As the Bunker watches the escalation of infantile feints and parries that accompany the slow decline of our parliamentary system, our thoughts turn wistfully to models of government from other times and places. From “Government”, the first of B. Traven’s epic six-volume”Jungle” novels, this is a description of the investiture of a new chief among the Indians of Chiapas, Mexico, just prior to the 1911 Mexican Revolution.

A chair was brought up. It was a low chair woven of wickerlike twigs. The seat had a hole in the middle.

The new chief pulled down his white cotton trousers and sat in the chair, while all the men who had crowded around to watch the ceremony laughed and made ribald jokes.

Holding the ebony staff with its silver knob in his right hand, the chief sat solemnly in the chair, his face turned to all the men of his nation standing before him. He sat there with majestic dignity, as though he were performing the first solemn act of his office. The laughing and joking of the crowd was stilled, to show that the first weighty utterance of the new chief was awaited with due respect.

But now three men came up, sent by the barrio which was to elect the chief for the following year. These men carried an earthenware pot with holes bored into its side. The pot was filled with glowing charcoal, glowing brightly because of the holes.

One of the men explained in rhymed verses the purpose that the pot of fire would serve, and when he had concluded, he put this pot of glowing charcoal under the seat of the new chief.

The speaker explained that the fire under the chief’s posterior was to remind him that he was not sitting on this seat to rest himself, but to work for his people; he was to look alive even though he sat in the chair of office. Furthermore, he was not to forget who had put the fire under him - a member of the barrio that would appoint the chief for the next year - and that it was done to remind from the outset that he could not cling to the office, but had to give it up as soon as his time was up, so as to prevent any risk of a lifelong rule, which would be injurious to the welfare of his people. If he tried to cling to his office, they would put a fire under him that would be big enought to consume both him and his chair.

As soon as the pot of glowing coals had been placed beneath the chair, rhymed sayings were recited, first by a man of the barrio of the retiring chief, next by a man of the barrio who would elect the chief for the following years, and last by a man of the barrio of the newly-appointed chief.

The new chief had to remain seated until these recitals were at an end. It depended on his popularity with the people whether the men who recited these sayings chanted them in slow and measured tones, or as fast as they possibly could without openly giving the show away. If the last man to recite thought the two who spoke before him recited too quickly, he would make up for it by reciting his verses twice as slowly.

Whatever the chief might feel, he would not show by even a movement or the flicker of an eyelid how hot it was for him. Quite the opposite. When the sayings had all been recited, he did not jump up at one in relief that his warming was over, but remained sitting for a good long while to show he had no intention of running away from the pains and troubles which his office might hold in store for him. Very often he made this the occasion for a joke, which increased the good humour of the men who watched eagerly to see whether a sign of discomfort might escape and give them an opportunity to laugh at him. The more cheerful his jokes and the longer he remained seated , the more respect and confidence he won from the men.

He tried by his jokes to turn the laugh against them. “You have no lungs, you weaklings,” he might say. “What will your wives say to you if you are too weak to blow up the fire underneath my behind? There is no warm at all coming up through thie hole! Here, you, Eliseo, come up here and scrape off the ice that is forming on my buttocks.”

When the charcoals died down the chief got up slowly. The ice he had spoken of had not been so innocent. Great blisters had been raised on his skin, and in places, it was so well roasted that the stink of seared meat could be smelt at a distance.

A friend came up and smeared his backside with oil and then applied a compress of crushed herbs, while another poured him a huge glassful of tequila.

The new chief would not forget for weeks what he had had under his seat. It helped him considerably during his period in office to carry out his duties as his nation had expected of him when it elected him.

In nearly all cases scars were left on the exposed parts, which proved to his last days better than any moldering document that he had once had the honour of being chief of his nation. They also made it certain that he would never think of being elected a second time against the practice of his people.

Now be honest. Whether you’re NDP, Conservative, Green, Liberal or Bloc… don’t you think this ceremony would add immeasurably to both the entertainment value of a Prime Ministerial swearing-in ceremony, AND to the quality of leadership the parties seem to be attracting these days?

Shall we start a petition?