Kastom: Volcanic Resistance, Flesh, and Belief
In an archipelago where time seems to fold back in on itself, the Ni-Vanuatu preserve traditions that defy modernity. Amid erupting volcanoes, nearly invisible villages, and ancestral rituals, men like Etienne and Amede resist the disappearance of kastom —the word, the practice, and the memory that make each community a unique, fragile, and yet indomitable universe.
In an archipelago so remote and scattered that the patches of dry land seem to blend in with drops of water in the boundless ocean—that’s how I saw it before setting foot there. I knew I was searching for traces of identity that would leave me without adjectives to describe them, but I found an ecosystem that bore sweeter fruits, that presents denser challenges, and that delivers more than it promises, especially in light of humanity’s capacity for belief; a matrix in which the land, spirituality, and traditions are synonymous with existence, where learning and passing on knowledge can be acts of survival.
On each island, a world all its own blossomed—unique yet shareable. If we could see how everything came into being, adapted, and transformed over the centuries—during which few were visited or conquered—we might not believe our eyes.
Vanuatu is far away: if there were a “far side of the world,” it would be there, but for the Ni-Vanuatus—as those who call this archipelago “home” are known—it is a small world, where the “far side” might simply be the other side of the circular island, or the other side of the mountain. Here, cultural diversity is owed to the fragmented geography and the fertile land that nourishes and comforts, without any need for expansion or conquest. Where these small pockets of time-defying customs have taken root, threats have never been negligible, but with the gallop of the modern era, the frequency and impact of dangers have grown. The new religions, mostly Christian, send missionaries with shrewd speeches that bring a word that is new to those who were already here—as new as telephones, cement, or jeans—not least because in practically all of Kastom, tradition is based on oral transmission, and there is no real writing system or cultural documentation recorded in any form other than through lived experience.
Etymologically, “kastom” derives from “custom” and “tradition”—it is the Bislama version of the English word “custom,” the creole language spoken in the archipelago. Kastom is in danger of disappearing, and although fragile by nature, it also possesses an unparalleled strength and resilience, having survived to the present day. Far from the uncontacted tribes and cannibalistic rituals of the past (as far as we know, though there are still some unknown places to which outsiders have no access and where such practices may still be carried out), Vanuatu now has Mormon temples amidst its characteristic dense vegetation, with missionaries evangelizing and preaching that the animist universes flourishing here clash with the word of God, who comes to save. But the most urgent salvation is that of the timeless culture and oral traditions that will be lost forever if they are not passed down to new generations. How can such a thing be done when, on Sundays, children are dressed in white, their hair is combed, and they are led by the hand to church?
On Tanna, an island in southern Vanuatu famous for Mount Yasur—the world’s most accessible active volcano, which is constantly erupting—the small village of Imaio dresses according to its kastom—wearing crowns of fern fronds and long skirts made of raffia and dried banana leaves—only to celebrate circumcisions, mourn the dead, or welcome visitors. Despite the rare occasions that still justify it, it has become a ritual of entertainment, an artificially exaggerated performance that has reached this point thanks to tips from tourists. A tiny mountain range and the resulting thickening of the vegetation were enough for the village of Yakel—whose people are also ancestrally linked to the volcano—to live in a bubble, once created by geography but now isolating them by choice. Here, amidst the two dozen traditional houses, there is one made of concrete: “They’re young people who go to pick fruit in Australia, and when they return they bring these new ideas, but they don’t last long; they’ve already left again, and no one wants what they built…” For the people of Yakel, everyday clothing is still made from these raffia and banana leaves; they only wear a short-sleeved shirt once in a while, to go to the market in town. The air they breathe is the same as that of the Imaios, and their proximity could have shaped a different reality, even though they are almost polar opposites of the kastom: one practiced as a pastime, the other as a way of life.
There are still those who resist the pastors’ message: Etienne is one of them. He was born on the island of Malekula and has stayed there ever since. He isn’t quite sure where his ancestors came from and doesn’t belong to any ethnic group that could be called a keeper of kastom, but he knows there is a sense of urgency. I met him after exchanging a message with him asking for a place to stay, and I was lucky that not only did he agree, but he also told me the secrets of his region. Malekula has a series of small islands off its coast, close enough to be in tune with one another, yet far enough apart that unique traditions have taken root on them. When I arrived at his home, we talked about what I had already seen around the country and what I was looking for. Sometimes, having a camera in hand may not be the ally we think it is—quite the opposite, in fact—but Etienne didn’t hold back because within his whirlwind of ideas there is one constant: his disagreement with the direction kastom has taken, with its inherent fragility having become a latent threat to life. Although his wife and two children are regulars at the local evangelical church, he did not convert and was, instead, drawn more than anything else by the ancestral roots inherent in the collective animist legacy. Without meaning to, he ended up becoming an important agent in the preservation of customs, though he feels the isolating effect of being outside one of the new religions that have arrived in force.
“You can’t do this; it’s a dark practice,” he says, describing what was most often heard in the early sermons. The association with the occult may stem from the fact that these cultures have customs that are not understood by outsiders, such as cannibalistic rituals that were performed only at the height of conflicts, as a final and insurmountable blow in response to, for example, the unlawful seizure of land or the killing of a community member by enemies. Etienne took me to one of the few places where human remains are still visible, and given the surrounding vegetation and the condition of the existing bones, these must have been deposited long before I was born.
