Costly Hospitality
For an authentic test of one's capacity for solitude--or better,
perhaps, for convincing proof of the lack of it--two conditions are
essential: complete isolation--that goes without saying, of course;
and the assurance that such isolation will not be broken into. At
Soul-Eaters' Island I expected to find both of these conditions
fulfilled. My house was four miles from the settlement, but in
reality I had no more seclusion there than a hermit whose retreat
is within easy walking distance of a summer hotel. Visitors came in
canoes, in cutters; and as the pass and the reef on either side of
it were a favorite fishing ground many of them came prepared to spend
the day, or the night, or both.
It is as well, perhaps, that the event fell out as it did. If
life is to keep its fine zest many wished-for experiences must be
perpetually unrealized, and we perpetually following our alluring
phantoms until we tumble headlong out of existence. Not having been
put to the proof, I may still persuade myself that I am a lover of
solitude, gifted for the enjoyment of it beyond other men. Meanwhile,
at Soul-Eaters' Island, I had a further experience with Moy Ling, the
Chinese storekeeper, which convinced me of very definite limitations
in another direction.
Some time after I had taken up residence there the village came in
a body to the adjacent island on the other side of the pass. During
the year they moved in this way from one piece of land to another,
collecting the ripe coconuts and making their copra on the spot. The
land was not owned in common, but they worked it in common; and as
house building was a simple matter, instead of going back and forth
from the village, they erected temporary shelters and remained at
each island in turn until the work there was finished. They were not
unremitting toilers. After an hour or two of copra making in the
cool of the early morning they were content to call it a day, and
spent the rest of the time at more congenial occupations--swimming,
fishing, visiting back and forth, talking forever of the arrival of
the last trading schooner and the probable date of arrival of the
next one.
During all of this time I kept open house, and since I was indebted
to nearly all of my friendly visitors for past hospitalities I
felt that it was necessary to make returns. Unfortunately, I had
nothing to make returns with, except such supplies of provisions
and trade goods as I was able to purchase on credit of Moy Ling.
Fish were abundant in the lagoon, and a few minutes of fine sport
each day more than supplied my wants; but I knew that fish was not
acceptable to palates long accustomed to little else. Furthermore,
having accepted, at the time of my arrival at Rutiaro, the role
of the generous, affluent _popaa_, I had to carry it through. As
previously related, although I had been left at Rutiaro unexpectedly,
the inhabitants took it for granted that I had plenty of money. The
possession of wealth in the form of banknotes is regarded there as
one of the attributes of a white man, as necessary to his comfort
and convenience and as much a part of him as arms and legs. Pride
prevented my disillusioning them at first when I was in desperate
need of a new wardrobe; but it got me into a devil of a hole with
Moy, and I dug myself in more deeply every day.
Having traded upon the native tradition of the mysterious affluence
of all white men by opening up a credit account with the Chinaman I
had to sustain his confidence in my ability to cancel it at once if I
choose; and, feeling inwardly abject, it was all the more necessary
to maintain a reassuring front in the face of his growing anxiety.
It was growing. I could see that. He never actually dunned me,
but I escaped the humiliating experience only by making additional
purchases on so vast a scale, according to island standards, that
even Moy seemed to be awed, for brief periods, into a stupefied
acceptance of the mysteriously affluent myth. I, myself, was awed
when I thought of the size of my bill. Trade goods carried across
thousands of miles of ocean are more than usually expensive. A
one-pound tin of bully beef cost nine francs, and other things were
proportionally dear. The worst of it was that Moy's stock of supplies
was much larger than I had at first supposed. He had a warehouse
adjoining his store which was full of them, and so, with guests
making constant demands upon my hospitality, I was forced to buy with
the greater abandon as his confidence waned. But I returned from
these encounters with a washed-out feeling, regretting that I had
ever accepted guile as an ally and longing for relief from a state of
affairs which I knew could not continue indefinitely.
Relief came in histrionic, eleventh-hour fashion. Providence saved
me when I thought Pride was riding me to a starry fall. One evening
I paddled across to the other island for further supplies. Huirai
and his family had been staying with me for several days. Fishing
was better on my side of the lagoon pass, he said, but I think his
real purpose in coming had been to eat my, or, rather, Moy Ling's
tinned beef. At any rate, when they returned I had nothing left. It
was still fairly early, but no one was abroad in the village street.
