A SHORE WITHOUT A REEF—SAMOAN PLANTS—HOUSES—ANIMALS—LAYING
FOUNDATION-STONE OF A CHURCH—SCHOOL FESTIVAL—THE NAVIGATOR’S ISLES.
LEONE, ISLE TUTUILA,
_Sept. 21, 1877_.
At early dawn my pretty half-caste damsel took me to bathe in the river,
but the shore was muddy and not very attractive. We returned in time for
service in the little church, which is about to be replaced by a much
larger building, the foundations of which are already raised, and the
great event of this afternoon has been laying its first stone.
Immediately after breakfast at the Fathers’ house, I started with M.
Pinart and M. de Kerraoul for a long, most lovely walk along the coast,
by a path winding among dark rocks and rich ferns, with great trees
overhanging the sea, which breaks in real surf below them, washing their
roots, which seem alive with myriads of crabs of all sizes, which also
wander at large among the branches, like so many birds. Many of the
lower boughs are actually fringed with shells and sea-weed, while the
growth of parasitic ferns on the upper branches is wonderful to behold.
The muddy shore of the river seemed literally moving, from the multitude
of burrowing crabs, with one large pink claw; and every now and again a
great land-crab would peer at us from some fruit-laden branch, with its
curious eyes projecting on movable stalks, which turn about at will.
This is the first place in the Pacific where I have seen grand green
waves break on the shore. Throughout the Fijian isles they spend their
force on the barrier-reef, and only the gentlest ripple washes the
coral-sand.
The rainfall here is greatly in excess of that in Fiji, consequently
vegetation is richer, and the intensity of green more remarkable. So far
as I can judge, the general foliage here is identical with that of the
most fertile of “our” isles. The cocoa-nuts are much larger.
I am afraid to confess how hateful to me is the very thought of
returning to long weary winters in Britain, with six dreary months of
leafless undress. Do you realise that in all these isles there are only
two or three deciduous trees, and that the majority put forth their
wealth of young leaves almost faster than the old drop off? They are
“busy trees” indeed, laden at once with bud and blossom, ripe and unripe
fruit, and in many cases bearing several crops in a year. No wonder that
these light-hearted people care so little to weary themselves with
digging and delving, when the beautiful groves yield them fruit in
abundance, and the mountains supply uncultivated crops of nourishing
bananas and wild yams. For that matter, I suspect it is really quite as
fatiguing to climb the steep mountains in search of wild vegetables as
it would be to grow them in gardens—probably a good deal more so—for the
beautiful mountain-plantain, which is the staple article of food, grows
in all the most inaccessible valleys and clefts of the rock. As you look
up the steep hillside, so richly clothed with vegetation, the most
prominent forms are these large handsome leaves, with their huge cluster
of fruit growing upright from the centre, but to reach them you may have
to climb a couple of thousand feet—and _such_ climbing! A man would need
to be in very robust health who could face such a walk to fetch his
family food. For my own part, I should prefer to sacrifice the romance,
and plod steadily at my yam-garden.
These mountain-plantains are the only branch of the family which carry
their fruit upright in that proud fashion; all other sorts hang drooping
below the leaves, like gigantic bunches of yellow grapes; and the native
legend tells how, long ago, all the banana tribe held their fruit
upright, but that in an evil hour they quarrelled with the
mountain-plantain, and were defeated,—hence they have ever since hung
their head in shame.
In heathen days the Samoans seem to have been greatly averse to
unnecessary work, and even the art of making cloth of the paper-mulberry
fibre was one which their indolence long prevented them from acquiring,
though they greatly admired that which their Tahitian teachers made for
them. Now, however, they appear fairly industrious, and the women
particularly so—those of the highest rank priding themselves on being
the most skilful weavers of fans, mats, and baskets, and in making the
strongest fibre-cloth. The chief men also are willing to do their full
share of whatever work is going on, whether house-building, fishing,
working on the plantation, or preparing the oven and heating the stones
to cook the family dinner.
