The Papalagi

But the story has its infirmities too. Scheurmann describes an idealized image of the Tiaveans. It is true that they lived close to nature and therefore just close to themselves, but they also didn’t live in nature and were not what they ought to be. They also had their rules, traditions, customs, rituals, clothes, decorations, properties and consequently a chief too. They also like every culture were deviated from the straight and simple path and finally are yielded to the dead-end road of the white men. But undoubted the Gospel had to be to them more comprehensibly than to those who brought it. They pretended to bring the Light and merely brought darkness.

The writer called these speeches, The Papalagi, which means, the White Men or the Gentlemen. These speeches by Tuiavii of Tiavea were not delivered as yet, but the essence had been written down in the native language, out of which the first German translation was made.

Tuiavii never intended to have his speeches published for the Western public, nor to have them printed anywhere at all. They were strictly meant for his Polynesian people. Yet I have, without his consent and definitely in disregard of his wishes, taken the liberty to bring these speeches of a Polynesian native to the attention of the Western reader, convinced, that for us white people with our Western civilization it could be very worthwhile to find out how a man who is still closely bound to nature sees us and our culture.

Through his eyes we look and see ourselves from a standpoint we can never occupy again. Certainly there will be people, specially culture-freaks who will deem his point of view childish, perhaps even ignorant; but those of you who are more worldly-wise, and above all feel more humility, will be moved to reflection and self-criticism by much of what is going to be said. Because his wisdom is the fruit of simplicity, the greatest grace that God can bestow upon a man, showing him the things that science fails to comprehend.

These speeches were no less than a calling out to all the peoples of the South Pacific to cut off all their ties with the so-called enlightened people of European stock. Deep within, Tuiavii, the scorner of Europeans held the steadfast conviction that his forefathers had committed a grave error by letting themselves be enticed by European culture. He is like the maiden of Fagaasa who, seated high upon a cliff, saw the first white missionaries coming, and with her fan motioned them to leave: "Away with you, you criminal devils!". He also saw Europe as the dark demon, the big defoliator, from whom mankind should protect itself, if it wants to remain as pure as the Gods.

When I first met Tuiavii, he was living a peaceful life, secluded from the European world on his tiny, out-of-the way island called Upolu, one of the Samoan islands, in the village Tiavea of which he was chief. The first impression he made was of a big, kind-hearted giant. Almost 6 feet 2, and built like a brick outhouse. But his voice was soft and gentle as a woman's and his large, deep-set eyes, overshadowed by bushy eyebrows had a slightly vacant stare. But when suddenly spoken to, they would light up and betray his warm and sunny heart.

In no outward manner was Tuiavii markedly different from his brothers. He drank his kava (Samoan national drink), went to loto (divine worship) in the morning, ate bananas, toras and yams and observed all native customs and rituals. Only his few intimate friends knew what was brewing inside his head and what was struggling to come to the light, whenever he lay, dreaming it seemed, on his housemat.

In general the native lives like a child, purely in the visible world, without questioning either himself or his surroundings, but Tuiavii had an extraordinary character. He had risen high above his fellows, because he lived consciously and therefore possessed that inner drive that sets us apart from primitive peoples, more than anything else does.

Because of his being his own kind of man, Tuiavii had felt the wish arise to get to know more of that far-away Europe. That desire had been burning inside of him ever since his schooldays at the Marist's mission and was satisfied only when he had become a grown up man. He joined a group of ethnologists who went back to Europe after their studies, and that way- got to visit, one after the other, most of the states in Europe, where he became thoroughly acquainted with their culture and national peculiarities. Time and again I marveled at the accuracy with which he remembered even the smallest detail. Tuiavii possessed to a high degree the gift of sober and unprejudiced observation. Nothing could dazzle him; he never let himself be steered away from the truth by words. In fact he saw everything in its own original form, though throughout all his studies he never could abandon his own standpoint.

Although I was a close neighbor of his for more than a year, being a member of his village-community, Tuiavii took me into his confidence only after we became friends. After he'd entirely overcome, even forgotten the European in me. When he had convinced himself that I was ripe for his simple wisdom and wouldn't laugh at him (something I never

did), only then did he consider me worthy enough to listen to fragments of his writings. He read them aloud to me, without any pathos, as if it were a historical narration. Though for just this reason, what he was saying worked itself into my mind and gave birth to the wish to retain the things I have heard.

Only much later did Tuiavii come to trust me with his notes and gave me permission to translate them into German. He thought I wanted to use them for my personal studies and never was to know that the translation as it were, would be published. All these speeches are no more than rough drafts and together do not form a well-composed book. Tuiavii has never seen them in any other form. Only when he had all the material neatly filed away in his head and all the things standing out clearly, did he want to start his "mission" as he called it, among his fellow Polynesians. I had to leave the islands before he started out on his quest.

Though I've seen it as my duty to render as literal a translation as possible and have not altered a syllable in the composition of the speeches, I am yet aware that the directness originality and uniqueness of his wording have suffered greatly. Anyone who has ever tried to bring something over from a primitive language into a modern one, will immediately recognize the problems involved in reproducing childlike utterances so as not to make them seem stupid or foolish.

Tuiavii, the uncultivated island-dweller, regarded European culture as a deviation, a one way road to nowhere. This might sound somewhat inflated but for the fact that it was all said with that wonderful simplicity that betrayed the weakness of his heart. It is true that he warns his countrymen and even tells them to shake off European domination. But in doing so, his voice is filled with sadness and everything indicates that his missionary zeal springs from his love of humanity and is not out of hatred. "You fellows think that you can show us the light," he said to me when we were together for the last time, "but what you really do is try to drag us down into your pool of darkness". He regarded the comings and goings of life with a child's honesty and love of the truth and so encountered discrepancies and moral shortcomings and by storing them all in his memory, they became lessons for life to him. He cannot come to understand where this supposed value of European culture resides, when it alienates people from themselves and makes them false, unnatural and depraved. When he sums up what civilization has brought us, starting with our appearance, as he would do when describing an animal, calling everything by its appropriate name, a very un-European and irreverent attitude; then he's picturing us in a way that, however incomplete is not incorrect, so that we do not know who to laugh at: the painter or his model.

