Negonego, Kaluvesu, 2024, Wood, h 32cm, w 56cm, d 7cm, photo by Rodolfo Maggio
Visiting a neighbour in the Marovo Lagoon, Rodolfo Maggio stumbles upon a powerful creature that combines two radically different cultures.
(A message to the reader in Solomon Island Pidgin.)
(A message to the reader in English.)
(A message to the reader in Mandarin.)
(A message to the reader in Japanese.)
(A message to the reader in Spanish.)
(A message to the reader in French.)
(A message to the reader in Italian.)
Five years ago, I made a fateful decision
In May 2019, I was in Kunming, China, attending the International Conference on Asia Pacific Ethnography and Anthropology. I was struck that all the participants seemed to agree on one thing: the role of China in the Pacific Islands was going to grow rapidly and inexorably. As an anthropologist of the Pacific, I felt unable to understand the impact of that phenomenon, not necessarily because of its magnitude or novelty but rather because I was utterly ignorant of the Chinese language and culture.
At the time, I was working at Waseda University in Tokyo and had become all too aware that learning an East Asian language was not easy, to say the least. And I already knew that a lifetime of study might not be sufficient to understand a different culture. In other words, it was way too late for me to begin remedying my linguistic and cultural ineptitude. Yet, I had to start studying, lest I would be unable to engage with possibly the most important anthropological shift in the Asia-Pacific region, at least in my own lifetime. I felt very indecisive: should I try catching up or should I just give up without even trying?
What broke my indecisiveness were the ripples of the political quake caused in September 2019 by the severance of diplomatic relations between Taiwan and the Solomon Islands (the archipelago where I conducted my doctoral research) and the newly established relations with the People’s Republic of China. I began learning Mandarin, and when the world went into pandemic lockdown, I saw an opportunity to supercharge my study schedule. In the following year, I passed the first four HSK language tests and, later, obtained a scholarship to study Chinese language and culture at Liaoning University (remotely). Thanks to this preparation, at the beginning of 2024, I felt (almost) ready to go back to the Solomon Islands and research, from an ethnographic perspective, the relationships between the Indigenous population and the Chinese.
In Honiara, the capital city of the Solomon Islands, these relationships have, for a long time, been quite tense. Several times over the past decades, the local Chinatown was the target of rioters who looted and burned its residential and business premises. In November 2021, the most violent riots in the history of the nation destroyed dozens of buildings, resulting in millions of dollars of losses and the death of three Chinese nationals. When I visited what was left of Chinatown, the burnt skeletons of the buildings seemed to me a painful reminder of what happens when the frictions between two different cultures escalate into conflict. However, were cultural differences the main reason behind the riots?
Given how badly and frequently these conflicts descended into destruction and death, I felt that an ethnographic study of Sino-Pacific relations was all the more necessary and urgent. So, I started collecting data in Honiara, but I also spent some time on the island of Malaita, where a large proportion of the rioters came from, and I went to conduct ethnographic research in Marovo Lagoon, an area where, in contrast, relationships with the Chinese have been mostly if not entirely peaceful. That is where I made my first encounter with the Dragon and the nguzunguzu-dragon, for the creature I encountered was indeed a sort of mutant, a hybrid between two symbols of national identity, respectively, in China and the Solomon Islands.
Negonego, Kaluvesu, 2024, Wood, h 32cm, w 56cm, d 7cm, photo by Rodolfo Maggio
To those unfamiliar with nguzunguzu, I can briefly say that it is, essentially, a figurehead that once adorned the prows of Solomon Islands canoes. Its distinctive features include a protruding mouth, a pointed nose, and a relatively small set of shoulders, arms, and hands, cradling a bird or, importantly, a severed head. Needless to say, nowadays, headhunting is no longer practised. However, the severed head serves as a chilling representation of the Western Province’s notorious past when these islands struck fear into foreign explorers and Pacific islanders alike.
But for me, encountering the nguzunguzu-dragon was exactly the opposite: I was ecstatic with wonder and curiosity. I stumbled upon it while visiting Saema, my neighbour, when I was living in the Marovo Lagoon. I had come to discuss our upcoming fishing expedition, finding him seated beneath his elevated wooden dwelling, crafting a new speargun with his sons. After exchanging warm greetings, my eyes wandered to a large wooden table nearby where, atop a cardboard box filled with various things, sat that extraordinary piece of woodcarving.
Never before, to anyone’s knowledge, had a nguzunguzu and a dragon been fused into such a unique creature. Intrigued, I inquired about it and Saema told me that it was the work of Negonego, an elderly artisan from a neighbouring village, renowned throughout the Lagoon for his exceptional carvings. Negonego had entrusted his creation to Saema for a finishing touch—the addition of mother-of-pearl inlays. This serendipitous encounter introduced me to a unique piece of art demonstrating the evolving artistic traditions of the Western Province, where ancient symbols merge with new forms and master artisans collaborate to create works of innovative beauty and meaning.
When I finally had the opportunity to meet Negonego, he recounted how the idea for this work first came to him during a visit to a Chinese store in Honiara. Near the checkout counter, he noticed the image of a dragon. Captivated by its striking form, he began to wonder if he could merge this unfamiliar creature with the traditional shape of a nguzunguzu. It was during this creative process that our paths crossed: after he carved the overall shape and just before the insertion of the inlays.
My questions about his work prompted him to articulate his vision in words, presumably for the first time. He had to organize his thoughts and explain his creative journey in a coherent narrative—a task he seemed to relish. He quickly grasped the depth of my scholarly interest in his work, and it’s fair to assume that the possibility of me purchasing the carving may have added an extra layer of motivation for him to share his story in detail.
Negonego was well aware of my academic focus on intercultural relationships between Chinese and Solomon Islanders. Just days earlier, I had spent time in his village interviewing one of the local big men, and much of our conversation revolved around China’s growing presence in the Pacific. Given this context, I couldn’t help but approach Negonego’s account with a touch of scepticism: could it be that he saw an opportunity to create something that would perfectly capture my attention, perhaps even grace the cover of my next book?
This question still lingers in my mind. Yet, regardless of whether his narrative was shaped by genuine inspiration or a clever understanding of what might intrigue me most, there was no denying the brilliance of his creation. The nguzunguzu-dragon stands as a striking symbol of cultural fusion—a tangible representation of how Chinese influence and Solomon Islands tradition can intertwine in unexpected and beautiful ways.
As I finish retelling the events that brought me to encounter the creature, this story strikes me as a symbol of something that stands in stark contrast to the ruins of Chinatown. Sino-Pacific relations can indeed develop in ways that are entirely unrelated to geopolitical issues and completely devoid of violence. They can freely intertwine in ways that might be frictionless, sometimes generative, and even aesthetically beautiful.
Negonego on his boat
About Rodolfo Maggio
Rodolfo Maggio is an anthropologist of the Asia-Pacific region currently working at the University of Helsinki. His book The Kwara’ae of Honiara: Migration and ‘Good Life’ in the Solomon Islands was published in 2019 with a preface by David Graeber. His ethnographic research takes a grassroots perspective on a topic that, in recent years, has been investigated only from a top-down, geopolitical perspective: is the Pacific becoming increasingly Chinese? While recognizing the coloniality implicit in such a question, he argues that, in the Solomon Islands, increasingly sophisticated intercultural relations enabled the difficult transition from conflict to peace. His argument is supported by artefacts, newspapers, interviews, performances, and data collected with participant observation in Marovo Lagoon, Malaita, and Honiara.