Now all the chief men wear very handsome cloth, thicker and more glossy
than that made in Fiji, though less artistic in design. Fifty years ago
the regular dress of all the men was merely a girdle of leaves—a simple
form of dress, but one which was never dispensed with, as in many of the
Papuan group; indeed, one of the most humiliating punishments in heathen
days was to compel a culprit to walk naked through the village, or so to
sit for hours in some public place. To this day a leafy girdle is
considered essential as a bathing-dress—the long dracæna leaves being
those most in favour. They are so arranged as to overlap one another
like the folds of a kilt; and as they vary in colour, from brilliant
gold to richest crimson or brightest green, the effect produced is as
gay as any tartan. This is the favourite _liku_, or kilt, in Fiji even
now.
But on great occasions in olden days, as at the present time, the
chiefs, and their wives and daughters, wore very fine mats of the most
delicate cream colour. They are made two or three yards square, and are
as soft and flexible as cloth. The best are made from the leaves of the
pandanus, scraped till there remains only a fibre thin as paper; but the
bark of the dwarf hybiscus also yields an excellent fibre for weaving
mats. Their manufacture is a high art. It is exclusively women’s work,
but is one in which few excel, and is very tedious,—the labour of
several months being expended on a mat which, when finished, may be
worth about ten dollars.
The strong paper-like cloth commonly worn, is much less troublesome to
manufacture. There are several plants from which a good cloth-making
fibre is obtained. One of them is the magnificent giant arum, the leaves
of which often measure from 5 to 6 feet in length, by 4 in width. Its
root is large in proportion—truly a potato for a giant. How you would
delight in the cosy brown cottages whose thatched roofs just peep out
from among such leaves as these. You do realise that you are in the
tropics when you see gigantic caladium or quaint papawas, splendid
bananas with leaves 6 or 8 feet long, and tufts of tall maize or
sugar-cane 15 to 20 feet high, growing luxuriantly at every
cottage-door.
To-day we passed through several villages, and were everywhere greeted
with the kindly salutation _Ole Alofa_ (_i.e._, “Great Love”). We were
invited to enter many houses; and though our scanty vocabularies did not
suffice for much conversation, a mutual inspection was doubtless
gratifying to both parties. The language of the Samoans is soft, and
their voices musical. To express thanks, they say _Faa-fetai_. The
familiar _Vinaka! Vinaka!_ (_i.e._, “Well done!” in Fijian) is here
rendered by _Le-lei! Le-lei!_ Good-night, is _Tofa_—_i.e._, “May you
sleep.” The Samoan language is generally described as the Italian of the
Pacific—it is so mellifluous. It is, however, a very difficult one for a
foreigner to acquire thoroughly, as it has three distinct dialects—the
language used in addressing a high chief, a middle-class gentleman, or a
peasant, being altogether different; and a further complication arises
from the politeness which leads the highest chief to speak of anything
referring to himself in the dialect which describes the lowest of the
people. In Samoa, however, as in the other Polynesian group, one
language is spoken on all the different isles, and there has at all
times been free intercourse between them—a very different state of
things from that which prevails in such groups as the New Hebrides,
where each isle has a dialect—perhaps two or three—unknown to any of its
neighbours, and where one tribe dares not set foot on the land of
another.
Samoa has always been in many respects superior to most of her
neighbours. Not only was she free from the reproach of cannibalism, but
also, in great measure, from that of infanticide, which prevailed to so
frightful an extent in neighbouring groups. Here children were never
destroyed _after_ their birth, though it is supposed that fully
two-thirds of those born in old days, died from mismanagement in
nursing. The sick were invariably treated with kindness, and old age
lovingly tended. Such horrors as the burial of the living, as practised
in Fiji in heathen times, were never dreamt of in Samoa.
In no land is old age more beautiful than here—partly because the
tendency is to corpulence in place of leanness; and the eyes retain
their clear, piercing brightness, and the countenance a kindly
expression, which tells of the powerful good sense for which many of
these people have been so remarkable. Certainly they are a handsome and
attractive race.