This childlike, openhearted approach to reality, along with his complete lack of reverence is where I believe the true value of Tuiavii's speeches to us Westerners resides; that's why I feel that their publication is justified. The world wars have made us Westerners skeptical towards ourselves, we also begin to wonder about the intrinsic value of things and start to doubt whether we can ever really achieve our highest ideals through our civilization. Therefore we shouldn't consider ourselves to be so civilized and come down from our spiritual level to the way of thinking of this Polynesian from the Samoan islands, who is not as yet burdened down with an overdose of education and who is still original in his feeling and thoughts, and who wants to make us feel that we killed the Godlike essence of our being and have replaced it with idols.

The Papalagi is forever bending his mind how to cover his flesh the best possible way. A white man, who carried much weight and was considered very wise, once told me, "the body and all the limbs are flesh, above the neck the real person begins". He felt that only the part of the body that houses the spirit and one's good and bad properties is worthy of our attention. Meaning the head of course. The head and sometimes the hands are left uncovered by the white people. Though the head as well as the hands are made out of flesh. Those that show more of their flesh cannot claim perfect moral statue anymore:

When a young man takes a girl to be his wife, he can never be sure not to be disappointed, because before that occasion he never saw her body (Even after becoming his housewife she seldom shows herself and when she does, only at night or in the twilight (note from Tuiavii)). Every girl covers her body, even if she has the figure of the most beautiful Taopou (May-queen), so that nobody can see and enjoy that splendid sight.

The flesh is sin. That's what the Papalagi say, because for them only the spirit counts. The arm that's raised in the sunlight to hurl the spear ... is an arrow of sin. The chest through which the waves of air roll, is a house where sin lives. The limbs with which the maiden presents the siva (native dance) are sinful. And certainly those parts of the body dedicated to making new people and to enjoy the world with, are full of sin! Everything that is considered flesh is a sin. There is a poison living inside every muscle, a treacherous venom that jumps from one person upon another. They who look at the flesh absorb the poison, are hurt by it and then become just as depraved as those that were showing it. That's what the holy morals of the white men tell us.

That's the reason for the body of the Papalagi to be entirely covered in loincloths, mats and animal hides, bound so tight that neither the human eye nor the rays of the sun are able to penetrate them, so tight that his body becomes a pale white and looks tired like a flower that grows in the dense wood under heavy trees.

Hear what heavy loads a single Papalagi carries on his body, you smarter brothers from the many islands! To begin with the naked body is wrapped in a thick white skin, made from the fibers of a plant and called the overskin. One throws it up into the air, then lets it glide down over the head, the chest and over the arms down to the hips. From down upwards, over legs and hips up to the bellybutton, another of those overskins is pulled. Those two skins are covered by a third skin that's thicker. A skin woven from the wooly hairs of a four-legged animal, specially bred for that purpose. That is the loincloth itself. Usually it consists of three parts, of which the first part covers the upper body, the second part the middle section and the third part covers the hips and legs. All three parts are held together by shells (Tuiavii probably means buttons) and ropes made out of the dried sap of the rubber tree, so it looks like one single thing. Usually that loincloth has the grayness of the lagoon during the wet monsoon. It may never be entirely colored, at best the middle part, and then only by people that have a reputation and like chasing after the other sex.

Around the feet, finally, a soft skin as well as a tough one are tied. Usually the soft skin is elastic and molds itself nicely to the form of the foot, but the tough one doesn't do that at all. They are made out of thick animal hides that have been soaked in the water, have been scraped off with knives, and beaten and hung out in the sun so long that they have tanned and toughened. Using that, the Papalagi build a kind of canoe with high sides, just big enough for the foot to fit in. One canoe for the left foot and one for the right. Those small foot ships are fastened around the ankles with ropes and hooks, so as to contain the feet inside a strong capsule like a snail in its house. The Papalagi wears those footskins from sunrise to sunset, he wears them on malaga (a voyage) and when he dances, he even wears them when it's as hot as before a tropical rainstorm.

As this is counter to nature, and something also the white man understands; and makes the feet worn out and look dead already and putrid, and because the feet of most of the Europeans lost the ability to grasp things or climb trees, the Papalagi try to hide their shame by smearing the animal hide that originally looked red, with a kind of grease that makes them shine after extended rubbing. Shine so brightly that the eyes can hardly stand the glare and have to be turned away.

In Europe once there lived a Papalagi who became famous and to whom many people came, because he told them that it wasn't good to wear these tight and heavy skins around your feet; to walk barefoot under the open sky instead, while the dew of the night is still lying across the fields and all sickness will flee from you. That man was very wise and healthy but people laughed at him and he was soon forgotten.

Just like the man, the woman also wears many mats and loincloths tied around her body and ankles, so her skin is covered with scars and bruises. Her breasts have become flabby by the pressure from a mat they tie around the chest, from the neck down to the lower body and also around the back, with an extra strengthening of fish bones, iron wire and ropes. Most of the mothers give their children milk from a tube of glass that's closed on the underside and has an artificial nipple fastened to the upper part. And it's not even their own milk they are giving, but the milk of an ugly red animal with horns, forcefully taken away from her by pulling her four belly-nipples.

It's common however for the loincloths of the females to be thinner than those of the males and more colorful and attractive. Also sometimes the flesh of the arms and the neck is allowed to peek out, thereby showing more flesh than the males. But it is still considered virtuous, when a girl keeps herself completely covered and then people say: she is chaste, which means that she obeys the rules of decent behavior.

That is why I never understood why women and girls are allowed to show the flesh of their backs and throats at the big fono (festivities) without it becoming a disgrace. But perhaps therein lies the big attraction of the feast, that the things which were forbidden all the time are now allowed.

The men always keep their chests and throats covered completely. From their throats on down to their breast-glands, the alii (gentlemen) wear a chalk stiffened loincloth the size of a taro leaf. On top of that rests a white ring also stiffened with chalk and wound around the neck. Through that ring he draws a piece of colored cloth, plaited like the rope of a boat; it is pierced with a golden needle or a pearl and it hangs down the white shield. Many Papalagi also wear chalked rings around their wrists, but never around their ankles.

That white shield and those white rings are very important. A Papalagi would never enter the presence of a woman without these neck-ornaments! If that ring has become grimy and won't shine, that is even worse. The highborn alii change their breast shield and chalkring every day for that reason.

