The lights fade to black, an eerie chanting can be heard as a dim red light illuminates me creeping across the stage, immersed in the role I am angry, frustrated, and out for revenge. Frantically rummaging through the on-stage office set, the classical chorus crescendos, and without warning, an office chair spins round apparently of its own accord revealing, starkly illuminated by a fierce halogen, the truly terrifying vision of my character’s dead daughter – a ghoulish finger is pointed to the drawer of the desk, and opening it with conviction, my character locates the proof he has been looking for, the proof that will prove his innocence and clear his name…

“AND BLACKOUT!” apparently oblivious to the series of horrendous dramatic clichés she had just witnessed, the imitating voice of my high school drama teacher Ms Cooper, began to praise our performance saying how she admired its “depth”, although she did suggest that for the final performance we didn’t use as much flour on the ghost, and the scene with the gun might be a bit more realistic if we used sound effects, and didn’t actually shout “BANG”.

The focal point of the only village on Niutao...

I don’t really know why I chose to do drama at school, but ultimately it worked out well, and my performance in our truly awful play “the Green Eyed Monster” somehow was worthy of an A grade. Being a GCSE certified actor opened the door for me to a number of school starring roles – playing with conviction such integral roles as the non-speaking childhood friend of scrooge in “A Christmas Carol”, Angry Russian policeman #2 in a “Government Inspector” (Angry Russian policeman #1 went on to star in Eastenders, so I think it’s obvious just how high my level of acting was) and the role of Jem Finch in Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mocking Bird” which was critically acclaimed in the Epping Forest Gazette no less, where I was described as a “competent young actor with a passable southern accent” (Southern as in the American deep south – no one has ever confused me with a northerner)

Unfortunately despite this clearly diverse and complete acting portfolio, I was completely unprepared when I was asked by one of my friends if I would help out the Niutao church youth group by taking part in a play being held at the church that coming Sunday. It was months until Christmas (which was a shame as I play a very convincing innkeeper #2) so I doubted it was the nativity he was talking about, and so I asked him which play they were doing – “The day of the good news of course” was his reply. I shook my head and asked for an explanation – I must have missed that week at Sunday school.

The audience, I mean congregation wait in anticipation...

The “Day of the good News” celebrates the day when Christian missionaries from the London Missionary Society first arrived in Niutao, and began to introduce Christianity to the islanders by spreading the ‘good’ news. Despite there being a perfectly good spiritual belief system before hand, the missionaries went about their work with ruthless efficiency, persecuting and ostracising those who refused to believe them, so much so that there are still people in Niutao who are shunned by their society today because their ancestors refused to yield to the ideas of the missionaries.

This isn’t the place for a religious and ethical rant, and I would be the first person to stand up for the individual’s right to believe whatever they want to believe, but the idea of forcing a religion on a group of people is so inherently wrong, that I’m amazed it ever really happened, and continues to do so – but that is for another time.

Not wanting to disappoint my friend, I of course agreed to be in the play, and rehearsals started immediately. I had assumed, after hearing the plot (fairly I think considering I was the only white guy on the island) that I would be playing the role of Christian Missionary, and so I had been mentally practising my posh English accent, and missionary techniques (strictly in the Biblical sense you understand). Unfortunately the roles of the missionaries had already been filled, so instead I was to be playing the part of Chief’s bodyguard #2 – perhaps the organisers had seen my great work as angry Russian policeman #2 all those years ago, or perhaps I just have that #2 actor look about me? My mood improved dramatically when I was told it was a speaking role, but quickly plummeted again when it dawned on me that I would be speaking in Tuvaluan and unless I needed to ask the missionaries how they were, or help them count to ten, I was in trouble.

After the briefest of rehearsals consisting of me standing next to the guy playing the Chief at the front of an empty room, and not understanding a word that was said, I was deemed ready to perform, and was given a scrap of paper with my two lines on it to go away and learn – there were two days until the performance, I figured learning a line a day wouldn’t be too difficult.

The day of performance was upon us, and as the congregation gathered in the church, the other actors and I were busily preparing for the performance of our lives in the traditional meeting house next door. I looked around me at the gathered actors, some going over their lines, some busy putting the finishing touches to their costumes, most catching an early morning power nap, and felt a buzz of excitement – the Chief was looking resplendent in all his Pacific regalia, and the missionaries were looking suitably hot and uncomfortable in their shirts ties and jackets. My initial disappointment at not being chosen to play a missionary had turned into smugness, and I relished the fact I wouldn’t have to sit in a church sweating in a suit that seemed to have been made for a gorilla considering the length of the sleeves. But of course what goes around comes around, and a sharp tap on my shoulder brought me back to reality as I was handed a traditional grass skirt, a few strips of coloured bark to go round my neck, and a giant spear made from the trunk of a palm tree, and unceremoniously told my shorts were too long, and would be seen under the skirt, so they needed to stay behind and my underwear needed to be rolled up – glamorous.

