Cargo Cult

Great tribe chief Lohopo says there is a box for us. We look to the sky in wonder, awaiting our turn. For many suns the shiny birds fly overhead. Wings of light and tails of color like birds of paradise. Each drops boxes of things we have never before known. Things to eat, things to touch, things to use, things to look at and wonder why the white men need them. They must be important, or the gods would not drop them down. The boxes are taken by the white men in funny clothes. But Lohopo says one is for us. We fish in the ocean and sacrifice some to the gods of the sky. We raise our young men to honor them and the whole village works to flatten the fields and decorate the great circle we have created for them. And we know the gods shall reward us. Instead of searching mountains for boxes dropped and abandoned, there will be a box just for us.

For as long as I can remember, there have been stories of the birds. How they were born upon the silver moon, and sent to rule over our tribe. They speak of a series of gifts, dropped gently into our laps to be cared for and protected. The myths speak of a day of deliverance, when we will become one with the great gods of the sky. That day is said to be the mark of great prosperity for our people. And Lohopo says that day is soon to come. For now, we simply wait patiently for our box.

Some of the shiny birds land. I know, for I have watched their movements since before I was a warrior. The shiny birds land on our ground for the length of a sun and spit out white men. Some in the funny clothes, others wearing nets over their heads, as if our bugs could be stopped so easily. The men in funny clothes and round hats are always moving. They walk for many suns and end up on the other side of the island where all they can do is turn around and go back. The men and women with nets stay where the bird left them. They gather food and make tall huts out of the wrong wood. They sweat and stink seem to never smile. Lohopo says it is because they are not like us. Their women wear clothes on their tops, and do nothing while the men work. Not like our women. Warriors here like their women bare and as strong as our men. The whites have no piercings in their noses, and no paint on their bodies. Lohopo says that the shiny birds like us just the same, but we were curious. One day, following Lohopo’s lead, we went to them.

The white men welcomed us to their huts with open arms. They showed us things of their land over the ocean. They showed us things of their God, but never mentioned the shiny birds. They told us so much that we began to learn it. Like the young men of the tribe learn the ways of a true warrior, we learned the ways of the white men. We learned to talk like they do, enough to ask, “When are the gods of the sky bringing boxes for us?” The white men cried, made movements with their hands, and thrust shiny, yellow, crossed sticks at us. Lohopo says that is their problem. Their metal is the wrong color. It is yellow like their hair, not the shiny gray of the gods of the sky. We must not talk to the white men any more. They want us to be like the while men. But they do not understand us. They do not ask about our ways or learn our language. Lohopo says they have come here to change us. But we do not want to be changed.

The tribe moved to get away from the white men. We moved further to the east, where the MudMen live. We have no quarrel with them, so they let us stay and fish where we wanted. The shiny birds still flew overhead, dropping their boxes on the island. Once we were not able to sacrifice fish and we did not see a bird for as many suns as you can count on a hand. But after that, we saw more than ever before. Lohopo says soon the shiny birds will drop a box for us. We drop to our knees at the sight of a shiny bird, and shout to it to drop a box for us, but they do not.

I was losing hope in the shiny birds, and in Lohopo as well. White men were everywhere. We began to think that, perhaps, we should follow their ways instead. We were losing hope in everything we had, and we had nothing. But tonight, that changed as our eyes rose to the sky to see a shiny bird gliding down from the moon. We sang and danced for it, as the tribe started a sacred fire. And amidst the commotion, two white men appeared from the underbrush. One pulled out a small stick and a sack and shot towards the bird with a bright light of blood fire. We thought of nothing but to protect the gods. So we jumped upon them both, digging into them with our knives until their angry eyes closed for good. There was a shout and attention turned to the sky. All at once, the bird’s mouth opened. I was scared that it would dive down and swallow us all up. But instead, out came a single, beautiful box. It rested not a spear’s length away from one white, lifeless hand. We took the white men’s blood for offering, coating the box in bright red before our spears and rocks opened it. This was the end of all stories. It was the inevitable, our destiny. With no hesitation, the tribe pried every wooden board apart and each member made a hungry dash at our box’s innards.