Meanwhile, the woman has many colored cloths, often filling a score of upright standing crates, and most of her thoughts are dedicated to the choice of what loincloth to wear and when. Whether she must wear a long or a short one, and she talks passionately about the jewelry that is supposed to go with it, while the man has only one party-cloth and only rarely talks about that. That is the so called bird clothing; a deep-black loincloth, tapering to a point in the back like the tail of a parrot in the jungle (formal evening dress). With this ceremonial costume, the hands also have to be covered with white skins, skins that have to be pulled over the fingers and are so tight that it makes the blood glow and creep up to the heart. Knowledgeable men are therefore permitted to carry them in one hand or stick them in the loincloth close to the breast-gland.

When a man or a woman leave their hut and step out into the street, they wrap themselves in another, very wide cloth, that can be thick or thin depending on the available sunshine. Then they cover their heads also; the men with a stiff, black drinking-bowl that's round and hollow like the roofs of our Samoan huts. The women wear big wickerworks of bark or inverted baskets to which they attach flowers that never wither, feathers, strips of cloth, beads and other kinds of jewelry. These head coverings look very much like the tuiga (head-dress) of a toapou, except that those are much more beautiful and don't fall off during a storm or while dancing. Upon meeting with somebody, the men wave their little head-huts, while the women only nod their loaded heads very slowly, like a boat that's badly loaded.

Only at night, when the Papalagi goes to bed, does he throw off all his loincloths, only to replace them immediately with another one that opens up on the underside and leaves the feet bare. At night, women and girls usually wear a cloth that has rich embroidery at the neck, although they rarely show themselves wearing it. As soon as the Papalagi lies on his mat, he covers himself to the neck with the belly-feathers of a big bird, held together by

a large piece of cloth to keep them from flying off. Those feathers make the body sweat and contribute to the Papalagi's belief that he is lying in the sun, even when it's not shining at all. Because for the real sun they have very little interest.

It is easily understood that by doing all this, the Papalagi's body turns a pale white, lacking the glow of joy. But that's what the white man really likes. Specially the girls are forever on the alert to protect their skin from the big light that might burn it red. As soon as they go out into the sun, they hold a big awning over their head. As if the paleness of the moon is prettier than the color of the sun! The Papalagi prefer doing things their way and are forever busy drawing up laws to back their points of view. Because their noses happen to be as pointy as the teeth of the shark, it does not necessarily mean they are more beautiful than our noses, that happen to be rounded and smooth. Are they supposed to be ugly when we feel different about that?

Because the bodies of the women and girls are always covered up, inside the men the profound wish always lives to see their flesh. Something one can very well imagine. They have that on their mind day and night, and they talk a lot about the female body in a way you would think such a beautiful and natural thing is just a sin and must be hidden in the darkness. If only they would start showing that flesh, then they could focus their attention on other things and stop their eyes from leering and stop their mouths from whispering dirty words when passing a girl.

But that the flesh is supposed to be sin, an aitu (evil spirit, the devil), my friends can you imagine greater folly? If we would have to believe the white man, we would have to share his wish that our flesh would become hard as congealed lava, without that beneficial warmth that springs from inside. We however, we want to go on enjoying ourselves, go on communicating through our bodies with the sun, retain the ability to run like wild horses, because we are unhampered by loincloths and we have no leather foot-protection to drag down our feet, and we don't worry about the covering falling from our heads. Let's enjoy the sight a maiden offers, slender of body, and limbs flashing in the sunshine as well as under the moon. The white man, who has to cover himself up so much in order to hide his shame is foolish, blinded, and without feeling for the true pleasures of life.

The Papalagi live like crustaceans in their concrete houses. They live between the stones, the way a centipede lives inside the cracks of the lava. There are stones above him, around him and under him. His hut looks like a stone crate. A crate with holes in it and divided in cubicles.

Only in one spot you can enter and leave these stone dwelling-places. The Papalagi call that spot the entrance when it's used for entering the hut and the exit upon leaving it, though it's one and the same spot. Tied to that spot is a large wooden wing that one has to shove aside forcefully in order to enter. But that's only the beginning; many wooden wings have to be pushed aside before one is truly inside the hut.

In most of these huts, more people live than in an entire Samoan village. Therefore, when you pay somebody a visit, you must know the exact name of the aiga (family) you want to see. As every aiga has its own part of the stone crate to live in, the upper part or the lower one, the part in the middle or the one on the right, the left or the one in front. And often, one aiga knows nothing of the other aiga even if they are only separated by a stone wall and not by Manono, Apolina or Savaii (three islands belonging to the Samoan Group).

Often, they hardly know each others names and when they meet at the hole where they slink inside, they greet one another with a curt movement of the head or they grunt like hostile insects. As if they are angry for living so close together.

When an aiga lives all the way on the top, just under the roof of the hut, he who wants to visit them must climb on many branches that lead up in a circle or zigzag until he comes to a place where the name of the aiga is written on the wall. Then, in front of his eyes he sees an elegant imitation of a female breast-gland that, when pressed up on emits a cry to call the aiga. Then the aiga looks through a small peephole to see if it is not an enemy that has pressed the gland. In that case, he won't open up. But if he sees a friend, he unties the wooden wing and pulls it open, so the guest can enter the real hut through the opening.

Even that but is divided by stone walls into several cubicles. By going through one wing after the other, you enter smaller and smaller cubicles. Every cubicle, called a room by the Papalagi, has a hole in the wall, the bigger ones sometimes having two or three for letting the light in. These holes are covered with a piece of glass that can be removed when fresh air has to be admitted into the room, something that's very necessary. There are also many cubicles without holes for light and air.

People like us would suffocate rapidly in crates like that, for there's never a fresh breeze like there is in every Samoan hut. The fumes from the cooking-shacks can escape neither. Most of the time the air that comes from outside isn't much better. It's hard to understand that people survive in those circumstances, that they don't change themselves into birds of yearning, grow wings and fly off to look for the sun and the fresh air. But the Papalagi are very fond of their stone crates and don't even feel their badness anymore.

Every cubicle serves its own function. The biggest and best lit one serves the family for the fono (greetings) and the reception of guests and another room is reserved for sleeping. There the sleeping mats lie, or more precise, are spread out on a wooden scaffolding that stands on high legs, so the air can circulate under the mats. A third cubicle is used for ingesting food and producing billows of smoke. In a fourth one the food is kept, the fifth is used for its preparation and the last and smallest cubicle is used for bathing. This is the nicest room. The walls are hung with mirrors; the floor is decorated with gaudy tiles and in the centre there stands a large bowl, made from metal or, stone and filled with sunned or unsunned water. Into that bowl, perhaps larger than a king's grave, the Papalagi climbs to wash himself and wash away the sands of the stone crates. Of course there are crates with even more cubicles. There are even some where every child has his own and every servant as well, even their dogs and horses.

