomo” [the
two of them just “held” me in a bad way].100
The offence took place in the victim’s parents’ house, which is presumably the
reason why an amount was paid relating to trespass.
100 As Crowley (1995) indicates, holem has a variety of meanings that could be
relevant in this context: hold, grab hold of, grasp, caress. This potential range of
meanings and the euphemistic manner in which sexual acts are talked about in
Bislama seems, in this case, to be used to throw doubt on the validity of the
complaint.
99
156
Matters were muddied further by the evidence surrounding a kastom
meeting that took place the day after the alleged rapes:
‘A custom
meeting was arranged for the next day. The two defendants were each
fined Vt25,000 and a pig. They didn’t pay this and a few days later
the matter was reported to the police’. The defence argued that the
ceremony had been for the purpose of “clinim gud face”.101 This was
backed up by their sole witness, a jif, who said that “clinim gud face” rather than dealing with accusations of rape - was the basis of the
meeting. He explained that “clinim fes” was necessary in this case as
the two defendants were both married men. This seems to imply that
consensual, although illicit, sex was being acknowledged.
The
complainant’s mother agreed with the jif’s statement as to the reason
for the meeting, and the judge was prompted to state that ‘it is not
entirely clear from the evidence if the mother understood rape was
being alleged until they went to the police’.
It is clear from the evidence outlined in the judgment that complaining
to the police was precipitated by the defendants’ non-payment of the
fines imposed at the meeting. Under questioning from the defence,
the mother of the victim ‘agreed she was angry when the two
defendants failed to pay the fine and then she and [the victim] went to
the police’. Furthermore, ‘she said a small custom fine had now been
paid and they wanted to withdraw the case’.
Ultimately the
defendants were found not guilty. Enough doubt had been introduced
by the defence through their questioning of the complainant, who
admitted that ‘there was no force or assault’ and ‘agreed it was
“normal” sexual intercourse’.
This doubt was consolidated by the
This translates literally as “cleaning your face well”, however, in the context of
kastom settlements, I would translate it as meaning “to remove shame”. It indicates
that matters are now over in that acceptance of the fine amounts to acceptance that
there is no further need for shame on the part of those fined. The concept of “klinim
fes” does not always involve the level of ceremony indicated in this case: at the men
fieldworkers’ workshop a discussion arose about the practice of giving something to
someone you had offended after which matter were finished. It was agreed that this
was part of kastom practice in many parts of the country.
101
157
evidence concerning the reasons assumed by participants to be
behind the custom meeting and resulting fines.
In that case kastom acted not as a mitigating factor, but rather as a
source of evidence, complying more closely with the third way I
outlined
above
in
which
kastom
is
brought
into
state
legal
proceedings. The Public Prosecutor v Tariodo judgement did not take
account of the ceremony and fines as punishment, but rather implied
that doubt had been introduced by witnesses testifying that their
participation in the meeting was not related to rape.
This use of
kastom as a source of evidence seems to occur more frequently in civil
cases than in criminal, being used to elucidate practices relating to
marriage, adoption or inheritance of lands or titles for instance. In
some ways it works as more than simply evidence, being used too as a
way of developing an indigenous jurisprudence by increasing the
number of judgements involving kastom that can be drawn upon as
precedents.
The case of Waiwo v Waiwo and Banga ([1996] VUSMC 1; Civil Case
No 324 of 1995), and its subsequent appeal, provide a good example
of this trend.102
That case involved a petition for divorce on the
grounds of adultery, and an application for damages by the petitioner
against the respondent (her former husband) and co-respondent (the
woman
he
admitted
committing
adultery
with).
Neither
the
dissolution of the marriage nor the accusation of adultery were
disputed; instead the area of contention was the claim for damages.
As the judgement states, ‘the only point in issue in this case is about
the nature of damages claimed by the Petitioner...as to whether
damages claimed in such a petition is of punitive or compensatory
It is important to note that the presiding Senior Magistrate in this case was
Vincent Lunabek, who has since become the first ni-Vanuatu Chief Justice. He is
commonly agreed to be a keen champion of the place of kastom in the
administration of state law in Vanuatu, and his approach to this judgement could
be taken to indicate a more likely acceptance of such an attitude on the part of the
judiciary in the future.
102
158
nature’. This question revolved around differing interpretations of the
Matrimonial
Causes
Act,
and
broader
issues
regarding
the
applicability of laws carried over at the time of independence
The details of the breakdown of the marriage were outlined in the
judgement:
The complainant and two respondents were all from
Isangel on Tanna, which is where the adulterous relationship was
discovered.
The complainant and her husband then moved to Port
Vila, ‘but they never stopped disputing one another’. In reaction to
this discord, a customary meeting was held by Tannese jifs resident in
Vila, with the aim of solving the marital problems. As explained by
the petitioner, fines were handed out at the meeting to all three
parties:
...the chiefs decided that the Respondent-Husband will pay an
amount of Vatu 20,000 to the Co-Respondent’s husband and that
the Co-Respondent will pay her [the petitioner] 5,000 Vatu and 2
pieces of calico. Further the Chiefs said that she [the petitioner]
will pay an amount of Vatu 5,000 to the Co-Respondent because
she insulted, at some stage, the Co-Respondent (Waiwo v Waiwo
and Banga [1996] VUSMC 1; Civil Case No 324 of 1995).
This settlement was rejected on the grounds that the petitioner was
not willing either to pay the fine to the Co-Respondent, or accept any
money from her.
Instead, she filed for divorce in the state court,
claiming 100,000vt in damages from the Co-Respondent ‘because it is
no longer possible for her to reconcile with her husband’.
Both counsels agreed that it was possible to claim damages under
Section 17(1) of the Matrimonial Causes Act (1986), which provides
that ‘A Petitioner may on a petition for divorce claim damages from
any person on the ground of adultery with the respondent’. However,
the counsel for the Co-Respondent argued that these could be
compensatory only, whereas the amount of 100,000vt would have to
be classified as punitive. Her argument hinged on the fact that the
Vanuatu Act is based on the British Matrimonial Causes Act (1965),
159
which was carried over as legislation at the time of independence.
Therefore decisions must involve an interpretation of the relevant
section based on that Act. In response the counsel for the Petitioner
argued that the Vanuatu Matrimonial Causes Act was revised by the
Vanuatu Parliament in 1986, meaning that in any use of Section 17(1)
the intention of parliament must be taken into account. To bolster
this argument, she emphasised the serious nature of adultery in
Vanuatu and the fact that punitive damages are frequently awarded
under kastom: ‘clearly...local circumstances are different from those of
the United Kingdom’.
Justice Lunabek addressed this issue in his judgement, arguing that a
certain level of knowledge - and, thus, intention - must be presumed
on the part of Parliament, thus separating the Vanuatu Act from its
British antecedent:
...it is primarily the duty of the Court to interpret an Act of
Parliament in such a reasonable manner so as not to defeat the
intention of Parliament and the purpose for which the Act was
enacted.
It would be absurd to presume that, when section 17
(1)...was enacted by Parliament, the provisions there of were
intended to apply to damages claimed...on the ground of adultery
as applied in the United Kingdom, that is for compensatory
damages only, having regard to the fact that to the knowledge of
members of Vanuatu Parliament, Vanuatu circumstances are
different from those of the United Kingdom...and that adultery is
considered in Vanuatu as a serious offence most importantly on
the basis of custom. This knowledge must be presumed (Waiwo v
Waiwo and Banga [1996] VUSMC 1; Civil Case No 324 of 1995).
The relationship between the two Acts was also addressed, with the
justice stating,
...if it is correct to say that Vanuatu Matrimonial Causes Act was
based or structure on the U.K.’s (1965) Act, it is not necessarily
true to say that strict interpretation of the Vanuatu Act would be
based
on
the
U.K.
(1965)
Act...[W]e
160
therefore
accept
the
submissions made by counsel for the Petitioner, that Vanuatu
Matrimonial Causes (1986) Act was passed by Vanuatu Parliament
and
thus,
must
be
interpreted
on
the
basis
of
Vanuatu
circumstances which reflect the intention of Vanuatu Parliament
(Waiwo v Waiwo and Banga [1996] VUSMC 1; Civil Case No 324 of
1995).
Kastom as (potential) indigenous jurisprudence
Justice
Lunabek
went
on
to
consider
the
provisions
of
the
Constitution relating to the passing over of British and French laws at
the time of independence. Firstly he outlined the ways in which these
laws were applied during the Condominium administration of the New
Hebrides. During this time, ni-Vanuatu were literally non-subjects,
granted neither citizenship nor the rights of subjects of either the
British or the French.103 Other foreign nationals were “optants”,
choosing which law code they would be governed by within a month of
arriving in the New Hebrides (reference). Under Section 95(2) of the
Constitution, ‘the British and French laws in force or applied in
Vanuatu immediately before the Day of Independence shall on and
after that day continue to apply to the extent that they are not
expressly revoked or incompatible with the independent status of
Vanuatu and wherever possible taking due account of custom’.
In
Justice Lunabek’s interpretation though, the fact that those laws did
not specifically apply to ni-Vanuatu makes there application postindependence questionable:
It seems that British and French laws referred to in Article 95(2) of
the Constitution would not be applied to the indigenous citizen
[sic] of this country. Therefore, the question arises as to which law
is applicable to the indigenous ni-Vanuatu, when there being no
Vanuatu laws covering their situations in a particular given case?
The answer to this question is that there is a law: Customary Law
of Vanuatu must be applied (Waiwo v Waiwo and Banga [1996]
VUSMC 1; Civil Case No 324 of 1995 emphasis in orginal).
Under the London Protocol of 1914 this included not only ni-Vanuatu, but also
‘any person of the aboriginal races of the Pacific who was not a citizen or subject or
under the protection of either of the two signatory powers’.
103
161
Justice Lunabek argued further that this situation was the result of
“failures” on the part of the Vanuatu parliament to enact legislation
that would cover this lack as outlined in the Constitution (Article 51).
As a result, ‘the Courts have a Constitutional duty to administer
justice throughout the Republic of Vanuatu by upholding the
Consitution and the laws of Vanuatu and laws of Vanuatu include
custom’.
In this judgement, he showed an awareness that he was
putting forward something of a test case in terms of the role that
kastom might play in future decisions:
‘Thus, custom must be
discovered, adopted and enforced as law.
This case is the testing
point of this process bearing in mind of the fact that Vanuatu
jurisprudence is in its infancy and that we have to develop our own
jurisprudence’.
In his judgement Justice Lunabek went on to lay out specific
procedures for the application of “customary law” in state courts, all
based on his assertion that there could be instances where no
“Vanuatu laws” - meaning enacted state laws that were based on
British or French law operative prior to independence - were
appropriate to the case. The procedure in each instance depended for
the most part on where the participants in a case came from: ‘...if
they come from the same custom area, island and under the same
customary law, the law applicable to their case should be their
customary law.
This is exactly the situation in this case’ (Waiwo v
Waiwo and Banga [1996] VUSMC 1; Civil Case No 324 of 1995). In
the event that the people involved were ‘from the same Island or
different Island but under different customary law’, Justice Lunabek
stated that it would be necessary to ascertain the ‘common basis or
foundation’ of the customary law covering those “jurisdictions”:
This will consist for the Court to obtain evidence on the customary
law applicable and it should then weigh up the evidence on custom
stating which witness the Court believes or does not believe and
162
resolving any conflicts or custom.
The Court should state the
customary law which he/she intends to apply.
The reasons for
decision should state the findings of facts, the law the Court
considers applicable (its common basis) and the Court should then
apply the law to the facts to get the result (Waiwo v Waiwo and
Banga [1996] VUSMC 1; Civil Case No 324 of 1995).
In the event that a ni-Vanuatu and non-indigenous person are
involved in a dispute which is not covered by “Vanuatu laws”,
...the Court would consider British or French laws applicable in
Vanuatu, depending on the choice of the non-citizen as to the law
to be applied and at the same time, the Court would consider the
customary law of Vanuatu (if there is any) and would apply the law
relevant to the case (Waiwo v Waiwo and Banga [1996] VUSMC 1;
Civil Case No 324 of 1995).
In this way, Justice Lunabek has made clear that all cases that may
arise in state courts involving ni-Vanuatu can be dealt with in such a
way as to include customary law. The rest of his judgement in the
case of Waiwo v Waiwo and Banga centred on a number of factors:
that adultery is an offence under customary law; that all those
involved in this case came from the same kastom area; fines “charged”
under kastom can be seen as punitive rather than compensatory; and,
lastly, that no explicit evidence needs to be given in state courts as to
the existence of kastom punishments for certain offences if that
knowledge can be presupposed on the part of the judiciary hearing the
case. Based on these factors, the petitioner’s claim for 100,000vatu in
compensation from the co-respondent was successful.
Kastom vs. custom; morality vs. law
Later that year this decision was appealed, and eventually overturned
by the Chief Justice at the time, Charles Vaudin d’Imecourt (Banga v
Waiwo.
Appeal Case 1 of 1996).
He rejected Justice Lunabek’s
arguments regarding both the inapplicability of existing legislation to
ni-Vanuatu, and the ability of state court judges to base decisions on
kastom without specific evidence being presented in a case.
163
His
disagreement
with
Lunabek’s
opinion
seems
to
illustrate
two
conflicting models of kastom which could possibly be glossed as
“kastom vs. custom”, and which are perhaps illustrative too of the
difference I perceive between kastom loa and customary law.
Lunabek’s model is more fluid, presupposing “an understanding of
kastom” by all ni-Vanuatu that would manifest itself in the intentions
of members of parliament when passing legislation, and in the way
that ni-Vanuatu judges would administer justice in state courts. He
seems to favour procedure closer to that allowed for in the island
courts:
...one can maintain that justice is administered by Judicial officers
(Judges and Magistrates) and chiefs (appointed as Justices of the
Island Court) and they are themselves familiar with the customs of
the people of this country and generally speaking require no
evidence to inform them what those customs are.
In the great
majority of cases in their courts turning upon customs it would be
unreasonable to expect evidence as to custom.
In a few cases
where there might be doubt as to what the custom actually is it
might be desirable or even necessary that evidence be adduced on
the point. It would be dangerous to lay down any hard and fast
rule (Waiwo v Waiwo and Banga [1996] VUSMC 1; Civil Case No
324 of 1995).
The Chief Justice, on the other hand, had a less trusting view of the
judiciary’s ability to incorporate kastom into their judgements. While
conceding that “custom chiefs” were appointed as justices in the
island courts, he emphasised that this only took place ‘in the areas
from which they come, and not somewhere else exactly because they
are knowledgeable (and are considered experts) in the custom of their
own areas’ (Banga v Waiwo. Appeal Case 1 of 1996). His argument
rested on a model of kastom as specific sets of rules that apply in
small areas, rather than a broadly (nationally) understood way of
behaving capable of generalisation throughout the entire country: ‘It
is essential...to remember that Judges and magistrates are not
custom Chiefs and are not experts in custom of any area let alone of
164
the whole of Vanuatu. Nor is there any such a thing as THE custom
of Vanuatu’ (Banga v Waiwo.
Appeal Case 1 of 1996).
Further
misgivings were expressed by the Chief Justice: he made the
(debatable) assertion that no customary law is written down, making
its inclusion in state court proceedings difficult; also, customary
punishments are not compatible with those of state courts.
‘One
must not forget...that in true custom, money plays no part at all as
there is no money in custom. It is only in relatively recent times that
money has made its way into custom settlements’ (Banga v Waiwo.
Appeal Case 1 of 1996).
Vaudin d’Imecourt’s overturning of the original decision in this case
was based mainly on his disagreement with Justice Lunabek’s
assertion that introduced laws do not apply to ni-Vanuatu postindependence, and that customary law should be used instead.
However, he also indicated an equation between customary law - as
used by Justice Lunabek in his judgement - and “moralising”, which
has no place in state court.
In his judgement the Chief Justice
asserted variously that, ‘Our Divorce Courts are not Courts of
morality, but Courts of law’; It is important to note that the Court is
not there to punish mere immorality.
We are not concerned with the
moral aspect of the adulterers’; ‘The Court is not a Court of morality
and damages should not be awarded to punish mere immorality’
(Banga v Waiwo. Appeal Case 1 of 1996).
After arguing for the applicability of customary law, Justice Lunabek
had justified his awarding of punitive damages based on the fact that
adultery is considered a serious offence under kastom:
...it is common ground throughout the archipelago of Vanuatu that
adultery is considered to be a serious offence in custom that
adulterers are customarily punished for their wrongdoings. This is
fundamentally a customary law and it has become of such general
notoriety that judicial notice may be taken of it (Waiwo v Waiwo
and Banga [1996] VUSMC 1; Civil Case No 324 of 1995).
165
In the appeal judgement overturning the award of damages the
distinction made between morality and law works to render kastom as
inherently incompatible with the administration of justice in state
courts. In opposition to Lunabek, Vaudin d’Imecourt seems to view
“customary law” as a parallel, yet not fully realised, set of rules that
do not add up to a nationally recognised theory of right and wrong due to it not being written down, and the presence of local variation.
Kastom editorialising
Despite such objections to the introduction of (a kastom-oriented)
morality into the courtroom, other judgements suggest that this does
occur.
These include comments relating to the motivation of
defendants: ‘As a married man this defendant was selfish and he was
driven by lust to have intercourse with his own daughter’ (Public
Prosecutor v Tula [2001] VUSC 63; Criminal Case No 179 of 2001);
‘This was a tragic event calculated from a very greedy and jealous
person. In jealously guarding his wife, he went beyond the limit by
killing her’ (Public Prosecutor v Pakoa [2002] VUSC 1; Criminal Case
No 23 of 2001).
