John Frum The Reluctant Messiah

A Rough Way To Earn Your Man Card

John made his way towards the leaping tower. There was a Bislamic word for it, the first one being 'jamjam', but the second was too difficult to pronounce, so leaping tower it was. His first experience at the tower didn't go well. When he was first pulled from the wreckage and during his recovery, some of the men, wary of his intentions, goaded him into attempting a leap.

 Kwanteef, the current reigning champion, was especially skeptical of John and spearheaded the challenge. Halfway up the tower he nearly passed out just from the rigors of the climb. Realizing his body was nowhere near the condition it needed to be in to be successful, he "chickened out" and had to climb down. It's one thing for a 14-year-old boy to fail but completely another for a grown man to do so. Rarely did men from the tribe'chicken out' but for the few who did, they were ridiculed and labeled for life. Or at least until they redeemed themselves by successfully jumping from the highest platform.

Constructed over 100 years ago of bamboo and vines and nearly 200 ft high, it rose well above the tallest trees and could be seen from pretty much anywhere. In the aftermath of the allied force's sudden exodus, the tower served as a lookout station for the returning ancestral cargo planes. It was quite rudimentary engineering and design. Four posts, wider at the base than it was at the top with a ladder tied to the outside of its southernmost leg. Small platforms that served as both rest stations and mid-level launching pads were scattered throughout its towering height and at any given time, men could be seen languishing in the breeze on them. 

At its base was a six inch layer of palm fronds and leaves, placed there as a safety cushions should the vine fail. It would by no means prevent one's death in the event of a vine failure but at least there was a chance that you'd be recognizable, and your minimal clothing wouldn't get as soiled in the process. It was a gathering place mostly. For the men of the village, it had great importance in their lives. It was a place where the young men and boys could prove their bravery and secure their social status in the tribe. Diving headfirst off a 200-foot tower with only two spindly vines tied to your ankles preventing your death was a sure-fire way to impress the ladies. And in any culture, it almost always boils down to that.

The men would first go into the jungle in search of a suitable pair of vines. There were strict guidelines for choosing a vine. They had to be the right thickness and length and it had to be the right time of year. The vines needed to have the right moisture content, typically newly grown but not so new as to be susceptible to excessive stretching. Or worse, too old, and too dry causing them to break. Ouch. Those guidelines were broken only once. 

In February of 1952, a group of visiting British Royals, hoping to witness this bizarre, daring feat were disappointed to learn there would be no leaps as it was past season for the vines. They pressured the tribe to perform the ritual anyway. A young, enthusiastic man was convinced by their paltry offer of a gold-tone Zippo lighter with a Union Jack on its face to leap from the tower using vines that were past their prime and they subsequently snapped. He died of his injuries three days later and was buried with his much-coveted Zippo clenched in his fist. There had been no love lost for the British ever since.

"I wish to speak with Kwanteef!" yelled John up to the group of men gathered midway up the tower. Kwanteef appeared from the group, stood at the edge, and peered down at him.

"What does the lady wish to say?" The group laughed. John looked around nodding, smiling knowingly.

"Ok, ok...alright," John conceded.

"In just two days, a great evil will visit upon this land. It will come in the form of men. But not just any men, giant men. Ghost Giants." 

The snickering stopped; the men grew silent. They knew the term; it was their term and brought with it painful memories.

"The Ghost Giants who took your sisters, your mothers, your wives. They're coming to finish the job." John paused and scanned the crowd.

"They're coming for you. And you. And you." The look on their faces was a mixture of fear and anger. They knew he spoke the truth. It was the prophecy that had been passed down by the great storytellers of the tribe for generations.

"What makes you so sure?" asked Kwanteef.

"I've been to the interior. And I came back." He paused to let that sink in. No one in recent history had ever come back. "I've seen the scrolls, read the prophecy-

"Why we trust you?" Kwanteef fired at John.

"We can get your women back; we can defeat them! But I need your help..."

"Come back when you be man enough to defeat tower, to defeat me! Then... we talk."

 With that Kwanteef turned and rejoined his group.

"Stay there! Don't go anywhere," John barked at him.

He turned and walked into the jungle. In no time he returned walking out of the bush. Wrapped around his shoulders and neck was a nest of green vines looking a lot like the jumbled mess of Christmas lights that his uncle would pull down from the attic every December. He strode over to the southernmost leg of the tower and began to climb the ladder. Kwanteef reappeared at the edge peering down as John took some of the rungs two at a time.

"Ful", he pronounced. "Ful! vines not season, he said, shaking his head.

"Fool? Perhaps... but we don't have any time." John said as he reached over and pulled himself onto the top where Kwanteef stood.

He sat and tied each vine to his ankle, straining to make them as tight as possible.

"Tie me off? John said as he handed him the ends of his vines. Kwanteef stood frozen staring at John. This was no small gesture. In tribal culture, John was effectively entrusting his life to him.

"You want Kwanteef tie you? Kwanteef," he said, tapping his own chest with his fist. John knelt, vines in hand, his arms extended, eyes locked with his. Kwanteef broke his long-held stare to look at the vines, then back at John. He cocked his head to one side, reached across his chest and in one sweeping and startling motion, sliced through the two vines with his massive machete. An astonished John was left holding two three-foot lengths of new vine in his hands.

"Out season vine stretch. Not good. You smoosh ground." 

Kwanteef turned and took to the task of tying the vines onto a six-inch-thick bamboo support pole. Once satisfied, he turned to face John. John was standing on the very edge, his back to the distant horizon. Kwanteef reached into one of his many pockets and produced a small, worn American flag bandana. He tied it about John's forehead. 

"Easy Rider"he thought. By this point a crowd had gathered below. Word had quickly spread into the village that the crazy messiah was about to plunge to his death, and few wanted to miss that.

"God Bless America," Kwanteef muttered. 

He gave John the slightest head nod of confirmation. John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and gently let the air escape his lungs. Then, just like that, with arms fully extended, his palms facing forward, John allowed himself to fall backwards off the edge and into the warm, tropical sky.