Between those crates, the Papalagi spend their whole life. Now in one crate, then in the other, depending on the position of the sun. Their children grow up inside those crates, high above the ground, higher than the highest palm-tree. From time to time the Papalagi leave their private crates, as they call it, to go to a crate where they do their tasks and don't want to be disturbed by the presence of wife and children. In the meantime the women and girls are busy in the cooking-shack, preparing the dishes, shining foot skins or washing loincloths. When they are rich enough to keep servants, then they do the work, while they themselves go paying visits or go out buying the fresh food.

In Europe as many people as there are living on Samoa live this way and perhaps even more. There are a few people however, that carry a great longing for the sun, the light and the woods, but as a rule this is considered a disease against which one has to shield himself. When someone is unhappy in this stony life, the others say that it's not natural, by which they mean: he doesn't know what God has wanted him to be.

Now those crates often stand close together, in large numbers, not even separated by a palm-tree or a bush, like people standing shoulder to shoulder and inside every crate as many people live as there are living in an entire Samoan village. And directly opposite, only a stone's throw away, a second row of crates stands, also shoulder to shoulder and people living in there as well. So in between the two rows there's only a narrow fissure left that the Papalagi call a street. Sometimes these fissures are as long as rivers and covered with hard stones. One has to walk far to find an open spot and on that open spot, many other stone fissures come together. Those also are as long as fresh-water creeks and interconnected by fissures of equal length. For days on end you can walk through these cracks without coming upon a wood or seeing a bit of blue sky. Looking up from out of those fissures you hardly ever see a bit of clear expanse, because inside every but at least one fire is burning and most of the time several fires at once. So the heavens are always filled with smoke and ashes, like after an eruption of the volcano on Savaii.

The ashes rain down into the cracks, so that the stone crates have gotten the color of the mud from the mangrove swamps and the people get black soot in their eye and hair and grit between their teeth.

Still the Papalagi walk around in those fissures from morning till night. There are even some that do it with a certain passion. I have seen cracks where there was a bustle all the time and through which a mass of people flowed like thick muck. In these streets enormous glass boxes are built, in which all sorts of things are laid out that the Papalagi needs for his living: loincloths, hand and foot skins, head-ornaments, foodstuffs, meat and also real fruits and vegetables and many other things. Those things are laid out in a way so that everybody can see them and they appear very inviting. But nobody is allowed to take anything from there, even if he needs it very badly, only after getting permission first and after making a sacrifice.

There are many fissures where danger lurks from all sides, because people not only walk up against one another, but they also drive up against one another, borne inside large glass chests, gliding on metal runners. There's a tremendous noise. Our ears begin to hoot from the horses striking the pavement with their hoofs and the people slapping it with their hard foot skins; from the children screaming and the men shouting. And shouting they all do, for joy or fear. It's impossible to make yourself heard, unless you shout too. There's a rattling, booming, swishing and pounding going on as if you're standing on the cliffs of Savaii during a heavy storm. But even that noise is friendly and doesn't rob you of your voice the way it happens with the noise in the stone fissures.

These stone crates with all those people, these deep fissures of stone intertwining like long rivers, the hustle and bustle, the black smoke and the dirt floating overhead without one single tree, without a spot of blue sky or nice clouds, all this together is called "town" by the Papalagi. The town is his creation and his great pride. People are living there that have never seen a tree or a wood, who have never seen the clear sky and never met the Great Spirit face to face, people living like the crawling animals in the lagoons or the coral reefs, though these animals at least are washed over by the clear seawater and kissed by the warm lips of the sun-rays. Are the Papalagi proud to have assembled so many stones? I don't know. The Papalagi are people with weird tastes. For no reason at all, they do all kinds of things that make them sick, but still they take pride in them and sing odes for their own glory.

So the thing I pictured, they call a town. And there are many such towns, small and big. In the biggest one the chiefs of the country live. The towns are scattered over the lands as our islands are scattered in the sea. Sometimes there's only a bath road’s distance between them, sometimes a day's travel. All those stone islands are connected by well cared for paths. But you can also travel in a landship, long and thin like a worm, throwing out smoke all the time and gliding along on long iron tracks, very fast, faster than a canoe with twelve men rowing at top speed. But if you want to call a tafola to a friend who is far away, you need not walk or glide over to him, you can blow your words into a cord of metal that runs between one stone island and another like a long vine. Faster than a bird can fly they will arrive at their destination.

In between these stone islands lies the true land called Europe. Out there, there are regions just as beautiful and fertile as our islands. Over there, there are trees, rivers and woods and also real villages.

In those villages other people live than in the towns, people of a different character. They are called country-folk. They have bigger hands and dirtier loincloths. Their life is much healthier and more beautiful than that of the people from the fissures, but they are not aware of that. They are jealous of the town people, whom they call lazybones because they don't work the soil, plant the fruits and pull them out again. They live in animosity with each other, for they have to give them food from their lands, they have to pluck the fruits for the fissure people to eat, they have to raise and care for the cattle until it has grown fat and then they have to give away half to the others. Of course it is difficult to provide all those town people with food and they do not rightly understand why those lazybones wear cleaner loincloths and have nicer, whiter hands than them and why they don't have to sweat in the sunshine and shiver in the cold rain.

The people from the fissures don't care very much about that. They are convinced that they have more rights as the country people and that their work is more important than planting vegetables in the soil. Still that conflict amongst the Papalagi is not severe enough to result in warfare. But whether they live in the country or in the cracks, the Papalagi in general likes the things the way they are. The country-man admires the living places of the crack people when he comes there occasionally and the crack-people gurgle and sing with all their might when they pass through a village in the country. The people from the cracks let the country folk fatten their pigs artificially and the country folk let them build their stones crates and rejoice in that.

But we, free children of the sun and light, we will remain loyal to the Great Spirit and won't load down our hearts with heavy stones. Only people sick and lost, who have let go of the hand of God can live happily inside the fissures, where the sun, the wind and the light cannot enter. With pleasure we will grant the Papalagi his doubtful happiness, but we will defend ourselves against his efforts to build his stone crates in our sunny country too and kill the joy of life with stones, cracks, dirt, noise, smoke and dust, as is his intention.