We noticed in all these villages the same characteristic in
house-building which struck us at Pango-Pango—namely, that there is a
good deal of roof supported on posts, but little of anything answering
to a wall; so the houses resemble huge oval mushrooms, and home life is
of a very public description. There are, however, movable screens of
plaited cocoa-palm, which are put up so as to enclose the house at
night, on the same principle as the paper walls or screens which compose
the sides of a Japanese house, and which are generally removed in the
daytime. The wooden screens invariably are so.
At night the interior of a Samoan house resembles a small camp, as large
curtains of heavy native cloth are slung from the roof and hang like
tents, within which the sleepers lie on a pile of soft fine mats, their
necks, not their heads, resting on a bamboo or wooden pillow raised on
two legs. Furniture is conspicuous by its total absence. A few baskets
for fish or vegetables hang about the walls, and a few bundles
containing cloth and mats lie in the corners. Cookery is done out of
doors in the native ovens, for Samoans have no pottery of any sort; so
the picturesque cooking-pots of a Fijian kitchen are lacking. The very
few cooking or water pots which are sometimes seen in a chief’s house
have invariably been imported from Fiji, and are prized accordingly.
The roof itself is one of the most precious possessions of the isles.
Ponderous as it appears, it can be divided into four parts, and removed
from one place to another, should the family have occasion to flit. The
great rafters are bound together by strong creeping-plants (vines or
lianas) from the forest, and the ordinary thatching consists of
sugar-cane leaves, strung on reeds, which are laid so as to overlap one
another: sometimes a heavy cocoa-palm matting above all, secures the
roof against a very high wind.
Some of the Samoan homes revealed very pleasant cool-looking groups of
comely lads and lasses lounging on their mats, making and smoking the
invariable tiny cigarettes, consisting of a scrap of tobacco rolled up
in a morsel of the dried banana-leaf fringe they wear round the waist. A
few were whiling away the hot hours of the day by a game with small
cocoa-nut shells: each player has five shells, with which he tries to
knock every one else’s shell from a given spot, leaving his own in their
place. They also play a game something like forfeits. They sit in a
circle, in the centre of which they spin a cocoa-nut on its thin end;
and as it falls, the person towards whom the three black eyes point is
considered to have lost. In the same way they cast lots to decide who
shall do some work or go an errand. In one village a party of lads had
assembled on the village green to play _totoga_, or reed-throwing—a game
very common in Fiji. The reeds, which are 5 or 6 feet in length, have
oval wooden heads about 4 inches long, and the skill lies in making
these skim along the grass to the furthest possible distance.
In a green shady glade we saw a party of young men, very lightly clad,
practising spear-throwing, aiming at the soft stems of banana-trees,
which I suppose represented the bodies of their foes. In the game they
take sides, and one party tries to knock out the spears planted by the
other. Sometimes they carry very short spears, and in throwing these,
aim so as first to strike the ground, whence the shaft glides upwards
towards the mark. I am told that a feat is sometimes performed which
must involve marvellous coolness as well as dexterity. A man, armed only
with a club, stands up as a target, and allows all the others to throw
their spears at him. All these he catches with his club, and turns them
aside in quick succession. It can scarcely be called a pleasant game,
however.
We saw several distressing cases of elephantiasis, which is here called
_fè-fê_, and, we are told, is common. It produces hideous malformations;
and the sufferers are pitiable objects, the arms and legs being
hideously swollen. The natives attribute this disease to the action of
the sun; but some Europeans who have suffered from it declare that it is
also produced by exposure to the night air, and by excessive drinking of
_kava_. Happily it is painless. Some of the Samoans suffer severely from
ulcers; and we heard of some cases of ophthalmia.
