In Chief Allen’s Garden
Wednesday, December 28th, 2005
Last evening Chief Allen came aboard the Picton Castle with his wife, Mrs. Chief Allen, for dinner. I was invited to join them and the Captain and a few other members of the crew on the quarterdeck where table had been set for us to enjoy a delightful evening under the stars. Chief Allen’s English is excellent, as I’m sure are the other four languages he speaks, including Bislama, and over dinner and a few glasses of wine the conversation ranged far and wide. Along the way we came to discuss the local diet and how the people of Bwatnapne Bay obtain their food. We touched only briefly upon the chief’s garden, but I clearly remember saying that I’d love to see it. Then the conversation moved on. By morning I’ve forgotten all about it. Chief Allen has not.
The next morning bright and early (the day, not me), I say good morning to Chief Allen. He has come back aboard to conduct some business with the captain. I am getting prepared to go snorkeling. But I am quickly reminded of my appointment with the local vegetables, and I hastily swap towel and fins for bug spray and my most sensible pair of sandals.
The “skiff,” the ship’s boat, gently touches the steep coral beach and we hop ashore with the bags of clothes the captain has traded with the chief. We drop these off at the chief’s house and we are off. After we leave the village it is pretty much over the river and through the woods, then up the hill. Did I mention how hot and humid it is?
Along the way I ask Chief Allen how he came to be chief of Bwatnapne Bay. He had not been born at the bay but nearby on the same island of Pentecost. He had spent several years working as a teacher on another Island in the Vanuatu group, where he had met his wife—or where he had “pinched” her, as said with a grin.
It turns out that the position of chief is neither hereditary nor elected. It’s more of a consensual arrangement with the people of the village. If you consider yourself to be a good man who does good work for the community and feel you have what it takes, you basically declare your intention. Next, the chiefs from all the surrounding villages arrive on the appointed day for a pig roast. Your ability to be chief is then apparently (but not really) judged on the basis of how many pigs you kill for the roast. In an interesting twist, the pigs are actually supplied by the visiting chiefs. After your ascension to chiefdom you are obliged to pay them back. As far as selecting a leader goes, I have to say that far worse methods spring to mind.
Chief Allen’s garden faces mostly south and west. The soil is a lovely reddish brown. I could see the ship at anchor in the bay from up behind a stand of paw-paws. However, the word garden means something different to me: flowers in beds with lawns and hedges and a bird table. Chief Allen’s garden is not formal; it’s functional. It’s not without beauty, but that is clearly not its purpose. The garden is tidy in so much as the weeds are under control—no small feat I’m sure—but the object here is growing food and a few other crops, not creating a nice place to sip Pimms on a summer afternoon.
The garden covers about three or four hectares, broken up into patches with jungle in between. It’s mostly on a steep slope. While the crops are vaguely separated into different zones, none of these are exclusive. Pineapples grow next to sugar cane and manioc (cassava); taro grows beneath bread-fruit trees. This, I am sure, helps reduce the damage caused by crop diseases and pests, which thrive in the monoculture stands you find in the vegetable gardens and farms in more developed countries. A straggly-looking herb in the tomato/yam/tobacco area turns out to be a “weed,” but it keeps the bugs off the tomatoes. “Weed” seems a little harsh. When I ask Chief Allen what kinds of pesticides and fertilizers he uses, he politely stifles a laugh. Everything is organic, although here the term is redundant—that’s the only kind of food they grow.
The last time I picked bananas, on Pitcairn Island, Steve Christian raised me up in the front bucket of the tractor and I cut the bunch free with Steve’s knife. I’d left my knife rig at his home out of habit (most places you go it’s not too smart to wander around with a large knife and metal marlinspike at your hip). In Chief Allen’s garden I find myself ill equipped once again, but it is not a problem; the chief has his machete (as always, I suspect), and in short shrift he cuts the whole tree down, casually catching the bananas as they reach shoulder height. Why not leave the tree to grow another bunch? Well, the steep, uneven ground rules out the use of ladders and, anyway, another tree will spring up from the felled tree’s root system in no time at all. Looking around at the lush jungle that surrounds the garden, and from which it was obviously carved, it’s easy to believe that that’s true. (Editor’s note: Banana trees can produce only once. They are not really trees but more of a perennial.)
As we stroll (hike) through the garden, Chief Allen’s pride is obvious, perhaps stoked by my interest. When not detained by his chiefly duties Chief Allen spends about half of every day working his garden. His machete serves as axe, knife, and spade as he harvests pineapples, plantains, and yams. Some things here I recognise: tomatoes, cabbage, and spring onions. More things I don’t. Some do not have English names.
My favourite new vegetable is the Island Cabbage. I’m sure it is no Brassicae. It tasted more like spinach at lunch the day before, and now that I see it growing out of the ground it looks a little like a nasturtium, only upright and leggy. Chief Allen picks a huge bundle and wraps it in a banana leaf as a gift for the ship, but on board it doesn’t taste half as good. There’s probably a trick to cooking it.
After about an hour we start gathering the morning’s harvest to head back. I am feeling pretty sturdy—a big sack of manioc over my shoulder, a few mangos under the other arm, coming down the steep muddy path. Spiky things scratch my legs, while vines snatch at my ankles. Then as we come to a clearing Chief Allen tells his ten-year-old granddaughter to take the manioc. I might have protested, but I don’t. After all, it is about two miles back to the village.