In the wake of World War II a peculiar practice arose in the island nations of the South Pacific. Entire communities would come together under a charismatic leader and build full-size models of landing strips and military bases. They would perform mock marching drills and salute a salvaged American flag. Equal parts religion, government, and mythic tale these isolated communities were collectively called “cargo cults” and were the subject of dozens of mid-century anthropological research excursions. The anthropologists learned that these cargo cults were trying to summon American GIs to come back on their planes and share the Coke, cigarettes, and all the other delicious and helpful things that they had used to pay the locals for menial labor. The people living in remote South Pacific islands, it seemed, had made an understandable cause and effect error: they saw a few white people make these landing strips, then the planes with all the goodies came. Rebuild the landing strip —the only thing that had changed as far as they knew— and the planes should show up.
One of the longest-running cargo cults is the John Frum movement on the island of Tanna. The village elders told Smithsonian Magazine reporter Paul Raffae that they pray to the American flag because one day Frum will return with, “Radios, TVs, trucks, boats, watches, iceboxes, medicine, Coca-Cola and many other wonderful things.” It is not clear if John Frum was a real person but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he is the main character in a compelling story that helps order a small society and bring meaning to everyday life. People do work and celebrate festivals because of a belief in an idea named John Frum not unlike Christians do things in the name of Jesus Christ. (This is a parallel that the Chief makes to Raffaele.)
Most writing on these sorts of things are condescending towards their subjects even though in more ways than one the cargo cults were right. Journalists like Raffae still make excursions to Tanna and other island chains to study the cargo cult phenomenon and one of the biggest industries in the Vanuatu island chain is scuba diving. A popular underwater attraction is the sunken military ships just off the coast, intentionally sunk after the war was over. Crucial assets suddenly regarded as useless surplus, find value again. In a literal way, the prophesy came true.
Modern economic development rarely extends beyond the sophistication of a cargo cult, and are generally less effective than the one organized around John Frum. Build the things that prosperous cities have —boutiques, luxury loft apartments, movie theaters you can get drunk in— and it’s only a few months before a local newspaper heralds the arrival of “The New Brooklyn.” It would even be safe to say that the people who enjoy these amenities are ignorant of the larger conflict for cheap labor and even cheaper manufactured goods that made their eminently photographable Saturday afternoons possible.
The impulse to leapfrog over establishing major, long-lasting employment centers and landing directly into adult downtown playgrounds is cargo cult planning. It is planning an arts scene with the help of paid consultants, rather than letting one bubble up organically and paying the artists that created it in the first place. It is replacing an elected government with a small cadre of local developers who run the business improvement district.
Cargo cults work to the extent that the reverence for a mythical past can attract people who feel some connection to it. Whether it is swimming through sunken patrol boats in the South Pacific or sipping twenty dollar cocktails in an old factory warehouse-cum-speakeasy, it is the peddling of authenticity that creates a sense of un-alienated value. I hope you enjoy it. I know I do.