Nights of Storytelling: A Cultural History of Kanaky-New Caledonia 0824860357, 9780824860356, 9780824832223

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a c u lt u r a l hi s tory of kanaky-ne w caledonia

NIGHTS OF STORYTELLING

Edited by Raylene Ramsay

Nights of Storytelling

Nights of Storytelling A Cultural History of Kanaky-New Caledonia

Edited by

Raylene Ramsay

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2011 University of  Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of  A merica 16 15 14 13 12 11    6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Nights of storytelling : a cultural history of Kanaky-New Caledonia / edited by Raylene Ramsay.   p. cm.   Includes bibliographical references.   ISBN 978-0-8248-3222-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)   1.  New Caledonian literature (French)—Translations into English. 2.  Folk literature, New Caledonian (French)—Translations into English. 3.  New Caledonian literature (French)—History and criticism.  4.  New Caledonia—History.  I.  Ramsay, Raylene L.   PQ3998.5.N42N54 2011  840.8’099597—dc23 2011026060

Title page illustration: Kanak artist Paula Boi University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources. Designed by Wanda China Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc.

Nights of Storytelling is dedicated to the writers and artists whose work it presents.

Contents

Acknowledgments Abbreviations Introduction

xv xix 1

Part I. Kanak (Hi)stories

11

 1. Origins and Orality The Myth of Teê Kanake  ◙ The Beginning of the World The Story of Mount Mou and Mount Karikaté

13 22 25 30

 2. Pathways and Interconnections The Legend of Fire and the Lizard-God The Child Who Came Out of a Tree The Master of Koné Kaapo Ciinyii Dui Dupaan and the Daughter of the Great Ocean

32 40 41 43 46 47

 3. Cultural Initiation Blind Dancer  ◙ The Child and His Grandmother Tädo-Tädo The Sparrowhawk and the Swallow Tibo and Her Child

51 55 57 58 60 61

 4. Transformations: The Dynamic Nature of Kanak Oral Traditions The Stockmen

63 73 vii

viii | Contents

The Rat and the Octopus  ◙ Bigne and Jola Idara, the Prophetess Caledonian Novel P. Lambert

76 78 80 81

Part II. Exploration and First Contact

83

 5. James Cook: A Positive Account of Balade, New Caledonia, 1774 Cook’s Arrival at Balade The Pig Incident Tools and Weapons Modesty of the Women

87 92 94 95 96

 6. The Forsters: Cook’s Philosophers Abroad Description of Women Temperament of the People  ◙ Women The Pig Incident Systems of Government

97 100 100 101 102 102

 7. D’Entrecasteaux: A Negative Account of Balade, 1792 Seeking Information in the Footsteps of La Pérouse Assessment of the State of the People Leaving Balade

104 106 108 108

 8. La Billardière: Observations of a French Naturalist Expedition’s Progress Cannibalism Chiefly Authority Theft

110 112 114 114 114

 9. Nineteenth-Century Perspectives Land and Land Ownership

118 121

E. Vieillard and È. Deplanche

The Character of the New Caledonians  ◙ E. Vieillard and È. Deplanche

122

Contents  |  ix

Political Organisation

123

Description of the People

127

Ownership of Coconuts

127

E. Vieillard and È. Deplanche L. Thiercelin L. Thiercelin

Part III. Early Texts: Missionaries, Settlers, Convicts, and Kanak

129

10. Colonial Representations of Kanak Culture The Waterfall

131 138

G. Baudoux

Horror Stories

139

Kaavo

141

That Old Tchiao

142

Poindi and the Eel

147

G. Baudoux G. Baudoux G. Baudoux J. Mariotti

11. Portraits of Colonial Society The Dinner Party P. and M. Nervat

151 153

The Four Seasons  ◙

157

A Kanak in Nouméa

160

J. Mariotti

A. Laubreaux

12. Living in the Bush A Kanak School M. Le Goupils

163 164

Idyll  ◙

166

Struggles of a Small Landholder

169

P. Bloc J. Mariotti

A Simple Story J. Mariotti

171

x | Contents

13. Women’s Lives Daily Life Naomi: A Kanak Woman’s Life

175 176 179

14. The Voice of the Other Letter from a Kanak Chief in Exile

181 182

Détéane

The Secrets of a Cannibal P. Bloc

187

Part IV. The Modern Period: From Colonial New Caledonia to the Kanaky-New Caledonia of the Noumea Agreement (1998)

193

15. From Colonial Regimes to Their Contestation (1870–1946) Language

195 198

16. Rewriting Colonial History: Transitions to Modernity (1946–2006) Violent Land

203 204

M. Leenhardt

J. Sénès

Pilou-Pilou: Straw Hats  ◙

208

Justine or In Love with a Straw Hat

214

A Day at Work in the Mine

217

The Call of the Fatherland  ◙

218

A Caledonian Pastoral

226

Boghen Station

228

Colonial Stereotypes

231

The Exclusion Strategy

232

“Collective” Property

233

J. Vanmai C. Régent

J. Vanmai J. Vanmai

I. Kurtovitch C. Jacques A. Bensa A. Bensa A. Bensa

Contents  |  xi

Precise Rules A. Bensa

17. Kanak Rewriting of Colonial History Writing D. Gorodé

234 235 241

Creation

243

Where Are You Going Mûû?

245

The Ferryman  ◙

246

18. Recovering Custom My School of Silence

249 249

D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé

W. Gorodé

The Calling of the Clans

260

Grandfather’s House

264

The Kanak Apple Season

267

I Wea(the)r Time  ◙

269

J-M. Tjibaou D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé

19. A Cultural Politics of Independence Dawn Serenade D. Gorodé

272 273

Day after Day

274

Word of Struggle

275

It’s High Time

276

The Homeland of Our Fathers  ◙

277

D. Gorodé D. Gorodé

W. Walépane J-M. Tjibaou

20. Critique of Custom Kanak Reserves D. Gorodé

279 279

xii | Contents

Questions

281

The Land

283

Custom

285

Magic Spells

285

It’s a Sign of the Times

286

Love and Other Catastrophes

287

Women

288

The Wreck

290

Life in Red, White and Blue

296

D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé Nilde

Where Is Justice?

297

21. Writing Together Independence

299 301

The Land  ◙

304

Being  ◙

306

The Gods Are One-Eyed

310

Being with the Other

315

Roots

316

Tropical Town

317

Netted

318

P. Gope

D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch P. Gope and N. Kurtovitch D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé D. Gorodé

Contents  |  xiii

Waste Land

319

Old Nick

320

Waiting-Room Heroes

322

D. Gorodé

L. Gourdon F. Ohlen

22. Métissage and Cultural Hybridity The Black Mare  ◙ C. Jacques

323 330

At the Water’s Edge

339

Jacques’ Garden

341

The Special Guest  ◙

344

The Night of Storytelling

347

Paris My Tribu, Paris My Village

350

This Land

352

Kënaké 2000

357

N. Kurtovitch N. Kurtovitch N. Kurtovitch N. Kurtovitch W. Ihage

C. Laurent D. Gorodé

The Migratory Bird  ◙

361

The New Generation

365

Sleeping Beauty  ◙

367

Traditional Amnesia  ◙

368

W. Ihage and D. Gorodé D. Pourawa P. Wamo P. Wamo

References

The ◙ symbol indicates texts included on the DVD.

371

Acknowledgments

This book was completed with the aid of a grant from the Marsden Fund (Royal Society of New Zealand). We gratefully acknowledge their assistance. We also acknowledge the following persons and organisations for their kind permission to translate extracts of copyrighted material and reproduce images and original artworks. Publishers Agence de Développement de la Culture Kanak (ADCK) Association de l’édition des œuvres de Jean Mariotti Bibliothèque Bernheim EDICEF Editions de l’Océanie Editions de Niaouli Editions du Belvédère Editions du Cagou Editions du Club des Amis de la Poésie Editions du Niaouli Editions EDIPOP Editions Feuilles de paroles Editions Gallimard Editions Grain de Sable Editions Ile de Lumière Editions l’Harmattan Editions Madrépores Editions Odile Jacob xv

xvi | Acknowledgments

Editions Planète Mémo Equipe de recherche Transcultures, Université de la Nouvelle-Caledonie Pandanus Editions Presses Universitaires de Bordeaux Nouvelles Editions Latines SELAF Société des Etudes Historiques de la Nouvelle-Calédonie Individual Assistance from Alban Bensa François Bogliolo Pierre Gope Déwé Gorodé Jean Guiart Claudine Jacques André Leenhardt Frédéric Ohlen Jean Vanmai Illustrations Agence de Développement de la Culture Kanak (ADCK) Archives de la Nouvelle Calédonie (ANC) Centre Culturel Tjibaou Editions Grain de Sable Maurice Leenhardt (family and heirs) Musée de la Nouvelle Calédonie Musée de la Ville de Nouméa Réunion des musées nationaux, Paris Artists Paula Boi Yvette Bouquet Micheline Néporon Adrien Thromae Mathieu Venon Ito Waia

Acknowledgments  |  xvii

Special Thanks to Peter Brown Corinne Cuménal Jean Guiart Dominique Jouve Emmanuel Kasarherou Ismet Kurtovitch Nicolas Kurtovitch Jean Pipite Liliane Tauru Marie-Claude Tjibaou

Abbreviations

ADCK ANC ARTE CNRS CORAIL EPK FNLKS LACITO LMS MNC MDVN PALIKA RPCR SEHN-C

Agence de Développement de la Culture Kanak Archives de la Nouvelle-Calédonie Association Relative à la Télévision Européenne Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique Coordination pour l’Océanie des Recherches sur les Arts, les Idées et les Littératures Ecole Populaire Kanak (Kanak Peoples’ School) Front National de Libération Kanak et Socialiste Laboratoire de Langues et Civilisations à Tradition Orale London Missionary Society Musée de la Nouvelle-Calédonie Musée de la Ville de Nouméa Parti de Libération Kanak Rallye Pour la Calédonie dans la République Société d’Études Historiques de la Nouvelle-Calédonie

xix

Introduction

The project of our cultural history of New Caledonia is to cross old imperial boundaries and open up an important location of decolonisation in the French Pacific to Anglophone readers by translating its relatively little-known literatures. Through a selection of founding texts presented for the first time in English, Nights of Storytelling seeks to bring the stories and histories of an unfamiliar group of French-speaking islands into the living rooms and libraries of the English-speaking world, close to their original, vibrant form. For many readers, the Oceanian country has largely remained an exotic ‘French’ tourist destination. For others, Kanaky-New Caledonia is the home of indigenous peoples, other Pacific tangata whenua who are ‘cousins’ yet separated, at least in part, by their use of French language. Nights of Storytelling opens its cultural history of New Caledonia with transcriptions and translations of the most widely circulating texts of Kanak oral tradition. Subsequent accounts of early eighteenth-century European exploration, the era of annexation, the penal colony, and then nineteenth-century settlement are followed by representative extracts from what we have called the modern period, or the ‘new literatures’. These are the texts emerging from the dramatic political events in the contemporary period and the 1988 Matignon and 1998 Nouméa Agreements with France that have opened up the option of independence in 2014 by majority vote. The translated stories in all four parts are accompanied by a commentary that explicates the changing historical contexts that gave the texts birth, explores the explanatory power of various postcolonial readings, and weaves its own interactive story. This is a tale of the exile of Kanak in their own land, of European and other diasporas, and of ‘return’. It is also a story of cultural encounter, 1

2 | Introduction

of the intertwining of bodies and of literary texts, of transfer and the creation of interfaces, and of the increasingly mixed, or ‘hybrid’, character of the life of this changing Pacific country. This anthology of texts translated into English serves, then, as a mirror of multiple, sometimes antagonistic but inevitably interconnected histories from different periods and ethnic groups and from oral or written traditions. They are organised in four parts to showcase their distinctive character and relation to colonialism and its aftermath. A rediscovered and recentred indigenous (Kanak) culture is placed where, we believe, it truly belongs: at the beginning, and then again as a significant component of the final ‘contemporary’ section, despite the fact that the body of published Kanak texts remains quite small. The formative accounts of a Pacific New Caledonia, ‘discovered’ for Europe by Cook in his daring search for a southern continent and for scientific knowledge, or of D’Entrecasteaux in his search for the lost ‘explorer’ and sea captain, La Pérouse, follow and contrast starkly with the initiatory presentation of the histories of Kanak oral tradition. Subsequently, the literary writing produced by nineteenth-century colonisation bears first-person witness to the transitions from penal colony to colony of settlement to Overseas Territory in 1946. This includes the accounts of lives of settlers in the work of late ‘colonial’ writers such as Georges Baudoux and Jean Mariotti, but also the texts of the “Red Virgin”, the revolutionary Louise Michel, deported to New Caledonia after the uprising of the Paris Commune in 1870. The final group of texts, emerging during the period of political and social conflict and change to a new status as French Overseas Country and most recently as a unique collectivité sui generis, looks at contemporary European and Kanak production and reflects the emergence of the often silenced (hi)stories of other groups. These include those inflected by descent from indentured labourers (Vietnamese, Indonesian), Japanese migrants, or by more recent economic arrivals (Wallisian/Polynesian, or ‘French’, workers from other French overseas departments, territories, countries, and former colonies). The different texts speak in their own voices and tell of their own pathways. The focus in our commentary in the modern section, on the degrees of cultural transfer and kinds of mixing in the literary productions of identities, responds to the recognition that all of these very different stories are feeding into the present political construction of a national identity distinct from France. The discourses of the eighteenth century on the noble or ignoble savage, the naturels as ‘civilised’

