John Frum The Reluctant Messiah

Kava... Never Mind What's In It

John bolted upright, startled out of his sleep by the rustle of several women suddenly entering his bure'. He still hadn't quite adapted to this new, Utopian way of life where most threats, at least the human kind, had been all but eliminated and he still tended to react as if he was back in his low-rent apartment at school. 

The nakedness was another feature that always took him by surprise at first. Equally surprising, however, was how quickly he had become comfortable with it, the naturalness of it, and how logical it all seemed. At least for others. He laughed at his own odd sense of disappointment at finding out that every teenage boy's dream of being surrounded by naked women was not really sexy at all but far too natural and well, pure.

"You guys have a Forever 21, a mall, or maybe... ya' know, you could pick up some yoga pants and a flattering top or something... "

The girls innocently oblivious to both his language and his humor reacted as they always did- by simply giggling and nodding, not understanding a single word. Just as well John thought.

"I guess not. OK, what are we doin'?" John rubbed his hands together in anticipation. They approached him and stripped him of all his clothing.

"Alright, this is a good start," he said. They were smiling and seemed utterly fascinated by his white skin. John smiled in return and facetiously said, "Why yes, I do work out a bit."

He quickly realized their fascination was not with his hard-earned, stellar definition or his pigment-less skin but rather his beat-up, khaki cargo pants and the many zippered and buttoned pockets covering them. They began going through each pocket, delighting in the little treasures discovered in each one. His Swiss Army knife, a few coins, bills, some Q-tips, his keys. They would examine each find and discuss its presumed use. 

John sat back, enjoying the girls' chatter and fascination of the simplest of things. Why didn't the ordinary things in his life do the same for him? Why do people in his culture only have excitement for the next thing?

They stood him up and had him assume the DaVinci pose- feet slightly apart, arms outstretched perpendicular to the body with palms facing forward. From there they set about the task of returning him to his former, ash-laden, statue-like appearance by applying a white, clay-like plant ooze that although a tad feminine for his taste, smelled far better than the drink he was just handed.

"What's this?" he said, making no effort to hide his displeasure. They giggled at his scrunched-up face.

"Kava," they told him. "It is Kava," motioning for him to drink up.

"For you, yes?!"

"Kava," John repeated. "Mmmm," still smiling and nodding at everyone. "Smells like ass." They seemed pleased.

"Yes, ass, yes. You drink!" they mimicked. "Ass," they repeated to one another, smiling and nodding, pleased with their acquisition of this brand-new word. Before he could politely turn them down, they pushed the coconut shell towards his face, causing him to take a huge, unwanted gulp. Surprisingly, the taste was, in truth, tolerable. But the consistency... That was another matter. It had the consistency of tapioca. Tapioca, lumps, and all, that hadn't quite congealed. Throw in a few subtle notes of dirt, sulfur, and a hint of, I dunno...methane? (not to mention the lack of ice) and there you pretty much had a libation worthy as an offering to a deity.

Next, they wrapped him in a bark cloth sarong. "This will take a bit of getting used to," he muttered. Bark cloth was just that - a cloth-like material made by battering the bark of the Mulberry tree until its fibers become pliable enough to fashion clothing out of it. Without the benefit of his comfy boxers running some interference, the "cloth" was a bit more abrasive on his nether region than he was used to. But it didn't seem to matter much. The little bit of Kava he'd taken was already providing the buzz equivalent of several shots of Patron and now, all his regions felt really, really good.

The women made their way to the village center leading John in his shiny new paint job towards the chanting and beating drums of a jungle party in full swing. He nervously wondered if this was their equivalent of a 4H fair and he was their blue-ribbon-hopeful prized pig. 

Once there, they seated him in an over-sized chair carved out of a single Eucalyptus log and adorned him with various flowery accoutrements including a small headdress of sorts. The throne-like chair sat on the perimeter of a large, open air space that long ago had been stripped of its trees and shrubs leaving only a dusty, hard-packed, amber-colored clay circle where the villagers could gather to sing and dance just as their ancestors had done for centuries in times past. A firepit was its centerpiece and judging by the amount of combustible material in it, this was going to be one serious blaze.

"Always wanted to go to Burning Man," John thought to himself.

As he looked about there were hundreds of villagers gyrating and pulsing in unison to the primitive rhythm generated by the log drummers. Every crazy form of dress imaginable - red, white, and blue, stars and stripes with brightly colored faces. The most unusual and out of place was the inordinate amount of foam stadium fingers worn prominently on the heads of most of the tribesmen.

"Not too different," he thought, "than the Red Witch on Saturday night. Just wish I had a cold Corona. For that matter, a cold anything." But he didn't, so Kava was going to have to do. He held his breath and took another swig. He had to admit, as God - awful this stuff was, it was all business and quickly getting the job done. Seated next to him was another masked villager, or so he thought, until he noticed a pricey video camera tucked away under a piece of brightly colored bark cloth.

"I'm John," he said.

"Marco," the man replied.

"Polo!" John quickly shot back. A confused look came across the man's face and John laughed out loud. "Not from the states? ...Never mind."

John noticed Marco's hand wrapped around a familiar coconut shell and smiled. He welcomed the idea of another westerner joining him in his journey down that long and winding Kava-filled trail that lay mysteriously ahead.

"Japan- I'm with the film crew? ...the documentary?" Marco smiled at him.

John hadn't heard. In fact, he hadn't heard much about anything since his crash. February 15th, the day of the annual Tanna Army USA parade, the day most of the islanders expect the return of John Frum had come and gone. What he was seeing was the remnants of that holiday, extraordinarily out-of-place, American-themed costumes and props were everywhere.

Marco was one of the fortunate few given rare permission by the council to stay beyond the date and visit the inner village. The few tourists who were allowed to witness the parade were always cordoned off on the beach and summarily dismissed back to their ship by day's end. The villagers' real, everyday Utopian life was never put on display. Rather a watered-down version of what tourists expected to see was provided in exchange for a few fascinating trinkets brought ashore from the outside world.

John looked about. Dancing directly in front of them were a few of the men who were clearly beating them in the Kava consumption race, their eyes wild and threatening. Any fear, however, was put to rest by the broad smiles on their faces and the giant, neon-bright foam fingers with the inscription "WE'RE # 1" worn as hats on their heads.

"What's with the headgear?" John asked.

"That, my friend... is your latest cultural contribution to the village," Marco said, pausing only long enough to take another sip. John seemed confused. "Seems your chariot from the sky is leeching its magical cargo with every stiff breeze that comes along. Should have been here last week - raspberry ring pops and glow-in-the-dark rave necklaces," Marco said staring straight ahead. "And judging from that very fancy chair," pointing to John's hand-carved seat, "I think you just might be their guest of honor. Or their next meal."

Marco laughed openly at his own joke. John chuckled nervously while sipping his drink. Next meal indeed.