There was a light in Moy's shop, however, and looking through the
open window I saw him sitting at a table with his adding machine
before him. He was counting aloud in Chinese, his long, slim
fingers playing skilfully over the wooden beads which slid back
and forth on the framework with a soft, clicking sound, and as he
bent over columns of figures the lamp light filled the hollows of
his cheeks and temples with pits of shadow. In repose his face was
as expressionless as that of a corpse. I felt my courage going as
I looked at it. What chance had I of carrying through successfully
this game of beggarman's bluff? How long could I hope to maintain the
fiction of affluence before a man wise with the inherited experience
of centuries of shopkeeping ancestors? I had a moment of panic, and
before I realized what I was doing I had entered the shop and had
asked for my bill.
Moy slip-slopped into his back room and returned with a large packet
of old newspapers. He was a frugal soul and kept his accounts, as he
ordered his life--with an eye to avoiding unnecessary expense. The
journals were painted over with Chinese characters--the items of my
various purchases. He arranged the lists in order, sat down to his
counting machine again, and presently gave me the grand total. The
amount was something over four thousand francs.
Thank Heaven for righteous anger! Thank Heaven for anger which is
only moderately righteous. I knew that I had bought lavishly, but
I had kept a rough estimate of the amount of my purchases, and I
also knew that Moy had added at least 10 per cent to his legitimate
profit. He had reasoned, no doubt, that a man who bought on mere
whim, without asking the price of anything, would settle his
obligation as thoughtlessly as he had incurred it. And I would of
course. This was necessary if I were to live up to native tradition
in the grand style. But when I saw how costly the game had become,
and how thoroughly Moy had entered into the spirit of it, too, I felt
indignant; and instead of confessing my predicament as I meant to do,
I ordered another case of tinned beef and a bag of rice and left the
shop without further talk.
This righteous wrath was all very well, but now that I had asked for
my bill, I would have to settle it. How was this to be done? If only
I had my sea chest which Tino, supercargo of the _Caleb S. Winship_,
had carried away with him when he left me at Rutiaro! My pocketbook
was in it, containing all of my money, more than enough to cancel
the debt with Moy. I had rather an anxious time during the next few
days. I remember entertaining as usual, but in a faint-hearted way;
sleeping badly, and between times, walking up and down Soul-Eaters'
Island, trying to subdue my pride to the point of confession. Then
one afternoon, when I was sitting on the ocean beach, watching the
surf piling up on the barrier reef, I became aware of a vessel,
hull-down, on the horizon. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was
like a far halloo from a world which I had almost forgotten existed.
All through the afternoon she beat steadily to windward until at dusk
she was about two miles distant, and I saw that she was one of the
small schooners, without auxiliary power, which are used by Papeete
trading companies for collecting copra at the less profitable atolls.
All the village came over to Soul-Eaters' Island, for the anchorage
at this end of the atoll lay just behind it. The schooner was
recognized. It was the _Potii Ravarava_ which visited the atoll
about once a year. She entered the pass with the turn of the tide,
lighting her way by the fire which was burning in a primitive galley,
a tin-lined box half filled with sand. I could see her native skipper
at the wheel, a couple of sailors preparing to take in sail, and two
native women sitting on the poop, with a great pile of luggage behind
them. One of these was Tepera, daughter of Puarei, chief of the
atoll, who had been sent to the Protestant school at Papeete nearly
a year ago. The other was Tuarava, her aunt, with whom she had been
living there. The crowd on the beach waited in deep silence while
the schooner anchored and the sails were being furled. I remember
that I could hear very plainly the far-off rumbling of the surf on
the windward side of the atoll and the hissing of frying fish, or
whatever it was, a native boy was cooking at the galley fire. Then
the small boat was lowered and the women brought ashore with their
luggage. Tepera went at once to her father and, putting her head on
his shoulder, began to cry softly. Not a word was spoken. Tuarava
and Poura, her sister, squatted on their heels close by, their arms
around each other, moaning in the same softly audible way. The women
then went in turn among all their relatives, having their little cry
while the rest of the village looked on in sympathetic silence. When
they had finished, a fire was lit on the beach and everyone gathered
around to hear the news and to examine the schooner's cargo which
was being put on shore. More trade goods for Moy Ling, I thought.