Comment is also passed on occasion about the
behaviour of victims or complainants: in a case involving a charge of
sexual intercourse with an eighteen year old stepdaughter the judge
lightened the sentence on the grounds that ‘the girl at this age was
matured enough to refuse given the fact that the defendant was her
step father. She is partly responsible to what she is now, as in this
case the law only punishes the man for the wrong’ (Public Prosecutor
v Marango [2002] VUSC 7; Criminal Case No 6 of 2002). In a rape
case, which was ultimately dismissed, the judge highlighted the fact
that the complainant had told the defendant that she had her period
when he asked her to have sex with him. He had replied that this
didn’t matter to him. The judge’s reading of this was that ‘they [had]
both used sexual words to each other, which are not matters to openly
talk about’ (Public Prosecutor v Kenoho [2001] VUSC 95; Criminal
Case No 15 of 2001).
166
In some ways those examples do little more than illustrate the,
perhaps common sense, notion that judges are human too.
Or,
specifically in this case, judges are ni-Vanuatu too. However, it can
be argued that a stricter delineation between kastom and state law as in that argued for by Chief Justice Vaudin d’Imecourt - is being
circumvented through the attitude of judges, and even other court
personnel. In criminal cases, sentencing becomes an opportunity to
address not only the defendant, or even just the evidence presented,
but also others involved in the matter - victims, relatives, witnesses.
In my interpretation this incorporative model of responsibility and
justice subscribes more closely to that found in kastom.
This is
indicated too by the inclusion of relatives in the decision to proceed
with a court case. In Public Prosecutor v Toriodo quoted above, the
mother of the complainant attempted to have the case withdrawn,
although the court rejected this. In another rape case involving six
defendants the court was informed by the counsel acting for the
Public Prosecutor that, ‘the relatives of the Complainant have
expressed their desire that the case be terminated and the parties be
encouraged to reconcile in custom’ (Public Prosecutor v Soksok [2001]
VUSC 23; Criminal Case No 40 of 1999). In support of this request
she quoted Section 118 of the Criminal Procedure Code (quoted in full
above), which states that the courts should encourage reconciliation
in certain cases.
However, this is only allowed if the charge is
punishable by a prison sentence of less than 7 years, and, therefore,
was not applicable to this case.104
In order to get around this, the
counsel entered a nolle prosequi105 as allowed under section 29 of the
Criminal Procedures Code, thus forcing the court to discharge all of
the accused.
Rape can be punished by life imprisonment.
‘A proceeding in which a plaintiff or prosecutor relinquishes part or all of a suit
or prosecution against a defendant. Also: an entry to this effect in a court record’
(OED 2nd ed.).
104
105
167
Island courts
As discussed at the start of this chapter, the introduction of island
courts in 1983, could be seen as a realisation of the Constitutional
provisions contained in Section 52 for courts which would have
‘jurisdiction over customary and other matters’ and ‘provide for the
role of chiefs’ in them. In compliance with the requirements set out in
the Constitution the Act emphasised the role of customary law in the
new courts:
Subject to the provisions of this Act an island court shall
administer the customary law prevailing within the territorial
jurisdiction of the court so far as the same is not in conflict with
any written law and is not contrary to justice, morality and good
order (Island Courts Act (1983) Section 10).
The difference in the style of island courts from that of other state
courts was also reinforced by the fact that ‘legal practitioners’ are not
allowed to participate in proceedings.
Although each court has a
supervisory magistrate appointed by the Chief Justice, the actual
justices are “lay” people, all of whom must be ‘knowledgeable in
custom’, and amongst them must include ‘a custom chief residing
within the territorial jurisdiction of the court’ (Island Courts Act (1983)
Section 3).
The jurisdiction of the island courts is limited to civil claims (other
than land disputes) of no more than 50,000vatu (£250), and, in either
civil or criminal cases, they may not impose penalties exceeding fines
of 24,000vatu (£125) or six months imprisonment. All decisions can
be appealed to the magistrate’s court or, in the case of land disputes,
the supreme court.
If a sentence of imprisonment of longer than
fourteen days is imposed, this must be confirmed by the supervisory
magistrate of the court.
need be final.
This means that no island court decision
The warrants that establish each court outline the
charges that may be dealt with by them.
These cover a variety of
minor criminal and civil matters, although they do include assault
and witchcraft. In my experience, the majority of cases heard involved
168
charges of criminal damage, trespass, threatening behaviour, and
child maintenance cases.
Despite the intent of the Constitutional provisions from which the
island courts arose, and the explicit inclusion of customary law in
Section 10 of the Act, one commentator makes the point that ‘the
warranted jurisdiction…other than in the area of land, does not
actually involve any general or specific custom law jurisdiction.
Rather the warrants indicate that the focus of the courts’ jurisdiction
[is] minor introduced law matters’ (Jowitt 1999: 4). For this reason, it
appears that the defining characteristic of the island courts as
opposed to the higher courts in Vanuatu must be the procedure
followed. As well as the restrictions on the participation of lawyers,
Section 25 of the Act stipulates that ‘an island court shall not apply
technical rules of evidence but shall admit and consider such
information as is available’, thus giving a flexibility to proceedings
perhaps not possible in other state courts. In my experience of island
court cases, this was true in some ways. An air of informality would
prevail at times, with members of the “public” – usually people
connected to the case in some way - frequently interjecting with
additional information or challenging the version of events being put
forward by defendants or witnesses. Yet this would sometimes swing
to the other extreme, with strict codes of behaviour being demanded –
in one instance, the court clerk interrupted the hearing, telling a man
seated in the public area of the court to take off his hat: “When you
come to court, you must respect the court”. In a telling statement, a
justice in the island court in Santo admonished a recalcitrant
defendant, reminding him that “this isn’t a village court; you can’t just
talk about anything”.
The Bislama construction used to ascertain how a defendant pleaded
also had an effect on the way that cases proceeded. While the word
“kilti” [guilty] is sometimes used in Bislama, in the island courts the
169
charge would be read out after which the defendant would be asked,
“hemia i tru o no?” [Is this true or not?]. In many cases defendants
would say that yes, it was true, but this would be supplemented by
additional factors to explain their actions. Usually, these related to
pre-existing land disputes. These outbursts were generally cut short
by the justices, who would sometimes explain that to address such
disputes would necessitate bringing a further case to court.
This
pattern suggests a desire on the part of those involved to reach a clear
resolution of all matters pertaining to the case.
This form of
resolution matches that aimed for in the kastom reconciliation
described in the previous chapter.
However, the formation of
historical understanding aimed for in that setting is not possible
under state law – each offence must be dealt with as a single incident,
rather than being built into a composite picture that affords the
reformation of subjectivity and relations between the parties involved.
A further way in which island court proceedings can differ from those
of other courts is in the lack of legal knowledge on the part of the
justices. As discussed above, justices are appointed on the basis of
their knowledge of kastom, but must also be “lay people”. Some legal
training is provided to justices, but, in a number of cases I observed,
their judgements went against or ignored the law.
In refusing an
application for child maintenance, the justice explains that this is
because the couple are still married, despite the fact the husband now
has another family who he is living with: “It’s as it says in the Bible –
“what God has joined together let no man take apart”. The fact that
he’s living with another woman doesn’t come into it. If you weren’t
married it would be a straightforward case.” He went on to talk more
about the sanctity of marriage, then moved on to the proper basis of
law in Vanuatu:
“Our laws may be made by the government but
they’re based on Christianity. Now there is divorce – Parliament is try
to ruin things for us (Parlimen i spolem gud yumi) – but that’s not how
it should be.” After these statements, the court clerk explained to the
170
applicant that all she needed to do was make an application for family
maintainence, rather than child maintenance – a fact not known, or
perhaps withheld by the justices.
In a particularly rowdy hearing in the Santo island court revolving
around charges of assault and threatening to kill, the justices clearly
began to loose their patience with constant references to the
underlying land dispute.
Their responses clearly indicated a belief
that island courts are in no way a kastom forum. One justice asked if
the defendants and others involved in the case didn’t have a jif who
could sort out their problems? Another justice added: “These people
should sort out these problems with their jifs.
doesn’t know kastom.
The island court
If jifs act their part, then you don’t have to
come to court. The court isn’t your family”. His concluding advice –
described as “the advice of the court” – was to go to your jif in the first
instance and if he felt it necessary, a case could be brought to court –
“I don’t want to see any of you bringing a case to court again
yourselves”.
As the examples given in this chapter indicate, attempts have been
made through the Constitution and other legislation to allow “custom”
and “customary law” to enter the courts. At the same time, members
of the judiciary and legal profession have tried to find ways to utilise
the existing legislative framework in a manner that could achieve
kastom-oriented outcomes – for example, Lunabek’s arguments for the
non-applicability of laws derived from French and English to niVanuatu; or the public prosecutor’s use of a nolle prosequi to ensure
that a case did not go ahead, in line with the wishes of the victim’s
family.
For the most part, though, “custom” and “customary law”
appears in state court proceedings as something “to be taken note of”
– as a source of evidence, or a mitigating factor in sentencing. It is
worth noting too that a guilty plea often acted as a stronger mitigating
factor than any evidence of “customary settlements” having taken
171
place. In the case of the island courts, supposedly designed to bring
kastom into state law as procedure, the result appears as the
imperfect enforcement of existing state legislation. This is combined
with a disavowal in some cases that the island courts are even able to
deal with “customary matters”. State law and customary law do not
interact on an equal footing.
This unequal relationship is stated
clearly in the Constitution. Section 2 reads, ‘The Constitution is the
supreme law of the Republic of Vanuatu’ (Republic of Vanuatu
(revised edition) 1988). In Bislama the Constitution is referred to as
“mama loa”, indicating knowledge of its pre-eminent position on the
part of many ni-Vanuatu.
What must be remembered here is the distinction between the three
separate – but related – domains of customary law, kastom loa, and
kastom. While those first two terms appear analogous, they are not
used in that way in Vanuatu. “Customary law” and “custom” appear
as the English legal terms that supposedly denote kastom. However,
in my experience, kastom and kastom loa have come to be viewed as
so separate from state law that a distinction must be made between
the state’s interpretation of kastom and the kastom interpretation of it
as loa.106 At the same time I also encountered the frequent implication
that attempts to find a way of integrating kastom and state law are so
necessary as to be common sense. However, this attitude could be
seen to come from two “sides”:
those who hoped for stronger
legislative acknowledgement of kastom, leading to a (re)empowerment
of jifs; and those who saw closer integration of the two domains as
necessary to exert some control on jifs, in particular, assuring
adherence to the various rights and freedoms provided in the
Constitution and international conventions to which Vanuatu is a
signatory. The Juvenile Justice Project provides a good example of the
The relationship between kastom and kastom loa is also contentious in some
ways – a point that will be returned to.
106
172
difficulties that arise in trying to accommodate these differing
intentions within the confines of a single project.
The Juvenile Justice Project
The idea for the Juvenile Justice Project came out of the first round of
research conducted by the Young People’s Project. In the preparation
of their report, Harem Voes blong ol Yangfala long Vila Taon (YPP
1999), it emerged that many of those interviewed expressed a
preference for their “case” to be dealt with through kastom:
In the course of research carried out in Port Vila they found that
many young people, in particular males who are more often young
offenders, stated that they preferred to have their disputes resolved
and offences addressed through the utilisation of existing kastom
approaches rather than through the state legal system.
Young
offenders who were interviewed expressed concern regarding the
treatment they had received from police and the penalising rather
than reconciliatory outcomes of the state court system.
A more
general problem which young people identified in their dealings
with the law was a lack of understanding of the state legal system
and their rights under this system (Rousseau 2003: 1 – quoted
from the original funding proposal).
The proposal for the Project was formulated by Ralph Regenvanu,
Director of the VCC, Jean Mitchell, a Canadian anthropologist and
instigator of the Young People’s Project, and Reynold Liu, a niVanuatu lawyer who sadly died before the Project got underway. It
consisted of five objectives:
1) To develop a plan of action to more effectively address the needs
and rights of young offenders;
2) To undertake research on kastom approaches to the issue of
young offenders and the conceptions, principles and practices
involved in these;
3) To initiate a broad-based and participative process of discussion
around issues of juvenile justice culminating in a national summit
meeting;
173
4) To identify the strategy and mechanisms needed to develop and
provide an alternative system which effectively negotiates and
incorporates kastom and western legal conceptions of justice to
respond in a positive way to the situation of young offenders in
Vanuatu;
5) To provide expertise and training on issues of juvenile justice
and alternative dispute resolution to staff of the Young People’s
Project at the Vanuatu Cultural Centre (Rousseau 2003: 1 - quoted
from the original funding proposal).
The proposal went on to indicate five main outcomes for the Project:
1) A plan of action for addressing the needs of young offenders;
2) A report of the research process and findings and a summary
report of the national summit meeting;
3) Video coverage of the summit meeting for archival purposes;
4) The development of awareness of the issues of rights and needs
among communities and the development of skills and
knowledge in addressing the complex issues surrounding
juvenile justice in Vanuatu;
5) The provision of expertise and training on issues of juvenile
justice and alternative dispute resolution to staff of the Young
People’s Project at the Vanuatu Cultural Centre (Rousseau
2003: 1-2 – quoted from the original funding proposal).
The majority of funding for the Project came from the British
Department for International Development (DFID) as part of their
Good Governance funding priority, while UNICEF provided funds for
the National Summit Meeting that took place in Vila in March 2001.
The core staff of the JJP was two ni-Vanuatu men - the Project
Manager had recently graduated with an M.Sc from the University of
Waikato in New Zealand; and the Research Assistant was a VCC
fieldworker and school teacher from Ambae. A female Canadian First
Nations volunteer also acted as a Legal Advisor to the Project for
around four months. Two consultants assisted in the formulation of
the questionnaires to be used for the research, and provided advice to
the staff at several points in the course of the Project.
174
These were
Bradley Chenoweth, a restorative justice practitioner from Sydney,
and Jennifer Corrin-Care, a former lecturer in law at the University of
the South Pacific.
In addition to these, an Advisory Committee was set up, consisting of
mainly ni-Vanuatu, including lawyers, politicians, jifs, civil servants,
VCC representatives, the Ombudsman, and the President of the
Vanuatu National Council of Women. Meetings of this committee were
held almost monthly, but attendance fluctuated, especially as it
became clear that the research process was not proceeding in as
systematic a manner as originally planned for. Misgivings about the
research process may well reflect the expectations of those involved of
what “research” and “a report” should look like (cf: Riles 2001). Issues
that were brought up in meetings pinpointed a variety of “problematic”
factors.
Time constraints imposed by funding meant the proposed
second round of research trips to some of the islands had to be
cancelled. Random sampling techniques had not been used to select
either the sites for carrying out research, or the number of people
from each of the target groups (young people, chiefs, community
leaders, members of the legal profession, and police) to be interviewed.
The lengthy questionnaires (around 60-70 multi-part questions) were
not field tested, meaning that questions that caused confusion or
imprecise responses were not “weeded out” or changed in the early
stages of the research. All interviews – apart from some of those in
Vila – were carried out by men, meaning that their opportunities to
speak with women were fewer, and such interaction was potentially
more constrained than that with men. Details such as age and gender
were not always recorded, making it hard to carry out the more
rigorous qualitative analysis that was originally planned. In addition,
the number of open-ended questions contained in interviews (ie:
“please explain”) made much of the material unsuited to that type of
analysis. However, this was viewed as necessary, and manual coding
175
of all the questionnaires was eventually carried out in order to provide
a statistically-based product.
The National Summit Meeting on Juvenile Justice
This meeting was planned as the final activity of the JJP. This would
bring together “stakeholders” from all over the country who would be
presented with the Project report, and spend five days discussing its
findings and developing a “plan of action”. As it happened the report
was not completed by that time.107 Instead, draft summaries of the
findings were circulated, and members of the JJP “team” gave oral
presentations on the material.
The original plan for the Summit
Meeting had budgeted for around 60 invited participants, and
attempted to include representatives of young people, jifs, women,
churches, police, the legal profession and judiciary, NGOs, and the
more nebulous category of community leader. The Meeting received
some advance publicity in the media, the result of which was a
reasonably large contingent of jifs – many affiliated to the Port Vila
Town Council of Chiefs – turning up ‘eager to contribute their views’,
as we diplomatically phrased it in the final report (Rousseau 2003: 5).
The fact that the meeting was held in the Chiefs’ Nakamal also
contributed to the jif-ocentric air of proceedings, the effect of which
will be returned to later.
The manner in which discussion unfolded over the first day of the
meeting is illustrative of one of the approaches to kastom/state
integration I have mentioned above: such integration as empowerment
of
jifs
and
kastom.
Furthermore,
it
was
informed
by
the
presupposition that for young people to “want” kastom was logical.
The fact that this was statistically “proven” by the JJP findings
provided a mandate for action.
After the JJP staff had presented
The final report was not completed until late 2001. The JJP staff left as their
contracts ran out, and I completed the compilation and editing of the report as my
“service to the nation”, as stipulated under the Vanuatu Cultural Research Policy.
107
176
summaries of their findings the Director of the VCC stated to the
meeting that these were “things that everyone knew already”.
For
him, the only novelty of the Project was that it represented the first
time that this information had been brought together.
As a
participant-observer at the meeting it seemed to me that the question
of interest for those present was how kastom could be sufficiently
empowered by the state in order to give young people what they
wanted.
This was a meeting about kastom.
The reasons given by
those young people interviewed for the JJP as to why they chose
kastom over state law were only tangentially addressed, as such a
choice appeared too obvious to warrant much discussion.
The result of the National Summit was a set of Recommendations,
drafted by JJP and VCC staff after the third day of the meeting,
discussed and agreed upon by all those present at the meeting. The
Recommendations start with a preamble of sorts, outlining the
reasons for their existence.