Introduction  |  3

Europe’s Other (or barbaric self ), for example, which, in fact, reflected European mentalities rather than any Melanesian ways of thinking and being, continue to influence modern Kanak textual self-assertion and cultural reconstruction, if only through their critique and the attempt to actively recover and claim a lost history and a tradition. The Kanak histories, epic poems, and stories, glossed and termed myths by missionaries and ethnographers, have in their turn been recovered as texts of oral tradition by European and, increasingly, by Kanak researchers. Christian stories, for their part, have taken on indigenous forms to be reappropriated and incorporated inextricably into the fabric of contemporary Kanak identity. As is the case in many Pacific islands, the stories of the arrival of the first Polynesian natas, or teachers of the Marist missions, and of the altering of Kanak consciousness with the partial demise of the old gods and the new values of godliness that sometimes derived less from essential Christianity than from nineteenth-century European prudery find a place among the stories of an emerging Kanak literature. At the least they constitute the object of contestation, an unsettling by notions of mana or other returning figures of power, possession, and, as in the first Kanak novel, written by Déwé Gorodé (L’Epave 2005), sexual domination or sorcery from a more ancient past. The representations of the legacy of colonisation, the deep scars that still mark almost all of these reconstructions of history and resistance to it constitute a major terrain of the present political struggle in New Caledonia. History is written backwards out of a present where different groups seek to claim control over the past they rewrite. Histories/stories also represent a coming to consciousness of both singular and hybrid, essential and changing identities, thus pointing towards possible new ‘common’ futures. If the effects of colonial history in respect to the destructuring of Kanak traditional values and personality can be seen to be still influencing the present, so, too, can the emancipatory effects of new relations of power and the attempt to recover/ create the ‘old’ harmonies. Kanak texts move between the notion of a lost past/essence/communal spirit and a dynamic history of struggle but use both to enhance their political claims. The collected histories/stories are both irrevocably mixed and irreducibly different. The notions of time, space, person, and community that they carry, like the historical itineraries of the different cultures represented, are interconnected, often syncretic, and yet also distinctly different and making different political claims. The texts of ‘oral’ tradition we present figure as written histories, but they, too, are clearly dis-

4 | Introduction

tinct. Despite the common attempts at knowing oneself through one’s origins or tracing the history of one’s community, there is as yet no celebration in New Caledonia of what Patrick Chamoiseau, writing of the French Caribbean, has called diversalité (diversity and difference), at least not without a corresponding affirmation of a particular singular and local tradition and historical itinerary. We have sought to allow the power of the individual stories to take centre stage—to provide the space for the texts to speak, as much as possible, in their own unique voice, bringing the drama and the colours of different histories of cultural encounter to complex life, in both antagonistic and complementary voices and for both a general and specialist readership. Our reflections and conclusions are informed by the most recent theoretical work on French Pacific and postcolonial Francophone literature, predominantly published in French, although explicit discussion of theory has been kept to a minimum. In what sense, then, have we used the term ‘hybrid’ to characterise the interactions between the texts in our book? Why choose a term that still carries the negative connotations that nineteenth-century colonialism gave to the mixing of races and of cultures? That could seem counter to a Kanak writing seeking to recover and affirm the value of a nonassimilated resistant tradition and difference. Or to a settler writer, resisting what he calls the temptation of the chameleon, adopting the discourse/colour in current fashion. Or again, a term drawn from biology that suggests the grafting of a young stem onto a more-established rootstock and thus asymmetry and imbalance of power. In fact, like the once pejorative term ‘Kanak’ recuperated by the independence movement to give it new positive and revolutionary meaning, the word ‘hybridity’ has been used in postcolonial theory to overwrite the negative connotations of mixing, envisioning a new ‘third’, or hybrid, space that would reconstruct the power relations between former coloniser and colonised. Hybridity or mixing in our book resides most simply and immediately in the circulation and interpenetration of texts from the disciplines of ethnography, history, literature, and what has often been labeled ‘folklore’ in which both history and fiction, political and imaginative writing, are present. Our own critical narrative that runs alongside the translated texts, making them more comprehensible to the nonspecialist by creating the links between what are necessarily selected fragments, is perhaps also a factor of the book’s hybridity. However, we wish it to stand alongside, not stand instead of or interfere with oth-

Introduction  |  5

ers’ voices. The category of ‘storytelling’ has been stretched to include what are clearly also written texts. These texts do convey something of the impact of the spoken word, in particular the powerful performance rhythms of Kanak oral tradition. Hybridity is also the history in Kanak storytelling and the story in European settler histories. Most particularly, however, it is the omnipresent cultural mixing, the recognition or otherwise influence of the Others’ texts on one’s own, of European cultural domination on Kanak texts and Kanak influence on New Caledonian writers of European and other origins. Yet it is also the case that the individual writers represent their particular groups as victims of colonialism, and few Kanak writers are prepared in the present contexts to envisage the impact of European cultural contact as anything but destructive for their land. Tjibaou does enumerate both the gifts bestowed on their white guests by their Kanak hosts and the gifts of European technology. However, it is loss, humiliation, and dark wanderings that follow the welcoming of the first ships. There is, then, a parti pris of the value of Kanak tradition, a will to reverse colonial relations of domination, and engagement with the commitment to ‘Christian’ conciliation or a common future in some form of association with France/Europe in a number of Kanak texts, but no explicit exploration of ‘hybridity’ as there exists, for example, in the portraits of the lives of small bush farmers or of the possibilities for mixed relationships in the work of Claudine Jacques. And yet the political and historical forces that dominate the lives of the Kanak characters that alone interest Kanak writers are those generated by the arrival of the white world. The texts selected are inclusive to the extent that we have tried to represent most of the communities in place in New Caledonia who have given an archaeological and human depth to the political present by writing their stories and recounting their genealogies. Preference has been given to texts that have circulated and been re-inscribed or contested in others’ stories or in political texts, such as the 1998 decolonizing Nouméa Agreements. In particular, we have considered the interactions between the writing of Jean-Marie Tjibaou, Déwé Gorodé, and Pierre Gope representing Kanak production and of Nicolas Kurtovitch, Frédéric Ohlen, and Claudine Jacques, all New Caledonians of European origin. Their treatment of shared themes, such as the land, French cultural dominance, Kanak alienation and historical responsibility, male dominance of (and violence against) women, or the role(s) of the invisible world and the other forces (the figure of the sorcerer-

6 | Introduction

seducer/healer), are contrasted. Finally, although it was not possible to be exhaustive, both literature that carries sociopolitical messages that have marked or may mark New Caledonia’s history and thinking and extracts from literary fictions whose aesthetics most subtly reflect a changing society and engage with the proposal of a destin commun or avenir ensemble (a future commonality articulated officially by the Nouméa Agreement) have been included. Authorship of Commentaries The commentary accompanying the texts in each of the four parts is principally the work of a single researcher: Emma Sinclair accompanies the texts from Kanak oral tradition in Part I, Diane Walton writes on the accounts of the European explorers in Part II, Liliane Mary McKen­drick writes much of the commentary in Part III, and Raylene Ramsay presents commentary in Part IV. Note that these researchers are also the principal translators of their respective parts, unless otherwise indicated. Synopsis Part 1. Kanak (Hi)stories Major texts from Kanak oral tradition are presented in this first part. Our history traces the way these texts are currently being revived, given value, and reinvented to constitute a modern Kanak literature. Although it is inevitably ‘hybridized’, this indigenous literature tells history from its own perspectives. Kanak voices are inserted into the narrative to give it authority and to intimate the different kinds of oral textual rhythm our own written analytical text would like to capture. Part 2. Exploration and First Contact Here, eighteenth-century texts of first encounters and observation weave a primary introduction to European history in this part of the Pacific. By means of a close reading of the rhetorical functioning of extracts from the texts of Cook and D’Entrecasteaux and their sailing companions, our story attempts to account for the major discrepancies

Introduction  |  7

between early representations of a new land during this period of ‘scientific discovery’. It seeks to tease out what derives from observation of a culture unknown to Europe and what reflects aspects of the European mind (do the Europeans discover [noble or ignoble] savages or only themselves?). The texts of a number of late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century observers, including the early anthropological accounts of ship doctors Vieillard and Deplanche and the colonialist writing of Jules Garnier, complete this general overview of the major representations of early ‘exploration’, in particular those that reappear in contemporary studies and anthologies. Part 3. Early Texts: Missionaries, Settlers, Convicts, and Kanak The early writers in the emerging colony of free settlers, prospectors, and adventurers, rapidly supplemented by large numbers of déportés or convicts and later by political transportés after the fall of the Paris Commune in 1871, spoke mainly to metropolitan readers back ‘home’. Each description of the developing colony again carries the marks of the text’s European origins or destination but also of its transformation through encounter with an Other—land, people, and culture. By the turn of the nineteenth century, particularly in the texts of Jean Mariotti, the Kanak begin to look back at the European who has been inscribing their exotic ‘primitivism’ from without and, somewhat later, more sympathetically, from ‘within’. The grand colonial discourse of the civilising mission for a sacred Mother France and the pioneer aesthetic of endurance and toughness underpins all the literatures of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Colonial writers, however, are themselves sometimes also unwilling colonisers or critical observers (Baudoux, Laubreaux, the Nervats). They both capture and are captured by the hierarchical structures and the problems of the new colonial society out of which they write—Kanak uprisings, agricultural crises, the taint of the presence of the convicts. Women write personal accounts of their lives as prisoners in a penal colony or as wives of settlers. Letters written home by Kanak chiefs deported to French Indochina, for their part, speak of life in the Kanak tribus from which they have been exiled. This study of the texts of the colonial period concludes by considering the extent to which colonial mentalities are increasingly contested from within during the period that ends in 1946, with Kanak acceding to full citizenship.

8 | Introduction

Part 4. The Modern Period: From Colonial New Caledonia to the Kanaky-New Caledonia of the Nouméa Agreement (1998) The final and most extensive section of the book looks at the emergence in the latter part of the twentieth century of the many literatures of New Caledonia as they recover distinctive and often silenced histories of what has been called the land of the non-dit (unsaid) and make claims for a role in the future nation. It includes the examination of the texts and the cultural politics of the first published Kanak poets and short-story writers (Déwé Gorodé, Pierre Gope, Weniko Ihage, Jean-Marie Tjibaou), as well as the search for understanding of the Other and a shared universal in the work of Nicolas Kurtovitch, a New Caledonian writer of settler origin who has become a spokesperson for the recognition of Kanak founding status. Representations of the world of hard work and deprivation, but also the joys of the small bush settlers isolated from the capital of Nouméa and the mixed cultures of the shantytown that surround the capital, emerge dramatically from the short stories and novels of Claudine Jacques to similarly interrogate the possibilities of shared spaces and ‘common destiny’. Reconstructions of the pioneer period, with its prejudices and exclusions (of the class of liberated convicts, of indentured labour, of the Kanak) and its heroism—the battle to develop land against plague, drought, cyclone, isolation, and insurrection and create a new ‘home’— are traced in the fictions of Jacqueline Sénès and Catherine Régent. Extracts from the novels of Jean Vanmai speak for the first time of the stories of another group of New Caledonian citizens, presently part of the Vietnamese diaspora, whose history in New Caledonia is rooted in the regimes of indentured immigrant labour. The centrality of the theme of cultural and biological mixing, sometimes materialized in the figure of the métis, is staged in the texts of a number of writers of both European and non-European origin. The figure of the métisse also embodies a further recurring preoccupation of the new literatures: the status of women. Finally, we consider the very different degrees of cultural mixing, or ‘hybridity’, in the work of two young poets of the next generation: the rap-poetry of Paul Wamo, the ‘cry of rage’ against the urbanisation and globalisation that signify his loss of contact with his Kanak roots and that paradoxically inform his French verse forms, and the recovery of foundation myths and resistance heroes in the work of Denis Pourawa. Our commentary follows the ways in which the new literatures of

Introduction  |  9

Kanaky-New Caledonia speak to the urgent cultural and political issues in this group of islands and speak of other texts. It considers their identifications with the communities of the Pacific and/or with France and their constructions or refusals of cultural hybridity. For, constituting their country’s collective memory in written form and interrogating its present sociopolitical structures, these texts can be seen to be creating the interconnecting pathways to its future. Authorship and Translation The critical narratives are the result of the efforts of a team of researchers. The team includes Emma Sinclair-Reynolds (Part 1, oral tradition), Diane Walton (Part 2, European explorers), Mary McKendrick (Part 3, colonisation), and Raylene Ramsay (Part 4, modern period). Deborah Walker-Morrison has had overall responsibility for the translations included in the cultural history. Where the translations are the work of an outside individual, that person’s name has been indicated. Karishma Kripalani assisted with researching the images and helped Emma Sinclair-Reynolds with formatting the book. Credit is also due to a number of postgraduate students who participated in Professor Ramsay’s seminar on postcolonial translation at the University of Auckland, contributing a number of first-draft translations. These students included, notably, Jamie Anderson, Patrick Delhaye, Andrea King, Melissa Massey, Andrew McCully, Damien McVeigh, Fiona Moodie, Bhuddika Rajapakse, Don Rochette, and Amanda Wilson. Translators’ Notes As translators (as in the commentary) our twin objective has been respect for our authors and for our readers. We have aimed to speak with rather than stand for the original voices of our texts, seeking to render their unique tone, register, and cultural and historical specificity. We have sought to provide our readers with an experience of the texts and their contexts that puts them into the shoes of the original audience while also signalling essential elements of cultural difference. In many cases we have kept culturally specific terms in the original French or Kanak language, including pronunciation notes for nonFrench speakers. Such terms have been italicized (excluding proper names to respect editorial policy). In other cases we have used English equivalents. Thus the centrally important term la case (traditional