Listen to me with an open mind, my more sensible brothers and be grateful that you do not know the sins and horrors of the white man. All of you are my witness that the missionary said: "God is love". A good Christian always has to keep the image of love before his eyes. That's the reason, according to him, that the white man only prays to the Great God. Brothers, he has lied to us and cheated we are; he was bribed by the Papalagi to lead us astray with the words of the Great Spirit. Because they worship the heavy paper and the round metal, they call money, like a God.

When you speak to a European about the God of Love, he smiles and makes a funny face. He smiles at your stupidity. But as soon as you show him a piece of round, shiny metal or a sheet of heavy paper, then his eyes light up and saliva starts dribbling down his lips. Money is his only love, money is his God. That's the thing all whites think about, even when they sleep. There are some whose hands have become gnarled and taken the appearance of the legs of a termite, as a result of the continuous reaching for the metal and the paper. There are many whose eyes have gone blind just from counting their money. There are those that have given away their joy in exchange for money, their laughter, their honor, their soul, their happiness, yes even their wife and children. Almost all of them give away their health for money. They carry it with them in their loincloths, between hard skins folded together. At night they put it under their bedrolls, so that nobody can take it away. They think about it night and day, every hour, every minute. And everybody, everybody! Children as well! It is driven home to them. It's taught to them by their mothers and they see it from their fathers. When you walk through the fissures of the Siamanis (Germany), everywhere you hear shouting, mark! And a moment later again, mark! Everywhere you hear that cry. That's the local name for the round metal and the heavy paper. In Fafali (France) it's called franc, in Peletania (England) shilling and in Italia (Italy) lira. Mark, franc, shilling, lira, it's all the same. It all means money, money, money. Money is the only true God of the Papalagi, when at least you consider God to be the thing you love most.

And so it happens in the land of the whites, that it is impossible to be without money, not even for one moment between sunrise and sunset, without any money at all! You would be unable to satisfy your hunger or your thirst, unable to find a mat for the night. They would lock you up in their gloomiest pfui-pfui (prison), they would lock you up and slander your name in the many papers (newspapers), because you have no money. You have to pay, that means give money for the ground you stand on, for the spot where you want to build your hut, for your mat for the night, for the light that shines inside your hut. When you want to hunt for the pigeon or want to wash your body in the stream, pay you must. When you want to go to the place where people have fun and where they sing and dance, or if you want to ask your brother for advice, you must pay much round metal and many heavy papers. You have to pay for everything. Everywhere your brother stands with an outstretched hand and he will despise and curse you if you leave it unfilled. An apologetic smile or a friendly look don't help to soften his heart. Instead he will open his mouth and shout at you: "Scoundrel! Lazybones! Beggar!", which all means the same and is generally considered a grave insult. Even to be born you have to pay and when you die, your aiga must pay because you are dead and pay they must to obtain permission to lay your body in the earth and for the big stone they roll on top of your grave as a memento.

I've been able to discover only one thing for which no money is asked and of which everybody could take as much as he wanted: the air to breathe. But I suspect that this has merely escaped attention and I don't hesitate to state, that, when my words could be heard in Europe, they would immediately demand round metal and heavy paper for that too. Because every European is always on the look-out for a reason to demand even more money.

To be in Europe without money is like being a man without a head, without limbs, a zero. Money you must have. Money you need like you need food and drink and sleep. The more money you have, the easier your life is. When you possess money, you can buy tobacco and rings and nice loincloths. You can buy as much tobacco, rings and loincloths as you want, as long as your money holds out. If you own much money, you can buy many things. So therefore everybody wants a lot of money. And everybody wants more than the other has. That's why they're all after money and everybody's eyes are hunting for it, all through the day. When you throw a piece of round metal in the sand, the children dart forward and fight for it, and the one who gets hold of it is the victor and very happy. Pieces of money are not thrown in the sand regularly however. Where does the money come from? How can you obtain a lot of money? Oh, in all manners, easy and difficult. When you slice off your brother's hair, when you carry away the dirt from in front of his house, when you sail a canoe across the water or when you have a strong thought. Yes, for the record it must be mentioned that not only round metal and heavy paper is asked for almost everything, you can also get it for doing almost anything. The only thing you have to do is perform an action that's called "labor" in Europe. "Perform labor and you will have money", is the common rule in Europe.

There is however one gross injustice that the Papalagi tend to overlook, that they will not consider because that would mean recognizing that injustice. Not all the people that have a lot of money also work a lot. (of course everybody would like to have a lot of money, without working for it) This is the way it goes; as soon as a white man has enough money for his food, his hut and his mat and a little bit to spare, for that little bit, he lets his brother work for him. He starts by letting him do the work that made his hands hard and dirty. He lets him carry away the dirt he made. And if it is a woman, she hires a girl to do the work for her. That girl must clean the dirty mats, the food-utensils and foot skins. She must mend the torn loincloths and may not do something that's not pleasing or useful to her mistress. That way he or she gains time to do bigger, more important or more pleasant work, for which they receive more money, don't have to dirty their hands or strain their muscles. If he is a boat builder, then they have to help him build boats. From the money he gains with another man's work, money that rightfully ought to belong to that man, he takes away part, the larger part, and as soon as he can he hires another man to work for him and then a third; more and more brothers are building boats for him, sometimes more than a hundred. Until he does nothing himself anymore but lay on his mat, drink European kava and burn these smoking rods. He delivers the boats when ready and receives the round metal and heavy paper, that others earned for him. Then people say he is rich. Everybody envies him, flatters him and speaks to him in a friendly manner. Because in the land of the whites, a man is not honored for his nobleness or his courage, but for the amount of money he has; how much he earns in a day and how much he can collect in his strong iron boxes, that are so heavy not even an earthquake can budge them.

There are many white men that save up all the money that others earn for them, and then they bring it to a place where it is well kept. Always more money they bring there, until they don't even need others anymore to do the work for them, because the money itself does the work. How a thing like that is possible, without all out sorcery, never became entirely clear to me, but true it is that money begets money, like the leaves growing on a tree such a man is getting richer and richer, even, when he is asleep.