These do cover the reasons given by
young people for choosing kastom over state law (Section 1), but go on
to emphasise the need to “empower” kastom in response to the
obvious pre-existence of kastom, rather than those issues raised by
the interviewees:
Kastom law is indigenous and is already working throughout
Vanuatu to solve problems in the community.
However, since
kastom law has not been empowered by state law, kastom law
cannot implement justice in the country as it potentially could. As
the jurisdiction of state and kastom law is not clearly defined,
many
chiefs
cannot
effectively
use
kastom
law
(JJP
Recommendations, Section 2).
Some of the recommendations encapsulated the compromise inherent
in the form of consensus decision-making followed by the meeting,
and worked to conceal differences in attitude on the part of those in
attendance. For instance, ‘Women also want to see the empowerment
177
of kastom law, but they must be involved when kastom courts deal
with
problems
involving
women
or
young
children’
(JJP
Recommendations, Section 1.4), indicated the contested nature of
women’s involvement in kastom dispute resolution. Perhaps the most
programmatic recommendations to come out of the meeting were
contained in Section 2.1. This involved a summation of who would
draft legislation to implement the wishes of the Summit Meeting, and
what such legislation should contain.
Relying on the existing
provisions of the Constitution (52 and 95(3)) that enable the inclusion
of kastom in state law, this section recommended co-operation
between the Malvatumauri, VCC, State Law Office, National Youth
Council, Vanuatu Christian Council and National Council of Women
in the drafting of an Act to ‘empower kastom law and empower chiefs
to implement kastom law’ (JJP Recommendations, Section 2.1).
In
addition, this Act would need approval ‘from village level to national
level, and with every sector of society’ (JJP Recommendations, Section
2.1). Included as ‘basic principles’ for such an Act were: centralised
registration of jifs with the Malvatumauri; limited right of appeal from
kastom courts; clear definition of the rights of women to participate in
kastom meetings; and a provision that jifs alone would be able to
determine what cases were passed on to state law. In some ways the
rest of the Recommendations can be read as attempts to ameliorate
the power of those suggestions. An exception to that trend is Section
2.8, which focuses on freedom of movement. That section states that
‘Chiefs must look seriously at controlling the migration of young
people from the islands to town.
Chiefs on the islands must give
approval for a young person to come to town and communicate with
their colleague chief(s) in town so they are aware of their presence and
can monitor them while in town’ (JJP Recommendations, Section 2.8).
Reactions to the Summit Recommendations
Shortly after the close of the National Summit an article about the
meeting appeared in the Trading Post newspaper, including an
178
English translation of the Recommendations (7th April 2001).
In
reaction to this - the first publicised account of the outcomes of that
meeting - a petition against the content of the Recommendations was
drafted by staff of Wan Smolbag Theatre Company.
This was
distributed amongst NGOs and other interested parties in Vila for
comments and signatures.108
The petition was brought to the
attention of the JJP staff when staff of the YPP stated their intent to
sign it. The original letter from Wan Smolbag opened by emphasising
the non-representative nature of the JJP research, stating that the
majority of interviews had been carried out on Efate, and that 68% of
interviewees had been male.109 They challenged the statistical basis
for claims made at the National Summit Meeting that young people
wanted
kastom,
suggesting
instead
that
‘some
of
the
recommendations that arose from the National Summit will cause the
life of young people to deteriorate, especially the lives of young girls’
(Rousseau 2003: 111).
A number of objections arose from clashes
between the recommendations, the Constitution and international
conventions to which Vanuatu is a signatory.110
However, many
involved implicit criticism of the work of jifs, along with an
assumption that state law could protect against prejudice of
judgement:
The final version of the petition was included as an appendix to the JJP final
report, along with a letter from the Office of the Ombudsman, for the most part
setting out conflicts between existing state law and the Recommendations.
Signatories to the petition were: Vanuatu Family Health Association, Wan Smolbag
Theatre, Vanuatu Young People’s Project, Vanuatu Rural Development Training
Centres Association, Vanuatu National Council of Women, Health Force Theatre,
and Vanuatu Women’s Centre. In addition, a number of individuals signed: Morgan
Armstrong (Foundation for the Peoples of the South Pacific), Lily Ronald (Peace
Corps Vanuatu), Kathy Rarua (Department of Women’s Affairs), and Elizabeth Mer
Mer (a member of the CRC Committee, who also assisted in the analysis of the JJP
findings).
109 I am not sure where this statistic comes from - in the final report of the JJP I was
unable to include an accurate breakdown in terms of gender for young people
interviewed. In terms of interviews conducted in the islands, it was estimated that
61.3% were male (Rousseau 2003: 45). No similar calculation was given for
interviews conducted with young people in town.
110 The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the Convention on the Rights of the
Child, and the Convention for the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against
Women.
108
179
This [recommendation (Section 2.1.ii)] means that every kind of
crime, stealing, murder, beating, rape, incest etc would be dealt
with by the chiefs, many of whom have no legal training. This also
means tht the accused has no right to a defense lawyer and victims
will no longer have the help of the public prosecutor.
This system is open to abuse.
What if a chief is involved in a
problem or a person related to the chief is? How can we be sure
that the chief has made a just judgement in a case like this,
especially when only the chief can allow an appeal?
What about women’s rights? Will chiefs be able to deal fairly with
cases of rape or domestic violence? (Rousseau 2003: 112).
While portraying a perhaps naive belief in the equity of state law, the
petition did reinforce the illegality of some of the measures suggested
under
the
recommendations
recommendations.
of
the
JJP
National
Summit
In response to the concerns raised in the
“petition”, a meeting was held at the VCC. In the first part of this
meeting discord between the JJP, VCC and YPP was discussed before
other participants were invited in. For some members of the VCC staff
this was a difficult meeting - publicly admitting disagreement among
the Cultural Centre regarding their research was not desirable,
making it necessary for VCC differences to be sorted out before others
joined in discussions. In the end - as far as I could see - problems
were not resolved, but were divided between two different areas of
objection: ni-Vanuatu staff of the YPP were most concerned about the
practicalities of the implementation of JJP recommendations; ex-pat
staff of the YPP were concerned with the research methods followed by
the JJP, and the effect which association with the Project would have
on the YPP’s reputation for methodological precision.
After this initial meeting, representatives of NGOs, government
departments and others concerned with the outcome of the National
Summit Meeting entered the meeting. The discussion that followed
led to no clear conclusion, but, in that, it is indicative of the difficulty
of reconciling the “two sides” mentioned above.
180
In some ways, the
architects of the Recommendations and those that opposed them were
in agreement: the existence and use of kastom was not disputed; nor
was the need for some form of integration and formalisation between it
and state law.
I suggest that the basis of disagreement stems rather from two
separate views of the issue – from within kastom and from outside of
it. Those who objected to the Recommendations were working from a
perspective in which state law – in particular, the Constitution –
provided the baseline for the consideration of legal issue in Vanuatu.
However, those whose views came through most strongly in the
Recommendations were speaking from within kastom. As argued in
Chapter Two, such a position enables or ensures that kastom provides
the logic that shapes actions, decisions, understandings, and – most
importantly – relations.
In the next two chapters I present material that illustrates the way in
which state legal definitions, practices and institutions can be viewed
from within kastom as not-kastom. In the first of these, I examine the
way in which certain practices can and cannot exist within kastom,
focussing on the example of rape and “stealing women”. This involves
an examination of the way in which the correct formation of
relationships can make something kastom – and vice versa. In the
following chapter I focus on spatial aspects of the administration of
justice. Returning to my discussion of simultaneity set out in Chapter
Five, it is shown how not-kastom is spatialised. As with the pairing of
rape and “stealing women”, certain practices can and cannot be
kastom, but in this case such a distinction relies on location rather
than practice.
181
Chapter Seven - Bifo i nogat: rape, kastom loa and
change
The previous chapter outlined the formal legal position of “customary
law” in Vanuatu. Using examples of judgements made in the supreme
and magistrate’s courts, it was shown how kastom is brought into
decisions in a number of ways. In the case of island courts, it was
argued that they represent an attempt to allow kastom to enter the
sphere of state law through their particular rules of procedure. In this
chapter I will address the concept of kastom loa. Despite the effects of
literal translation, I would argue that kastom loa is not necessarily
analogous to customary law: it has come to be viewed and expressed
as a domain so separate from state law that integration of the two is
not possible – although, as shown in the previous chapter, the
desirability of this does exist for some groups in Vanuatu. I will show
how
representations
of
kastom
loa
involve
an
emphasis
on
completeness that precludes co-operation between it and state law, as
well as an implicit critique of modernity (as expressed through law
and behaviour) that is based on attitude as much as behaviour. The
expression of kastom loa in the presentations and discussions at the
annual men fieldworkers’ workshop at the Cultural Centre in
November 2001 indicate a desire for it to be viewed as a whole entity
that portrays a form of indigenous practice and morality that can sometimes does – and should still exist.
How kastom loa is described
In mid-2001 the original topic of the men fieldworkers’ workshop was
changed,
in
order
that
their
reports
might
provide
added
contextualisation for the material gathered by the VCC’s Juvenile
Justice Project.
The new topic was Kastom fasin blong jajem man
[Kastom methods for the adjudication of disputes]. Women are
generally excluded from the workshop, allowing the men free rein in
182
their discussion of kastom matters.
However, I gained access to
proceedings as I volunteered to oversee the tape-recording of the twoweek workshop.111
For me, it seemed that this occasion would
provide the first - and, quite possibly, only - chance I had to compare
the processes of kastom dispute resolution from such a diverse
number of areas of Vanuatu, and I extended my period of fieldwork
especially to attend the workshop.
However, the way that events
proceeded undermined that expectation.
As mentioned above, the workshop topic was consciously framed as
an adjunct to the JJP.
Also, through the course of 2001, the
Department of Internal Affairs was undertaking research as part of its
“Chiefs Legislation Project”. This involved two researchers travelling
around the country conducting interviews with jifs and others
involved in both state law and kastom loa enforcement. In response to
my questions regarding the relationship between the work of jifs and
the state legal system I was told on a number of occasions that my
informant had recently been interviewed on similar topics by two
people connected to the government who were working to create a law
to give power back to jifs.
Many fieldworkers were aware of this
project and, when placed in conjunction with the recommendations of
the National Summit on Juvenile Justice, it is not surprising that the
I am grateful to all the men fieldworkers and their facilitator, Darrell Tryon, for
accepting me in this role, thus enabling me to gain valuable data for my research.
For the purposes of recording I sat in a room adjoining the main meeting room in
which the workshop was being held. Although I was physically removed from
proceedings in some ways - and not considered an appropriate participant - part of
my duties as tape-recording monitor was to attract the attention of the current
speaker, or anyone who would notice, whenever the tape was about to run out (every
45 minutes), usually by waving my arms through the window. This added a level of
interaction that seems to embody an enforced ironic form of participant-observation
that I never got closer to during the course of my fieldwork.
Both the men and women fieldworkers’ workshops are tape-recorded. Recordings
are then placed in the National Film and Sound Unit archives held at the VCC, and
transcripts of each workshop are prepared as VCC publications. Each fieldworker is
able to vet their contribution to the booklet prior to publication to ensure that the
information provided subscribes to both their desired level of coherence, as well as
any restrictions on the circulation of knowledge that may apply. The material I use
here is based on my own notes taken during the workshop, as the published version
is not yet complete. I have gained permission from the Director of the Cultural
Centre to use this material.
111
183
topic was soon being referred to, both within the workshop and during
the more informal atmosphere of tea breaks, as simply kastom loa.112
A prevailing attitude developed that the workshop was contributing to
the work of the government in giving power back to jifs.
made
clear
in
an
opening
man/fieldworker from Santo.
contribution
from
a
This was
high-ranking
He stated that, nowadays, “court” is
confusing us too much. To illustrate this level of confusion he named
all the different levels of “waetman” courts, tracing their evolution
back to the Condominium administration. He thanked the Australian
High Commissioner and the facilitator for enabling the workshop to
take place, thus allowing “our” law to regain strength [yumi save
mekem se loa blong yumi i kam antap bakegen].113
He went on to
mention the council of chiefs’ structure in place throughout the
country - village council, area council, island council - concluding that
in every province indigenous procedures exist for judging [yumi long
evri province i gat fasin blong yumi blong jajem].
The first session of the workshop was spent discussing how the
fieldworkers’ reports were going to be structured. This resulted in a
list of “offences” - or, subtopics, as they were called - to be addressed
by each speaker. The outline of how each offence was dealt with was
to be followed by a more general summary of how offences were
reported - by who, to whom - as well as how decisions regarding
punishments or settlements were decided.
Fieldworkers were also
asked to provide an outline of the structure of jifs in their area. A
further stipulation was that reports be focussed on taem bifo - precontact or distant past; discussions relating to the present status of
kastom loa were to be left until the very end of the workshop.
However, a number of fieldworkers made some attempt to tie their
The forthcoming publication of the proceedings of the workshop will be under the
title Kastom fasen blong stretem trabol (Vanuatu Cultural Centre 2003).
113 The Australian High Commission provided financial support to the fieldworker
workshops.
112
184
reports to the present, starting with a preamble similar to the
statement outlined above that emphasised a dependable consistency
to, or the continuous stability of kastom in the face of often
uncontrolled change. As one speaker said, this topic is nambawan in these times of change it’s good for us to “dig up” the proper [stret]
kastom of our forebears.
The subtopics to be included in each report were made up of a
combination of more straightforward “offences”, such as rape and
broader categories, such as land disputes.
Although the list was
stuck to less rigidly by some of the fieldworkers, most reports
contained comments on the following matters:
stealing women,
stealing pigs, stealing food, damaging property, murder, breaking
tabu, rape, incest, assault, abortion and infanticide, marriage
procedures
(including
bride-price
trespass, swearing and lying.
and
divorce),
land
disputes,
The fact that this schema could be
followed by most fieldworkers shows a level of agreement on both what
constitutes an offence, and what areas fall within the ambit of kastom
loa.
However, the content of presentations and the very format of the
workshop - as discussed in Chapter Six - indicates an expectation of
difference dependent on the fieldworker’s place of origin. In the next
section I take as an example two subtopics, rape and stealing women,
and give a summary of how these were addressed by fieldworkers.
This will provide a clearer idea of how the structure of the workshop
played out in practice, and the ways in which different speakers
explained kastom in relation to kastom loa.
Rape and stealing women
In the structure of the workshop these two topics were treated as
separate.
In practice - as portrayed by the fieldworkers - the
difference was not always that obvious to me.
Using Western
definitions, “stealing women” [stilim woman] seems to equate more
closely to adultery than rape. However, it does not necessarily involve
185
married women. Rather, it denotes the taking of something that isn’t
yours114_ - more specifically, something that you haven’t paid for. As
far as I could see, the majority of fieldworkers were more comfortable
with the category of stealing women than that of rape.
A large
number of them claimed that rape did not exist in their communities
prior to either missionisation or even more recent instances of cultural
change due to external factors.
When covering the area of rape in
their reports, many fieldworkers denied its existence in the past: ‘it
didn’t exist before’; ‘we didn’t have the inclination for that’; ‘it wasn’t a
serious problem’; ‘we don’t have that on my island’; ‘cases of rape have
only recently emerged’.
In some cases this assertion was tempered by various caveats that
indicated a questioning of indigenous practice due to familiarity with
the state legal definition of rape.
As others had before him, a
fieldworker from Santo stated that there was no rape “before”. But, he
went on to say, there was something “a bit like it”: in the event of a
girl disagreeing to an arranged marriage she would be shut in a room
furnished with a mat with the boy she was meant to marry. This was
done by elders of the community.
After “leaving them alone for a
while”, she would then be asked if she now consented to the marriage.
The fieldworker went on to say that he had asked the elders of his
village if they didn’t think this was like rape, but they replied that it
was kastom. He had responded that he expected that some day they
would be appearing in court on account of their kastom. The elders
reiterated that, if that were the case, it would mean that they had lost
their power to act in their own area.
This account was not singular. Other fieldworkers exhibited the same
level of uncertainty when recounting practices from their area. In one
report the fieldworker stated that there was a way of forcing a girl to
go to a certain man. However, he went on to say, “I’m not sure if this
114
Which, for many people, would provide an adequate description of rape.
186
is rape or something else”. While it was possible to deny that rape
ever occurred “before”, some speakers saw that kastom practices
could be aligned to what state law would now consider an offence. A
fieldworker from north Malakula denied that rape existed before, but
added: “If you compare it with the law today, if you pull at their
clothes or pin them down, this is rape. I’m talking about now. But
before, when a woman was married you had to make an exchange. If
the woman didn’t want the marriage, when there was a kastom dance
you would just force her - two or three men would grab her then take
her to a house, shut them inside. Then it was finished; everything
was as it should be”. In another example, the fieldworker stated that
“before” there was in fact rape: “Sometimes people raped. If a man
wanted a woman he would tell two or three other men. They would
hide “on the road”, grab her, and force her. They’d carry her to that
man’s house. It didn’t matter at all if she shouted out or protested:
they had to get her”.
In distinction to rape, none of the fieldworkers denied that stealing
women was in evidence “before”, and most outlined a structure in
place for dealing with this.
This did vary from area to area, but
penalties were uniformly harsher than those outlined for rape.
On
one island in the Banks the punishment for stealing a woman was
death - “when you see the sun “drown”, then you drown with it”.
Such an outcome was more likely if the woman was the wife of a highranking man. While some areas had milder penalties, such as fines,
stealing a woman was said to often result in confrontation between
different groups. As one fieldworker put it, “the only way to solve this
is through fighting – fight first, then sort things out afterwards”. On
Santo, it was reported that, unless the jifs took quick action to settle
the problem, the family of the woman would take matters into their
own hands.
Fights between nakamals would ensue, as the woman
would have been taken to the nakamal of the man who stole her. In
the report from an Ambrym fieldworker, he recounted the fallout of
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stealing an “ordinary” woman - rather than big men passing
judgement as they would in the case of the wife of a high-ranked man,
the stolen woman would be used as “bait” to lure her thief to a place
at which he would be poisoned by two or three friends of the slighted
husband.