10 | Introduction

Kanak dwelling) is sometimes retained, sometimes rendered descriptively as ‘thatch-house’, or more communicatively translated as ‘house’ or ‘home’. Our unspoken question was often, If the original writer or speaker were writing in English, or addressing our readers, what would (s)he have said/written? In some cases we were able to approach the authors directly. Their comments were precious and led us to rethink our general approach to certain texts and specific choices in translating particular terms. Our aim was always to respect the integrity of the source text while providing our readers with an experience that is at once aesthetically satisfying and both semantically and culturally authentic. ◙  Nights of Storytelling—DVD La Nuit des Contes: Mise en Images de Textes Caledoniens The book is accompanied by a DVD produced by Deborah Walker-Morrison and Neil Morrison, through the support of the Centre for Academic Development of the University of Auckland. The DVD contains approximately three hours of recorded material and includes • twenty translated texts in the ‘original’ French with English subtitles. A number of indigenous texts are also subtitled in Maori. • readings set against a montage of archival stills, contemporary artwork, and video footage shot in New Caledonia. • the founding text, Teâ Kanaké, read by Déwé Gorodé, in both French and Paicî interviews with contemporary writers. Texts included in the DVD are indicated within Nights of Storytelling by the following symbol: ◙

Part I

Kanak (Hi)stories

Roof spire. Engraved bamboo (bambou gravé) (detail). (MNC)

Totems, M. Néporon. (ADCK)

Chapter One

Origins and Orality

For thousands of years the Kanak peoples of New Caledonia have transmitted their values, history, customs, relationships, and collective wisdom from generation to generation through their oral traditions. The umbrella term ‘Kanak’ is used to designate the distinct indigenous societies of New Caledonia where more than twenty-eight languages are spoken today. Despite this linguistic diversity, cultural elements common to all Kanak societies exist as a consequence of the long history of interaction between them in which networks of exchange, marriage, alliance, and migration have been established. A central feature of all Kanak societies is the great importance attributed to the spoken word, translated by Kanak into French as la Parole (the Word). To speak is to carry out a sacred act on behalf of both oneself and one’s entire clan, and because words are actions, not merely sounds or expressions of thoughts, they can have grave consequences. La Parole is the basis of the oral traditions that play a central role in the cohesion of Kanak societies—connecting all aspects of spiritual, material, and social life. These traditions carry the collective memory of the clan and are the vehicle of Custom, the set of laws by which Kanak live. Stories explaining the origins and history of groups are found in every Kanak language—for example, the jèmââ in Paicî, jama in Nemi, edrömë in Drehu, virhènô in A’jië, xwâânîmö in Xârâcùù, and yeretit in Nengone. The characteristics of these stories can vary according to the language, and while the term ‘myth’ is commonly used as the closest equivalent genre in European languages, the role and significance of this concept in Kanak societies is quite different from that in European societies. Kanak ‘myths’, or perhaps more accurately ‘historico-mythic stories’, explain such things as the creation of the world, the appearance of the 13

14  |  Part I. Kanak (Hi)stories

• The word is the soul of Custom, it gives it strength and vigour, makes it alive. To use the language of nature, I would say that the word is to Custom what sap is to the tree. Fote Trolue (Filippi and Angleviel 1999, 1:238)

In the A’jië language, custom is known as nô, which is the word of everyone, the story of a people, the sacred link between the visible and invisible worlds. Gabriel Poëdi (1997b, 69)

For us, what the Europeans have translated as ‘myths’ are not myths. They are our history. Déwé Gorodé (Stephanson 1998, 84)

•

first people, and the origins of clans and the larger groupings of clans known as chiefdoms, as well as the history of relationships between ancestors, spirits, totems (animals, plants, or rocks), clans, and specific locations in the landscape. There are as many myths or histories of origins as there are linguistic groups, and in addition, different versions of origin stories exist in areas where people share the same language. Origin stories play a fundamental role in Kanak social organisation, constructing identities through the definition of roles and relationships both past and present. The foundation of every Kanak society is the clan, a group of families connected to a founding ancestor from a specific tertre (mound or place of origin) according to a precise itinerary traced across the landscape. The clan is divided into a number of lineages, from the eldest lineage (which has been longest in residence in the area inhabited by the clan) through to the youngest (more recently arrived). Each lineage has certain areas of responsibility and certain rights. A clan is known by the name of its tertre of origin, which is the rallying point of the clan. The identity of the clan is inscribed in the landscape by way of the names of places passed through and inhabited by the founding fathers, and the clan has specific rights with respect to the different sites that have been passed through. The land has been

Origins and Orality  |  15

described as the ‘living archives’ of the clan, archives that define the roles, responsibilities, and identities of its members (Poëdi 1997a, 44– 45). Histories of origins are the axes along which Kanak societies are organised, and their circulation in terms of both audience and context is restricted in comparison to other genres such as tales, fables, and legends. The central importance of origin stories is demonstrated by the fact that the existence of different versions of myths can be a source of conflict, since through them the hierarchy of lineages and the network of relationships that underpin Kanak societies and identities are established. According to the prevailing archaeological myth or story of origins, the ancestors of the Kanak peoples arrived in the islands of New Caledonia around three thousand to thirty-five hundred years ago. They were part of the great Austronesian migratory expansion through the Pacific that began approximately four thousand years ago. The first

• The myth is the Kanak universe’s creative word which brings the world of men into existence. It is the memory of the clan, it is the Word of life for today and for the future. Jean-Marie Tjibaou (Tjibaou and Missotte 1976, 46)

Each stone bears a name each tree a history that of our fathers and our fathers’ fathers lizard rock bamboo caterpillar indicate to everyone their place and it is good to be together Jean-Marie Tjibaou (Tjibaou and Missotte 1976, 22)

•

16  |  Part I. Kanak (Hi)stories

wave of Austronesian peoples moved out from Southeast Asia and populated the coastal regions of Papua New Guinea and the Bismarck Archipelago. In the next five to six hundred years they reached Pacific islands such as Fiji, Tonga, and New Caledonia. Archaeologists have been able to trace the Austronesian migration and settlement of the Pacific by dating finds of the distinctive Lapita pottery associated with these peoples (Rivierre 1994, 7). As Christophe Sand (1997b, 165–166) has shown, the settlement of New Caledonia was essentially coastal for the first thousand years. Village communities close to beaches, mangroves, and coral flats were in regular contact with other groups, sometimes several hundred kilometres away, exchanging goods such as pottery, precious items, and tools, and organizing marriages. From around two thousand years ago the archaeological record shows that people began to settle in the plains and alluvial valleys in the interior of the islands. There is evidence of warfare and sometimes an associated appearance of fortifications, initially in confined areas such as the small islands but later on the Grande Terre as well, probably as a consequence of population pressures on land and food resources. Different techniques of land management began to emerge around one thousand years ago, such as the creation of hillside terraces to grow taro. The taro terraces were developed to such an extent that they covered areas of several hundred hectares in some valleys. These massive irrigated terraces were worked collectively, and great importance was accorded to each taro plant. Complex techniques for the cultivation of tubers such as yams in artificial mounds were also developed. Great importance was attributed to the yam, and the rhythm of the cycle of yam cultivation affected all aspects of life. Today the cycle of the yam continues to be the basis of the calendar of activities and ceremonies in Kanak societies. It is key to a ‘Kanak’ notion of time, which is deeply rooted in the cycles of the natural world and differs from the typical ‘Western’ notion in which time is measurable, consistent, and independent of nature. Western time is understood primarily as a unidirectional, linear progression, whereas in Kanak cultures several conceptions of time coexist. Kanak scholar and educator Gabriel Poëdi has distinguished between a linear conception of time, a cyclical time based on kinship categories that are repeated (e.g., self, father, grandfather, and great-grandfather), and an absolute time that exists outside of space and linear time in which “the past and the future converge, the living and the dead meet, where men, spirits

Origins and Orality  |  17

and Beings are able to form relationships with ease, and a time where life and death merge” (Poëdi 1997c, 196). There is also a difference in the use of time in the narratives of Kanak oral tradition. In European languages, when the present tense is used to tell a story that took place in the past, the listener either feels transported to the time of the event or transported to a ‘present’ that is not connected to ‘reality’. The ability to so transport the listener is seen as the mark of a good storyteller. In Kanak languages, however, stories are recounted in the present tense, bringing the past into the present for the duration of the story, a past (history) that is integral to and not disconnected from the present. This aspect of Kanak oral literature is often ‘lost in translation’ when translators working in European languages choose to use verbs in the past tense, conforming to the expectations of the target-language reader. A fundamental characteristic of Kanak oral literature that should not be overlooked is that it is a spoken rather than written phenomenon (one way of defining the oxymoron ‘oral literature’—itself a problematic term—is to describe it as consisting of the kinds of stories that might constitute a written literature, but that exist in an oral rather than written form). Unlike written literature, each Kanak story is told to a specific audience at a certain time and place, and, rather than a passive experience for the audience, it is an occasion for interaction between audience and orator. The audience members respond verbally to the story as it is being told, supporting the storyteller and reacting to the sound and rhythm, the fluidity of the speech, and the gestures made by the storyteller. The creative dimension of storytelling in Kanak oral tradition does not reside in the invention of a new or unique story, but rather arises from the skills of the orator and the way in which the story, which forms part of the cultural heritage of the Kanak society, is told. The great significance of the word to Kanak societies means that the use of inappropriate words or references can be received badly, and thus a great deal of the orator’s skill resides in the ability to choose the correct symbols and words according to the audience present. The powers of memorisation required of an orator, who must retain details of stories, locations, relationships, and past exchanges, are considerable, and it has been said that “in the Melanesian world, each individual is a kind of gigantic ever-expanding library” (Bensa 1995, 43). The manipulation of sound, rhythm, emotion, movement, and rhetorical features such as repetition, gesture, and humour are an integral part of the Kanak orator’s performance. Along with cul-

18  |  Part I. Kanak (Hi)stories

• Europeans have in some way removed time from nature; they have made it material. It enables them to gauge the duration of an activity and to go about doing it more quickly. They have turned it into a divided commodity, a tool with which to alter the rhythm of the world and of man. For the Kanak, time is a sensory perception, of hot and cold, of alternating rainy weather or sunshine, of old age and youth, of ceremonies which give life to the community and revive the soul. Jean-Marie Tjibaou (Tjibaou and Missotte 1976, 62)

•

turally specific notions of time, Kanak languages and oral literatures have sophisticated systems of spatial orientation and accord great significance to expressions of place. Kanak languages do not make use of the cardinal reference points north, south, east, and west; rather, the system of orientation in space relies on objective topographic reference points in the environment. These may include the opposition between sea and land or upstream and downstream in a river valley, as well as specific sites charged with meaning for the particular Kanak society (Rivierre 1994, 18). In addition to these topographic reference points, there exist meteorological points of reference that relate to the direction of the prevailing winds. Francoise Ozanne-Rivierre, a French linguist whose research in New Caledonia spans more than thirty years, stresses “the extreme importance of all the terms relating to space in Kanak languages and culture. Locatives, directionals, toponyms, demonstratives recur constantly in everyday conversations, in stories and also in formal orations” (Rivierre 1994, 33). Once again difficulties arise for the translator moving from a Kanak language, with its wealth of spatial terminology, to a European language, which may have fewer and differing ways of describing space. The great significance of spatial orientation in Kanak languages can be seen as a reflection of the fundamental importance of the environment, the land, in the construction of Kanak identities and societies. Certain genres of Kanak oral literature are concerned with explanations of elements of the environment in which the clan lives: geographical

Origins and Orality  |  19

features such as rocks, mountains, rivers; ecological features such as the presence and location of plants and animals; and environmental phenomena such as wind, storms, and tides. The topographic references made in stories of Kanak oral literature are not to imagined locations but to specific points in the landscape known to the audience, and as they are mentioned in the story the orator will gesture towards these locations. In Kanak oral traditions the context of the telling (which takes place in a given historical moment and location before a given audience that participates in the telling in a given manner) constitutes a

Taro planting. Engraved bamboo (detail). (L. Michel [1996], Aux amis d'Europe)

20  |  Part I. Kanak (Hi)stories

Fish net. Engraved bamboo (detail). (MNC)

component part of the story recounted. The performative elements are largely lost in the transcription and translation of Kanak oral literature, and according to the Kanak author Déwé Gorodé, the passage from the oral to the written code is an “abyss in which the rhythm of our language is lost, an abyss in which oral tradition is drowned” (L. Laubreaux 1996, 153). It has been shown that “orality relegates meaning largely to context whereas writing concentrates meaning in language itself” (Ong 1982, 106). Therefore it is important to be aware when reading translations of Kanak oral literature that, as readers, when we are deprived of contextual features such as the sound, rhythm, and energy of the original stories, we are also deprived of part of their meaning.

Origins and Orality  |  21

Oratory / O. Biliquey. (F. Bogliolo [1994], Paroles et écritures)

The cultural significance of a story is determined by the genre, the composition of the audience, the symbolism contained within the story, and the acceptance or rejection by the audience of the version that is immediate to the context of its telling. This audience participation at the time of the telling means that each version is a negotiated truth at a given moment in history. The highly symbolic nature of Kanak oral literatures means that the cultural competence of the audience or reader is vital to understanding; only insider knowledge of Kanak culture can allow comprehension at every level of meaning and significance. Nevertheless, access to these texts, as well as to other writings and reflections that offer insights into Kanak worlds, will enable an interested readership to enrich its understanding of this unique body of literature.