To add insult to potential injury, Chief’s bodyguard #1 arrived to help me get ready. With his grass skirt, coloured bark necklace, and coconut spear, Chief’s bodyguard #1 looked like something you’d find in ancient Greece with his bronzed skin, chiselled jaw, and quite frankly intimidating six-pack. I on the other hand looked like something you’d find in modern Greece – a pasty white guy from Essex with a beer belly trying to look hard – although my beer belly was on account of the Herculean portions of rice I was being forced to eat and not beer – there isn’t any in Niutao. I reluctantly put on my grass skirt, tied it as tightly as possible, and did my best to match the six pack of my opposite number. Unfortunately that only lasted as long as I could hold my breath for, and didn’t look that convincing anyway, so I accepted my fate and along with the other grass skirt clad Pacific warriors, headed to the corner of the room where we were to be greased up with Johnson’s baby oil – nothing homo-erotic about that I can assure you, particularly as all I could think about was how on earth a bottle of baby oil managed to find its way here.

The moment of truth was upon us, and like a group of condemned men, we walked in procession towards the church, and up the steps which lead to the side entrance. The sun was hot and bright, and its intensity on my bare back, magnified by the copious amounts of baby oil all over me, once again reminded me that I was about to walk into a church full of very traditional, God-fearing people in nothing more than a pair of rolled up pants and a grass skirt. I was so busy rechecking the flimsy knot holding my skirt up that I barely noticed as the procession shuffled through the door and into the church.

When a priest can see your nipples, you know something has gone a little awry. Fortunately as my nipples and I crossed the threshold into the church, instead of being met with a barrage of angrily thrown bibles and hymn books, I was met with wide eyes, open mouths, and stifled laughter – much better. I tried as best as I could to avoid eye contact with anyone as I took my place at the front of the church next to the Chief, but avoiding ear contact was much harder and soon the stifled laughter began to become much less stifled, so much so that the hymn that was being sung was abandoned in favour of pointing and laughing at the half naked palagi – I swear I saw two ancient women at the front of the congregation in tears from crying so much.

But the show must go on, and as the excessively loud sound system kicked in with budget wave sound effects (the church is no more than 100m away from the real thing) the congregation were treated to a theatrical spectacle as the Christian missionaries ‘sailed’ up the aisle in a canoe announcing the good news, and arriving on the ‘beach’ where they were met by the islanders and brought to the Chief’s hut at the front of the church.

This was it, this was my big moment – the most dramatic part of the story (probably), I confidently strode out of the Chief’s hut expertly miming the low door as I did (it’s all about the detail) I gave the missionaries a cursory glance with a look of cautiousness and intrigue on my face, which I’m sure was conveyed to the audience. Then in my best Tuvaluan I said the words “Tapu” whilst holding up my hand and then “Sou Kilotu” which roughly translated means: “Stop” and “Yeah you seem like fairly decent guys you can come in if you like, as long as you don’t have a go at the chief alright?”

Themissionaries obeyed my instructions, and the rest of the performance went well, excpet for when I tried to ad-lib and put on a mean looking face and pointed my spear menacingly – the stifled laughter began again – Its seems my menacing spear wielding needs work. After some prayers, hand shaking, and the symbolic putting down of our spears, the story was over, and the ‘good news’ had been delivered to Niutao. As the spears hit the ground the congregation erupted into rapturous applause, and as we walked down the aisle towards the midday sun and the Tuvaluan red carpet outside (gravel) I finally broke out of character and managed to smile and nod as the pointing and laughing began again.

I imagine this will be the cinema poster...

Outside the cast and crew posed next to the small concrete obelisk commemorating the building of the church for photos and interviews with the audience, which I have no doubt will somehow find their way on to the DVD extras. As I posed for pictures looking and feeling whiter than I had in a long time, the priest came and congratulated me on a very “truthful” performance, and complimented me on my menacing spear wielding, although I think he was just being nice. Before leaving, two of my friends and fellow actors, approached me and asked me to sign something for them – I wasn’t sure if they were being serious, and I have to admit that when one of them handed me a rusty nail instead of a pen, I knew a regular autograph was out of the question. They told me to follow them, and so we headed back into the church and up and old ladder into the church’s bell tower.

Being the highest point on the island, the view outside the bell tower was incredible, but it was the view inside which we were here for and the walls were covered with graffiti depicting names of what seemed like the entire island, with dates going back to the 1950s. I was struggling to find a spare patch of wall until I looked above me and saw a fresh plank of wood which had my name all over it, or was about to. I shimmied up the bell housing, and began to carve my name into the fresh wood.

Pleased with my handiwork, I looked around, and as I took in the best view of the setting sun from anywhere on the island, I smiled to myself and at the knowledge that for as long as the church stands, so will my name, reminding everyone of “That half naked palagi with the nipples from church” well it’s always nice to leave a legacy isn’t it?

Sunset from the highest point on the island...

The whole world's a stage

© Andy Browning 2012