Here and there, beneath the green shade of the plantains, close to the
houses, we noticed hillocks of white sea-sand, surmounted by a low
oblong cairn of wave-worn pebbles, with a layer of white stones on the
top. These are the graves of the household. No Highlander is more
careful to have his own bones, or those of his kindred, laid beside the
dust of his forefathers, than is the Samoan. To him the idea of a common
cemetery is repulsive. His desire is to be laid in the tomb in the
garden, on land belonging to his family. When a man of any consequence
dies, the ends of a canoe are cut off, and it is used as a coffin. This,
however, is an innovation. The true old custom was to wrap the body in
mats only—fine soft mats—and to lay it in a shallow grave, with the head
to the east and the feet towards the setting sun. The wooden pillow and
cocoa-nut cup of the dead were buried with him. Then the grave was
covered with white sand, and the cairn was raised, always about a foot
higher at the head than at the feet.
If the deceased was a chief of any note, bonfires were kindled at short
intervals all round the grave, and the mourners sat near and fed the
fires till dawn; and this they did for ten consecutive nights. But in
the case of commoners, it sufficed to keep up a blazing fire all night
in the house, taking care that the intervening space was so cleared as
to allow the warm light to rest on the grave. The household fireplace
was, as it is still, merely a circular hollow in the middle of the
house, lined with clay, only a few inches deep, and rarely exceeding a
yard in diameter. As the house has no walls, there is no difficulty
about smoke, but considerable danger of setting fire to the surrounding
mats. Nowadays, the fire in the house burns only for warmth, and for the
convenience of lighting cigarettes; but in heathen days a blazing fire
was kindled every evening in honour of the gods, to whom the
house-father commended the family and all their interests.
Near one of the villages we caught a glimpse of a dark olive-green
snake, the first I have seen for many a day. They are not quite so rare
here as in Fiji, but are equally innocent; and the girls take them up
without hesitation, and play with them, and even twine them round their
necks. We also saw some wood-pigeons and a few paroquets, and lovely
little honey-birds, with crimson-and-black plumage.
As we crossed the river a frightened water-hen darted from among the
bushes—swallows skimmed lightly through the air, and several exquisite
blue-and-yellow kingfishers glanced in the sunlight, as they flashed in
pursuit of bright-coloured insects.
Flying foxes are very numerous, and, as they hang suspended from the
boughs, head downwards, have the effect of some curious fruit. They are
excellent to eat, as we discovered in Ceylon; but most Europeans have a
prejudice against them—I cannot see why, as they feed on the best and
ripest fruits. I quite understand the objection to the little
insectivorous bats, which cluster in thousands among the rocks, clinging
one to another, till they appear like brown ropes. The smell of these is
simply disgusting.
These are not the only night-birds of Samoa. I am told there are a good
many owls. I did not, however, see any, neither was I so fortunate as to
see the Samoan turtle-dove, with its exquisite plumage of peacock-green
blending with crimson. Green paroquets abound, and a small scarlet and
black bird.
When these isles were first discovered, an indigenous dog was found in
the mountains—a small, dark-grey animal, with very little hair, short
crooked legs, long back, and large erect ears. It fed on bread-fruit and
yams, having no other animal on which to prey, with the exception of the
little native rat. The natives very naturally considered both dog and
rat as dainty dishes for high days. Happily they contented themselves
with these, and held cannibalism in abhorrence. The wild dog was also
found on Hawaii, Tahiti, and New Zealand.
On some of the isles there was a native breed of pigs, lanky,
long-legged creatures. Like the rats and dogs, they made a virtue of
necessity, and were strict vegetarians. They were found in Hawaii,
Tahiti, Tonga, and the New Hebrides. These are the only three quadrupeds
that appear to have been indigenous on any of the Polynesian isles; and
now all three are extinct, having died out on the introduction of their
foreign kindred, in obedience to that sad fate which appears to rule the
destinies both of men and beasts.