On some occasions this convoluted scenario would be
ditched in favour of a more straightforward killing - “they would shoot
him”.
Other differences in the way that stealing women was dealt with
involve the level of publicity surrounding events. In an example from
Efate, the man who stole a jif’s wife ran away from his village.
However, a message was sent via tamtam to villages around the island
who co-operated in the capture and return of the man to face his
punishment.
common.
However, this level of public involvement seems less
In other cases, fieldworkers emphasised that the matter
was only dealt with by the highest-ranking men. In north Pentecost, if
someone stole the wife of a big jif, a lower-ranked jif would be
dispatched secretly to investigate the circumstances of the case,
reporting back to the higher jif and bringing the perpetrator to meet
with him and other jifs.
On Mota Lava, stealing women was not
openly discussed – “yes it exists, but this sort of thing is hidden by
jifs. You think everything is one way, but no. This is like the secret
knowledge of jifs”.
A couple of the fieldworkers expanded further on the process for
dealing with stealing women, including what might happen to the
woman herself. While in English the term “stealing” implies an act in
which the woman is passive or the victim, this was not necessarily the
case. One fieldworker was asked what would happen if the woman
had agreed to being stolen.
He replied that the punishment might
consist of her being tied down and beaten, having her legs burnt on
hot stones, or sorcery done on her that would cause her to contract
“big leg”, one of the common terms in Vanuatu for filariasis.
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The
fieldworker stated that, if the woman was punished in this way, she
would not be expected to pay a fine as well. In another report, the
speaker outlined how, in addition to the man paying a fine to the
husband of the stolen woman, the man and woman would be called to
a meeting of the full community where it would be found out which of
them was the instigator of events. Once they decided who was in the
wrong, a fine of one pig would be paid to the husband.
The purpose of the first punishment outlined in the above paragraph
becomes clearer when paired with the punishment given to women
who consistently “ran away” in northwest Malakula.
As the
fieldworker described it, the woman’s legs would be burnt on hot
stones with the intention that she would develop infected sores that
would then physically prevent her from running away. This acted as
punishment and prevention in one, illustrating the fact that the
uncontrolled mobility or freedom of women was perhaps at the core of
why stealing women was considered an offence.
This may also
elucidate one facet of why rape and stealing women are viewed as
separate offences. In fact, the reasons given by fieldworkers for the
non-existence of rape “before” are the very reasons that stealing
women was/is against kastom. In the fieldworkers’ reports it was rare
to come across punishments for rape that went beyond a fine to the
husband if the victim was married. In a couple of cases the procedure
was different. On Emao (Shepherds) every piece of food was removed
from the garden of the rapist as well as his pigs. These were then
brought to a community meeting at which they acted as a fine. On
Malo, a repeat offender who was known to have raped more than three
times was said to be fined “pig we tut i fas long as” - a pig whose tusks
have grown up its arse. While obviously not physically possible, this
mocking insult acted as a way of showing general disapproval of the
man’s actions.
Others who admitted the existence of rape in their
area suggested that it was a matter not to be addressed in any public
forum: “if it happens, it’s hidden - it’s between the two of them”; “if it
189
involves friends,115 than it’s not a matter of concern”; “you get her
away from the village [long bush], then you come back and there isn’t
anyone who knows”.
As shown above, though, the majority of fieldworkers stated that rape
did not happen “before”, thus comprehensive procedures for dealing
with it are not part of kastom loa. Several gave reasons why this was
the case. These started with the slightly prosaic - “previously toilet
and bathroom areas were segregated so there was less opportunity” moving on to reasons relating to marriage practices and respect. A
number of fieldworkers put the non-existence of rape down to the fact
that marriages were arranged early, when the two were just children.
As one added, “previously there was no inclination for rape as women
were paid for when they were young. Also, people had respect for her
father”.
The impact of male relatives in preventing rape was also
emphasised in another report: “previously there was no rape because
a man’s daughters weren’t able to travel or move around. They could
only go to festivities or marriages - and then they would only go with
their father. Men didn’t have the chance to rape them”. In two ways,
then, women are portrayed as not “free”: not only on the level of
physical mobility, and constraints placed upon it; but also in the
sense that they are someone’s daughter and someone’s future wife,
who may already have been paid for at a young age. And it is this
idea of freedom - or lack thereof - that makes it possible for stealing
women to exist under kastom loa, while rape can’t.116
Material from Papua New Guinea shows similarities with these
examples from Vanuatu - in terms of the denial of rape “before”, and
in relation to explanations of what constitutes a serious or nonThe Bislama word fren is used to denote boyfriend/girlfriend relationships, as in
“tufala i frenem tufala” - which might be loosely translated as “the two of them are
seeing each other”.
116 The position of women as property in Melanesia is addressed by Strathern
(1984). Euroamerican discomfort with this type of valuation of women is also
discussed in Strathern (1996).
115
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serious case of rape now.
Banks (2000) provides a summary of
instances of sexual violence in four different communities, and how
they were explained and responded to. In her study, she encountered
problems of definition due to the non-existence of a word for rape in
the languages of the people she worked with: ‘None of the groups have
a specific term for the act of rape and I had great difficulty at times
trying to convey the idea of rape to interviewees who often decided
that I was really asking about adultery’ (Banks 2000: 94). This issue
has been identified in earlier research on the topic. Strathern notes
that these linguistic obstacles are more likely to be present amongst
those groups who claim that rape did not exist “before”. Rather - in
line with some of the fieldworkers’ statements outlined above - ‘acts
which could be defined as forcible intercourse are usually treated
under other rubrics e.g. adultery, incest or intercourse with an
unmarried girl’ (Strathern 1975 quoted in Banks 2000: 94).
Further differences between what is referred to by fieldworkers as
stealing women and a Western legal definition of rape emerge when
the issue of consent is considered. While consent is a pivotal concern
in the Western legal concept of rape, this is not always the case in
PNG.
Banks quotes Strathern’s argument that, instead, the
‘correctness of the social relationship between the couple’ is a more
likely point of concern (Strathern 1975 quoted in Banks 2000: 94).
This is pertinent to the fieldworkers’ delineation of stealing women
and rape.
Stealing women depends on a set of pre-existing
relationships – a woman must belong somewhere in order to be stolen.
Rape, on the other hand, is portrayed as occurring either outside of
defined relationships, or in the event of change that challenges the
type of relational logic on which kastom loa depends – and the
resultant breakdown in respect.
191
Kastom, change, respect and trousers
This view of rape allows for both the casual dismissal seen in some of
the fieldworkers’ comments – “it’s between the two of them”; “it’s not a
matter of concern” – but also for explanations given as to why rape
occurs now, but not “before”, which are also relevant to a number of
other “offences”. While many fieldworkers denied the existence of rape
“before”, its very inclusion within the scope of the workshop
presentations amounted to an admission that it did exist “now”. In
some cases it was downplayed – “it’s not that frequent”; “it’s
something that’s only just begun to happen” - but the reason for its
emergence was generally related to change and loss of respect. Rape
was not the only “offence” talked about in this way.
In the
fieldworkers’ reports respect operated as a central explanatory device
for the non-occurrence of a number of “offences” such as incest,
swearing, trespass, and the disobeying or breaking of tabus. As one
fieldworker put it, “in heathen times we had much more respect than
we do today”.
As respect is a foundational element of relating to
people, a lack of respect is equivalent to a lack of the correct form of
relations. And it is this lack that enables, for instance, rape to exist.
This idea is more broadly relevant in Vanuatu today, and, once again,
issues surrounding rape provide a good illustration of the relationship
between kastom, change and respect. In particular, a causal theory
commonly put forward about rape indicates a bundle of factors
implicated in its occurrence, but expressed through talk about
trousers. The idea that sexual violence is invited on themselves by
women is not a novel one, nor specific to Vanuatu; neither is the allied
argument that that invitation is given through the way they are
dressed.
However, I would argue that the way in which women
wearing trousers117_ is talked about by many people in Vanuatu
In Vanuatu, the term trousers is used to refer to both long trousers and shorts.
For young women, shorts are often favoured as casual daywear, while long trousers
might be worn more frequently to work or when going out to nightclubs.
117
192
involves an underlying commentary on change and kastom that
makes it more context-specific.
In late 2001 a report came out in the media concerning the
introduction of a system of fines for women wearing trousers in the
Seaside area of Port Vila, to be administered by the Paamese jifs in
that area. This sparked comment from MPs amongst others, with one
describing it as ‘an insult to women’ (Trading Post, 11th December
2001).
Under the headline, ‘Trousers: just another rule’, a further
article quoted the jifs’ explanation that the ban on women wearing
trousers was only one of a number of rules to be introduced in
Seaside Paama to counteract ‘deteriorating respect for elders and
neighbours [which] can destroy a community’ (Trading Post, 11th
December 2001). The spokesman went on to state that this would not
necessarily be a total ban: ‘The trousers will not be totally taken away.
But it will be respectful if women could avoid trousers on Sundays,
gatherings
and
special
occasion.
Sports
and
swimming
are
exceptional’ (Trading Post, 11th December 2001).
This was the first time that the “trouser issue” had received such
prominent media coverage. However, such fines are not uncommon
throughout the country. On a trip to north Pentecost I encountered
sanctions against the wearing of trousers by women in the two villages
I stayed in.
In one, when I emerged one evening wearing trousers
(mainly as a precaution against mosquitoes) I was told that it was OK
for me to wear trousers around the house I was staying in, but
nowhere else. The female head of the household told me that, while I
would probably not be fined myself, it was just better that I didn’t. In
the second village I stayed in the church hierarchy, rather than jifs,
monitored conduct. Once more I was told that a system of fines was
in place if women wore trousers in public areas.
This village was
located close to a large boarding school and vocational training
college.
I was told by some young women of the annoyance the
193
trouser ban caused them: the fastest route from their student
accommodation to the basketball courts passed through the village
itself. However, as a result of the ban, they would either have to take
a more circuitous route or wear a skirt or dress over their shorts until
they reached the courts.
A recent report on research carried out by the Young People’s Project
(Cummings 2002) examining young women, beauty and self-image,
explores some of the reasons behind such sanctions, and the effect
they have on the young women subject to them. A close link between
clothing and identity exists in Vanuatu through both the kastom dress
of each area, and, on a national level, the island dress. While men do
not have an equivalent, for women this form of dress, introduced by
missionaries, has gained meaning that transcends practicality –
particularly in connection with the notion of respect.118 As the YPP
research indicates, a majority of young women named island dress as
the ‘way that women in Vanuatu should dress’ (Cummings 2002: 24).
The reasons for this mainly revolved around its “respectability”. This
involved physical considerations in terms of modesty – the looseness
of the dress means that few parts of the wearer’s anatomy are defined,
much of the legs are covered, and there is enough fabric to keep the
legs well covered when sitting down.
However, the dress’ link with
Island dress - sometimes known outside of Vanuatu as “Mother Hubbards” – are
long, loose, brightly patterned dresses, usually decorated with ribbons and
sometimes lace. Despite the connotations of tradition assigned to island dress by
many ni-Vanuatu, its style is subject to change. This is reflected in the amount and
type of decoration: for instance, when I made a trip back to Vanuatu in early 2003, a
trend for “zigzag” (overlocked) stitching had emerged, resulting in a loss of ribbons
and lace on the dress. A further change was the introduction of separate skirt and
blouse – both still in the island dress style, but more closely related to the PNG style
of “meri blouse”. To me, it looked like this last style could help to resolve some of
the issues surrounding the trousers/island dress debate – an island dress-style
blouse paired with trousers might incorporate the desire for comfort, modernity and
freedom of movement embodied by trousers, with respect shown by the blouse.
Bolton (2003) has recently carried out research on the form and meaning of island
dress in Vanuatu. She shows, too, how regional- or sometimes island-specific styles
of cut and decoration have emerged, some of which may relate to local cosmologies.
118
194
kastom, tradition, motherhood, and the nation were also put forward
as reasons for its connection to respect.
When worn by women, at least, trousers are the flip side of island
dress: they have no correlation with traditions or identities that are
valorised by the majority of ni-Vanuatu.
Furthermore, as outlined
above, they are frequently “criminalised” by the system of fines for
women wearing trousers that are in place in many areas.
Such
obvious measures as fines are not the only factors that limit the
extent to which women will wear trousers.
As the YPP report
suggests:
The problems attributed to the wearing of trousers by women are
numerous and touch the gender dynamics of various aspects of
issues which have been identified as important in young people’s
lives: kastom, work and money, family and relationships, church,
migration, etc.
It is debate over the meanings of respect which
frequently connects these issues to women and trousers.
The
question which these debates address is: Are women being
disrespectful to kastom and their community when they wear
trousers? (Cummings 2002: 8 emphasis in the original).
According to the YPP report, the range of sanctions that might be used
against women wearing trousers involved gossip, verbal reprimands,
fines, and physical violence. While beating as an “official” punishment
was cited only once in the research, other interviewees mentioned
violence from husbands or boyfriends that was linked to wearing
trousers (Cummings 2002: 11).
While not expressly viewed as a
punishment, rape as a result of wearing trousers acted as a strong
deterrent to many of the women interviewed.
As mentioned above,
media coverage of the “trouser issue” began in late 2001, and, as
Cummings
reports,
it
intensified
with
publicity
surrounding
Malvatumauri attempts to gain greater legislative acknowledgement of
kastom offences – including women wearing trousers - as part of the
Constitutional Review process (Cummings 2002: 12). In an interview
195
with a Malvatumauri member quoted in the YPP report, the equation
of trouser-wearing and rape is set out as the main objection to it on
the part of jifs, with the concept of respect coming in at second place:
…we chiefs feel strongly that young women must dress properly:
because we don’t want you to get into trouble or be raped.
Because everyone knows that men are strong, but women aren’t.
When you dress like that, and show off your body, you are asking
for trouble. It’s better to protect yourself and your body. That’s
one reason the chiefs don’t like to see girls wearing trousers. The
second reason we don’t like it is that it means you don’t have
respect for chiefs or kastom (quoted in Cummings 2002: 13).
A connection between trousers and “trouble” is put forward not only
by jifs, but also the police: in the booklet produced to accompany the
Vanuatu Police Force’s Crime Prevention 2000 programme, a passage
from the Bible was included stating that it is forbidden for women to
wear men’s clothing and vice versa, this being an insult to God
(Deuteronomy 22:5); in another section of the booklet, ‘How to reduce
trouble’, one of the instructions was that ‘women must dress in such a
way as to not “spoil” men’s throughts’ (Vanuatu Police Force 2000:
16); and, at one of the crime prevention public rallies, a police
spokesman encouraged jifs to introduce and enforce fines for women
wearing trousers.119
Interviews with young women quoted in the YPP report indicated the
currency given to the link between trousers and rape:
“If you wear trousers, especially short trousers or a skirt, you could
be raped, because it makes men think you’re easy”
In the same speech, the spokesman also encouraged jifs to fine young men who
wore their hair in certain ways, or purposely cut their trousers in a manner that
emulates “rascal” styles from PNG. In the course of the JJP research, one
interviewee told how his parents had objected to the way he styled his hair. He had
been taken to the police station where it was forcibly cut off (Rousseau 2003: 15).
These examples indicate that fines and other punishments stemming from clothing and appearance in general - are not limited to young women. With young men the
suggestion is that those sporting “forbidden” styles are more likely to be criminallyinclined. Once again, though, this reinforces the link made between clothing and
respect.
119
196
“Yes, if a woman already has a husband or a boyfriend, but she
wears trousers, other men will think she’s available and hit on her
or even rape her”
“I’m not sure if it’s true or not. Not every man thinks that way, but
I think that short clothes above the knee does attract men and
might make them rape you” (quoted in Cummings 2002: 13).
Other interviewees expressed misgivings about such a straightforward
correlation:
“Wearing trousers doesn’t necessarily attract men or force them to
rape women – people just say that because they don’t like to see
women wearing trousers”
“I don’t think it’s true, because there are lots of cases where
women are raped even though they weren’t wearing trousers, they
were wearing dresses or skirts. I think the chiefs just don’t like to
see girls in trousers, and that’s why they say it” (quoted in
Cummings 2002: 14).
The young women affected by sanctions against trouser-wearing were
not the only ones who expressed misgivings as to the reasoning
behind such measures.
On a number of occasions I was part of
conversations that addressed the question of why there was no rape
“before” when women, in fact, wore fewer clothes.
This was also
raised by one of the fieldworker’s during the workshop, who admitted
to some level of confusion.
He had asked his elders how it was
possible to say that men get “jealous” when they see a woman’s body,
because before we were all naked all the time. They had not provided
any clear response for him, except to point out that now we wear
clothes, suggesting that things were just different now. One man I
discussed this issue with showed no such confusion. To his mind, it
was logical that rape came along with Western styles of clothing:
previously, kastom dress had meant that you saw women’s bodies all
the time and so became inured to any temptation; the temptation
came with the greater amount of covering-up.
197
This debate was also mentioned by the Malvatumauri member
interviewed for the YPP report. His argument related to the contextspecific nature of clothing, both in terms of kastom and location:
There are reasons why chiefs don’t like it when girls wear
trousers…When you dress like that, half your body is showing and
it attracts men. You see it all the time, that when a girl is dressed
up like that, boys get turned on. Sure, you might argue that in
some places in Vanuatu, women still wear grass skirts and are
nearly naked all the time, but that there aren’t any more rape
cases because of it.
But that’s because it’s kastom and it has
meaning. But you couldn’t walk around half naked in Port Vila or
Luganville, or it would cause trouble and rape (quoted in
Cummings 2002: 13).