So even when somebody has a lot of money, much more than most people have, so much that hundreds or thousands of workers could lessen their burden with it, he still doesn't give anything away from it. He wraps his hands around the round metal and sits on the heavy paper, greed and lust burning in his eyes. And when you ask him what he intends to do with all that money, realizing you can't do much more on this earth than clothe yourself and satisfy your hunger and thirst, then he doesn't know what to say or he answers: "I want to gain more money, always more and more". Then soon it will dawn on you that money has made him sick, that his common sense has fled before the money sickness.

He is sick and possessed, because his soul has hooked on to the round metal and heavy paper and he will never stop raking in as much as possible. He can never reason: I want to leave this world without having done malice and without carrying ballast, for that's the way the Great Spirit has sent me off into the world. without round metal or heavy paper. Of that fact only a few of them are aware. Most of them stay ill forever, never again to become healthy hearted again and only taking pleasure in the power that large amounts of money give. They swell up with pride like the tropical fruit after a rain shower. With glee they let their brothers perform the heavy labor, while they themselves grow fat in the flesh and expand considerably. They do that without getting into conflict with their conscience. Very proud they look at their clean fingers, which will never be dirty again. The knowledge that they continually steal the strength of others to add to their own, doesn't bother them or rob them of their sleep at night. It doesn't enter their minds to let others partake of that money to lighten their burden.

That's why there are two different classes of people in Europe: the first kind has to work hard and do the dirty jobs, while the second kind works only a little bit or doesn't work at all. One group has never time to sit in the sun, while the others do nothing else. The Papalagi say: not all people can have as much as some have, or sit in the sun all the time. On this saying he bases the right to be cruel when dealing with money. His heart is like a stone and his blood is cold. Yes, he feints and tells lies and is forever dishonest and dangerous when his hands are reaching for the money. It often occurs that one Papalagi kills the other, just for his money. Or he kills him with the venom of his words, or drugs him to plunder him afterwards. Usually that's the reason for one not trusting the other; they all know each other's weakness. That's also why it is impossible to find out if a man with much money is also good at heart. It is possible that he is very bad. You can never find out how and where he amassed his riches.

But also for that reason, a rich man never knows if the honor that's done to him is meant for his round metal or for him. Usually it is for his round metal. Therefore also I don't understand why the people who don't own round metal and heavy paper feel ashamed about that and envy others, instead of letting others envy them. Because it is neither honorable nor good to wear too many shells on strings. It also isn't good to be blessed with too much money. It takes away people's breath and hampers their natural body movements.

But not a single Papalagi dares to despise money. Those that don't love money are laughed at, are valea (stupid). Wealth is having much money, is being happy: that's what the Papalagi say. And also: the richest country is the happiest one.

My light-skinned brothers, we are all poor. Our land is the poorest of all lands under the sun. We don't have enough round metal or heavy paper to fill even one chest. According to the ways of the Papalagi, we are wretched beggars. And still, when I look into your eyes and compare them with those of the rich alii, I find theirs tired, dull and sluggish, while yours shine like the great light, emitting rays of happiness. strength, life and health. I have seen eyes like yours only with the children of the Papalagi, before they can speak. Because before that time they have no knowledge of money yet. How powerful the grace of the Great Spirit is, that he has protected us from that aitu. Money is an aitu because everything it does is bad and it makes everybody bad. Even if you only touch the money, you fall under its spell and he who loves it must serve it and vote all his strength to it for the rest of his life. Let us love our noble ways and despise the man who asks an alofa (a present or a reward) in exchange for his hospitality or for every fruit he gives you. Let us honor our ways that do not permit someone having much more than another, or somebody having a lot and the other having nothing at all. So that we will not become like the Papalagi in our hearts, so that we will not be happy and glad when our brother beside us is unhappy and sad.

But above all, let us beware of the money. The Papalagi dangle the round metal and heavy paper also in front of our eyes, to awaken our greed. They declare that it will make us richer and happier. Many among us have already been touched and blinded by this fearsome disease.

But you - when you believe the words of your humble brother and know that I speak the truth when I say that money never makes one happier or better, but that it throws the heart into boundless confusion, that with money someone is never really helped, that it will never make you gladder, stronger or happier - you will hate the round metal and the heavy paper, the way you hate your worst enemy.

You can also recognize the Papalagi by his wish for making us wise and because he tells us that we are poor and wretched, and in need of his help and his pity, because we possess nothing.

Allow me to explain to you, dear brothers from the many islands, what that is a thing. A coconut is a thing, a flyswatter, a loincloth, the shell, the finger-ring, the food-bowl and the headdress, they are all things. But there are two different kinds of things. There are things made by the Great Spirit without us seeing it and we, the children of the earth, have no trouble obtaining them. Like for instance the coconut, the banana and the seashell. Then there are the things made by the people with much work and hardship, things like the rings for the fingers, fly-swatters and food bowls. Now the alii think that we have a need for the things made by their hands, for they certainly don't mean the things provided for us by the Great Spirit. Because, who can be richer than us and who can possibly possess more things from the Great Spirit than exactly us? Throw your eyes around to the furthest horizon, where the wide blue expanse rests on the rim of the world. Everything is full of great things: the jungle with its wild pigeons, hummingbirds and parrots, the lagoons with their sea-cucumbers, shells and marine life, the sand with its shining face and smooth skin, the great water that can rage like a band of warriors or smile like a taopou and the wide blue dome that changes color every hour and carries large flowers that bless us with gold and silver light. Why be so foolish as to produce more things, now that we have so many outstanding things already, given us by the Great Spirit himself? Anyway, we will never be able to better his workings, because our spirit is weak and puny and the power of the Great Spirit is mighty, compared to his large and omnipotent hands, ours are small and weak. The things they can make are puny and not worth speaking about. We can make our arm longer with a stick and enlarge the hollow formed by our hands with a tanoa (a wooden dish with many legs, used for brewing a national drink), but there hasn't been a single Samoan or Papalagi yet who succeeded in making a palm tree or a kava plant.

Now those Papalagi think they can do a lot and that they are as strong as the Great Spirit. For that reason, thousands and thousands of hands do nothing but make things, from dawn to dusk. Manmade things, of which we know purpose nor beauty. And the Papalagi invent more and more things. Their hands burn, their faces turn to ashen and their backs are bent, but still they burst into happiness when they've succeeded in making a new thing. And all of a sudden, everybody wants to have such a new thing; they put it in front of them, adore it and sing its praise in their language.

