A white rain squall came crashing through the mountain forest, and
then went humming northward across the quiet lake, down over the wooded
littoral and far out to sea. Silence once more, and then a mountain cock,
who had scorned the sweeping rain, uttered his shrill, cackling, and
defiant crow, as he shook the water from his black and golden back and
long snaky neck, and savage, fierce-eyed head.
Between two wide-flanking buttresses of a mighty _tamana_ tree I had
taken shelter, and was comfortably seated on the thick carpet of soft
dry leaves, when I heard my name called, and looking up, I saw, a few
yards away, the grave face of an elderly Samoan, named Mârisi (Maurice).
We were old acquaintances.
“Talofa, Mârisi. What doest thou up here at Lano-to?” I said, as I shook
hands and offered him my pipe for a draw.
“I and my nephew Mana-ese and his wife have come here to trap pigeons.
For three days we have been here. Our little hut is close by. Wilt come
and rest, and eat?”
“Aye, indeed, for I am tired. And this Lake of Lano-to is a fine place
whereat to rest.”
Mârisi nodded. “That is true. Nowhere in all Samoa, except from the top
of the dead fire mountain in Savai'i, can one see so far and so much
that is good to look upon. Come, friend.”
I had shot some pigeons, which Mârisi took from me, and began to pluck
as he led the way along a narrow path that wound round the edge of the
crater, which held the lake in its rugged but verdure-clad bosom. In a
few minutes we came to an open-sided hut, with a thatched roof. It stood
on the verge of a little tree-clad bluff, overlooking the lake, two
hundred feet below. Seated upon some of the coarse mats of coco-nut leaf
called _tapa'au_ was a fine, stalwart young Samoan engaged in feeding
some wild pigeons in a large wicker-work cage. He greeted me in the
usual hospitable native manner, and taking some fine mats from one of
the house beams, his uncle and I seated ourselves, whilst he went to
seek his wife, to bid her make ready an _umu_ (earth oven). Whilst he
was away, my host and I plucked the pigeons, and also a fat wild duck
which Mârisi had shot in the lake that morning. In half an hour the
young couple returned, the woman carrying a basket of taro, and the
man a bunch of cooking bananas. Very quickly the oven of hot stones was
ready, and the game, taro and bananas covered up with leaves.
I had crossed to Lano-tô from the village of Safata on the south side
of Upolu and was on my way to Apia The previous night I had slept in the
bush on the summit of the range. Mârisi gravely told me that I had been
foolish--the mountain forest was full of ghosts, etc.
Mârisi himself lived in Apia, and he gave me two weeks' local gossip. He
and his nephew and niece had come to remain at the lake for a few
days, for they had a commission to catch and tame ten pigeons for some
district chief, whose daughter was about to be married.
We had a delightful meal, followed by a bowl of kava (mixed with water
from the lake), and as I was not pressed for time I accepted my host's
invitation to remain for the night, and part of the following day.
This was my fourth or fifth visit to this beautiful mountain lake of
Lano-to (_i.e._, the Deep Lake), and the oftener I came the more its
beauty grew upon me. Alas! its sweet solitude is now disturbed by the
cheap Cockney and Yankee tourist globe-trotter who come there in the
American excursion steamers. In the olden days only natives frequented
the spot--very rarely was a white man seen. To reach it from Apia takes
about five hours on foot, but there is now a regular road on which one
can travel two-thirds of the way on horseback.
The surface of the water, which is a little over two hundred feet
from the rugged rim of the crater, is according to Captain Zemsch,
two thousand three hundred feet above the sea, the distance across the
crater is nearly one thousand two hundred yards. The water is
always cold, but not too cold to bathe in, and during the rainy
season--November to March--is frequented by hundreds of wild duck. All
the forest about teems with pigeons, which love the vicinity of Lano-to,
on account of the numbers of _masa'oi_ trees there, on the rich fruit of
which they feed, and all day long, from dawn to dark, their deep _croo!_
may be heard mingling with the plaintive cry of the ringdove.
The view from the crater is of matchless beauty--I know of nothing to
equal it, except it be Pago Pago harbour in Tutuila, looking southwards
from the mountain tops. Here at Lano-tô you can see the coast line east
and west for twenty miles. Westwards looms the purple dome of Savai'i,
thirty miles away. Directly beneath you is Apia, though you can see
nothing of it except perhaps some small black spots floating on the
smooth water inside the reef. They are ships at anchor. Six leagues to
the westward the white line of reef trends away from the shore, makes
a sharp turn, and then runs southward. Within this bend the water is
a brilliant green, and resting upon it are two small islands. One is
Manono, a veritable garden, lined with strips of shining beaches and
fringed with cocos. It is the home of the noble families of Samoa, and
most of the past great chiefs are buried there. Beyond is the small but
lofty crater island of Apolima--a place ever impregnable to assault by
natives. Its red, southern face starts steep-to from the sea, the top is
crowned with palms, and on the northern side what was once the crater is
now a romantic bay, with an opening through the reef, and a tiny,
happy little village nestling under the swaying palms. 'Tis one of the
sweetest spots in all the wide Pacific. And, thank Heaven, it has but
seldom been defiled by the globe-trotter. The passage is difficult
even for a canoe. One English lady, however (the Countess of Jersey), I
believe once visited it.
Under the myriad stars, set in a sky of deepest blue, Mârisi and I lie
outside the huts upon our sleeping mats, and talk of the old Samoan
days, till it is far into the quiet, voiceless night.
At dawn we are called inside by the woman, who chides us for sleeping in
the dew.
“Listen,” says Mârisi, raising his hand.
It is the faint, musical gabble of the wild ducks, as they swim across
the lake.
“What now?” asks the woman, as her husband looks to his gun. “Hast no
patience to sit and smoke till I make an oven and get thee food? The
_pato_ (ducks) can wait. And first feed the pigeons--thou lazy fellow.”