In the context of PNG, Banks (2000) relates previous researchers’
arguments about the relationship between sexual violence and
change:
Josephides (1994) argues that men’s violence against women is not
so much caused by men’s disorientation (Strathern 1985) resulting
from a changing world ‘but more specifically developing out of their
fears that these changes will remove women from their control and
afford them independent ways of understanding their universe and
acting within it’ (Banks 2000: 95).
Reflecting on kastom, respect and trousers, it appears that this may
be the case in Vanuatu. Here, rape becomes more a term than an act.
As shown through the reports of the fieldworkers, acts that could well
be defined as rape in a Western legal context are not seen as such
within the terminology of kastom loa. The relational logic of kastom
allows for stealing women to be acknowledged firstly to exist or be
possible, and secondly as noteworthy, warranting some form of
reaction on the part of the community. As a term from “outside”, rape
can be excluded from the way things “should be” in Vanuatu.
It
appears as incidental, or, maybe more accurately, as the price of
change. In the statement of the Malvatumauri member quoted above
– and in the actions of jifs who impose fines on women wearing
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trousers - it acts as a metonym for loss of respect, correct
relationships and, therefore, kastom. Thus, it is possible to argue that
if rape can’t exist under kastom, then explaining rape is a way of
explaining kastom.
Conclusion
What emerges from the material given above is a view of kastom as
based on the key concept of respect.
Respect governs the
maintenance of social relationships, which, in turn, are necessary for
kastom to continue (to make sense). This does not mean that change
cannot occur. While this is a slightly fraught area of debate within
Vanuatu, the experience of missionisation and continuing adherence
to Christianity by the vast majority of the population means that most
people will agree that kastom can change. However, this is usually
couched in terms of good kastom/bad kastom – practices that are
harmful, such as malicious sorcery, are said to have been thrown
away.
In fact, the conceptual model of kastom with respect as its foundation,
as put forward through the fieldworkers’ material, enables change to
be more easily accommodated.
As the example of rape shows,
something can be not-kastom as long as a causal explanation for it
revolves around lack of respect.
That includes respect for correct
social relationships in a number of ways: in terms of marriage
practices – the betrothal of children at an early age; residence patterns
and mobility – the protection afforded to women by continued
residence with male relatives, and movement controlled by those
relatives; and lack of respect for the necessary kastom structures of
authority shown through the wearing of trousers.
199
Chapter Eight – Namba 6 blong naora: spatial aspects
of justice in Vanuatu
On a trip to Vanua Lava in the Banks islands I was shown a trap for
freshwater prawns (naora). The man pointed to the chamber in which
the prawn would be trapped, and said jokingly, “hemia Namba 6 blong
hem” (this is its Namba 6). Namba 6 is the Bislama term for a police
holding cell.120 Yet, as this example shows, it has become more than a
location, standing in as a term denoting imprisonment even in remote
parts of the country such as the Banks. The metonymic quality of
Namba 6 provides an indication of the importance of spatial and
locational factors in the conceptualisation and administration of law
in Vanuatu.
Police violence and movement
Namba 6 in Vila police station is a vile space:
the smell of urine
emanating from it will often hit you as you stand at the reception
desk, although Namba 6 itself is through a set of doors and down a
short corridor from there. Namba 6 is entered through a single door,
with “No. 6” painted above it. This opens onto an L-shaped area, off of
which are two closed off cells, each about six foot by eight foot. There
are four metal bunks in each cell. A broken window runs along the
top of the area beyond the cells, letting in light and rain. The whole
area is painted a glossy black, though much of the wall space and
bunks are covered in scratched-on graffiti. This includes the usual
array of names, nicknames, gang names, along with more plaintive
messages:
animal.
“I have been here more than 36 hours.
I am a human being”.121
I am not an
There are no toilet facilities
provided, nor running water. I visited Namba 6 with the staff of the
The reason for the name Namba 6 is not entirely clear. Crowley (1995) states
that the name comes from the fact that there are four walls, a roof, and floor, but
several people I mentioned this to were sceptical of this explanation. However, they
weren’t able to offer an alternative themselves.
121 This particular message was written in English.
120
200
JJP – two ni-Vanuatu, a Canadian First Nations woman, and myself.
Our guide, a senior ni-Vanuatu police officer, said that there had been
a toilet before, but it was removed due to damage: “You know what
black people are like”, he offered, by way of explanation.
In January 1998 riots took place in Port Vila following the release of
an Obudsman’s report on politicians’ alleged misuse of funds from the
Vanuatu National Provident Fund (VNPF).122
The mass arrests
following this prompted representatives of Amnesty International to
visit Vanuatu to assess the (mis)treatment of prisoners, including the
conditions under which they were held.
Their report (Amnesty
International 1998)123 provides a catalogue of police brutality in the
wake of the riots, with some instances of this causing permanent
injury.
Some of those taken into custody were kicked, slapped,
punched, tied up, hit with rifle butts, and threatened with death
(Amnesty International 1998).
One man, Gregory Gideon, was
dumped at the front entrance to Vila Central Hospital by police
officers, who did not notify any medical staff of his “arrival”. He had
major internal injuries that necessitated the removal of his spleen in
an emergency operation. He told Amnesty representatives that he had
asked repeatedly for medical assistance, from the time that his (first)
beating ended.
This was denied, and he was only taken to the
hospital when he collapsed in Namba 6 after 48 hours in custody
(Amnesty International 1998).
While these events took place in the context of a state of emergency,
they do not seem to be exceptional. Recounting his “wild youth”, a niVanuatu friend of mine described waiting for his court appearance the
morning after arrest as “like sitting in a hospital waiting room”. The
level of violence employed by police seems to be an “open secret” in
122
123
The VNPF represents the retirement funds of all ni-Vanuatu workers.
This is available on the internet at http://web.amnesty.org/library/vanuatu.
201
Vanuatu – known, but infrequently acted upon.124
In interviews
carried out for the JJP, none of the police officers interviewed denied
that mistreatment took place, although some stated that it was not
allowed and could warrant a complaint on the part of the victim
(Rousseau 2003: 94).125
Such complaints are sometimes lodged:
Operation Klinim Not (Operation Clean-up the North), a police action
in Santo carried out in 1999 to address disorder in the town, has
resulted in a number of court cases relating to police brutality,
although victims are still waiting for compensation payments
(Vanuatu Daily Post, 6th January 2004). In other instances, though,
violence is accepted and considered acceptable. A man convicted of
rape stated in court that the police had beaten him to the extent that
he was unable to eat solid foods for several weeks. But when asked
why he had not made a complaint, he said that he felt he deserved it.
As mentioned above, police officers interviewed for the JJP did not
deny mistreatment; however, several put caveats on who would be
mistreated.
With specific reference to young people they identified
“repeat offenders”, those who gave the police “a headache”, drunk
people, those whose parents had given the police permission to ‘hit or
otherwise mistreat their child’, and - the classic - instances of selfdefence (Rousseau 2003: 94).
The JJP research provides an indication of the opinion of young
people in Vila on the work of the police. When asked to explain the
difference between the work of police and that of jifs, the main
response vis à vis police was that they employed violence or some form
of mistreatment.126
This indicates again the ubiquity of such
The report of the YPP (1999) and their film, Kilim Taem, are exceptions to this.
Outside of work done by the Cultural Centre though the police were the main group
in Vanuatu that I heard publicly discussing their violent behaviour.
125 Thirteen police officers were interviewed, representing close to 20% of police
stationed in Vila.
126 The term “mistreatment” is used in the report as a gloss of the Bislama phrase
“tritim nogud” that was frequently employed by interviewees. I subsumed within
that category those who used more explicitly violent terms such as kilim or wipim
(hit or beat up) (Rousseau 2003).
124
202
treatment - not all those who mentioned it in interviews had
experienced this first hand, showing too that this conception of police
actions is common knowledge amongst young people in Vila. What
was being asked here was for young people to develop a comparison
between the role of jifs and that of the police. While violence was the
leitmotif of the police, jifs were described by close to a third of
interviewees as ‘working at community level’ (Rousseau 2003: 37).
This suggests again the importance of spatial or locational factors in
the administration of justice.
In JJP interviews comparison of jifs and police worked along spatial
lines, with many interviewees specifically mentioning Namba 6.127 The
language used to describe the work of the police relied heavily on
concepts indicating movement. Interviewees repeatedly spoke of the
police “coming to your community”, “coming for you”, “carrying you
off”, “pulling you” to the police station, “chucking you into Namba 6”,
before “putting you into court”.
These were counterposed to
descriptions of the way in which jifs could address problems or
disputes.
Jifs were commonly associated with less – and more
appropriate - movement – problems stayed within the community:
“the jif deals with problems just in his village or community, but
the police, their job is to take people who make trouble to the
police station’; ‘the work of jifs is good because they only take you
to the nakamal when you make trouble…but with the police…they
take you to Namba 6.”
These interviews were all conducted in Bislama, but exhibit a focus on
spatial factors characteristic of Austronesian languages.128 As Bolton
reports, ‘most Vanuatu languages utilize an absolute spatial reference
The relevant interview questions were: “Yu save talem wanem difrens nao bitwin
wok blong jif mo polis?”; “From wanem yu no wantem polis?”; and “Taem yu luk polis
I kam, wanem tingting blong yu?”.
128 The majority of Vanuatu’s languages are Austronesian. For an examination of
the origins of Bislama and its relationship to other indigenous languages of
Vanuatu, see Crowley (1990).
127
203
system whereby location and movement are described in reference not
to the speaker’s own location (as in English) but in reference to the
landscape…In these languages any reportage of location or movement
is made with reference to the actual landscape in which one is’ (2003:
68).
She cites Bubandt (1997) who indicates that ‘this linguistic
strategy of locating the subject as a positioned social agent “creates
the basis for a spatially defined sense of cultural belonging”’ (Bolton
2003: 68).129 The issue of agency is relevant here as, I suggest, the
descriptions of police actions given above imply a form of passivity on
the part of those exposed to them: the police move; the young people
are moved.
In no way do I want to dismiss the amount of police violence
mentioned in the JJP interviews as unimportant or a side issue.
However, when interviewees made a comparison between the work of
jifs and that of police, location and movement formed the major part of
their analyses.
The affront of being dealt with by the police was
connected to those factors. The spatialisation of jifs and police was
expanded too beyond “community” and “Namba 6”. Interviewees also
equated the police with urban space or the nation:
“In Vila we have our Constitution’s law and they [police] act with
reference to that. But jifs, they act with reference to the island. If
you have a problem and you want to talk with the jif, he will act
with reference to the island. But if you go and see the police, they
will act with reference to life in town.”
“The jif only looks after problems in the community, but the police
look after the whole nation”
In this way, jurisdictions can be carved up through a spatial logic that
does not subscribe to strict forms of measurement:
“the nation”,
“communities”, and “island” stand outside of each other, and different
practices are tied to each of those locations.
For an analysis of these features in a Vanuatu language, see Hyslop (1999), who
also makes reference to the incorporation of these characteristics into Bislama.
129
204
The distinction between location and practice is blurred.
To some
extent these are inseparable or interchangable in the statements of
JJP interviewees:
police = Namba 6 = beating = enforced/passive
movement = not-jif. Yet it is the location that is emphasised as the
point of difference, perhaps subsuming the techniques exercised
within. It is not just more obviously physical practices though that
are tied to location and movement; broader concepts are related to
these as well. For instance, the movement from one jurisdiction to
another was described by some interviewees as moving “into the law”:
“I don’t want the police to deal with my problems because once I’m
in their control I know that I’m already in the control of the law [mi
go long hand blong loa finis], I’m already out of the control of my
island law, which means that when I go to this place I experience a
lot of different things that are new to me, which aren’t the same as
what the jif does in the village”
“In my opinion, when you are in trouble, the police come and take
you to the law [kam karem yu i go long loa]; you are totally taken
into the law [i min se i karem yu i go insaed long loa wan taem]”.
Jifs too were associated with the ability to place people into a concept:
“When you break the law of the country, the police can put you in
prison, but the jif can put you back into peace”.
These examples reiterate the conflation of theory and practice
suggested above: practice, location, and person(s) can all co-exist, but
what is good or bad about them can be expressed most appropriately
(or succinctly) in spatialising language. Returning to “Namba 6 blong
naora”, it appears that the locations of state law administration may
function as “metonymic objects” as outlined by Stewart (1993). The
distancing effect that she argues for appears here as a positive (as
opposed to its potential application in Chapter Five):
the object of
Namba 6 is not something you would wish on your worst enemy, due
to the experiences that you would have there. In citing differences in
the administration of justice by jifs and the police, the emphasis
placed
on
objective/objectified
location
205
may
serve
to
obscure
similarities in technique - and co-operation between the two groups that occur across the spatial boundaries previously set up.
Co-operation
In making comparisons between the work of police and jifs, several of
the young people interviewed mentioned that, while the police
mistreated people, jifs treated them in “a good way”. At times this was
spelt out in more detail.
While often emphasising the community
location as discussed above, jifs were portrayed as speaking in an
appropriate manner, not frightening young people, and holding
meetings in response to problems, which provided resolution – the
problem was finished. Criticisms of the way in which jifs dealt with
problems were few and far between. Yet, violence does exist in kastom
in relation to social control. In presentations at the Men Fieldworkers’
Workshop on kastom loa discussed in the previous chapter, several
participants spoke of “kilim man we yu no gat raet blong kilim hem”
[hitting someone who you don’t have the right to hit], indicating that
there were circumstances where you could have that right.130
An example from Malakula illustrates the way in which violence is
used as a teaching aid when it comes to kastom. The person who told
me this is in his early forties, and describes himself as the
“paramount jif” of his area. He recounted how, as a young man, he
and others his age would turn up at the nasara to drink kava in the
evenings. Every now and then – rather than welcoming them to sit
down and drink with them - the older men would instruct them to go
into the bush and cut some branches off a tree.
Receiving this
instruction they knew what to expect. On their return to the nasara
they would be hit repeatedly with the sticks they had cut. Each blow
The same phrase is used in the Malvatumauri Kastom Policy, but the section that
it heads (Article 3) deals specifically with murder, manslaughter and the use of
abortificants. In Bislama “kilim” usually means to hit; to refer to murder you would
normally use instead “kilim i ded”. It was generally clear from the context of the
fieldworkers’ presentations when they were using kilim to mean hit.
130
206
was accompanied by an admonition:
“you mustn’t steal another
man’s chickens”; “you mustn’t steal another man’s woman”, and so
on. Once this was finished, they would be allowed to sit down and
drink with the other men. My informant went on to explain that this
practice continues today. However, it is the police now who do the
beatings. Young men – especially those who are seen as “stronghed”
[stubborn; troublesome] – will be taken to the police station in
Lakatoro, where they are beaten by the police.
“Afterwards we feel
sorry for them, and buy them kava and make them feel better again”.
In that example, violence is portrayed as an educative technique,
providing an aide memoire to kastom loa/correct behaviour. However,
it is police who are performing the practical task of administering the
beating.
When I asked why this had changed, and why older men
were no longer willing to this, it was explained that they were now
afraid of the young people. In particular, those who had spent time in
Vila or Santo had watched “too many videos”, and had sometimes
done martial arts training, meaning that the other men in the village
were scared to enter into a violent situation with them.131
This
example indicates that the police can act to share the “burden” of
social control with jifs.
As alluded to briefly at the start of this
chapter, Vila police officers also used having gained parents’
permission as one of the defences for their violent actions towards
young people.
A further way in which police and jifs have teamed up in the
commission of coercive acts is in the repatriation of people to their
home islands.
While it is impossible to deny the existence of a
permanent ni-Vanuatu population in Vila as was done by social
scientists for many years, it is also important to acknowledge that
arrival in Vila does not always involve a simple island-town movement.
Action films are particularly popular amongst young male ni-Vanuatu. The
relationship between these and violence in Vila is discussed in Mitchell (2000: 203204).
131
207
Furthermore, the reasons for coming to town vary - education; hiding
from disputes or problems at “home”; making money; providing labour
for relatives; or simply wokbaot or blong luk ples - to have a look
around, experience the adventures on offer in the urban setting. As
shown in Chapter Four, there is official opposition to seemingly
aimless existence in town - they are “squatters”, “unnecessary people”.
Accompanying such sentiments is a frequent refrain that such people
should be “sent back to their island”.
I heard this expressed most
commonly by long term residents of Vila, jifs, and police. Lindstrom
cites a case from 1991 in which a jif in town ordered a young woman
from Tanna to be kidnapped, beaten up, and sent back to the island
on account of becoming pregnant (he presumes by a man from an
area other than her own) (1997: 226).
Lindstrom mentions the co-operation of ‘compatriots in the Port Vila
police force’ in such cases (1997: 226), and this is illustrated clearly in
a court case from 1993. Again involving a woman from Tanna,132 the
judgement in this case outlines how, at the request of jifs, she was
forced by police officers to attend a meeting aimed at reconciling her
with her husband. The woman was taken to the meeting in a police
truck, despite having expressed her reluctance to attend.
At the
meeting she reiterated her desire to divorce her husband, due to his
violent behaviour towards her in the past. When it became clear that
she would not change her mind, the jifs ‘announced...that she must
go back to Tanna, as it is her home, and things would be sorted out
down there’ (Public Prosecutor v Kota [1993] VUSC8; 31st August,
1993).
Although the reasons for this are not made clear in the
judgement, her sister was also told that she would be going to Tanna
It may be coincidence that these two cases involve Tannese. Alternatively it
could be reflective of the well-established network of Tannese jifs in Vila, or the
reasonably large and established population of Tannese. There is a commonly held
opinion in Vila that Tannese are the largest group of migrants to the town, and
amongst the biggest troublemakers. However, the 1999 census shows that the
largest group of residents in Vila actually come from MALAMPA province, rather
than TAFEA (National Statistics Office 2000).