The people whose ideal quadruped was a pig, very naturally judged of all
imported animals by this standard: so a goat or a cow became known as a
horned pig; a horse, a man-carrying pig; a cat, a mewing pig. When the
first goat was landed on one of the Hervey Isles, where even pigs were
unknown, the natives called one another to come and see “the wonderful
bird with great teeth growing out of its head!”
The most interesting aboriginal inhabitant of Samoa is a little kind of
dodo, or tooth-billed pigeon, here called _Manu-mea_.[8] Though now
rare, it is still to be found in the forests, generally hiding in the
tops of the highest trees. The natives say that it used to frequent the
ground, but that since the introduction of foreign cats and rats, which
have proved its deadly foes, it has instinctively retreated to safer
quarters. Its diminished numbers may probably, however, be attributed to
the high value set on it by the Samoan epicures. It is said to be
closely allied to the extinct dodo. Its body resembles that of a pigeon,
but its head and beak are those of a parrot. Its general plumage is
dark-red, the head and breast being grey. Eyes, legs, and feet are all
red, and the beak is reddish gold. When captured, it is generally very
savage, and bites severely, but it is occasionally tamed, and feeds on
fruit.
Formerly the sporting world of Samoa found its chief pastime, not in
pigeon-shooting, but in pigeon-catching, which sounds a very innocent
amusement, but which was indulged in to such excess that the teachers
found it necessary to discourage it, as it led to the schools being
quite deserted, and all work at a standstill, for months at a time—the
favourite season being from June till August. The Hurlingham of Samoa
was a large circular clearing in the forest—(there were many such).
Thither the whole population of a district would resort, having
previously prepared great stores of provision. Grandfathers and little
children, but especially young men and maidens, delighted in the
dove-festival, dear to happy lovers. They erected temporary huts in the
forest, and there took up their abode for a prolonged picnic. Many an
idyl of the forest might have been sung by the flower-wreathed minstrels
of Samoa; and the wide world could offer no lovelier scene than the
exquisite tropical forests of these happy isles, where no hurtful
creature lies hidden. But I fear that even here the idyls were not free
from occasional touches of shadow; though doubtless there were reflected
lights, enough to relieve any transient shade, and lovers’ quarrels were
forgotten in new loves.
All round the central clearing, hiding-places were constructed and
covered with green boughs. In each of these a sportsman was concealed,
holding in one hand a stick to which a tame pigeon was attached by a
string some ten yards in length. These pigeons were all trained to fly
round and round; and the wild wood-doves seeing so many of their fellows
circling round one spot, naturally supposed there was something good to
be shared, and ventured near, when, from each ambush a long slim bamboo
was thrust forth, with a net attached, and the stranger was forthwith
captured. Of course, he who caught the largest number was the hero of
the hour, and to him was presented the evening feast—at which baked
pigeons figured largely. Some, however, were preserved alive, to be
trained as decoy-birds, as this pigeon-taming was a favourite occupation
at all seasons of the year,—indeed is so at the present time; for the
Samoan takes as much pride in his doves and pigeons, as a Briton does in
his hounds and horses. The birds are trained in such habits of idleness
that they will not even feed themselves, but sit patiently waiting till
their master actually puts their daily bread—yam, banana, or
cocoa-nut—into their open mouths.
The Samoan dove and its wooing furnished the theme for one of the
prettiest of the native dances. The girls, while gently gliding to and
fro, utter the low soft call of the female dove, their mates answering
from afar, in deeper resounding tones, and circling around, ever drawing
nearer and nearer, till the wooers and the wooed unite in a _ballet_ of
much graceful fluttering.
We got back to Leone just in time to see the ecclesiastical procession
start from the old church to the site of the new one. At the
consecration service, the bishop wore his mitre and a very gorgeous
vestment of patchwork, presented by the Samoan ladies. I grieve to have
to record that in leading the procession round the foundations of the
new church, he made the turn _widdershins_.[9] I believe that this is
contrary to ecclesiastical custom—and of course to my Scottish mind it
suggested grievous misfortunes in store.