22  |  Part I. Kanak (Hi)stories

• You begin your stories with ‘once upon a time’. In the formula used in my language to begin stories you cannot use the past tense. For us, when a story is being told, history is brought into the present. As if you enter a circle: you speak of the character, like in the theatre, you are there together in the circle. In many of our stories we say ‘they are still there today’. You say ‘they lived happily ever after and had many children’. Déwé Gorodé (Stephanson 1998, 84)

Within society, the organization of spaces for taking up the word allows every person, no matter what age, gender, clan membership, to not feel at all excluded, and for all to benefit from a greater social solidarity. Fote Trolue (Filippi and Angleviel 1999, 1:135)

It is an individual, delegated implicitly or explicitly by the group, who speaks at a precise moment, encouraged by the group because when he speaks the group also says something, to support what is being said or to follow the rhythm. The group approves, says “ei, ei”, it is a communal discourse, but there is an individual who detaches from the group. Déwé Gorodé (Stephanson 1998, 84)

•

The Myth of Teê Kanake  ◙ The elders say that the Earth, curled up in a spiral, used to touch the Moon and that the rock on the mountain top was barely on dry land before the sharing out of the lands on the mountain of Tyaumyê (Zyouma in A’jië). When the sea had left a rock dry, the moon pulled out a tooth from its mouth and placed it on the stone. The tooth stayed there for several days, rotted, and worms appeared in it. The worms that fell to the ground changed into lizards, those that fell into the water changed into eels, and the children of the lizards each took on a man’s face.

Origins and Orality  |  23

The sea continues to drop, the mountain raises itself above Goyèta; they (the men) swim and stand upright upon each of the dry mountain tops. A male eel keeps swimming and comes ashore at Goyèta. There it changes again into a caterpillar u (hou) and that’s where they begin to become human. They change again, into authentic men, but though their hearts are human, their skins are still those of animals; the name of these men was Ketewa. While their skins remained unchanged, their hearts could not distinguish between good and evil. They transform again; the first one to split their skin in order to get to the bottom of their heart and give them the Word is Bumè. Bumè said it was good that men and women should live together. He took a woman as his wife and every one of them thought to do the same. A first-born son was born to Bumè, who called him Teê Kanake; the second of his sons took the name of Bwaè Bealo, and the third, Dwi Daulo. These three men, born of Bumè, are the origins of all the clans of Caledonia. On the land, where the straw (for roofs) was beginning to grow, they followed the Central Divide and came to another part of the island where they founded the land to which they gave the name Pway. That is where they decide to establish a blood alliance between men and speak of dividing themselves, the brothers, following two Words, forever into Bay and Dwi. This blood alliance is sealed with pearl money. For the Bay clan, Bwaè Bealo is their chief; for the Dwi, it is Dwi Daulo. The two groups were maintained and to the present day, for all of the clans, we say Bay and Dwi, Bwaè Bealo and Dwi Daulo. Teê Kanake, he who silences the crowd, the elder brother of the other two, went further to see other lands, as far as Voh. Then he goes down along the coastline of the Tipije distributing men throughout these lands. He then returns to Tipije and leaves a few men there. He reaches the mouth of the Tyamba, leaves more men there who construct a tertre (for a house) in that place, which they name Gara atü. He keeps following the coastline up into the land of Bwa where he leaves more men. And he gives them the name Bwa ma Tyau. Then he goes back to PwêRêiriwë where he builds a dwelling that he calls GowaRi. Later he goes back down to the sea and establishes the land of Tyakê. There he places all the tertres to which he gives the names Nèju, Goromia, Pwia and PwêRêtyêngü, Gorotyê and TyomaRi. Teê Kanake ends (his days) here, falls ill, and dies, there where his three sons were born: Teê TyomaRi, the eldest; Dwi Pwiridwa, the second; the third son was taken by a dugong who set him down on Lifou, where he was given

24  |  Part I. Kanak (Hi)stories

the name of Bumè. The work of Teê Kanake is done, so let us now move on to the work of Bwaè Bealo and Dwi Daulo. Bwaè Bealo had two sons. He, their father, falls ill and dies. His wife weeps, she weeps, and she too dies. The children are left alone; they wander aimlessly through the bush. The bao bwiri seize upon them and they come to Pwarapeway and the mountain of Pwadulang. The two children decide to part from each other there and here are their words of farewell. The eldest says: “We are going to part. As long as you are living, think of our land, Pwey; I too will think of it as long as I live.” So he goes down towards Pwey, whilst the other comes back to Tyamba. His name is Tujay; with a few men he arrives at the mountain of Gorowêo, climbs it, and lives there. Then they divide again; Bwaè Bealo [i.e., Bay] goes down towards Napërëwê to the Tyamba, while Dwi Daulo [i.e., Dwi] goes up towards Goroube. They are parted there because of a magnania that they ate. Here are the names of all the clans that were scattered there: Wenae, Pwadimalo, Napwewimyê, Goropwojèwë, Gorowêo, and Pwaola; this is the Bay area of Poindimié. The Bay and the Dwi move on again and stop at Gorowari; they leave there again to go and live at Gorotyède. They make a decision and say, “You, Bay man, you will go and settle at the meeting place between the fresh and the salt water in the Goyèta River. I, Dwi man, my territory lies at the border between the fresh and the salt water in the Tyamba River.” The Bay men settled in the land called Goyèta and all the Dwi in the land called Tyamba. Here are the names of some of the Bay clans brought together: Goutê, Goru, Tyara bweri, Gorobworejo. The domain of the men of the Dwi clan who live apart from the men of the Bay clan: Goyata, Poma, Nadarawê, Goromwido, Nai, and Araja. All this is finished and we can still find all the fragments of Kanake, Bealo, and Daulo, and if we speak their names, we speak the names of all the clans. We are going to see a few parts and we will leave out those that we don’t know: Descendents of Têe Kanake: Aramòtò, Goroube, Kazyè, Tyurubiti, Edeme-Rewi, Nabutyiwê, Autanggu, Gorowêgopae, PwêRêpwea, Warü ma Unemwê, Tyadare, Pwetyië, Goroèü, Gorotyê, PuRuwê, Tyabarapô, MeReatê. Descendents of Bwaè Bealo: Meêdu, Goromoto, Pwadu, Nigay, Napërëwê, PwêRênyimu, Naityuwe, Gorotêdo, Pwadae, Nebay, Tutunggòrò, Goromea, Pibè, and Nadapërëwë.

Origins and Orality  |  25

Engraved bamboo (detail). (MNC)

Descendents of Dwi Daulo: Goyèta, Goyèta Pwari, Goyèta Pwanabay, Goyèta Pweida, Goyèta Nateawe, Aramòtò, Pwurudë, Tyurubiti, PwêRêpwea, Goroèu, Goromwido, Poma, Nêdü, Putyiru, Nabumè, Gorodümabi, Gopwea, Mwêteapo, Azyawa, Pweja, Gorotu. As recounted by Pierre PwêRêpwea, transcribed by Philippe Gorodé, translated into French by Auguste Wabéalo and Jean Guiart. J. Guiart (1963), Structure de la chefferie en Mélanésie du Sud, pp. 146–148.

The Beginning of the World In the beginning was the earth, which is the origin of all things, and after come the trees, and after comes the world (men). It is the earth that created everything: everything that exists comes from the earth, comes out of the earth, here fwi na nito (she makes the earth). Without the earth, there would be nothing: first the earth, then the trees, and then men. It is over there towards the right that the beginning of the world was created. [ . . . ] The first man came out of Sarraméa. There are two ‘woods’ that produced the world. The first one was a boy; he was born from a houp and a poué tree. The poué is the woman, the houp is the male. The first one, the houp, he was up on the Divide, up there, in the ground. The poué (or tabou) was there, over this way, in a place over that side of Sarraméa, over there. The poué had grown over a piece of rock. [ . . . ] With the movement of the tree in the wind, the root of the houp came up from the ground and then it moved back down into the roots of the tabou below. These roots touched each other, see, then with the movement of the wind they rubbed against each other, they work against each other, these roots; it makes a kind of rubbing sound on the tree. It ended up forming the baby. The baby came out and then that’s how he landed like a stone on a little ledge down below; he fell into a kind of hollow in the ledge of the

26  |  Part I. Kanak (Hi)stories

rock. The baby had a tail like a small dog or a rat. He got caught up and then fell onto the ground. There’s another root. With the wind, this other root sawed at his tail. The tail disappears; it ends up being cut off by the rubbing of the root. Right to the backside. In the past, the first people had tails. Finish. Then after that, a root of the tabou shoots off like this, a white, white root, took off, came, and went into the mouth of the little baby sleeping on his back. There’s water, drops of water, and it forms a kind of dummy, a bottle. The baby starts to move around, and ends up walking on all fours. He crawls around and when he gets hungry he thinks of the root, he goes back to it, takes it, and puts it in his mouth until he is grown. That was the first boy! Later, the second one was a girl. It always starts like that; there are boys, there are girls, and then afterwards they got married with each other to make the world. Then after that, seeds fell from the tabou and sprouted on the ground; they produced the cinguèré (or the togui). A plant—good to eat. To begin with, it grew a stem and one leaf only; it’s a wild plant, the mother of the yam. It’s good to eat. [ . . . ] Then after that, the cinguèré grew for several more years, I don’t know; the flower bears seeds, they fell on the ground and grew again, and then they produced the neu, or the wild yam. The seeds from the neu produced a wèrèda yam, and that’s the one that produced the yam of the chief; it has a small head but then it grows enormous, very big at the other end, down below. Those seeds also produced the ordinary warawa yam. The cinguèré grew and after a year or two it produced seeds that fell; they produced the neu and then the neu produced the yam of the chief that we call wèrèda, and it continued to produce yams of the chief. The third seed produced the warawa variety and all the common yams: mauve, white, and all the different types. Then came the water taros, not the others—they were imported. The yams and the taros arrived at the same time . . . but not the big imported banana, no, not that one. People and food came at the same time, all of it comes out at the same time. After that, at the beginning of the world, the one who began to be the oldest of them all, the eldest of all the children, the one in charge, places one beside the other and so it was that they start to play around, and as they play they find fire. They rub two pieces of wood together, the smoke comes out, and they lit a fire almost as quickly as a box of matches. They cut the wood and then they let it dry in the area where the cooking is done if it was raining. They strike them together twice like on a box of matches and that’s it. There you are. That’s it. They know

Origins and Orality  |  27

how to create fire; . . . they can let it go out, but they always keep embers; sometimes when it ends up on the ground, it’s dead. They always have something to light fire with. And, it’s that one over there that they use to light fire—the kwijoto tree. For fire there is another story too. They say it comes from the sun. They told the story, the old people, but that’s for another family to tell. They found fire and they found a plantation and they began to plant yams; they moved them from there, from one place to another to grow and grow again farther away; they started to know how to work the land. After that, they transported the yams even farther away. There in the place where they grew, little shoots start coming out, see, and when they see these shoots they take them and plant them somewhere else. [ . . . ] They started to know how to cultivate, because when the season comes the little shoots start coming out, and they see that and so they take them from there and replant them in a new place, without fire. After that, they start finding fire, they burn, plant; it’s cleared. They see that fire is meant for this, so that everything can start to grow again. They start to find fire with branches. It’s meant for that; they couldn’t clear the land by hand; it’s too hard. [ . . . ] And then they start to work with bark. They know they have to hide themselves. They have to cover themselves up. They began to wear tapa cloths and bagayou [penis sheaths] and all that, by stripping and beating the skin of trees. Then, the first one, he climbed up to the “Col de la Marmite” way over out the back of Sarraméa. He made his bed on a branch in the fork of a houp tree. He works the skins. The other one starts work to make money. He works up there, in secret, under the waterfall at Dogny. The other one, he made the drag net, the landing net for catching eels. It’s not that complicated. He made a fagot. You don’t see them anymore. But we can still make them if we want to. At night he used to go fishing by torch light. The torches are worn on the side, to the right, always on the back and held in place by the fagot. When they first started making fire, they cooked the roots. When the baby is old, there is no liquid left in the root; it runs dry, it follows the baby. Another baby comes, the water follows the other root, and the root follows the baby along the ground and it touches the mouth of the baby; then, when it can crawl, it knows, and it comes back to suckle on the root. Then, they discovered fire, so they burn something. The fire reaches some stones, big stones, and heats them. They put a yam on top; they see that the side of the yam touching the rock is cooked so they turn the raw side over. After that, they discovered the oven; they

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M. Venon.

take the uncooked side and they put leaves and bark on so it cooks with the steam. Then one of them found a way to boil water and leaves and food. On a slab of rock he lit a fire; there is a hollow, a crevice; the rock is hot, he let drops of water fall into the hollow, and it boils. That’s how they found cooking pots; they filled the hollow, the water boils, then they put the food inside and niaouli bark on top to make it cook. After that, there was this other one living in the Bouanouba Pass. He built a canoe. He’s the one who made the first canoe. There are two brothers; there’s a story, but I was too young to know all the details. I can’t remember. To make the canoe they hollowed out blue wood with fire. It’s a tree that bears fruit like passion fruit. It’s light, fine-grained, and it doesn’t split. It’s easy to work with. They built the canoe to sail on the sea. They made the outrigger and the masts using the houp tree and the faux tamanou. [ . . . ] They made shell money on the island near the river mouth at La