132
208
(although ultimately she was allowed to remain in Vila). The woman
was taken to her house and watched over while she packed her
belongings. She was then taken to the wharf and put on a boat to
Tanna. She stayed there one week, before flying back to Vila, where
she reported the matter to the police. Of the eleven defendants in this
case, three had charges dismissed, while the others received
suspended sentences and were ordered to pay jointly to the plaintiff
compensation amounting to 179,600vt (around £900).
The judge in this case - an Australian - spoke particularly strongly
about the involvement of police in this case, laying the blame for the
events that transpired from the meeting almost entirely on them:
I find it most astonishing and abhorrent that Vanuatu Police had
anything to do with this matter. And had it not been for the fact
that they were firstly requested, and secondly agreed to go, this
matter would not be where it is today. The Vanuatu Police had no
authority in the legislation of this country to act as they did in this
case, to bully and force a person to attend a meeting, and I propose
to take this matter up to the Chief Commissioner of Police (Public
Prosecutor v Kota [1993] VUSC8; 31st August, 1993).
Despite the obvious displeasure of the court at the actions of the
police in this case, their involvement in the practice of enforced
repatriation is not even publicly denied. In his closing speech to the
Crime Prevention 2000 rally held on the Seafront in Vila, Eric Pakoa at that time Commander of the Southern District of the Vanuatu
Police Force - spoke openly about his willingness to assist in sending
“troublemakers” back to the islands.
After encouraging parents to
educate their children in the ways of respect and for jifs to liaise more
closely with police, he addressed the issue of repatriation:
Those of you who think that a family member who is staying with
you is causing too many problems, it’s good if they go to their
209
island.133 Buy a ticket, come and give it to me - my name is Eric
Pakoa - come and give it to me then we’ll get them on their way to
the island tomorrow [scattered applause].
You live here, you respect everyone else.
But if you misbehave
brother, I don’t care about your rights under the Constitution. If
you think this is wrong, we’ll go to court.
But before we go to
court, if I’m not mistaken you’ll be on your island already, and
you’ll have to pay the plane fare to come back here for the court
case - if you have the money. But you’ll go to the island first of all.
This would be a civil case if you took it to court, so you’d have to
have money to pay a lawyer. So if you think you have money to
pay a lawyer, challenge me! [laughs as he says this] (Eric Pakoa,
Crime Prevention 2000 Rally, Seafront, Port Vila, 3rd November
2000).134
Non-co-operation
The examples given so far illustrate an easy co-operation between
police and jifs in both Vila and the islands - police serving jifs’ needs
for enforcement, with both groups sharing a similar view on the
necessity of such action. However, it is hard to typify co-operation
between jifs and police: during my time in Vila attitudes fluctuated
from the cosy (such as Crime Prevention 2000), to more segregationist
approaches on both “sides”.135 In this section I return to the TannaTongoa dispute discussed in Chapter Four. Events both before and
after the reconciliation meeting illustrate the type of contests that
occur between the jurisdictions of jifs and police in Vila.
This appears to reinforce the idea that recent migrants - those who might still be
staying with relatives, rather than established in their own household - are most
likely to cause trouble.
134 In an interview with Eric Pakoa just two days before this speech he was more
circumspect in his comments regarding sending people back to the islands. He
stated that this was the work of jifs and not the police. When asked, he said that
repatriation did not infringe on freedom of movement under the Constitution
because infringing someone else’s rights by “causing trouble” meant that you lost
your rights, and should therefore go back to the islands. In his opinion this applied
equally to those who were born in Vila and were not familiar with their island.
135 This can be a false division in that being a jif does not preclude one from being a
police officer - as Eric Pakoa told me, being a jif and a policeman is the best as
people will really listen to you.
133
210
As I argued with reference to the reconciliation between Tanna and
Tongoa, the meeting involved the re-establishment of relations
between the two groups based on the creation of simultaneously
agreed and embodied historical understanding.
Furthermore, the
“achievement of simultaneity” indicated a conclusion as well as a
beginning, in that previous interactions were tied into an explanation
of current relations - they were elided into a common subjectivity that
enabled a simultaneous basis of relations for the future.
In this case the actions of the police worked to undermine that
process. Returning to the particulars of the meeting, in his speech Jif
Douglas reiterated several times that peace was the goal of the
meeting, and that, as peace had been made between him and the
Tannese jif through the acceptance of a namele leaf, it should equally
apply to and be accepted by everyone present. His statement that the
blood of the cows offered as part of the compensatory payments
“covered up” any remaining antagonisms was met with applause from
those present. In his speech the desire for a conclusion to matters was
also directed towards the police through the request that they allow
people to “settle back” into their lives and forget about the problem
that had occurred.
The second Tannese jif also incorporated these
themes in his speech:
he stated that he brought his people to the
meeting so that any bad feeling could end; also, he criticised the police
for their lack of respect for the work of the jifs in settling matters.
A speech given by the President of the Malvatumauri after those of the
Tannese and Tongoan jifs served to further reveal the tension between
the jifs and the police, as well as differing conceptions amongst jifs of
how the two should work together. His speech encompassed many of
the same points made by the previous speakers:
sorrow for the
injured boys; the fact that the kastom of Vanuatu was being used to
make the settlement; the importance of respecting others who live in
Vila; and the conclusive nature of kastom – “Everyone understands
211
kastom, so when Jif Douglas says that it’s over, we all know it’s over”.
However, he chose to start his speech by emphasising the importance
of co-operation between jifs and police. He said that this case was an
example of how such co-operation should work, mentioning the fact
that he had spoken on the radio at the same time as a senior police
officer in an attempt to prevent any further trouble between the
Tannese and Tongoans involved in the fighting.
At the end of that speech, Jif Kapere from Tanna spoke again. He said
that there were some points he wanted to clarify to the President.
Firstly he explained that this ceremony related to the 1987 incident as
well as the recent one. And secondly, he wanted to emphasise that
this meeting was not the product of jifs and police working together,
but rather he and Jif Douglas had joined together to find a solution to
the problem, and thus arranged the meeting themselves.136 Once the
meeting was finished the two jifs went and spoke with the police
officer, John Taleo, who had made the radio broadcast with Tom
Numake. Later, when I talked to Jif Douglas, he explained that they
had been repeating the request that the police allow things to settle
down, and for the separate communities to resolve any underlying
issues
that
had
contributed
to
the
problem
without
police
interference.
The police response to this request was made clear the next day with
the launch of an operation headed by John Taleo, deftly titled
“Neutralise 2001 Klinimap Port Vila Operation”. When interviewed on
the radio news about the police action, he made clear his desire for a
strict delineation between kastom and state law, while hinting too that
kastom provided an easy way out of potentially criminal matters
[either/or situation – also, kastom only addresses the ‘ill-feeling’]:
When I spoke to Jif Douglas later he explained that he and Jif Kapere were
friends having worked together previously on a disaster management awareness
project. Jif Douglas is a olcanologist and Jif Kapere is the head of the National Film
and Sound Unit based at the Cultural Centre.
136
212
Despite the fact that a peace ceremony was held, the country still
administers justice according to its laws. People and jifs must not
confuse kastom law and the national Constitution.
If we stop
respecting the constitutional law of our country, we will simply
hide behind kastom law every time we want to cause trouble. The
police are happy with the actions of the jifs in talking to their
people and resolving the ill-feeling between the two parties. Our
investigation will proceed and we must have justice in accordance
with the law of the country (Radio Vanuatu midday news, 7th
February 2001).
The actions of the police were not met with approval on the part of the
jifs involved in the settlement.
Jif Kapere was quoted in the
newspaper a few days later as reluctantly accepting the police’s right
to act as they had.
However, both he and Jif Douglas were still
convinced that the jifs alone could have solved matters:
According to Chief Kapere the fight that erupted last Thursday
could have been avoided had the chiefs been consulted in the first
place.
He told Trading Post that while he does not go along with the idea
that those who went on a rampage causing damage to properties
[sic] and inflicting harm on other people should be arrested, he
said at the end of the day the laws of the land are supreme and
therefore override custom law.
However, ‘All credit must go to the chiefs for their swift effort to
bring peace. We stand by our position but we also know the police
still have tasks to complete. My only fear is that police action in
arresting those involved could add fuel to the fire. It may not be
now but in future [sic]’ (Trading Post 8/2/2001: 3).
As the material presented so far demonstrates, co-operation between
jifs and police can occur. Yet, in my view, this does not break down
the spatial alignments of the two (as representatives of regimes of
power) that emerge from the JJP interviews quoted at the start of this
chapter – co-operation does not represent institutional integration. In
the JJP interviews and in the objections to police action expressed in
213
the wake of the Tanna/Tongoa incident, the police appear as
intrusive.
For many of the interviewees police involvement was
expressed as coming into your community. In fact, the very phrasing
of
the
JJP
question
can
be
seen
to
indicate
the
prevalence/appropriateness of this conception – “When you see the
police coming, what are your thoughts?” [Taem yu luk polis i kam,
wanem tingting blong yu?].137 However, the intrusive nature of police
activity was also seen to occur in a more abstract manner, with
interviewees expressing their dislike of the police “coming inside” their
problems.
In the case of the Tanna/Tongoa incident police involvement was seen
as interference in the process of resolution.
As Jif Kapere hinted,
arrests by the police could result in more trouble – maybe not
immediately, but at some point in the future.
In relation to my
argument regarding the purpose of the kastom reconciliation process,
his comments indicate that police involvement is disruptive to the
convergence of understanding between the two groups which is
necessary to re-establish correct relations for the future.
When I
interviewed Jif Kapere a few weeks later he outlined how he had dealt
with the police operation. When it became clear that the police were
intent on making arrests relating to the dispute he told the young
Tannese men involved to “surrender”, but he also instructed them just
to give their names and basic details to the police and not any
specifics of events that they had taken part in. His reasoning behind
this was to avoid any possible court case as this would halt the final
stages of kastom – “klinim fes” – that were meant to take place once
the wounded boys had left hospital.
The point could possibly be argued the other way round – ie: the phrasing of the
question guided the form of the answers. However, I believe that I am justified in
making this assertion in light of the fact that these particular questions were
formulated by young ni-Vanuatu themselves, thus indicating that this was their way
of expressing police actions.
137
214
Jif Kapere’s approach to events seems to tally with my assertions
above:
he implied that the actions of the police constituted an
intrusion into the correct process of reconciliation, and that a court
case could act to “block” kastom.
Previously I had encountered a
similar attitude from the family of a murdered woman. While waiting
outside for the preliminary court hearing of the man accused of her
murder to begin, I spoke with some of her family.
They seemed
bothered by the fact that matters had come to court so I asked
whether the jifs on either side (she and her husband – the accused –
were from different islands) had got involved. I was told that the jifs
“arrived too late”, the police were already there, and so the solution to
the problem was taken out of their hands.
In our conversation they implied that prompt action on the part of jifs
would have allowed for matters to be dealt with in a different way.
Furthermore, they suggested that the court system was not able to
provide the type of conclusion they sought. When I asked what their
desired outcome of the case would be, their main concern was with
the change in relationship between the families of the husband and
wife, and who would take responsibility for the children of the
marriage. No mention was made of punishment or revenge. Instead,
they became most animated when asking who would pay for the
upbringing and school fees of the children left behind.
In general,
who would provide compensation for the death of the mother?
How jifs stay still
Yet, within the examples presented so far, there appear to be a
number of potential contradictions of my argument: jifs themselves
are moving, and moving people.
So why are they not portrayed as
intrusive in the same manner as the police?
And how can people
conceive of the work of jifs as taking place “within their community”?
To understand those questions it is necessary to adopt the view from
215
within kastom.
Here I return to the concept of non-geographical
community in Vila, and its effect on aspects of social control. As I
argued in Chapter Five, the legitimate use of kastom in town depends
on a process by which “town” and “island” are made simultaneous.
For jifs, authority is based on titles that are “of the island” - even, in
some cases, simultaneously in use on the island.
This makes the
exercise of jifly authority contingent on place rather than location. As
I
suggested previously, the island (as legitimation) is always
potentially “there”. For that reason, the movement of jifs is different
to that of police: the source of legitimation for jifs’ actions can move
with them; for police legitimation is dependent on an institution. But
institutions are not places. In this way, viewed from within kastom,
police movement is wrong, and their actions are lacking in
legitimation.
The police station is not a site for the reformation of
relationships.
While this helps to explain why actions on the part of the police were
viewed unfavourably by JJP interviewees, as well as the jifs involved in
the resolution of the Tanna/Tongoa incident, it may also explain why
co-operation between police and jifs occurs “successfully” in some
instances. The presence of not-kastom allows kastom to exist. This
relates to the argument put forward in the preceding chapter
regarding rape and change.
Using that example, I suggested that
explanations for the non-existence of rape bifo were linked to the
existence of respect. Change – or the adoption of change – results in a
lack of respect, and it is because of that lack that rape can appear.
With the examples presented in this chapter, though, it is the
existence of non-kastom that allows kastom to change. The instability
of the categories means that practices can shift from one to the other.
It can be argued that this is fundamental to the existence of kastom,
emerging as it does from the encounter between different lifeways, in
particular Christianity: it relies on an opposition through which to
216
define itself.
Yet, here the way it is achieved relies on a denial of
spatial and temporal coexistence. This argument is in no way meant
to imply that kastom is “tradition” or “of the past”. It does not exist
freely of the present. Rather, in the examples presented above, jifs
appear to be making use of not-kastom institutions in ways that
remove a burden from kastom; allow kastom to be clean. If we take
the example of violence, it does exist in kastom, but the JJP interviews
indicate that in terms of social control it is most frequently equated
with police. And, furthermore, what the police do to you occurs “out
of place” – as the young person quoted above put it: “once I’m in their
control I know…I’m already out of the control of my island law, which
means that when I go to this place I experience a lot of different things
that are new to me, which aren’t the same as what the jif does in the
village”. It is the location of particular actions that really makes the
difference, and enables difference to be asserted in terms of kastom
and not-kastom:
police have Namba 6; jifs have the mobile
legitimation of the island, described in the context of Vila as
“community” or even – as in that quote - “village”. And what jifs can
bring about through their access to legitimate kastom is the reestablishment of the correct form of relations.
The prevalence of spatialised talk in relation to the administration of
justice in Vanuatu links to my previous argument about the role of
objectification in the formation of correct relations. Objectification is a
necessary part of the (re)formation of relationships in kastom, in that
it indicates the moment of convergence of understanding that enables
the reintegration of a shared form of subjectivity shaping relations for
the future.
For this reason, the objectified locations of justice
influence the perceived efficacy of the practices enacted within them.
Police have designated locations, whereas jifs have places. For this
reason, Namba 6 achieves nothing in terms of kastom relations, but
the embodiment and elicitation of place on the part of a jif is able to
217
bring about a change in subjective relations – “the police put you into
the law, but the jif can put you into peace”.
When related to the views of the JJP interviewees, the use of spatial
language appears disingenuous in that it posits a false stasis on jifs.
Once space is utilised as the demarcation between kastom and notkastom, movement - or lack thereof - becomes the measure of
legitimacy. However, it is police who are moved by the young people
interviewed, while jifs are able to “stay put” - they need never be seen
as arriving, intruding, or forcing movement on others. Of course, the
examples given above indicate the co-operation of jifs in a variety of
mobile practices – in particular, repatriation of Vila residents to the
islands.
Yet, this too can appear as part of the totalising logic of
kastom – if an action carried out in town relies on the island for its
legitimacy is it not logical then that the island itself might appear as
both the reason for the repatriation – ie: the people involved are of the
island – the location of the repatriation, and the justification of the
repatriation. And thus it becomes static in terms of place – the island
is all you need.
This approach is redolent of Fabian’s (1983) argument regarding the
anthropological creation of its object, based on the denial of
coevalness. However this is not linear evolutionary time which might
distance kastom as “tradition” from “modern” institutions such as the
police or courts. Rather, it is time as convergence; the simultaneous
occurrence in time and space of legitimate actions and results. To be
not-kastom is to be out of place and time. Police actions may mirror
those that have occurred in kastom, or may be instigated at the
request of the police. However, when enacted in certain locations or
in the name of the police, they lack the legitimating power of kastom.
At the same time – as in the example of forced repatriation of the
Tannese woman cited above - police may act in a way that is notpolice, but adheres to kastom, thus indicating, as in the case of
218
politicians put forward in Chapter Three, that not-kastom location
does not necessarily preclude kastom behaviour. Going back to that
case, the fact that the woman who had been forcibly repatriated to
Tanna with the co-operation of police officers then went on to
complain to the police, indicates an awareness of the differentiation
between police acting in a particular location and police acting
(potentially) in kastom.
This chapter has indicated the spatialisation of justice in how it is
talked about and practised in Vanuatu.
From within kastom,
locational factors provide jifs and those who adhere to their authority
a way of demarcating boundaries between themselves and others – in
particular the police – who attempt to exercise authority in Port Vila.
Police are portrayed as invasive, intrusive and coercive, while jifs are
“of the community”, administering justice in an “appropriate” manner.
However, further investigation reveals that techniques of control cross
these spatial boundaries. Where difference actually occurs is in the
source, and thus, existence of legitimation for actions. For police, this
depends on a specific location; for jifs, legitimacy is embodied and
thus mobile. This difference can be seen – from within kastom - as
kastom and not-kastom.
This chapter has focussed on – once again – “correct relations”: who
is able to ensure, assert, establish or re-establish such relations. This
has involved an examination of how non-kastom intrudes on this
process. However, it is also important to acknowledge the presence of
different forms of relations in Vanuatu. For the most part these are
not easy relationships to have. Viewed from within kastom they are
incorrect and thus elicit inappropriate emotions such as jealousy.
Viewed from not-kastom within Vanuatu they are still frequently
incorrect, though the lack of control that they indicate is expressed in
different terms.