Remembering my debt, I couldn't summon any great amount of interest
in the scene. I was about to return to my house when Huirai came
bustling up, carrying my sea chest. "You like this?" he said. What he
meant was, "Is this yours?" but for once he misused his English with
splendid relevancy. I sat down weakly on the box, holding a letter
which he had thrust into my hand. No doubt of it. It was my box, and
the letter was addressed to me in Tino's familiar handwriting. It
read, in part, as follows:
We have just met the _Potii Ravarava_ here at Hao. She is
going to Rutiaro within a few weeks, so I am sending your sea
chest by her. Sorry I left you in that God-forsaken hole; but I
was tight that evening, and pretty mad at the way you upset my
plans with your marble-playing foolishness. Next morning, when
I sobered up, I felt like going back for you. But we had a fair
wind, and I had my cargo to think of. The price of copra is on
the down grade, and I've got to get back to Papeete with mine
before the bottom falls out of the market. You said once you
wanted to see all you could of life in the Paumotus. Well, I
guess you'll have your chance at Rutiaro. If I was you I would
come back on the _Potii Ravarava_. She only carries twenty-seven
tons cargo, so she'll probably go direct to Papeete from there.
I am also sending you an empty three-gallon demijohn. Fill this
with water before you leave, if you come back on the _P. R._
Miti, her skipper, is a good sailor, but all he knows about
navigation you could write on a postage stamp. I met him once
about twenty miles south of Fakahina. He was cruising around
looking for Angatau, which was seventy miles to the northeast.
Well, he can't miss Tahiti if he gets within a hundred miles
of it, so you better take a chance and come back with him. But
don't forget to carry your own supply of fresh water. Sometimes
these little native boats get becalmed, and it's no joke being
thirsty at sea.
Yours,
TINO.
P. S.--Miti has a big bunch of letters for you, from your friend
Nordhoff. I saw the packet. It looks as though it had been
traveling some. Nordhoff, he says, is in Tahiti again. I'll
probably see him there and will tell him to wait for you.
Give my regards to all the marble players.
Good old Tino! He did me nothing but good turns. Late that night
when the rest of the villagers had crossed the pass I pried open
the lid of the chest--having lost the key--and found my belongings
just as I had left them--my camera; my binoculars and charts; and,
most important of all, in the bottom of the chest, wrapped in a
pair of trousers, my pocketbook. I didn't pay Moy until just before
the departure of the schooner, and staged the final episode at an
hour when his shop was filled with loungers. I came away with his
receipted bill, one hundred and twenty francs, and the consciousness
of having adequately safeguarded tradition.
We left Rutiaro the following day. I did not realize until the moment
of leave-taking how painful the farewells would be. As soon as they
were over I went on board, crawled into the little cabin and, despite
the cockroaches and copra bugs, remained there until the schooner had
left the pass and was well out to sea.
After our separation at Papeete, Nordhoff went on to the southwest.
He wrote me from an island he called Ahu Ahu, and from there,
apparently, he took passage to Rarotonga, the principal island of
the Cook group. Long before the discovery of New Zealand Rarotonga
was the goal of Polynesian mariners from the north and west--fearless
explorers traveling in their double canoes across hundreds of leagues
of ocean, guided by sun and stars, some of them arriving at their
destination, many others, doubtless, perishing in search of it.
From Samoa--in the early centuries of our era--came the Karika
family to reign in Rarotonga down to the present day; and Samoa is
believed to have been the principal starting point of the voyagers
which peopled the eastern Pacific. In the language of those old-time
voyagers, _tonga_ meant south, and they gave that name to the
Friendly Islands. Farther to the west and south they came upon the
Cook group--in those days, no doubt, the southernmost ends of the
earth--and the high island of this group, the faint blot on the
horizon which led the canoes to land, they called Rarotonga (Under
the South).
Under the South
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