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Foa. [ . . . ] The women go out in the water wearing skirts made of banana leaves; when they come out, the shells are stuck to the leaves. That’s how they started to gather and thread shell money. Then those people started to marry each other and then they started to create the world. After a while they started setting out for the north, for the south. That’s why there are people everywhere, throughout the country. It all started from here. So they created houses, they began to make small round huts out of straw. They tie the wood up like a kind of wheel; it makes a circle. They tie it at the top and at the bottom. They bind the pieces of wood at the bottom and at the top with vines, and that holds the heads of the poles in place. We still used to make these huts in my father’s time for when there was a cyclone. They put up the poles and then tie the vines, two or four on each side. The beams are driven into the earth at the base; they create the shape like with an umbrella; they complete the circle. They drive all the heads together into the top of the central pole. They crawl on their hands and knees into the little hut. That’s the beginning. They did it to provide shelter for the children. The floor was made of earth; they made these wee things for shelter, with vines called sarsaparilla ( ji). Next, there are the central poles, the beams that carry weight. When they developed their technique, they put in poles. They decided to add poles a metre long. That’s what they decided. Otherwise it was just on the ground. And then they started to make all the weapons, stones; they started to have jealousy; they invented weapons. At the beginning of the world, they invented weapons. At the beginning of the world they invented the club; it’s always existed, the casse-tête à gorge. Later on, everyone set off for Koné and for Poindimié, all over. Everyone left; they went north and south; it’s the starting place here, the beginning of it all, the Eupoué and the Euhoup, they’re the ones who produced all the people of this world. [ . . . ] At the beginning of the world there are also the shrimp mothers and the fish mothers. We can’t eat them; it’s forbidden, it’s sacred. The mothers of shrimps are still here in this area, in the Sarraméa Creek. They have claws like the branches of trees; they are alive, they move, but they drag wooden branches along with them. They were created at the same time as the beginning of the world. Everything came from the earth, everything is born from the earth. Here fwi na nito, the earth, is the mother of men. Before the world, first there is the earth, then there is the world [men]. Everything that comes

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after is the world, everything, you know, everything that comes, comes from the earth, plants and men. It’s the earth that begins everything, after that come the trees, and after that humankind, the whole world, see! Text written in French by Ulm Doumaï (1915–1987), born in Canala. The story was destined for his adoptive son, Armand. In E. Métais (1988), Au commencement était la terre, pp. 33–40.

The Story of Mount Mou and Mount Karikaté It was in the time when humans and nature were merged. Men were at the same time mountain or rock, the women plain or spring. And thus it was that Mount Mou was the great chief of the region. The water that emerged from his sides was women who fertilized the fields. [. . .] When the great chief wanted to talk with his ancestors, he covered himself in cloud and no one would dare disturb him. Next to the sea lived Mount Karikaté with his clan, the clan of fishermen. In those days the lagoon was rich; fish, shellfish, there was no need to go very far to catch them; the mangroves were crawling with crabs. The people of the coast were content to gather their food from day to day. Seeing this abundance, Mount Karikaté said to himself, “I know what I’ll do! I’m going to gain the favour of the great chief Mount Mou. I’ll go to him with my sea, my fish, my shellfish, and my crabs and his women will have to do no more than bend down and help themselves.” No sooner said than done. He moved off with his sea, his fish, his crabs, and his shellfish and arrived very quickly at the side of Mount Mou. Now, that day, the great chief Mount Mou was in a bad mood; the sorcerer had given him some very bad news of his eldest son who was away at war in the south. And he was having trouble digesting his meal. He suddenly felt nauseous and began to yell, “You’re bothering me with your stench of fish and shellfish! Go away, move away from me! Go back to where you came from with your sea, your fish, your shellfish, and your crabs! All of it smells bad!” Mount Karikaté, surprised and astonished to hear it said that he smelt bad, didn’t move. So the great chief became angry. “If you don’t leave, I shall strike you!” The other drew back towards the plain and stopped, defying Mount Mou. So the great chief took his fishing spear carved from the wood of the karivé tree and threw it at the head of Karikaté, who dodged the blow

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• When you talk about Sleeping Beauty’s castle, you can say that it’s mythical, but when I talk about a place, it’s a place that I see from my home, there, up on the mountain. Déwé Gorodé (Stephanson 1998, 85)

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at the place known as Ko Tàbwòo-re [There Where He Dodged the Blow]. But he wasn’t quick enough because the spear embedded itself in his head. Mad with pain, he broke off a branch of the mangrove tree and hurled it with all his might at the head of Mount Mou. He took a clod of mud and threw that at the head of his adversary too. Then he went with his sea, his fish, his crabs, and his shellfish back to his people. A long time after, when each of them had taken his final form as a mountain and no longer moved, the stalk of the karivé emerged and became a tree, and the stalk of the mangrove took root in the clod of mud. Today if you are walking at Karikaté, you will see a beautiful karivé tree growing in the midst of the coastal varieties. And if you climb up Mount Mou, you are likely to come face to face with a mangrove growing in its clod of mud. These are trees that shouldn’t be found in these places. The karivé that now grows at the base of Mount Karikaté comes from up there, on Mount Mou. The mangrove is a tree from the coastal region, and it now grows on Mount Mou. From perishable wood springs the life that keeps its memory alive. And there you have it. This is what “the old people” told us. Recounted by Yvonne Païta (Bangou), collected by Tadako Shintani, rewritten by the association Bècaa-jëüíi küü yë. F. Bogliolo (1994), Paroles et écritures, pp. 26–27. First published in M. Genet et al. (1992), Textes en nráa drùbea, pp.1–6 (Tokyo: Institute for the Study of Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa).

Chapter Two

Pathways and Interconnections1

Kanak oral traditions are permeated by the network of connections and genealogical itineraries that underpin Kanak understandings of the universe. From the simplest story for the entertainment of children to the most fundamental story of origins, traces of these understandings are found in every genre of Kanak oral literature. The Kanak cosmos is a network of connections and relationships embedded in the landscape of a world not just inhabited by people, plants, and animals. The visible and the invisible coexist, and interaction between these two realms is continuous and dynamic. Communication between those who are living and those who are no longer living is part of everyday life. For example, people pray to the spirits of the dead when they are alone, when an offering of cooked yams is being made, when a sacred basket is being opened, or when medicines are being used. The spirits of the dead may appear in dreams to warn of danger or the impending death of a loved one, they can take the form of birds or animals bringing predictions for the future, and, more rarely, the spirits may take human form. Moving between the two realms are ancestral spirits or totems with their multiple incarnations in animal, vegetable, or mineral form—there are water spirits, wind spirits, forest sprites, ogres, and spirits who are part-human, as well as the ancestors who are members of clan lineages. Those who are dead are the guardians of customary Much of the information relating to Kanak culture and history in this and other chapters of “Part I: Kanak (Hi)stories” has been gathered from the rich and wide-ranging four-volume series entitled Chroniques du pays kanak, ed. O. Filippi and F. Angleviel (Nouméa: Éditions Planète Mémo, 1999), which contains texts and images contributed by the foremost experts, researchers, artists, and writers whose work concerns the Kanak world.

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• Let me give you an example of the representation of death for us. I give you a hut; I live in this hut while I am alive, but when I pass to the other side, I will still live in the house. It’s a reflection: I am passing from one world to another. [ . . . ] What is more, we don’t speak of ‘the dead’. [ . . . ] The term in our language is apièru, “those who take care of us”, a little like the guardian angels of Christian thought. They are ancestors or family members who are dead; [ . . . ] they are everywhere, they are here, here where I’m sitting, maybe they are listening to me, right here. Déwé Gorodé (Stephanson 1998, 79)

•

law, and they can punish those who break laws by sending disease or even death. They watch over their descendants and help them to cure illness. Ancestral spirits inhabit forbidden locations, magic stones, and tertres of origin; they are also present in earth that is cultivated and in the plants that grow there. They can take the form of medicinal plants and herbs that are kept in the sacred baskets of each lineage, and in fact everything contained within the sacred basket is an incarnation of the ancestral spirit. Lizards, whales, sharks, and thunder are examples of totems that are the symbols of the clan and that, in the stories of origin, give rise to the first ancestors of the clan. A reciprocal relationship of respect and protection exists between members of a clan and the ancestral spirit or totem with which they are connected. Examples of the inhabitants of the spirit world are the wood sprites, water spirits, and wind spirits who, according to the Hyeehen people of the northeast of the Grande Terre (Godin 1999c, 331), are the first occupants of the universe and who, whilst they have a similar social organisation to humans, also possess greater powers, such as being able to render themselves invisible or visible. There are mischievous imps known as mwakheny, who live in the trees, move around at night, play tricks, steal children to play with, lead strangers astray in the forest, and terrify fearful passersby to get hold of their spirits. They possess the magic for hunting and fishing and for constructing houses and irrigat-

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ed taro plantations, as well as the knowledge for gathering plants. They can punish those who ignore their prohibitions with anything from a headache to nausea to an accident (possibly fatal) to madness. The sacred basket is a central expression of the network of relationships that structure the Kanak universe, and it is an object that frequently appears in Kanak oral literature. In his article “Le panier des magies et des trésors” (1999d), the anthropologist Patrice Godin explains the significance of this basket, which contains plants, leaves, herbs, and bark used in the preparation of magic and medicine, ritual knives for cutting up yams, and, depending on the role of the particular family or lineage, tools for beating bark, magic stones, and fishing or hunting tools. It also holds the Kanak ceremonial ‘money’ (strands of beads, shells, mother of pearl, feathers, fur, and other symbolic or valuable objects woven and threaded together), which represents the ancestor and is the carrier of the Word, playing an important role in exchanges between clans. The structure of ceremonial money is a reflection of the human form, with a sculpted ‘head’ and a ‘body’ made of beads, pearls, hair or bones of the flying fox, shells, or mother of pearl, all of which is wrapped in a cover, or ‘house’. Different types of Kanak money exist; they are used on different occasions, and each carries a specific meaning. The sacred basket of each family is the manifestation of the ancestral spirit and is thus a link between the ancestral line and the living. As the receptacle of the precious items that make up the ‘treasures’ of the lineage, the sacred basket also embodies the history of connections between these spirits and the lineage of the family group to whom it belongs. It is entrusted to a person specially charged with its care, and as the treasure of the family group it is kept in a sacred location. The basket may be opened in order to create magic or medi-

• The elders say that plants don’t have their own properties; they are only the symbolic material over which the officiate pronounces the sacred words which allow them to act as a vehicle for the power of the ancestor. Jean-Marie Tjibaou (Bensa and Wittersheim 1996, 68)

•

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cine or to foretell the future. On ceremonial occasions such as births, marriages, funerals, construction of houses, or the festivals of the yam harvest, or to seal alliances in times of peace or war, gifts of strands of Kanak customary money and other ritual objects are exchanged, and thus the contents of the sacred basket are added to over time and come to reflect the network of relationships that exist between groups. Nature is the all-encompassing entity in which Kanak cultures are deeply embedded. Stories of origin show ancestral totems, whether animal, vegetable, mineral, or natural phenomena, arising from Nature and giving rise to the first humans. The cycle of the yam sets the rhythm of life; the year is divided into periods that correspond to the different stages of its cultivation. The cycle of yam cultivation itself moves to the rhythm of other events in Nature, such as changes in temperature, the arrival of the rainy season, the position of the stars, the cycles of tides, the winds, movements of animals and birds, and the growth cycles of other plants and trees. Every plant and tree has a meaning, a function, and a status. The yam is symbolically male, linked to the sun, dryness, and fire, and a hierarchy of yam ‘lineages’ exists, the different varieties playing specific roles on ceremonial occasions. The taro plant is symbolically female, linked to water and moisture, and it is offered along with yams on ceremonial occasions (del Rio 1999a, 83). The houp is considered the ancestor of all trees and is used in many parts of New Caledonia as the central pole of the great hut of the tribe. The houp is further seen as the incarnation of the ancestral spirit. The columnar pine is a symbol of chiefly power and of the masculine; it is planted at the borders of sacred or taboo places. The coconut trees that line the ceremonial pathway in front of the great hut bring to mind those who have died. In addition, the kaori can symbolize a high-ranking lineage, the Kanak poplar represents the feminine and is the incarnation of the soil and property rights, and the casuarina is the symbol of the Word; its branches are used to hang Kanak customary money during funeral rituals. The cordyline delimits inhabited territory, the chiefdom, and sacred and taboo enclosures of graves and is symbolically linked to origin myths and anything sacred, while the sea mango symbolizes the relationship between the living and the dead (del Rio 1999b, 90). Analogies can be found in Kanak society for the structures and relationships that exist in the natural world. Emmanuel Kasarhérou (quoted in del Rio 1999b, 87) explains how the main plants cultivated in New Caledonia are starchy vegetables such as yams, taros, and bananas and that these plants are propagated through cuttings taken from the

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• The land is living. The land holder must maintain silence before the face of the land. Even when he considers his rights violated, because whosoever fails to respect the land will be swallowed up by the land! Such was the usual recommendation made to every inheritor of land rights in Custom in the time when the land was still the peaceful abode of the Ancestors. Fote Trolue (Capecchi 1994, 158)

Nature is our universe. The rocks, the trees, the water, the river and the sea are part of our universe here. All of the elements of nature that are here have an effect, or they are elements necessary to our lives. Daniel Fisdiepas (Mokkadem 2003, 30)

•

previous year’s plant. This same plant will provide the harvest in the following year, and the reproduction of the plant is perceived by Kanak as the perpetuation of the same body from year to year. This idea of perpetuation is a feature of many representations and models in Kanak societies. A field of yams can be seen as a metaphor for the chiefdom, which brings together various clans, and the edible magnania tuber, with its roots branching out under the ground far from the main stem of the plant, can be seen as representing the generations of female lineages whose descendants remain attached to their place of origin no matter where they may reside due to marriage. The complementarity of masculine and feminine in the plant world is reflected in Kanak daily and social life, which is structured by the distinction between man and woman. The responsibilities of men lie in the public domain, in activities such as public oratory or the arrangement of alliances. They are also responsible for hard physical work and the cultivation of yams that are used in ceremonial exchanges. The responsibilities of women lie in the domain of family life and include the education of children through stories, as well as the daily tasks relating to the home and care of the family. Women are also responsible for the cultivation of taro, a plant associated with the feminine world.

