Kia Orana

Friday, July 8, 1988 (third in a series that starts with Land of the Birds):

I slept soundly, in spite of some on our team telling me of cockroaches and other insects in their rooms. Awakened by bird calls, I remembered being a child on my grandparent's farm and hearing the cocks crow in the early morning, though the Mynah birds are certainly a new touch.

Mama waiting for me to eat

For breakfast we had shredded coconut, taro, fried eggs, papaya, cabin bread (a thick cracker), butter, and mashed bananas fried with arrowroot (looks like a potato pancake)--delicious. And Mama is generous to ensure there's always hot water for my herb tea. For lunch we had the same food as at breakfast, with the addition of both fried and fresh bananas. I think Papa Tu gave Mama this instruction because I said I love bananas. Mama says grace in Māori before each meal. Papa Tu repeats it in English.

I've learned to say Kia Orana ("May you live"), a special greeting that's more than "hello." This morning, as Papa Tu and I sat outside the house in front, everyone who passed said "Morning," with an Australian-sounding accent. I learned this was not for my benefit, but rather a typical greeting. All the Atiu tupu talk and joke in Māori in my presence. I feel happy rather than excluded, knowing they act naturally around me, even though I'm sure they're sometimes talking about me.

Jay and I at today's dig

One team member, Jay Powell, is staying at the home of Mama's sister, who sent him over here for lunch because she didn't know we'd take a mid-day break and hadn't prepared food. Papa was charming and funny, trying to get Jay to eat more. I said I'd already proven I "eat like a pig." This is a family joke because the Māori word for papaya, vipuaka, literally means "food for the pigs." Before the Europeans arrived, the Māori never ate papaya; they only fed it to the pigs.

I'm sitting near the cab, white socks and sneakers

On the way home from the dig today, our truck driver stopped at the harbor to let off a young German woman and English man who had wandered the island while their ship unloaded its cargo. On the deck we saw crates and crates of beer marked Atiu Motel. Papa has told me of attempts to reduce the amount of drinking in the village, especially among the young people. He discussed this with all the parents, who agreed to enforce a curfew. Many wanted to completely ban drinking, but Papa understood this would simply lead to rebellion, and too many young people were already leaving the island.

Papa Tu

As Becky has explained, Māori is indeed a directive language, and Papa Tu's efforts to guide me sound like commands. Even so, he's pretty flexible. He'll say "Eat more," followed by "You do not have to finish if you are full." After I returned this afternoon he said, "You should take a little rest and then a bath before dinner." I asked if I could take a bath first and he was hesitant, but I think this was more because Mama wasn't around to find things for me. When I showed him my soap and told him my towel was in the bath house, he seemed more at ease with my impertinence. But later when I left my room after writing in my journal, he said "You go back and rest. I will tell you when Mama is back and dinner is ready."

Atiu Spirit House (Marae)

Tonight after dinner Papa Tu told me about the Cook Islands celebration held each year to commemorate "the coming of the Gospel." Each island celebrates according to its own history. On Atiu, villagers prepare and rehearse a play. Our village, Tengatangi, reenacts the arrival of John Williams. Before his landing, a woman had foretold the coming of strange men, their bodies covered from head to toe. They would bring a new god and all the present gods would be cast away. The islanders had thought her crazy, but the head ariki was the first to be convinced. When others protested, he demonstrated the power of this God by eating sugar cane from a sacred place, a Marae, to test their belief that doing so would lead to possession by the devil. When nothing happened to him, he offered this as proof that the new god had greater power. Soon afterward, everyone accepted the Christian God.

Earthwatch Team & families in front of C.I.C.C.
I'm back row, second from right

There are three churches on Atiu: Catholic, Seventh Day Adventist, and the Cook Islands Christian Church (C.I.C.C.) to which Papa Tu and his family belong. They and the minister, as well as some others, are Born Again Christians who want to move their church toward a more literal interpretation of the Bible, banning musical instruments in church.

Papa Tu told me today the traditional hymn we heard on our arrival is from Psalm 25:

Those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion, which cannot be shaken, but endures forever. As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds his people both now and forever more. The sceptre of the wicked will not remain over the land allotted to the righteous, for then the righteous might use their hands to do evil.

This sounds very Western and formal, and I couldn't have imagined those words from the haunting, traditional singing that ushered in our arrival.