Oh brothers, strengthen my beliefs, for I've looked straight through the Papalagi and seen his intentions as clear as if illuminated by the midday sun. Because he destroys all the things of the Great Spirit. Wherever he comes, he wants to bring to life again, on his own power, those things that he first killed and then wants to make himself believe he is the Great Spirit himself, because he produces so many things.

Brothers, try to imagine that at this very moment a storm would rise and strip away all the jungles and mountains, that from the lagoon also the shells and crayfish would be taken away and not even a hibiscus-flower would be left for our girls to wear in their hair, try to imagine that everything we see around us had suddenly disappeared, so that nothing would be left and the sand and the earth would have become like the palm of your hand or the hill over which the magma has flowed. Then we would have to mourn over the palm tree, over the shells and the jungle we would have to mourn over everything. Where all the huts of the Papalagi are gathered, all those huts that they call a town, there the land is as bald as the palm of your hand and that's one of the reasons that the Papalagi has gone soft in the head and plays being the Great Spirit in person, so as not to think of all the things they lost. Because they are so deprived and because their land has become so dreary they collect things like a fool collects dead leaves and fills his hut with them until all available space is occupied. That's why he envies us and hopes to make us as poor as he is himself.

It is a sign of great poverty, when somebody needs much, because that way he proves that he lacks the things of the Great Spirit. The Papalagi are poor because they pursue things like madmen. Without things they cannot live at all. When they've made themselves an object out of the back shield of a turtle, used to straighten their hair back, they make a skin for that tool, and for the skin they make a box, and for that box they make a bigger box. They pack everything away in skins and boxes. There are boxes for loincloths, for upper cloths and under cloths, for washing cloths, mouth cloths and all other kinds of cloths. Boxes for hand-skins and foot-skins, for the round metal and the heavy paper, for their food and their holy book, for everything you can imagine. When one thing would be enough, they make two. When you come inside a European cooking-hut, you see so many food-bowls and cooking-tools that it is impossible to use them all. And for every dish there is a different tanoa, there's a wooden bowl on three or four legs, used for the preparation of a native drink. one for the water and another one for the European kava, one for the coconuts and another one for the grapes.

There are so many things inside a European hut that, even if every man from a Samoan village would take out an armload, the people living in it would not be able to carry the remainder out. In every hut there are so many things that the white gentlemen employ many persons just for putting those things on the spot where they belong and to clean the sand off them. And even the highest born taopou uses a great deal of her time to count, rearrange and clean all her things.

You all know, brothers, that I speak the truth as I've seen it with my own eyes, without adding to my story nor holding back any. So believe me when I tell you that there are people in Europe that press a fire-stick to their foreheads and kill themselves, because they would rather not live at all than being forced to live without things. Because in every possible way the Papalagi confuse their minds and fool themselves into thinking that man cannot live without things, as he cannot live without food.

Also because of that, I've never been able to find a hut in Europe where I could rest on my mat properly, with nothing hindering my limbs when I wanted to stretch myself out. All those things throw flashes of light around or cry out loud with the voices of their colors, so that I couldn't close my eyes quietly. Never could I find the true repose there and never before was my longing for my Samoan hut so strong; the but where there is nothing but sleeping mat and bedroll and nothing disturbs us but the soft sea breeze.

The ones that only have few things, call themselves poor and unhappy. No Papalagi sings or goes through life with a twinkle in his eye, like we do, when his only possession is his food bowl. When the men and women of the white man's world would reside in our huts, they would mourn and grieve and they would have wood fetched from the forest quickly and turtle-shells, glass, steel-wire and gaudy stones and much, much more. And they would move their hands from morning till night, until the Samoan hut would be filled with large and small objects that break easily and are destructible by fire and rain, so that replacements have to be made all the time.

The more things you need, the better a European you are. That's why the hands of the Papalagi are never still, they're always making things. That is the reason that the faces of the white people often look so tired and sad and that is also the reason why only a few of them can find the time to look at the things from the Great Spirit or play in the village-square, compose happy songs or dance in the light on a holiday and deprive pleasure from their healthy bodies, as is possible for all of us. (Very often, the Samoans come together to play and dance. They learn to dance at a very young age already. Every village has its songs and poets. In the evening you can hear singing inside every hut. The singing is melodious, mainly because the language is so rich in vowels, but also because of the delicate hearing faculties of the islanders).

They have to make things. They have to hold on to their things. The things latch themselves to them and crawl over them like an army of tiny sand-ants. They commit the most hideous crimes, in cold blood, only to get more things. They don't make war to satisfy their male pride, or to match their strength, but only to obtain things.

Still, they are all aware of the great waste their life is, otherwise there wouldn't be so many Papalagi of high standing that do nothing their whole life but dip hairs in colored juices and with them throw beautiful mirror-images on white mats. All the fine words of God they write down, as bright and colorful as they can. They also mold people from soft clay, without any loincloths; girls with free movements, delightful as the taopou of Matautu and images of men, brandishing clubs and spying on the wild pigeon in the forest. People made out of stone, for which the Papalagi build large festival-huts, where to people travel from large distances to enjoy their grace and beauty. They stand in front of them, wrapped tightly in their loincloths and shiver. I've seen Papalagi weep, when admiring the beauty they have lost themselves.

Now the white man wants to make us rich by bringing us his treasures, his things. But those things are like poison arrows that kill those in whose breasts they have lodged. I once overheard a man who knew our islands well, saying: "We must force new needs upon them". Needs are things! And that wise man spoke further: "Then they can be put to work easier also". He meant that we had to use the strength of our hands to make things, things for ourselves, but mainly things for the Papalagi. We must be made tired, bent down and grey too.

Brothers of the many islands, we must keep our eyes wide open, because the words of the Papalagi taste like sweet bananas, but they are full of hidden arrows that are out to kill all light and gladness inside of us. Let's never forget that, except for the things given us by the Great Spirit, we need only very little. He has given us eyes to see his things. You need more than a lifetime to see them all. And never did a greater lie pass the lips of a human being as when the white man said to us that the things from the Great Spirit have little value, but that the things they produce are very useful and valuable. Their own things, so numerous and glittering and shining, throw seductive glances our way and thrust themselves upon us, but they never made a Papalagi's body more beautiful, his eyes more shiny or his senses keener. That's another reason that their things have little value and the words they utter and force upon our awareness forcefully, are thoughts steeped in venom, the ejaculations of an evil spirit.