I’m brought back down to earth and realize that, quite possibly, while I was playing Game Boy, there were people here consuming others in a lengthy ritual that prevented them from leaving the nakamal (a sacred clearing in Ni-Vanuatu communities) for 30 days, without even being able to contact their own families. This place is hidden, a couple of hours up the mountain, amid cocoa trees growing haphazardly (and untended) and undefined paths through small villages with no more than three houses made of raffia mesh. We stop to ask for directions when the overgrown vegetation makes the path unrecognizable. Finally, we arrive: everything is in place—the bones, the tools, the altars used in the rituals involved in the process, which Etienne explains to me what they are for.
It’s clear that talking about what might be lost gives him a sense of purpose. The story is long and detailed, although there are no other records to corroborate the limited archaeological evidence and oral tradition, passed down from generation to generation, to confirm and compare facts. But in kastom, this focus on the spoken word and the customs taught to children and grandchildren is what makes it both dynamic and fragile.
Here in Malekula, there’s a kastom that’s repeated in tourist brochures and reflected in what you see of the country, but with so few people able to get here on the two weekly flights in a 19-seat Twin Otter and the Big Sista —the boat that crosses the archipelago from north to south—often taking more than two weeks to return here, going to see the Small Nambas, so named for their characteristic attire (a namba is the penile protection commonly worn in these parts), doesn’t seem like an attraction, but it is.
After the tribe’s presentation and the cultural show, with its redundancies and an almost soulless tone due to repetition and lack of purpose, Amede, the community chief, approaches with a broad smile for the first time, looking as if he’s seen in me a longtime friend, and says: “You should come drink kava with us tomorrow, out of here. It’s in the village up there; Etienne knows where it is.” It’s a small community; it no longer surprises me that everyone knows I’m staying at his house, and that his wife, Lina, sits with me on the floor every evening, during which we share delicious laplap.
The next day, I showed up at the village up there, bringing a pack of cigarettes and some cans of soda, which were very welcome as thank-you gifts. In return, I helped grind and strain the kava, a numbing root that is consumed socially, almost always without limit. Each cup of kava brings people closer, and the casual conversations deepen into a mix of French, English, and Bislama: “My grandfather used to make masks of fish and birds—huge things worn on the head—but that tradition has been lost. What they’re saying over there has made people turn away from tradition,” my host Amede tells me, as he tilts his chin toward an outdoor mass a few dozen meters away, behind some houses surrounded by fruit trees, as if extending his index finger to point the finger of blame.
Here, there are few people who, like him, still remember the rituals and artifacts that define their identity—and who are living to witness that identity vanish into thin air. As we exchanged ideas and talked about the importance of preserving culture, I listened to Etienne speak of the challenges he faces in trying to do so. He described his childhood years, when there was greater diversity and more expressions of kastom were known. He told me about a small island nearby where there was almost nothing, though a tribe lived there, some of whose men continued to do what they could in pursuit of the ambitious task of preservation. I didn’t hesitate to ask him to take me there.
Everything along the way seemed ordinary, from the small boat carrying a woman laden with a whole bunch of bananas, to the moment we pulled up onto the sandy beach where the first houses stood. We entered through the labyrinth of sandy streets that gradually gave way to dead matter on the ground, while all around the greenery became increasingly dominant, until a group of men appeared who took me to see something that few have seen—until now, as I write this story and show these photographs, only at one of the national kastom festivals—and Etienne told me: “You are the first foreigner to come and see Uripiv.”
As if the opening ceremony and the hospitality weren’t enough, they wanted to put on a demonstration of a local custom: the only one of its kind documented, involving triangular masks made anew every year from cassava and taro roots and banana leaves, and decorated with paint and chicken feathers. It is a tangible legacy that has been passed down through generations, until I was able to witness it myself.
There is something majestic about these creations—perhaps because they are so unique, perhaps because they are so rare—but much of their impact is undoubtedly due to the significance of their having survived to this day. As with everything in kastom, their ancestral origins, conception, and execution revolve around this raw, immersive, and fertile natural world, which is gradually ceasing to be so. These Uripiv masks depict wild boars, saltwater crocodiles, and endemic birds that inhabit the local biodiversity and myths, while the ritual in which they were used, called namagi, was the hereditary naming of a new tribal chief. The namagi —and with it, the artifacts and the craftsmanship—were doomed to disappear when the first missionaries arrived here. Deemed inappropriate, this tradition changed until it became a fragile memory, were it not for these men resisting the inevitable fate imposed upon them. As I marvel at this encounter, I see that Etienne’s eyes shine with pride because he is witnessing firsthand something that moves him and keeps him awake at night.
Kastom is not a simple matter: officially, it is even emphasized as a matter of identity and heritage, but the sovereignty of the people dictates that they choose—or are led to choose—beliefs incompatible with what their ancestors created and nurtured. Etienne, Amede, and the men of Uripiv are part of a minority that risks not fitting in—in some cases even facing excommunication—to become active forces in the rescue of this heritage and agents of its continuity over time. The risk extends to the entire archipelago, and it is only thanks to those who swim against the current that the survival of what is real—of the spoken tradition and the connection to ancestry—is ensured in some Ni-Vanuatus of today and perhaps in those of tomorrow.