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• Just like the land, vegetation initiates the indigenous person into Kanak wisdom through myths and toponyms: it sets the rhythm of social life, daily life. So a never-ending dialogue of exchanges and rites is established between the indigenous person and the plant. With and through it, Kanak inscribe their book of life and draw from it a multitude of moral, therapeutic or cultural resources essential to their survival, to their identity. Davel Cawa (Filippi and Angleviel 1999, 3:86)

. . . It is difficult for a Kanak to speak of identity without specifying the bonds which connect him to the tertre where his ancestors were buried, or to the tree beside which he put his hut, as well as to Nature in general. . . . Béniéla Houmbouy (B. Houmbouy 1998, 46)

•

Conceptions of identity vary between Kanak societies, but they have in common the notion of the Kanak person as fundamentally dual and defined through a network of relationships. When a baby is born, its vital force and connection to the ancestors come from the blood of the mother; life comes from the mother and her family. The father’s clan confers the name, and thus a place in society, upon the child. Each name corresponds to a tertre where a house may be built, specific land to cultivate, and fishing grounds. A name also confers rank in the hierarchy of the lineage, establishes ceremonial roles, and situates the bearer of the name in a network of exchange relationships (Godin 1999a, 54). The life force (from the maternal side) and the name (from the paternal side) are the two elements that construct the dual identity of the Kanak person and determine the obligations and relationships between maternal and paternal relatives, as well as between parents and children. The maternal uncles play a vital role in the rituals and ceremonial occasions that take place over the years to ensure health and wellbeing throughout the life of a child born of their blood. The father and his brothers, who are responsible for the physical, moral, and material

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well-being of the child, also take part in these ceremonial occasions, honouring the members of the mother’s clan (Godin 1999a, 54). Other key roles in Kanak societies that often feature in Kanak oral literature include the ‘master of the land’ and the ‘chief’—common translations of concepts that exist in all Kanak societies and for which each Kanak language has its own specific terms. The role of ‘master of the land’ has a specifically Kanak significance and does not contain the connotations of power relations that ‘master’ has for European-language speakers. The Kanak term does not designate an individual, but rather the lineage with the longeststanding ancestral connections to a particular geographical area. The members of this lineage are known as the ‘founders of the land’, which implies rights and responsibilities of guardianship over that land (Naepels 1996, 257). These founders confer rights to land use on the groups who arrive after them, and only they are able to obtain the necessary powers for success in hunting, fishing, and agriculture from the ancestral spirits (Bensa 1990, 44). The Kanak ‘chief’ is the eldest brother of the clan, the living embodiment of la Parole, the personification of the clan and the mediator between the worlds of men and ancestors, spirits, and totems. Across Kanaky/New Caledonia there is variation in the way in which the status of chief is conferred on an individual, who may be a member of a longestablished lineage or of a newly arrived one, and may become chief through heredity or by being chosen at a specific historical moment (Godin 1999b, 188). The chief is owed great respect and deference; he plays a crucial role in the ceremonial life of the clan and resides in a special area of the village. In all Kanak societies his status can be achieved only with the approval of the other groups in society. His position in relation to the members of his clan is illustrated by the following comment: “When I speak in my language to my people, I call them my brothers. When I speak in French, I am told that I should call them my subjects” (Kanak chief, cited in Leenhardt 1937, 211). The eldest daughter of the chief (whose name appears in various forms—e.g., Kabo, Kaapo, Kavo) is another key character in the stories of Kanak oral literature. She is an independent, adventurous person who often comes to symbolize the relationships between clans achieved through customary marriage. Kanak societies, organised into a hierarchy of lineages determined by the length of time each group has resided in the area, are constantly changing in composition. This is because of the arrival of members of new lineages in an area and the departure

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• In the beginning there is the tree, the thunder etc. Then there is the series of ancestors and then there is us. And life passes along this genealogy, and this genealogy is that of my fathers, but it is also that of the clan which gives my mother and through giving my mother, gives me life. [ . . . ] So I am always dual. I am never individual. I cannot be individual. [ . . . ] The body is always relationships. Jean-Marie Tjibaou (Filippi and Angleviel 1999, 1:52)

It is the women whose blood gives life, a single and straightforward reality. The father gives his name, position and social status, but the child—boy or girl—will remember forever the bond which ties him to his mother’s clan, and especially to her brothers, their uncles on the mother’s side, their “uterine uncles”: they are the owners of life, the guardians of the blood. Jean-MarieTjibaou (Tjibaou and Missotte 1976, 28)

•

of members of existing lineages, for reasons that may be political, environmental, economic, or a combination of these. Further contributing to the dynamic equilibrium of Kanak societies is the movement of women to live amongst their husbands’ families after marriage. This may involve moving to a clan that lives far away and perhaps also speaks a different language. Customary marriage symbolizes not only the joining of two people, but also of two clans, and this alliance is sealed by the exchange of ceremonial money (Jauneau 1999b, 146). Different ways of organising marriages exist. In addition to betrothal, a young man accompanied by male relatives may go to the family of a woman he wishes to marry to try and convince her to accept him as a future husband. Though the woman has the right to refuse or accept her suitor, she must weigh her decision carefully, as her whole clan is affected by it (Jauneau 1999b, 150). In the past, in accordance with the underlying reciprocity on which Kanak society is based, the first child of a marriage was often given to the mother’s clan to take her place (Jauneau 1999b, 152). The stories of Kanak oral literature are imbued with the cultural

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practices and beliefs that underpin these societies. Such stories offer glimpses of the networks of exchange and alliance that arise from connections between ancestors, land, totems, and people. These stories always pertain to a particular place and time and to a particular group of people. The Legend of Fire and the Lizard-God At Hnupel (now Wanaham, on Lifou) there lived a grandmother and her granddaughter. One day when they no longer had fire, because a man named Caeë had taken it away to the Lössi tribe, the grandmother said to the little girl: “Climb up that tall göti tree to see if you can see any smoke in the distance.” And the little girl, light as a feather, climbed to the top of the tree. Far away a small white plume of smoke was rising into the sky above the island of Ouvéa. The little girl said to her grandmother, “I can see smoke, but it’s on another island.” “Well then, go and fetch this fire from Ouvéa!” Coming ashore on Ouvéa near Mouli, she followed a little track that led her to a house, in front of which was an old man. He made her very welcome. “Good day, Grandfather.” “Good day, my girl. What brings you to Ouvéa?” “Because I saw the fire and we no longer have any at Wanaham.” “When are you going back again?” “Why, right away, because my grandmother no longer has fire to cook our food or keep us warm.” The little girl took the fire in a coconut shell, climbed back onto the fragile coconut leaf, and set off again in the direction of Lifou. When she went beyond the headland at Mouli, the grandfather whose eyes were following the frail craft took out his little lizard god, who was inside a small basket, as well as a sweet potato (walei) and a small shell (peji). As soon as he saw the little girl go beyond the Mouli headland, he brought the little shell to his lips and played this sweet song: “Peji-peji-peji, sala koé pejee—pejee hué.” When she heard this melody, the child turned around and went back with the fire to the home of the grandfather. The little girl was truly sorry, because she was thinking of her grandmother, alone and without fire at Wanaham, but every time she set off again on her coconut leaf, she’d hear “Peji-peji-peji . . .” and back she’d go, drawn by the spell of the song.

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After two or three days, the grandmother became worried about the child’s absence. With her powerful magic, she confused the mind of the old man of Ouvéa and sent him to sleep. At that very moment, the little girl entered the old man’s house, looked through his things, and discovered the basket containing the lizard (Thu), the walei, and the peji. Then, taking the fire and the basket, she got into her little boat and set off again for Lifou without difficulty. Since that day, the grandmother has always had fire and, at Mouli, the men no longer have a lizard god. In F. Bogliolo (1994), Paroles et écritures, p. 25. First published in L. Mangematin (1975), “La légende du lézard à Lifou (Thu)”, Bull. Société d’études historiques de la Nouvelle-Calédonie (BSEHNC) 25, 4e tr.: 13–15 (Nouméa), then reedited in L. Mangematin (1977), “Le Feu et le Lézard à Lifou”, BSEHNC 31, 2e tr.: 61–64.

The Child Who Came Out of a Tree Story of an ancestor who is half-man, half-devil. He lives in his hut and one day he puts on his headdress and goes down to the dancing area in front of his home, just as the sun is setting on the mountain. Children of the different tertres, the different families, begin to appear. They come from the north, from the south, and from the other side of the river. They come up from behind him and from either side of his ceremonial pathway and they gather in front of his thatched-roof house on the grass area that he looks after so carefully—the children love that place and like to play there once evening has come. The man lingers there, watching the children as night falls. The sun sets behind the mountain and the twilight hour begins. The children scatter—those from the north set off again towards the north; the children from the south set off once more towards the south, and those from the other side of the river cross back over again. The man stands there counting them, thinking. [ . . . ] Just when they begin to disperse, as the sun is on its way to sleep, a faint beam of light reveals a child, standing over there, about to disappear into the shadow of a tree. The man watches and wonders to himself. The following day he returns to his hut, takes his stick, and goes back down to the dancing area. He is planning to play a trick on the child the moment he goes to circle the tree and disappear into its foliage. The man goes on ahead and stands guard beside the tree. The sun sets on the treetops over there, and the children from the north set off

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again towards the north; the children from the south set off again for the south, and those from the other side of the river cross over once more. [ . . . ] The child approaches the tree. [ . . . ] Just as he reaches it, the man seizes him and says, “Tell me, where are you going?” “Into this tree,” replies the child. “Into that tree? But what are you going in there for?” “I am going back into this tree because my mother and father live there.” The man takes a special leaf, chews it, and spits it on the child and the tree closes up again. He then takes the child and carries him back to

The Spirits of the Orchids, P. Boi. (O. Filippi and F. Angleviel [1999], Chroniques du pays Kanak)

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his home. He arrives back at his house and casts the spells that he has in his power over the child. He wrests him from the spirit world forever and changes him into a man who remains among us to this very day. A. Bensa and J.-C. Rivierre (1983), Histoires canaques, pp. 82–87.

The Master of Koné When the chief of Koné goes to check for food caught in the line of traps he has set the previous day, he discovers that he has snared an extremely angry lizard who demands to be released. No sooner does he open the trap than the lizard leaps up and attaches himself to his head, making his life utterly miserable. The chief eventually escapes his tormentor while the lizard is sleeping and is then pursued around the country. As he reaches the bay of Pousangué, the chief, guardian of those parts, sees him and questions him, “Here’s a traveller, where’s he come from?” “Koné,” he replies, and he tells the story of his flight right around the top of the country. “But why are you running?” asks the chief “I am fleeing because of the lizard. [ . . . ] The lizard of Boéxawé.” “And why is he after you?” And the chief of Koné tells his story; . . . the lizard had got himself caught in a trap. [. . .] “Look,” the master of Pousangué interrupts, “if you had run this way when he attached himself to your head you would have very quickly got back to your own lands. The lizard who has afflicted you is from these parts; he comes from the forest and from the mountain of Warama and Rhéméou. The two sisters of Rhéméou married, keeping the stones, which were both yam stones and lizard stones. The elder of the two young girls married into the Boéara clan who live near Boéxawé; the younger one stayed at home. That’s why this lizard went over to that mountain of Boéxawé. There wasn’t a lizard in those parts before; this one followed the stone that I’ve been telling you about. But stay here, I will send him home when he comes so that he can go back to his people over there, for there are many of them in all the forests, mountains, and bush around here.” “Ah! How happy I should be if that’s the way it is! Too long have been the days of my flight. Breathless and tired for want of rest am I, from the wrath of that there lizard.” And so he stays at his host’s place.

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But then, up runs the lizard, hot on the scent. The master of the bay of Pousangué, seeing him, runs and fetches herbs from his altar, brings them back, holds on to them, and waits. The lizard comes up: “Where’s the man came this way? You seen ’im?” “He’s there.” The lizard goes to enter the hut and look for him there, but the master runs after him, chews up the raw herbs, and spits them on the lizard, saying, “My man put some space between us and yourself; don’t harm the man whom I have taken into my house, for he is dear to me.” Straightaway the lizard leaves; he disappears, fades into the altar, no longer able to be seen. The chief then calls out to Koné inside, “Come out, come over here; the man who was chasing you has left us alone.” He comes out and says to Pousangué, “Blessings on your spirit, for you have given me back my life. I had run away, panic stricken, believing: ‘This man will kill me.’ But I say to you, we are talking together both naked, for I had no thoughts on leaving the house other than to run away; I was too afraid and I quickly fled, far from the lizard, lest he should catch me again. But look, at my place there is some Caledonian money, prize of the treasure of Koné; I will bring it to you in return for your act, which brought me back to life, when this man had already caught my scent and I was as good as annihilated by him.” For many days, they stayed together. Then the master of Koné began to weep, thinking about his home.