Some of the children surrounding me

Tonight at evening devotion Papa Tu's family and I sang this song in English, accompanied by Papa Tu on guitar.

He is able, He is able, He is able to carry me through, heal the brokenhearted, set the captive free, make the lame to walk again, make the blind to see.

(Continued in The Standing Mirror of Tangaroa)

To Cast a Spear

(Fifth in a series that starts with Land of the Birds)

Wero ("to cast a spear") is a traditional Māori challenge at a pōhiri, or welcoming ceremony, to ensure that visitors come in peace. It also establishes their steadfastness, and the prowess of the challenging warriors.

Sunday, July 10:

The male members of Nikki's family took her to a Tumunu (brewery) last night, where only women visiting the island are allowed (for local women it would be considered a disgrace). Tumunu sites are in the middle of the jungle, the beer brewed and stored in the hollowed-out trunk of a coconut tree. The brew itself is fermented orange, and generally takes about a week to be ready to drink. Nikki said the beer tasted like fruit punch and she didn't drink much, worried it would be too easy to get drunk. A recording she made sounded like a noisy bar anywhere. Singing, music, laughter.

Meanwhile Jay and I accompanied my family to their Saturday evening prayer meeting, where everyone in the group was asked to share something. When it was my turn, I spoke of my pleasure to come half-way around the world and hear children singing songs I had learned as a child: "Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham" and "What a friend we have in Jesus." I could barely keep my composure when members of the group sang a welcome song, then filed by, kissing each of us one by one and saying "I love you, in the name of Jesus." Papa Tu also read Psalm 133 in Māori: "How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity. . ." 

Mama has a very clear singing voice, and helped guide me through the hymns in church today. I was also able to follow the hymnal pretty well. She told me later that people watched my lips and were happy to know I was singing in Māori.

After church there was a meeting for women only. This involved a combination of individual responses to today's bible text and spontaneous dancing, usually started by an older woman. Mama says they call this woman, Mama Mika, their "comic." I was invited to dance, and tried to imitate the hula-like movements, which generated much laughter.

Though some Earthwatch members modeled traditional island dresses made for them by their Mamas, most of the local women wore modern dress to church. All them have brimmed hats, and Mama loaned me a white one with white ribbon trim. She had hand-woven this hat, heavy enough to withstand today's strong winds. When I commented on the winds' force, Mama said her parents were in a hurricane before she was born that was so terrible all the houses and trees were flattened. People survived only by running into the valley below.

Maru

I am slowly learning the names of the children. Today after church, 5-year-old Maru took my hand walking home. Her mother, Mama's sister, is Rongo. In addition to Mama and Papa's son Newton, their daughter is Miimetua, and they have a "feeding child" (adopted) who is actually their niece, named Ngatokorua. Other nieces are Tau and--born in New Zealand--Jennifer and Darlene.

Returning from a walk after church, I met a young woman from New Zealand as she was leaving our house. She's here to study local music in preparation for a Master's degree in music, and was seeking Papa Tu's permission to tape record his family's traditional challenge to distinguished visitors. Though she'd tried to convince him it might otherwise be lost to posterity, he would not give permission. I asked Papa about this, and he said it is a welcome greeting allowed only to his family. I've seen him willingly agree to other requests, so I know this is a real family secret.

Mama making tapa cloth.

This afternoon after lunch, our Earthwatch senior investigator Yosi Sinoto came by to find out who in Atiu is most skilled at making tapa cloth from ava bark, and Papa pointed to Mama. She showed us a photograph where she is pounding the cloth over a log. Yosi said Hawaiian Air will pay her airfare and hotel for a week in Honolulu, plus $75 a day. In return, she will present at a two-day workshop demonstrating and answering questions about this traditional method.

Papa, trained by his father in the traditional ways, answered many of Yosi's questions and is negotiating to accompany Mama. He showed us a hand-knotted fishnet used to catch flying fish in the old way. Papa is now the only one on Atiu who can make an akeikei (fish-catching basket) in the traditional manner because none of the young ones want to learn how. He also spoke of picking anani (oranges) as a boy and rowing a thousand cases at a time out to the ship, because the reef is too dangerous for ships to dock at the wharf. Mama said the pickers would climb the first orange tree, then leap from tree to tree by the branches.