Viewed from not-kastom from outside of Vanuatu,
these relationships are often correct – what is wrong with friendship?
219
– yet the reasons for such encouragement are connected to desired
forms of subjectivity and citizenship that are difficult to enact in
tandem with kastom in Vanuatu.
220
Conclusion
Much of the material presented in this thesis has relied on a division
between kastom and not-kastom. As the last chapter showed, this is
not a stark dichotomy.138
My aim has been to show the shifts of
people and practices from category to category – ‘the inbetween’
(Latour 1999) – preventing the formation of a simplistic opposition.
When thinking about kastom it is necessary to embrace contradiction.
My arguments have been based to the extent that this is possible on
the view from “within kastom”, illustrating the way in which its logic
can explain everything. This means that I have not always portrayed
what is happening “outside”. For instance, any reader familiar with
life in Vila would find irony in the concept of the police always
“moving”, as put forward in the last chapter.
The common
“stereotype” of the police response to a complaint is inaction – nogat
trak; nogat benzin; nogat man blong lukaotem ofis – we haven’t got a
truck free; we haven’t got any petrol; there’s no-one else here to look
after the station.139 Also, while attachment to a home island identity
has been shown as vital to the legitimation of kastom in Vila, this does
not mean that those who assert those connections would actually
want to go to the island. Before my first trip out of Vila, several niVanuatu friends warned me to expect nothing but discomfort,
especially when it came to food: you won’t be able to get cold drinks;
you’ll end up eating boiled taro for every meal. Neither does it mean
that Vila residents would be immediately integrated on their return.
One man referred to those who came back after too long in town as
Douglas speaks of ‘these slippery intersections of kastom Christianity,
community, and modernity…[which] elude simplistic binary categorization’ (2002:
13).
139 I hesitate to call this a stereotype – perhaps more common knowledge. The only
time that I rang the police for assistance was when the house I was looking after had
been broken into. The response in that case was “nogat trak”. Those responses do
indicate a lack of resources on the part of the police that is common to many
government departments and public services in Vanuatu. For instance, I was told
about one weekend during which both the police and hospital in Vila had their
phones cut off due to non-payment of their bill.
138
221
half-castes. A child born in town, who had moved back to the islands
aged four, was constantly teased by the other children, generally
trying to scare him with stories revolving around the number of
snakes he was likely to encounter, and the presence of devils.140
On a more serious note, there are ways in which not-kastom
institutions can represent a space of freedom.
M.Rodman (2001)
presents evidence from the Condominium era that shows how
imprisonment was not necessarily viewed as consitutiing the form of
inappropriate movement, rupture, and mistreatment put forward by
the JJP interviewees quoted in the previous chapter:
The accused usually came willingly…and, in later years, often
spoke fondly of their time in prison. They learned skills, met new
people, ate white man’s food (rice and beef stew or fish), and
worked for the police, who were less demanding than many
planters (M.Rodman 2001: 95).
Reed’s (n.d) assessment of the relationships formed in Bomana prison
in Port Moresby indicates, again, the novelty of experience that such
an institution makes possible. He argues that imprisonment brought
about the possibility of friendship as a new form of relationship
amongst inmates:
Inmates empahsise that institutions such as hospitals or prisons
are particularly well suited to friendship , a social form which they
identify as new and distinct. They point out that outside men go
around with gang or language mates, that they know nobody else.
In Bomana, however, inmates are confronted with different kinds
of men and must therefore learn to make friends (Reed n.d: 7).
Such spaces could be seen as non-anticipative. Hirsch (1995) uses
the example of an urban market place in Port Moresby to illustrate
He was also mocked for not knowing the local language, and his style of Bislama
met with disapproval. I was told by one 12 year old boy that the recent arrival swore
too much. This was based on his frequent use of the word “kae!”, an exclamation of
about the same power as “gosh!” in English, which was enjoying a renaissance
amongst Vila schoolchildren at the time. When I pointed out to the 12 year old that
I had frequently heard him swearing in much stronger language, he claimed that
this was only due to “women talking to me so much, making me so annoyed that I
have to swear at them”.
140
222
such spaces. Drawing on Strathern’s (1988) analysis of the formation
of relations in Melanesia, he argues that,
[the market], as it has come into existence through European
urban planning, does not “anticipate” relationships.
It is where
agents come for many different reasons… but it is not implicated in
their person in the way a garden leads to the feeding of guests at a
ritual where exchange relationships are constituted; the garden
anticipates the exchange, which anticipates further relations with
persons and places (Hirsch 1995: 194).
However, this does not mean that such relationships can exist free of
constraints imposed by kastom.
As with the example of rape, it is
possible to view such relationships from
“within kastom” as
symptomatic of incorrect relations, that case, produced by lack of
respect. It is important to recognise the reality of the power exerted
on people through kastom. In this conclusion I present a last example
to illustrate this, exploring the constraints laced on the existence of
friendship through its equation with the elicitation of jealousy. At the
same time, I use it to introduce what I see as a new category that has
entered the contested arena of the exercise of power in Vanuatu: that
of “civil society”. While it seems that the ability for kastom to remain
operative in the face of state institutions is its totalising logic, I argue
that “civil society” shares such a logic, thus allowing for the return of
‘evaluative dualism’, the loss of simultaneity.
Jealousy
Jealousy is probably the most negatively valued emotion in Vanuatu.
It is evoked as an explanatory factor for a range of actions and
behaviour – arguments, gossip, lack of politeness, and sorcery.
In
anthropological accounts, and ni-Vanuatu discourse, sorcery has
been portrayed as against Christian teachings, and part of “bad
kastom” (Tonkinson 1982; 1981; W.Rodman 1993). In some ways, it
is a more complex category incorporating as it can useful practices –
forms of medicine, protective magic, control of natural forces, and love
magic. However, the sorcery engendered by jealousy is not of this type
223
– it is nakaemas, “black magic”.141 The fear of such sorcery exists in
Vila, operating as a constraint on behaviour – danger can exist in
accepting
food
from
non-kin;
accidentally
dropping
personal
possessions that could then be used to perform sorcery; or leaving
yourself “open” to nakaemas.142
This calls to mind Mosko’s (1983;
1994) analysis of Mekeo processes of “opening” and “closing”, with the
“safe” use of, and protection against sorcery necessitating a closed
state. However, in town, it can be the openness of your house that
presents danger. With the emergence of a higher level of economic
differentiation amongst the ni-Vanuatu population in Vila, jealousy
can arise from success in terms of business and employment.
I
encountered a number of people who feared that their success would
result in a higher risk of nakaemas being directed against them. One
response to this was to fence in their houses, making them
impermeable, as much nakaemas depends on depositing objects close
to its victim/target.143
The elicitation of jealousy does not always have such major results.
Yet its constraining effects are still obvious. As the YPP research into
young women, beauty and self-image (Cummings 2002) indicates, the
potential occurrence of jealousy on the part of other young women
helped to shape decisions about self-presentation.
If you were too
“flash” – generally seen as dressing in expensive clothing, particularly
explicitly Western styles – others would be jealous, leaving you the
subject of gossip and snide comments. This tied in with relationships
in that dressing in such a manner was seen as a way of attracting
Crowley (1995) defines nakaemas broadly as ‘sorcery, witchcraft, evil force
directed by humans that can be used to harm and kill people’. He also offers posen
[poison] as a cognate term for this.
142 Mitchell (2000: 199-200) provides a discussion of poison as violence in the Vila
settlement of Blacksands.
Jolly (1996) also provides reflections on the
conceptualisation of sorcery as a form of violence in Vanuatu.
143 I encountered a similar fear from a court employee in Santo, who told me that
security should be increased at the courthouse to prevent people coming in at night
and “sakem ol samting olbaot” [throwing things around the place]. The vagueness of
this formulation made me think, at first, that he was talking about vandalism.
However, in further conversations during fieldwork it emerged that the use of
sorcery to affect the outcome of a court case was not uncommon in Vanuatu.
141
224
men.
This did not only relate to the enhancement of physical
attractiveness through clothing though. Rather, such clothing could
be read as a statement of higher financial status, thus making it more
likely that you could attract “other women’s” men.
A song released in late 2001 provides an illustration of jealousy in
action.
Entitled “Jealousy”, it recounts a chance meeting in town,
resulting in a jealous outburst:
I was walking through town the other day
Met an old friend from school
I asked her about her life
Was she married? Did she have kids?
We started to laugh and play
Remembering the old days
Remembering the old days
When suddenly a man walked past
Just stopped and turned around
He walked right up to the girl
Jealously pulled her away
I watched as he dragged her away.
Chorus
Jealousy! It comes to destroy you!
Jealousy! It’s a sickness of the soul
Send you mad.
Jealousy!
He must have been crazy.
What did he think she had done?
We’re simply friends from long ago
Meeting by chance on that day
There was nothing wrong she had done
Remembering the old days
Remembering the old days
(“Jealousy”, 2001: written and performed by Neil Yaulu)
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Despite the melodramatic tone of some of the lyrics, the song raises a
number of issues.
The first of these is the type of relationship
portrayed as eliciting jealousy. In the song, the two people who meet
are “old friends” who went to school together. To me, this is indicative
of the way in which jealousy is deployed in Vanuatu.144
The
constraining power of the emotion - and the behaviour it results in –
comes from the fact that it is not-kastom that elicits it. In the song,
the not-kastom aspects involve both friendships as a type of
relationship, but also the institution of school.
I suggest that, in
terms of legitimative power, school can be seen in a similar way to the
institutions discussed in the previous chapter. These are spaces, not
places,
and,
as
relationships.
such,
cannot
provide
the
basis
for
kastom
Friendship, both as a term and a practice, veers
towards the not-kastom.
The limits on the possibility of having
friends can be seen in terms of language - in Bislama, the term fren
generally means boyfriend or girlfriend.145 Other terms exist to denote
what could be described as friendship – brata, sista, tawi – yet these
are all based on kin terms. In this way, the idea of having “friends”
with whom you have no pre-defined kin relationship is non-existent.
A similar point is made by Reed, who states that, ‘in contrast to those
relationships which are assumed to exist and need only be made
visible, friendship is a struggle, a relationship that needs to be
“created”’ (Reed n.d: 7).
What I present here is an ideal.
This is
obviously open to improvisation as is clear from the fact that I, too,
could “become” a sista, anti or tawi as I got to know people in
Vanuatu.
However,
I
would
still
assert
that
the
“negative”
In the song, it is a male/female friendship that elicits the jealous reaction.
However, jealousy is not limited to male/female relationships, as Cummings (2002)
shows.
145 In my experience the Bislama cognates of many of the most harmless and insipid
English words were the ones most likely to get you into trouble. In this instance,
asking if people were friends could cause offence, implying as it did a potentially
sexual relationship. I also remember the silence that greeted my description of the
Ombudsman of Vanuatu as a “nice man”, this construction generally meaning that
you find the person attractive.
144
226
ramifications of fren and friendship, and their role in the creation of
jealous feelings, indicate constraints placed upon them in kastom.
The song “Jealousy” was released as part of a collection of songs put
out by Wan Smolbag Theatre Group on a cassette entitled “Democracy
Dreams”.146
It appeared alongside songs addressing such issues as
the failure of politicians to uphold the country’s Leadership Code;
overpopulation of the planet due to lack of contraception; and the
prevalence of domestic violence.
emotions appears out of place.
At first glance, a song about
But if we view the elicitation and
expression of jealousy as a product of tensions between kastom and
not-kastom ways of behaving and relating, its inclusion on the
collection makes more sense.
As the composer of “Jealousy”
explained to me, he wrote the song as he believed that jealousy was
the most important issue facing Vanuatu at the moment.
“Democracy Dreams” is an example of the type of “awareness”
material that was being produced and disseminated during my time in
Vanuatu, mainly by NGOs whose funding came from outside of the
country.
This is not to say that the work was not carried out or
supported by many ni-Vanuatu, rather that its source of legitimation
was based beyond the borders of the nation. A common factor in such
projects in Vanuatu was to promote the “realisation” of rights,
especially on the part of those seen as marginal in terms of political
power - young people and women. Such a discourse formed part of
the objections raised in response to the Recommendations of the JJP.
As a Wan Smolbag representative stated at the VCC meeting held to
discuss the Recommendations, “We don’t need this kind of document;
we already have the Constitution”.
Walker and Dorras (2001), the founders of Wan Smolbag, provide an account of
the work and effect of the theatre company.
146
227
From disciplinary societies to societies of control
“Jealousy” provides a further example of this discourse, in that it
asserts the “right” to friendship. This was most commonly associated
with the Constitutional provision for freedom of association as one of
the fundamental rights and freedoms of the individual (Article 5). I
argue that this represents a politicisation of emotions, which indicates
the desire for reform of subjectivity and relations in a manner that
may be similar to the desired outcome of kastom. If we reflect on this
in relation to Deleuze’s interpretation of Foucault’s argument
regarding the shift from disciplinary societies to societies of control, it
appears that the techniques of the two locations of power are not
dissimilar.
In terms of state exercise of power in Vanuatu, the
material presented here has shown its inability to appear legitimate in
the eyes of many ni-Vanuatu.
From within kastom they lack
necessary legitimation – they do not provide a totalising logic that can
order relations beyond:
‘The different internments of spaces of
enclosure through which the individual passes are independent
variables: each time one is supposed to start from zero, and although
a common language for all these places exists, it is analogical’
(Deleuze 1992: 4).
Kastom and NGO programmes of political reform, on the other hand,
subscribe more closely to the societies of control:
‘Enclosures are
molds, distinct castings, but controls are a modulation, like a selfdeforming cast that will continuously change from one moment to the
other, or like a sieve whose mesh will transmute from point to point’
(Deleuze 1992: 4). This formulation allows for the way in which power
can be exerted in kastom without recourse to space:
place - “the
island” or “the community” can be summoned on demand, making
control potentially unconfined and continuous. As Deleuze suggests,
We have passed from one animal to the other, from the mole to the
serpent, in the system under which we live, but also in our manner
of living and in our relations with others.
228
The disciplinary man
was a discontinuous producer of energy, but the man of control is
undulatory, in orbit, in a continuous network. Everywhere surfing
has already replaced the older sports (1992: 6).
While the logic of kastom matches this, so too does the logic of NGO
programmes of political reform, in that the aim is the control of
subjectivity.
“civil society”.
Such programmes also have their space, in this case
In Vanuatu, “civil society” is being presented as an
incorporative zone that is capable of accommodating the seemingly
contradictory elements and institutions in existence – churches,
women’s groups, co-operatives – kastom included.
its development
can be seen as an exercise in categorisation similar to that which I
outlined in the introduction: the subject/object relationship involved
in categorisation entails the integration of the object into an existing
mode of being without the aim of changing either the categoriser or
the logic by which that category operates. In the case of Christianity
and kastom this enabled us to see how certain indigenous practices
could become part of Christianity, while others could remain outside,
in opposition, as kastom. In the case of civil society and kastom a
similar pattern appears: once again, there is good kastom and bad
kastom; kastom as a reservoir of “valuable qualities” and kastom as a
reactionary force denying the realisation of rights and freedoms.
I
would reiterate again that, as with Christianity, these judgements are
in many cases being made by ni-Vanuatu themselves. Once again, it
is the template for the category that comes from outside.
The “withering” and rejuvenation of civil society
At the same time as these developments, Hardt and Negri have
diagnosed the ‘withering of civil society’ as a product of the move from
disciplinary societies to societies of control (Hardt 1995; Hardt and
Negri 1994; Hardt and Negri 2000):
Today the social institutions that constitute disciplinary society
(the school, the family, the hospital, the factory), which are in large
part the same as or closely related to those understood as civil
229
society, are everywhere in crisis. As the walls of these institutions
break down, the logics of subjectification that previously operated
within their limited spaces now spread out, generalized across the
social field.
The breakdown of the institutions, the withering of
civil society, and the decline of disciplinary society all involve a
smoothing of the striation of modern social space. Here arise the
networks of the society of control (Hardt and Negri 2000: 329).
Yet I am arguing that, in Vanuatu, the category of civil society
encapsulates the logic of the society of control.
Its necessity is
predicated on the rhetoric of the weak state: the failings of politicians
and the failure of the state to provide adequately for its citizens. If we
confine our view to the bounded nation-state, then, civil society
appears to usurp the role of the state in providing the forum for
political participation and the provision of services for ni-Vanuatu.
Civil society is all that is needed, and civil society is formed from what
already exists within Vanuatu. However, this obscures the fact that it
is connected to a form of sovereignty, but one whose location is
outside the national boundaries.
The promotion of “civil society” can be read as part of the
internationalisation of political subjectivity; an attempt to turn
attention and participation away from the “local” state.
In Hegel’s
formulation, civil society is ‘a mediation between the self-interested
endeavors of a plurality of economic individuals and the unified
interest
of
the
state…These
non-state
institutions…organized
capitalist society under the order of the state and in turn spread state
rule throughout society’ (Hardt and Negri 2000: 328). Civil society as
developed in Vanuatu again fulfils this role. In this case though the
operative logic is such that the source of power cannot be located as
easily – as with kastom, the lack of a fixed space of legitimation makes
the exercise of power in the name of civil society potentially
continuously possible. The shared model of power of kastom and civil
society ensuring both exist according to their own totalising logic
230
represents the opportunity for a return to an ‘evaluative dualism’, and
the loss of simultaneity that enabled shifts from kastom to not-kastom
to occur.
231
VANUATU CULTURAL RESEARCH POLICY
1. Definitions
"Kastom" : traditional political, social, religious and economic structures, and
their associated practices, systems of knowledge and material items.
"Local community" : the group(s) of people that are the subject of the research
effort and/or live in the area in which research is being undertaken.
"Ni-Vanuatu" : a citizen of the Republic of Vanuatu as defined by the
Constitution of the Republic of Vanuatu.