• The theme of the lizard caught in a trap who makes the hunter into his victim is frequent in the texts of oral literature collected on the East coast of the Grande Terre. In the stories, the lizard pursues his attacker well beyond his territory of origin. The description of the flight of the Master of Koné allows the principal locations along the coast to be mentioned, evoking the relationships that the Master of Koné can take advantage of, such as those which link him to the Maître de Kouaoua who can save him from the lizard.

•

Bensa and Rivierre 1994, 309

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“I must go back home,” he said to the chief. “My thoughts return to my house, my children, my people. They think me gone forever.” “All right, chief, it is well,” replied Pousangué. “Go, but don’t let’s say the words of final separation—there are many days ahead of us, we shall see. But adieu.” Koné gets up, takes the road home, and stays the night at Muéo. Early in the morning he sets out again. He arrives at his lands, at Koné. When his wife and his children saw him, they shook with joy, saying, “Oh! You managed to get away from that lizard?” “Yes, I am alive because the chief of Poéréxo, at Bourail, saved my life.” All his people heard that he had returned safe and sound. They immediately brought bark cloth and wound it around him. Then they went home again. Some time later, the chief calls one of his people and sends him to get the Caledonian money, prize of the treasure of Koné: “Take this to the river mouth at Bourail,” he says, “give it to the chief, the guardian

P. Boi. (O. Filippi and F. Angleviel [1999], Chroniques du pays Kanak)

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of that place, and say this to him: Here is the Caledonian money that I spoke to him about in the past to thank him for saving me when I was already a dead thing in the mouth of the lizard of Boéxawé.” The messenger receives his message, runs off carrying it, sleeps at Poya, and when morning comes, leaves again so as to reach the place in question. The man from Poéréxo, seeing him, asks, “Where does this man come from?” He replies, “He is a servant of the chief of Koné, and he brings you the Caledonian money in recognition that you saved his chief.” The chief replied, “Ah! I thought he was just some traveller. Come in!” The messenger presents the money and speaks. The chief accepts it. They slept under the same roof and in the morning they went their separate ways. And the two chiefs are still there today, each in his own dwelling-place. Extract from “Virhenō ne ka to Kone” by Boésoou Erijisi, in M. Leenhardt (1932), Documents néo-calédoniens, pp. 28–34.

Kaapo Ciinyii Let me tell you the story of Kaapo Ciinyii, eldest daughter of the chief. She is weaving a mat. A shadow keeps creeping over her mat, and Kaapo wonders, “This shadow over my weaving . . . what can it be?” At the day’s end, she goes to bed, she gets up with the sun, and she weaves again. She sees the shadow reappear as the sun climbs in the sky. She stops and wonders, “What is it, casting a shadow and spoiling my weaving? What is the meaning of this? I am going to find out!” First of all, she goes and digs up the tahînetöö yam plant and she cooks it. The yam is cooked, and she puts it in her basket. She makes some straps for the other basket—the ceremonial money basket—and slings it over her shoulder. She picks up her basket of food and sets off. She follows the Wéaga River, then she climbs the mountain, takes the path through the forest, and comes out at a high place, a vantage point where she sits and gazes. She looks around over the surrounding countryside and catches sight of the house. She says to herself, “There’s the house that has been making the shadow on my mat! What fine bark cloth it has and what finely sculptured birds on its thatch! Who can it belong to?” She stays sitting there, looking at it and thinking. Udodopwé looks up towards her and sees her. He calls, “Who’s

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this, intruding on the vantage point? Usually there’s nothing up there to spoil the order of my domain!” With these words, Udodopwé sinks to the ground. Then Kaapo Ciinyii says, “Stand up, since you are here with your kin and lineage, and I have come here with mine.” Udodopwé gets up and asks her, “It’s the first time you’ve been seen in these parts; who are your people?” “I am Kaapo Ciinyii,” she replies. “I see! Well, this house is my house, I am Udodopwé! But there is no woman to rule in this household. Come down; this role is yours.” Kaapo Ciinyii goes down to Udodopwé and settles there with him. Some time later, she is expecting a child. The baby is born. Time passes; she takes the blessing of long life and goes back up to her home. She makes her way up the Wéaga River valley, takes the path up to Ciinyii, and reaches her father’s house. She takes the gift that she has brought and offers it to him. “Please give to my son the blessing of long life.” Time passes. A-Ciinyii has grown old. One day he makes up his mind. He dispatches his servant: “Go and find one of Kaapo’s daughters and bring her back so she can look after me.” The servant sets out and arrives at his destination and finds the eldest daughter of Kaapo and the man from Pwobei. He calls out to her, asking her to come and look after A-Ciinyii, her grandfather. She follows him back up to the heights of Ciinyii. She remains to serve the master . . . and she cares for him. She establishes a line of descendants there. They are the maternal kin of APwobei (Udodopwe), and he himself has children and grandchildren borne to him by Kaapo, his wife, Kaapo Ciinyii. And that’s the story of Kaapo Ciinyii. A. Bensa and J.-C. Rivierre (1982), Les Chemins de l’Alliance, pp. 136–147.

Dui Dupaan and the Daughter of the Great Ocean A story. I am going to talk about Dui Dupaan, Highest-Peak-of-the-Land. One day he says to his people, “Stay here, you people, while I go down for a walk along the shoreline.” His subjects reply, “Very well, do as you wish. We will still be here should you decide to return soon, tomorrow or some other day.” So he goes back to his hut and puts on his finery. He arranges his headdress, inserts a feather into it, and picks up his club. Then he takes

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his flute, steps out over the threshold, and runs off down the Central Pathway. He keeps on going until he reaches the shore, then he follows the coastline and arrives at Pwaolaot Point. He moves close to the water’s edge and begins playing the flute. He plays and plays. [. . .] Over there . . . far away, the noble Daughter of the Great Ocean hears his music. The name of this young woman is Sparkling-Finger. She says to her kinfolk, “My people, stay here while I try to follow this melody that has come to us. It is the first time that it has come to this place and I would like to know what it is. Stay here while I am gone, because I am going to go and search for it; if I find it, and all goes well, then I will bring it back. If this task proves impossible, then I shall return without it.” Her people accept this. “Very well, go; and if you can catch it, bring it back. If you cannot, then return to us.” Immediately she goes and puts on her finery and decorates her fingers with rings. She steps out over the threshold and sets off. She walks along, guided by the sound of the flute. She journeys over the ocean, far from her people and her land; she walks on and on until she reaches the shore at Pwaolaot and comes into view over there . . . at the point. She looks up and sees Dui Dupaan, Highest-Peak-of-the-Land; he is standing on the shore. Then he turns his eyes in her direction and sees her, she who is the noble Daughter, mistress of the Great Ocean, and her name is Sparkling-Finger. He staggers backward and falls to his knees. Sparkling-Finger says to him, “So it is you, Dui Dupaan, HighestPeak-of-the-Land; you are the flute player to whom I have come running.” “Yes, it is I,” he replies. “Come closer!” So the noble Daughter, mistress of the Great Ocean, goes up to him, she who is called SparklingFinger. She reaches his side and he leads her away. “Come, we will climb up to my home.” And so they climb back up to the home of Dui Dupaan, HighestPeak-of-the-Land, and they live there together. She becomes the wife of Dui Dupaan, Highest-Peak-of-the-Land, she who is the noble Daughter, mistress of the Great Ocean, and her name is Sparkling-Finger. They have two children. A name is given to each of these two sons. One is Grandson-of-the-Moon; that’s the name given to the eldest. The youngest is named Hîê Bwanu (Son-of-the-Sun). They are the offspring of that couple. Their parents raise them and they grow into adults. Authority falls to each of them, and because of this, a quarrel develops between them, because they are both of noble lineage. Grandson-

Central pathway. Engraved bamboo (detail). (Réunion des Musées Nationaux, Paris)

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of-the-Moon leaves his brother and goes to live on the western coast. The other brother stays here, he who is called Hîê, Son-of-the-Sun. He has authority over the eastern coast. And that is the story of those two brothers. A. Bensa and J.-C. Rivierre (1982), Les Chemins de l’Alliance, pp. 550–561.

Chapter Three

Cultural Initiation

Oral literature plays an important role in the education and initiation of children into the cultural life of their own society. Every story in Kanak oral literature is permeated by the knowledge, values, and beliefs of the society it belongs to, and thus as well as serving as a source of entertainment and diversion, it has an educative function, which can be overt or implicit. Children are immersed in oral tradition as they grow up in the tribu; they hear stories of Kanak oral literature as they participate in the activities of daily life, as they sit waiting for their evening meal, and as they go to sleep. Although everyone in the clan takes some kind of role in the education and care of children, one of the closest bonds exists between children and their grandparents, who play a central role in the recounting of stories, especially in the early years of childhood (Jauneau 1999a, 100). As they grow older, children are expected to take the initiative in their own education and through their own curiosity to seek out occasions to listen to and learn from their elders. Education occurs through experience and observation rather than instruction in Kanak societies. Opportunities for learning include attending family and community gatherings and listening to the speeches made there, observing elders as they go about their daily business, taking careful note of techniques they use to accomplish tasks, and accompanying their families on customary visits and ceremonial occasions, all the while listening to the stories and speeches that explain such things as the relationships between clans. The significance of la Parole in Kanak cultures (to speak is to act) means that there is an emphasis on children listening and learning before speaking. Here the stories of oral literature play an important 51

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• An oral literature, in general, is the product of a culture. It prepares [ . . . ] the individual to better grasp, understand, live that culture. For example, listening from an early age to the stories of an African ethnic group prepares the individual to live in that society and integrate into the culture of that society. In this way, oral literature participates in the education of individuals. [ . . . ] All of the literary genres that constitute “Melanesian oral literature” serve, to different degrees and depending on age, to educate and initiate individual members of the community (an implicit education). L. Sam (Personal communication, December 2003)

The parole taken up by the men, that’s the public parole, but all the educational heritage is transmitted also by the women, in the education of the children, through stories, every day. Déwé Gorodé (Stephanson 1998, 79)

•

role, providing an opportunity for children to work towards a mastery of their own language. Throughout childhood children are encouraged to learn and retell the stories they have heard many times, and through the repetition of these stories they develop their linguistic and communicative skills and acquire essential vocabulary. Respect is a core value in all Kanak societies, and the education and initiation of children is founded on this central idea—respect for traditional values, for custom, for people, and for work (Jauneau 1999a, 92). The notion of respect is a recurring theme in the stories of Kanak oral literature. In Léonard Sam’s article on “La littérature orale kanak” (Sam 1999, 108), “The Child and his Grandmother”—one of the most popular stories amongst the younger children of Lifou—is described by the Kanak educator and scholar as being a great source of entertainment. The children edge slowly backwards away from the storyteller as the story progresses because they know that it will end with someone being tickled. The story is educational on both a practical and a social level. It contains information about the anatomy of the flying fox (a

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common food source) and the method of cooking it, as well as a lesson in respect and unselfishness. The child who wants to eat everything is ‘punished’ (by being tickled) at the end of the story for being greedy, leaving nothing for his grandmother to eat and demonstrating a lack of respect towards his elders. An important function of Kanak oral literature is to teach children about the constituent elements of the Kanak world. Stories explain the following: natural phenomena and the supernatural realm; the organization of society (relationships between people and land); morality, values, and beliefs (such as respect for taboos on places or food), and rules of conduct (such as obedience, modesty, courage, love of family, and respect for elders). There is a great deal of variation in the relative content of the stories found in Kanaky/New Caledonia. Educational, aesthetic, and entertaining strands are intertwined to different degrees and woven together to create the genres and oral literatures integral to oral traditions. The following list, taken from Weniko Ihage’s La tradition orale à Lifou, illustrates the variety and function of different genres of Drehu oral literature: the ifejicatre are stories, legends, fables, lullabies, and children’s games; the thithipaulolo are frightening stories that aim to remove children’s fear by allowing contact with the world of the dead to show that the dead are still present in spirit. There are also myths with limited circulation that are secret stories tied to the notion of the taboo, such as the trengemanathith. The taboo is lifted in appropriate social circumstances (marriage, death) or by rare, unique, or unusual actions requiring a speech of thanks, such as the edrömë. The latter are very short, humorous stories generally used to explain social or natural phenomena. Genres can be recognised by not only their content, but also their specific musicality and rhythm. One can gain an idea of this by reading aloud these first two lines of a Paicî ololo, or lullaby: “ololo ololo wââ, ololo ololo wââ”. Kanak oral literatures are filled with people, creatures, geographic features, spirits, ancestors, totems, and supernatural beings such as ogres and giants. The world of nature provides the means for illustrating lessons in morality and values while at the same time entertaining the audience. The lizard, totem of numerous clans, features in many stories. Characters may possess different qualities depending on the region in which a story is told, and some may be more widely known than others. For example, Virègoo, the giant from Thio, features in legends told in the south of the Grande Terre. There, he dislodged the ex-

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• Why does the sparrowhawk attack poultry? Why does the hen scratch at the soil? Why does the crab lose its feet when they come in contact with heat? Why does the green pigeon have its characteristic cry? Children find the answers to these questions and many others in the stories. Léonard Sam (Filippi and Angleviel 1999, 3:118)

•

isting powers (which took the form of mountains) and established new populations. In some areas he is said to have been a fisherman who lost his leg to a shark and moved about with the aid of a wooden crutch (Kasarhérou 2001, 20). In the western part of the island of Maré, the genie or group of genies known as Kazemir(i) takes the form of an old woman, and if she stares at you silently, it is because she is eating your liver. Meanwhile, in the eastern part of the island, the Kazemir(i) is an ogre who hunts humans, glows in the dark, and marks his territory by urinating, leaving yellow traces on the rocks (Dubois 1984, 316–317). The Tibo are supernatural beings well known in the central region of the Grande Terre and are called Wananathin, Wanononthen, Waleleten, and Wanonofiny in the Îles Loyauté and Île des Pins. The male Tibo has long hair and the female Tibo is described by Waia Gorodé as follows in the unpublished manuscript, “Mon école du silence”. In the past she used to live in the rocks and the roots of bagnans ‘banyans’. She had many children at her side, but her man was not often seen, the father of her children. She would work all alone to find food and send her lovely little ones off to sleep beneath her two large breasts. She would walk around during the night, searching for ripe bananas and ears of the mî vine when it was the season. And when the men, the women, looked for the ears of mî for their food, their nourishment, they could no longer find any. The Tibo had taken it, for her and for her children.