An immense crowd of people had assembled, and the influence of European
bad taste was too apparent in several cases; as for instance, in the
uniform selected by a large college of young men, and provided by
themselves—namely, white trousers, magenta blouse, and sky-blue
waist-band! The girls wore white calico _sulus_[10] and pale-green
pinafores, which, with their hair dyed yellow, were becoming. But they
looked a thousand times better when, at a school festival held later,
they exchanged the white skirts for very fine cream-coloured mats
embroidered round the edge with scarlet wool, necklaces of large scarlet
berries and green leaves, and scarlet hybiscus and green leaves in their
hair. They went through some very pretty school exercises, illustrated
by much graceful action.
Then some very fine women came up, wearing handsome new mats of hybiscus
fibre, which, when newly prepared, is pure white, and after a while
becomes creamy in hue. They presented us all with very pretty fans of
woven grass.
Then came a presentation of much food, including about thirty pigs,
which were, ere long, devoured by the assembled multitude.
The bishop was terribly exhausted by all this prolonged exertion and
much talking; but as an instance of his never-failing kindness to
everybody, I may tell you, that when the school-feast was over, I came
to this, my special nest, remarking to some one that I was _fatiguée_,
forgetting that the word may be interpreted as “not well.” So when the
kind bishop came home to his much needed rest, he heard this, and, tired
as he was, at once came to this house, which is at some distance,
bringing a great roll of native cloth to soften my mat couch, and
chocolate and other little delicacies, which he thought I might fancy. I
_was_ so sorry,—but it illustrates the beautiful unselfishness of that
genial nature.
To-morrow we are to leave this lovely isle Tutuila and cross to the
great isle of Upolu, on which is situated Apia, the capital.
This group, which in our schoolroom days we were taught to call the
Navigators Isles, but which its inhabitants know as Samoa, consists of
eight principal isles and several small islets. By far the largest are
Savaii and Upolu—the former being 250 miles in circumference, the latter
200. Both are very beautiful, having high mountain-ranges, visible at a
distance of 70 miles, and richly wooded. They are separated by a strait
about 12 miles wide, the mouth of which is, as it were, guarded by two
small islands, Manono and Aborima.
The former lies close to Upolu, and one reef encircles both. It is the
home of some of the high chiefs, and is an exceedingly fertile little
island, clothed with the richest verdure. It is about five miles in
circumference.
Aborima, as seen from the sea, appears to be only a huge precipitous
mass of rock, rising to a height of 200 or 300 feet. It is about two
miles in circumference, and is probably the crater of an extinct
volcano, for it is shaped like the hollow of a hand, whence it derives
its name. It is inaccessible, except at one small opening between the
steep cliffs; but passing between these you enter an amphitheatre,
which, from the base to the summit, presents an unbroken mass of
tropical vegetation—a most marvellous transformation scene from the
desolate crags of the seaboard. A charming little village nestles
beneath the fruit-bearing trees in the basin.
This natural stronghold belongs to the chiefs of Manono, who use it in
time of war as a safe refuge for their families and storehouse for their
property. All they need do, is to guard the narrow entrance, which they
can either defend by dropping rocks on the invaders, or by so placing
ropes across it that they can overturn their canoes. So, although the
warlike men of Manono have occasionally been driven from their own isle,
they have always found a secure retreat in this lovely rock-girt
fortress, where they take good care always to have abundant stores of
food ready for emergencies. That they need such a place of refuge, you
may infer from the fact that when they were first visited by white men,
about fifty years ago, a basket was suspended from the ridge-pole of a
sort of war-temple, and in it were preserved 197 stones, which were the
record of the number of battles which the men of Manono had fought up to
that date!
I do not know how many of these isles we are to visit. The more the
better, since all are beautiful. But whenever I admire anything, the
invariable reply is, “You like this? Ah, wait till you see Tahiti!”
Evidently it is the ideal isle. No one will believe that I am _not_
going on. Indeed I am beginning scarcely to believe it myself. Well,
we’ll see when we reach Apia.