"Products of research" : publications (including reports, theses, books,
manuscripts, academic articles, sound recordings, film and video, computer
databases), field notes, illustrations, photographs, film and video, sound
recordings, collected material artefacts, specimens.
"Cultural research" : any endeavour, by means of critical investigation and
study of a subject, to discover new or collate old facts or hypotheses on a
cultural subject; the latter being defined as any ethnographic or
anthropological study, including basic data collection, studies of or
incorporating traditional knowledge or classification systems (eg. studies of
the medicinal properties of plants, land and marine tenure systems),
documentary films, archaeology, linguistics and ethno-historical accounts.
This excludes any research undertaken by ni-Vanuatu, by Government
officers in the execution of their duty or at the request of the Government of
the Republic of Vanuatu.
"Tabu" : a subject to which access is restricted to any degree. Such subjects
can include places, names, knowledge, oral traditions, objects and practices.
"Traditional copyright" : the traditional right of individuals to control the ways
the information they provide is used and accessed. The issue of traditional
copyright arises when individuals either own or are the custodians of
232
specialised (and usually tabu) knowledge and its communication. This
knowledge can include names, designs or forms, oral traditions, practices and
skills.
2. Guiding principles
i) Kastom is the expression of the achievements of the people of Vanuatu and
encompasses the many different and distinct cultures of Vanuatu.
ii) Kastom belongs to individuals, families, lineages and communities in
Vanuatu.
iii) The people of Vanuatu recognise the importance of knowing and
conserving their kastom and history.
iv) Knowledge is founded upon research in the broadest sense, that is, upon
the collation of new facts and hypotheses and the criticism, evaluation and
interpretation of existing ones. Inevitably research is the product of
researchers and their particular viewpoints.
v) The knowledge and dissemination of the kastom and history of Vanuatu
should be directed firstly, if the subject is a particular culture to the people of
that culture, secondly to other ni-Vanuatu and lastly to non-citizens.
vi) Research in practice is a cooperative venture involving researchers,
individual and groups of informants, local communities, chiefs, cultural
fieldworkers, cultural administrative bodies and local and national
governments, and should be approached as such.
3. Policy statements
i) Responsibility for research in Vanuatu
The Vanuatu National Cultural Council is responsible for research in Vanuatu
under cap.186, 6(2)(e) of the Laws of the Republic of Vanuatu. It is the role of
the National Cultural Council to define and implement national research
233
policies (including those outlined in this document), to define national
research priorities, and to sponsor, regulate and carry out programs of
research. As part of its regulatory function, the National Cultural Council will
determine whether it is desirable that a foreign national undertake research in
the stated field.
ii) Approval of research proposals
1) Evaluation : All research proposals must receive the approval of the
Vanuatu National Cultural Council and the local community. An explanation of
the proposed research project to the local community by the researcher
and/or the Cultural Centre is a prerequisite to the local community giving
approval. Other bodies that should be consulted include the local government
and the area council of chiefs. In cases where there are conflicts of interest
(for example the local community wants a researcher but the local
government disapproves) it is up to the National Cultural Council to determine
whose wishes take precedence. The National Cultural Council may bring in
advisors such as the Minister responsible for culture, chiefs, academics and
professionals to assist in the evaluation of a research proposal. All
researchers must provide to the Council the name and address of a referee of
professional standing to assist in its evaluation of the proposal.
2) Fees / Guarantees : An authorisation fee of 25 000 vatu must be provided
by the researcher before the research proposal can be approved. Where
research involves more than one visit, and this is clearly stated in the
Research Agreement, a fee of 5000 vatu is to be paid on each subsequent
visit after the first. In addition, researchers not affiliated with a recognised
research institution will be required to provide a deposit of 40 000 vatu to
ensure compliance with the conditions for the deposit of products of research
as stipulated in section 3(vi) of this document. This fee is retrievable once
such deposits are made. For affiliated researchers, a letter from the relevant
institution guaranteeing the deposit of products of research by the researcher
is required before the research proposal can be approved. All funds received
from the researcher will be used by the Vanuatu Cultural Centre to cover all
234
administrative costs incurred in the setting up and implementation of the
research venture and to fund the general work of cultural resource
management in Vanuatu, including cultural research, documentation and
revival projects. In cases where it is necessary for Cultural Centre personnel
to travel to the proposed research location to help facilitate the research
venture (either prior to, during or after the period of research), the researcher
will agree in writing to reimburse the Cultural Centre for any costs incurred in
such travel, and this agreement will be recorded in section 12 (Additional
clauses/conditions) of the Research Agreement. The National Cultural Council
may waive any or all of the above fees.
3) Signification of approval : The approval of a research proposal is signified
by the signing of the Research Agreement [Appendix 1] by the researcher(s)
and the National Cultural Council, the latter signing on behalf of the local
community and the national government. In research ventures that involve
more than one researcher, a separate agreement may be required for each
researcher stating exactly what the research topic and capacity of each
individual is to be, and which may carry its own unique obligations. As a
foreign national, the researcher will be registered as working for the Vanuatu
Cultural Centre under the Immigration Act category of a “person seconded to
the Government of Vanuatu” (Cap.66, 9(b) of the Laws of Vanuatu). Should
the National Cultural Council decide to terminate a research venture (see
section (x) of this document), the Research Agreement will be annulled and
the researcher's visa withdrawn.
iii) Encouragement of ni-Vanuatu performed research
With a view to maximising opportunities for ni-Vanuatu to conduct research it
is the responsibility of the National Cultural Council to: (a) initiate research
ventures to be undertaken by ni-Vanuatu, including cooperative ventures with
expatriates; (b) ensure input by ni-Vanuatu into all research projects; and (c)
ensure that a research proposal received from a foreign national does not
conflict with research undertaken by a ni-Vanuatu, which will involve
identifying the possible research aspirations of ni-Vanuatu scholars in training.
235
It is desirable that participatory research (where members of a community
undertake research on their own culture) and research by non-academics in
local communities, as well as by scholars, is encouraged. The national
government has a role in encouraging research by ni-Vanuatu and in the
support, recognition and provision of facilities for ni-Vanuatu researchers.
iv) Training
There must be maximum involvement of indigenous scholars, students and
members of the community in research, full recognition of their collaboration,
and training to enable their further contribution to country and community.
Such training will be in specific areas determined by the researcher but should
be generally concerned with cultural research and documentation skills, and
have the aim of facilitating the continuation of research once the foreign
researcher leaves the country. The National Cultural Council may nominate
individuals to be involved in research and/or trained.
v) Benefit to the local community
All research projects will include a cultural product of immediate benefit and
use to the local community. This product will be decided upon by the
researcher, the local community and the Cultural Centre as part of the initial
agreement, and the Cultural Centre should have a role in assisting the
researcher in its provision. Such products could include booklets of kastom
information, photo albums of visual records, simple educational booklets for
use in schools (the provision of all products for use in schools should be
coordinated by the Curriculum Development Centre), programs for the
revitalisation of particular kastom skills in the community, training workshops
in cultural documentation, etc. This product will be provided no later than 6
months after termination of the research period.
vi) Deposit of products of research
Copies of all non-artefact products of research are to be deposited without
charge with the Cultural Centre [under cap.88 of the Laws of Vanuatu] and,
236
where feasible, with the local community. Two copies of films and videos are
to be provided, one for public screening and the other for deposit in the
archives. In the case of films, a copy on video is also required. Any artefacts
collected become the property of the Cultural Centre unless traditional
ownership has been established as stipulated in the Traditional Copyright
Agreement [Appendix 2]. The carrying of any artefacts or specimens outside
the country is prohibited as stipulated under cap.39 of the Laws of Vanuatu.
Artefacts and specimens may be taken out of the country for overseas study
and analysis under cap.39(7), with conditions for their return being stipulated
in the Research Agreement. The Vanuatu Cultural and Historic Sites Survey
is to be consulted about the provision of information on any sites of cultural or
historic significance recorded.
vii) Accessibility of products of research
The researcher will be responsible for the translation of a publication in a
language other than a vernacular language of Vanuatu or one of the three
national languages of Vanuatu into a vernacular or one of the national
languages, preferably the one used in education in the local community. They
will also make the information in all products of research, subject to copyright
restrictions as stipulated in the Traditional Copyright Agreement, accessible to
the local community through such means as audio cassettes or copies of
recorded information, preferably in the vernacular. Researchers are also
required to submit an interim report of not less than 2000 words no later than
6 months after the research period has ended giving a reasonable precis of
their work. This should be in one of the national languages and in `layman's
terms' so as to be of general use to all citizens.
viii) Benefit to the nation
Having a trained person working at a local community level is an opportunity
from which the nation can gain significant benefit, and the National Cultural
Council, the Cultural Centre or the national government may therefore request
the researcher to perform certain services additional to their research work.
237
For instance, researchers could provide assistance to government by
providing information on sideline topics of a general nature from their
community research perspective, such as health surveys, information on the
viability of certain development projects, etc. They could also provide free and
independent consultancies to national bodies and teaching and curriculum
development services. Similarly, the Cultural Centre could benefit from
requesting the researcher to undertake specific lines of inquiry of an
anthropological nature for its own purposes concurrently with their own
research topic. Furthermore, such a trained person could initiate in their host
community projects on behalf of the Cultural Centre such as libraries,
education centres, Cultural Centres, etc. Foreign researchers can also
provide for the Cultural Centre invaluable access to materials on Vanuatu held
overseas, contacts overseas, and might be able to facilitate scholarships for
ni-Vanuatu students in overseas educational institutions. Any such
undertaking(s) expected of the researcher will be stipulated in the Research
Agreement.
ix) The Traditional Copyright Agreement
The Traditional Copyright Agreement [Appendix 2] is intended to protect
traditional copyrights and to ensure the respect of this indigenous method of
controlling information and the communication of specialised knowledge and
form. In all instances where information or material data is obtained by the
researcher, the researcher and the supplier of this data must complete the
Traditional Copyright Agreement which will state the conditions under which
this material may or may not be used. The purpose of this agreement is to
make the subjects and informants of research aware of their ownership and
rights over the information they impart and to contractually enshrine these
rights, thus obligating the researcher to respect them.
x) Termination of a research project
The National Cultural Council may revoke its approval of and terminate a
research venture should the researcher fail to comply with any of the
238
conditions agreed to in the Research Agreement. Should a research project
be terminated before its completion, copies of all products of research made
prior to termination are to be deposited with the Cultural Centre as outlined in
section 3(vi) of this document. In the case of termination by the local
community, the National Cultural Council may reconsider the research project
for another locality.
xi) Role of the Vanuatu Cultural Centre
The Cultural Centre is responsible for facilitating, coordinating, and
administering all research projects in the country and for ensuring feedback
on these projects to national government and non-government bodies. In this
capacity the Cultural Centre will:
1) Identify potential subjects and areas of research, formulate research
proposals and invite foreign and ni-Vanuatu researchers to undertake certain
projects.
2) Facilitate and assist the undertaking of research by ni-Vanuatu.
3) Identify and facilitate opportunities for local communities to request trained
researchers to assist them with research of their kastom and history.
4) Provide advice on obtaining permission to conduct research and on
conditions of work and living in potential areas of research to interested
parties.
5) Assist in the formulation of research proposals to involve input by niVanuatu, and nominate persons for involvement.
6) Provide advice to the National Cultural Council.
7) Facilitate and ensure awareness of the research proposal in the local
community and assist the members of the community in making a decision as
to their involvement.
239
8) Educate local community members and the researcher(s) as to their rights
under the Research Agreement and the Traditional Copyright Agreement.
9) Assist the local community and the researcher in determining the product of
immediate benefit and use to be provided by the researcher and assist in its
provision.
10) Inform the local government, area council of chiefs and any other relevant
regional and national bodies of the undertaking of a research project.
11) Monitor the research venture with a view to ensuring compliance with the
Research Agreement and providing feedback to relevant national bodies.
12) Assist the researcher.
13) Receive and caretake deposited products of research.
14) Facilitate the provision of products of research to schools and assist the
National Curriculum Centre in their preparation.
15) Publicise this policy within Vanuatu and to overseas research institutions,
universities, etc.
xii) Commercial ventures
Where any of the products of research are to be used for commercial
purposes, a separate agreement between the National Cultural Council and
the researcher will be made specifying the basis on which sales are to be
made and the proceeds of sales are to be distributed. The details of this
agreement will be recorded in section 12 of the Research Agreement. The
National Cultural Council will be responsible for distributing the funds received
to the designated individuals, communities and institutions within Vanuatu.
Where research is engaged in for commercial purposes, it is the responsibility
of the researcher to make all informants and suppliers of information aware of
this fact, and to come to an agreement with them (recorded in the Traditional
Copyright Agreement) on the amount of royalty to be paid on received data.
240
Copies of all commercial products of research are to be deposited with the
Cultural Centre as specified in section 3(vi) of this document.
241
Appendix 1 (Vanuatu Cultural Research Policy).
Research Agreement
AN AGREEMENT made the ................................ day of ................................ ,
199........... .
BETWEEN : THE NATIONAL CULTURAL COUNCIL, representing the
Government of the Republic of Vanuatu and the local community, (hereinafter
called "the Council") of the one part.
AND :
of (institution)
(hereinafter called "the Researcher") of the other part.
WHEREAS :
(1) The Researcher has applied to the Council to do research work in the
Republic of Vanuatu, and agrees to the conditions placed upon her/him in this
document and to compliance with the intent of the ethics described in the
Vanuatu Cultural Research Policy.
(2) The Council has agreed to allow the Researcher to do such research, and
has agreed to the obligations placed upon it by this document and by the
Vanuatu Cultural Research Policy.
AND THEREFORE THE PARTIES AGREED AS FOLLOWS :
(1) The Council hereby authorises the Researcher to undertake research work
in Vanuatu on the subject of
with the communit(y/ies) of
on the island/s of
in the capacity of (if more than one researcher is involved)
242
for the period up until (Specify if research will involve more than one visit)
(2) The Researcher has paid an authorisation fee of 25 000 vatu to cover all
administrative costs incurred in the setting up and implementation of the
research venture, or this fee has been waived by the Council.
(3) The right to the products of research shall belong to the Researcher who
shall be entitled to reproduce them for educational, academic or scientific
purposes, provided that traditional copyrights are not compromised and the
permission to use material has been obtained, through the Traditional
Copyright Agreement, from copyright holders. The products of research shall
not be reproduced or offered for sale or otherwise used for commercial
purposes, unless specified under section 12 of this agreement.
(4) Copies of all non-artefact products of research are to be deposited without
charge with the Cultural Centre and, where feasible, with the local community.
Two copies of films and videos are to be provided,
one for public screening and the other for deposit in the archives. In the case
of films, a copy on video is also required. Any artefacts collected become the
property of the Cultural Centre unless traditional ownership has been
established in the Traditional Copyright Agreement. The carrying of any
artefacts or specimens outside the country is prohibited as stipulated under
cap.39 of the Laws of Vanuatu. Artefacts and specimens may be taken out of
the country for overseas study and analysis under cap.39(7). The conditions
for the return of the following materials are:
(Specify artefacts/specimens/other materials and conditions for return)
The Researcher has either
(a) provided a letter from the institution to which they are affiliated
guaranteeing the researcher's compliance with the above conditions, or
(b) provided a retrievable deposit of 40 000 vatu to ensure their compliance
with these conditions.
243
(5) The Researcher will be responsible for the translation of a publication in a
language other than a vernacular language or one of the three national
languages of Vanuatu into a vernacular or one of the national languages,
preferably the one used in education in the local community. They will also
make the information in all products of research, subject to copyright
restrictions, accessible to the local community through such means as audio
cassettes or copies of recorded information, preferably in the vernacular. The
Researcher will also submit an interim report of not less than 2000 words no
later than 6 months after the research period has ended giving a reasonable
precis of their work. This will be in one of the national languages and in
`layman's terms' so as to be of general use to all citizens.
(6) There will be maximum involvement of indigenous scholars, students and
members of the community in research, full recognition of their collaboration,
and training to enable their further contribution to country and community. The
Council nominates the following individuals to be involved in research and/or
trained, in the following capacities:
(7) A product of immediate benefit and use to the local community will be
provided by the Researcher no later than 6 months after termination of the
research period. This product is:
(8) In addition to their research work, the Researcher will, as a service to the
nation of Vanuatu, undertake to : (section 3(viii) of the Cultural Research
Policy suggests possible services of benefit to the nation)
(9) In undertaking research the Researcher will:
a) recognise the rights of people being studied, including the right not to be
studied, to privacy, to anonymity, and to confidentiality;
b) recognise the primary right of informants and suppliers of data and
materials to the knowledge and use of that information and material, and
respect traditional copyrights, which always remain with the local community;
244
c) assume a responsibility to make the subjects in research fully aware of their
rights and the nature of the research and their involvement in it;
d) respect local customs and values and carry out research in a manner
consistent with these;
e) contribute to the interests of the local community in whatever ways possible
so as to maximise the return to the community for their cooperation in the
research work;
f) recognise their continuing obligations to the local community after the
completion of field work, including returning materials as desired and
providing support and continuing concern.
(10) In all cases where information or material data is obtained by the
Researcher, a Traditional Copyright Agreement will be completed by the
Researcher and the supplier of data regarding this material. The Researcher
has a responsibility to make such informants fully aware of their rights and
obligations, and those of the Researcher, in the signing of the Traditional
Copyright Agreement.
(11) A breach of any part of this agreement by the Researcher or a decision
by the local community that it no longer wishes to be involved in the research
venture will result in the termination of the research project.
(12) (Additional clauses/conditions) (This section will detail commercial
ventures, extra costs incurred by the Cultural Centre, etc.)
Signed :
...................................................
The Researcher
...................................................................
On behalf of the National Cultural Council.
245
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