The Papalagi adore the round metal and the heavy paper, it gives them much pleasure to put the juices from dead fruit and the meat from pigs, steers and other terrible animals inside their stomachs. But they also have a passion for something that you cannot grasp but still exists, time. They take it very serious and tell all kinds of foolish things about it. Though there never will be more time between sunrise and sundown, for them this does not suffice.

The Papalagi are never satisfied with their time and they blame the Great Spirit for not giving them more of it. Yes, they slander God and his great wisdom by dividing every new day into a complex pattern, by cutting it up into pieces, the way we cut up the inside of a coconut with our machete. Every part has its name. They are called, seconds, minutes or hours. The second is smaller than the minute and the minute is smaller than the hour. But all of them strung together form one hour. To make up one hour, you need sixty minutes and many, very many seconds.

This is an incredibly confusing story, of which I haven't grasped the fine points myself yet, as it is hard for me to ponder this nonsense longer than necessary. But the Papalagi attach much weight to it. Men, women and even children too small to walk, wear a small, flat, round machine inside their loincloths, tied to a heavy metal chain hanging around the neck, or around the wrist; a machine that tells them the time. Reading it is not an easy thing. It is taught to the children by pressing the machine to their ears, to awaken their curiosity.

Those machines are so light that you can lift them with two fingers and they carry an engine inside their bellies, just like the big ships you all know. There are also big time-machines, standing inside their huts, or hanging from a high house so as to be better visible. Now when part of the time has passed, it is indicated by two small fingers on the face of the machine and at the same time it cries out and a ghost strikes the iron in her insides. When in a European town, a certain part of the time has passed, a frightening clamoring and din breaks out.

When that time noise sounds the Papalagi complain: "Terrible another hour gone!" And then, as a rule, they pull a somber face, like somebody that has to live with a great tragedy. Very puzzling because immediately after, a new hour starts.

I've never been able to understand that, but I think it must be a disease. Complaints that are common with white people are, time vanishes like smoke, or time is running out and give me just a little more time.

I said it is probably some kind of disease; because when the white man feels like doing something, when for instance his heart yearns to go walking in the sun or to go sail a boat on the river, or to make love to his friend, he usually spoils his own fun by being unable to avoid the thought that there is no time for fun. The time is there all right, but he seems unable to find it. He will mention a thousand things that take away his time, grumpy and sputtering he sticks to a job that he doesn't feel like doing, that brings him no pleasure and into which nobody , forced him but he himself. And when he suddenly discovers that he does have time or when others give him time - the Papalagi often give each other time and no gift is more appreciated than that - then he discovers that he doesn't feel like doing it at that particular time, or that he is too tired from his joyless labor. And he is always determined to do those things tomorrow, for which he had no time today.

There are Papalagi who say that they never have time. They walk around stunned as if taken over by an aitu and wherever they show up, they work up disasters, because they have lost their time. Being possessed is a terrible disease that no medicine man can cure and a disease that contaminates many others, rendering them deeply unhappy.

Because the Papalagi are always scared stiff of losing their time, not only the men, but also the women and even the very small kids; they all know exactly how many times the sun and the moon have risen since the day that they saw the big light for the first time. Yes, it plays such an important role in their lives, that they celebrate it at regular intervals, with flowers and feasts. Very often I noticed that people felt they had to feel ashamed about me, because when asked for my age I would start laughing and did not know it. But you have to know your own age. Then I would be silent and think, it's better for me not to know.

How old are you, means, how many moons have you lived? Counting and probing this way is full of dangers, because that way it was discovered how many moons people usually live. Now all those people keep that in mind and when a great many moons have passed they say, "Now I have to die soon!" Then they grow silent and sad and indeed die after a short period.

In Europe there are only a few people that have time really. Perhaps even no one at all. That's why those people run through life like a thrown stone. Almost all of them keep their eyes glued to the ground when they walk and they swing their arms to make better pace. When somebody stops them, they shout angrily, "Why do you stop me, I've no time, better make good use of your own time!" It seems that they think a fast walking man braver than one who walks slowly.

Once I saw a man's head almost explode, saw his eyes roll around and his gullet stretch wide open like a dying fish, becoming red and green in the face and flailing around his hands and feet, just because his servant arrived one breath later than he had promised he would. That breath was supposed to be a considerable loss, that could never be made up again. The servant had to leave the hut, the Papalagi chased him away and called him names. "'Ibis is the limit, because you have stolen much time from me already. A man who doesn't honor time isn't worth that time!"

Another time I saw a Papalagi who had time and never complained about his time, but that man was poor, dirty and despised. People walked around him in a big circle and nobody gave him any attention. I didn't understand that, because his step was slow and steady and his eyes were quiet and friendly. When I asked him how that came about, he hung his head and said sadly: "I've never been able to use my time well, that's why I am a poor and despised clod now". That man had time, but happy he wasn't.

With all their-strength and all their thoughts, the Papalagi try to make time as fat as they can. They use water and fire, storm and lightning from heaven to hold up time. They put iron wheels under their feet and give wings to their words, just to gain time. And what is all that work and trouble good for? What do the Papalagi do with their time? I've never quite found out, though judging from their words and gestures one would think they were personally invited to a big fono by the Great Spirit himself.

I think time slips from their grasps like a snake slipping out of a wet hand, only because they always try to hang on to it. He won't let time come to him, but runs after it with his hands outstretched. He` doesn't afford himself the time to stretch out in the sun. They always want to keep it within arms reach and devote songs to it and stories. But time is a quiet and peace-loving thing, that loves to rest and lie on it's mat undisturbed. The Papalagi have not understood time and therefore they mistreat it with their barbarous practices.

Oh my beloved brothers, we never complained about time, we loved it the way it was, never did we run after it or cut it into slices. Never did it give us worry or grief. If there is one amongst you, who has no time; let him speak up! We have time in abundance, we are always satisfied with the time we have, we don't ask for more time than there is and we always have time enough. We know that we will certainly reach our goals in time and that the Great Spirit will call us when he feels it is our time, even if we don't know the number of moons spent. We must free the duped Papalagi from his delusions and give him back the time. Let us take away their small, round time-machines, smash them and tell them that there is more time between sunrise and sunset than an ordinary man could spend.

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The Papalagi made God poor