According to M. Lenormand’s Dictionnaire de la langue de Lifou, the Wananathin are small, supernatural beings with hair to the ground, and

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• He or she must be respectful. That’s one of the essential qualities required of the Kanak child. This value, the ultimate goal of traditional education, represents more than a simple deference. It’s a school of work, of responsibility, of prudence, of integration into the community. And thus the Melanesian child becomes “the arms and legs of society”. To reach this point, the entire community must play its role: mother, father, grandparents, family, clan, children of the same age group. So many educators who shape the Kanak child and instill duty. But the child has fun too, usually thanks to the games of its own invention. Valerie Jauneau (Filippi and Angleviel 1999, 1:92)

These texts, of great aesthetic value, through the richness of their expression, the quality of their diction, and the diversity of their genres, play a part in providing our children with a glimpse of the wealth of our heritage. The French version that we present to non-speakers constitutes both an expression and an invitation to discover the Other. Bouchet, Gurrera-Wetta, Siorat-Dijou 1984, 13

•

the females have long, pendulous breasts and carry their children upside down, their feet wrapped around their mothers’ necks. They are powerful and feared; they represent the oldest guardians of the land and are considered the ancestors of the masculine lineages of five chiefdoms on Lifou. Blind Dancer  ◙ A husband and a wife go off, to tend their fields in the sky. When evening comes, they go back down to their house. Then the wife says, “Cook us something to eat on the fire; after that, I’ll go and do a bit of torch fishing.” “All right!” says the husband.

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Then she goes and prepares a large torch and comes back to her husband’s side. “Well, is the food done?” “Yes, let’s eat!” After this, she announces, “I’m going torch fishing.” “All right,” says the husband. Upon reaching the shore, she sets the torch alight, then pulls out her eyes and walks, eyeless, towards the sea. There she begins to dance, throwing back her head and dancing along the beach, all the way to the end. She dances like this, throwing back her head, rests a little, then starts dancing again, with her head thrown back. Soon she hears the cock crow. “It will soon be day!” she thinks. So she goes and picks up her eyes and puts them back in place. And so she goes back towards the interior of the land, returns to her husband, and lies down next to him. In the morning he asks, “How did your torch fishing go?” “Nothing!” she replies. And off they go again, soaring high into the sky to tend to their fields. They work until evening and come back down to their home. They cook some food, then the wife says again, “I’m going to go back torch fishing again.” She gathers some coconut leaves and returns to the house. “Come and eat now,” her husband says to her. Once finished, she repeats, “I’m going back torch fishing.” Upon reaching the sea, she sets her fishing torch alight, goes down to the shore, where she pulls out her eyes and begins to dance, throwing back her head and dancing along the beach. She dances like this, all the way to the end of the beach then back the other way, to the opposite end. She rests a while, then starts dancing again towards the other end, with her head thrown back. Soon, the cock crows. “Oh,” she says to herself, “it will soon be day! I must get back.” At once she makes her way back to find her eyes and put them back in place. She quickly goes back to the interior of the lands, and just as day is breaking, she lies down next to her husband. Day arrives and he asks, “So, how did your torch fishing go?” “Nothing. Not a bite.” Every day is the same, events repeat themselves in the same way, alternating between the couple’s daytime tending of their fields in the sky and the wife’s nighttime dance. But one evening the husband decides to follow her, to find out why she never catches anything. “What is she up to, that she never catches anything? I’ll follow her.” He gets to the sea and sits himself down on a rise to watch. His wife, down below, is busy dancing with her head thrown back. “So that’s why she never brings anything back,” he says to himself. “She spends all her time

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M. Venon.

dancing with her head thrown back.” So the husband goes and picks up the eyes and throws them into the sea, where a picot fish eats them. Then he goes off home. Now the cock starts to crow. “It will soon be day,” thinks the wife. At once she starts seeking out her eyes, but they have disappeared. “My eyes!” she cries. [As she cries out “My eyes!” the storyteller pounces on the children and tickles them.] C. Illouz (2000), De chair et de pierre, pp. 12–13.

The Child and His Grandmother Once upon a time, there was a grandmother and her grandson. One day, she said to him, “My grandchild, go and catch us some flying foxes; you can hear lots of them up behind the hut.” The child left to hunt the flying foxes behind the hut in the banyan tree. Soon he came back with a flying fox. The grandmother prepared it, singed the hair off, wrapped it in banana leaves, and buried it in the hot embers. A long time later, she dug up the parcel. The grandmother opened the parcel and cut up the flying fox, which was perfectly cooked and was giving off an aroma that would make your mouth water. Then she began to share it out. “Who will eat the wing?”

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“Me!” replied the child. “Who will eat the other wing?” “Me!” “Who will eat the leg?” “Me!” “Who will eat the other leg?” “Me!” “Who will eat the head?” “Me!” “Who will eat the body?” “Me!” “Who will eat the breast?” “Me!” “Who will eat the innards?” “Me!” “And what am I going to eat? What am I going to eat?” cried the old woman as she tickled the child, who was rolling on the ground with laughter. L. Sam (1999), “La littérature orale kanak”, 3:108.

Tädo-Tädo Story of Tädo-Tädo and Crab. Tädo-Tädo’s father and mother go to plant cägödü and say to him, “Stay home, Tädo-Tädo; we are going to go up to the garden, in the forest.” Tädo-Tädo stays all alone and Crab comes passing by. “Tädo-Tädo!” he calls. No reply. “Tädo-Tädo!” Still no reply. [ . . . ] Crab peers around everywhere looking for Tädo-Tädo and spies the pupils of eyes amongst the pile of wood in the woodshed. “You don’t say a word even though it’s most definitely you over there, you rascal!” “I didn’t say anything,” says Tädo-Tädo, “because my mum and dad told me to stay home and be good.” “Do you have any food?” Crab asks. “Yes, it’s over there,” he replies. Crab begins to eat it; he eats and eats and doesn’t leave a thing. Then he suggests to his companion, “Let’s tickle each other!” They tickle each other so long and so hard that Tädo-Tädo is covered in blood. He begins to cry and nighttime comes. Crab goes home. The father and mother come home from the garden. “Tädo-Tädo!” they call. “What has become of you?” “I’m here,” he replies, “but Crab came by and asked me for my

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food. I showed him where it was and he ate it, he ate it all up. Then he wanted us to tickle each other, so we tickled each other but he scratched me all over, and that’s why I’m all bloody. After that, he went away again.” “Well, well!” They prepare the meal, eat, and finish the meal. Then they go to bed, get up early in the morning, and prepare something to eat. The father and mother declare, “Tädo-Tädo, you will stay home, but we are putting your food here. Climb up onto the crossbeam and stay there. As for us, we are going to go back up to the garden to plant some Wedelia.” Tädo-Tädo stays alone and Crab arrives again. “Tädo-Tädo,” he calls. No reply. Crab looks up and sees him perched on the crossbeam. “But it’s you up there, refusing to answer!” “That’s because my mum and dad told me not to move from here and not to answer you if you came back.” “Do you have any food?” Crab asks. “Yes, it’s down there, in the cooking pot,” replies Tädo-Tädo. The other wastes no time; he opens the cooking pot, plunges one claw inside, and burns himself. The claw comes off and falls into the pot. He tries to help himself by using his other claw, burns himself again, and the second claw falls into the pot too. Crab ends up toppling in completely. So Tädo-Tädo jumps down from his perch, shuts the lid, and traps Crab inside the pot. Night is coming; the father and mother come home from the garden and they are worried. “Tädo-Tädo! Are you all right?” “I’m here,” he says, “and Crab came by again; he wanted my food and I told him that it was in the cooking pot. As soon as he opened it he plunged his claw in and burned himself; his claw fell in the pot. He wanted to help himself with the other, burned himself again, and the second claw fell in. He ended up tumbling in completely. So I jumped down, shut him in, and there he is, prisoner in the cooking pot.” “Well done!” his parents say. “And good job, too, since that one was coming back to scratch you again.” They put their Wedelia leaves in the pot, and when the contents are cooked, the three of them feast. No one lives at Crab’s place anymore, but there are lots of people at Tädo-Tädo’s. To send you to sleep or to wake you up, your turn now to tell another one. A. Bensa and J.-C. Rivierre (1994), Les filles du rocher Até, pp. 416–425.

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The Sparrowhawk and the Swallow The first one lives in Teiap, the second one has her home in Tébélet. One day they do their cooking together and, once their meal is prepared, they go off together to eat it in the valley. The meal finished, the sparrowhawk goes back up and the swallow too goes home to her property and sets a snare in her sugarcane field; next she flies off to have a good rest and then comes back to check on it. She finds a rat caught there and sets about cutting up the carcass straight away. She takes out the liver and throws the rest away. Then she makes up a stew with this liver using coconut milk. For his part, the sparrowhawk is also preparing his meal. So they call out to one another using this cry: “Uu!” They then each bring along their dish to the place of their shared feast. The swallow shows her rat liver stew to the sparrowhawk. He tastes it. “Delicious! What is this tasty dish?” “Ah!” replied the swallow. “It is my mother’s liver.” “What! And she isn’t dead?” “No, she isn’t dead.” “Oh! Then I, too, will eat my mother’s liver.” Once he arrives at his mother’s place, he is in tears. “Mother! I want to eat.” “And what would you like to eat?” “Mother! I would like to eat your liver.” “But I would die if you ate my liver.” “No, you won’t die.” And with that, he pounces on his mother and takes out her liver. His poor mother dies on the spot. Well, the sparrowhawk, he starts to weep, weeps for his dead mother. [ . . . ] To allow him to avenge his mother, the swallow says to him, “Come, tomorrow you can burn me alive in my home.” Meanwhile, though, the swallow goes off and gets ready: she digs a hole in the ground from the foot of the hill to the middle of her house. She then takes a squash, makes a hole in it, and places it on top of the hole. When the time comes, the sparrowhawk arrives to carry out the execution. He sets fire to the house; quickly the flames rise up into the air. [ . . . ] So the swallow gets inside the squash and disappears down into the hole she has dug beneath it. The squash explodes into pieces under the pressure of the fire. “Olé! olé! A liaot!” [Good! Good! Serves you right!] says the sparrowhawk. However, the swallow sees that the house

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Engraved bamboo (detail). (L. Michel [1996], Aux amis d'Europe)

has finished burning and the fire is out, so she flies out and comes to land on the half-burned pile of debris. “Buane tiamam!” [Your father’s head!] says the sparrowhawk. “How did you manage that? Oh, well! Tomorrow it is your turn; come and burn me alive in my home.” He, too, goes away to prepare things; he also places a pierced squash just as he had seen at the swallow’s place, but what he hadn’t seen was the hole under the ground. As the fire breaks out, he rushes inside his squash, but the squash is cooked by the fire and he inside it. F. Bogliolo (1999), “Développements de la littérature calédonienne”, 3:164.

Tibo and Her Child Story of a man who wanted to have a banana plantation. He goes off to clear a corner of the forest, then he says: “May I close my eyes and when I open them may this corner of the forest be completely cleared!” [ . . . ] He closes his eyes, then opens them, and banana trees are planted everywhere.

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“May I close my eyes and when I open them, may all the banana trees be covered with ripe bananas!” He closes his eyes, then opens them, and all the banana trees are ripe. So he heads back towards where he lives and settles back into his home. Tibo and her daughter, for their part, smell the aroma of the bana­ nas. “Let’s go and find some ripe bananas!” says the mother. And they set off together. The mother says to the child, “Stay here. I’m going to look over there.” The mother goes off. She reaches a place and sees a clump of banana trees. So she calls her daughter. “Guwënämâânêê!” And the daughter replies, “Uuuuu! . . . ” The mother shouts to her, “Ué lu mä rä ba lumä péane—koloini— këkë tén.” So Guwënämâânêê runs up and rejoins her mother. They climb up the banana trees and eat the ripe bananas. When they have finished eating, the owner of the field arrives and surprises them. They tumble down from the banana trees and take flight. The man chases after them. They head towards their hole and scurry back down into it. The man stops, not knowing what to do; then he turns back. He returns to his home to sleep. The next morning, mother Tibo and her daughter are hungry again. “Let’s try to find some more bananas!” says the mother. They set off together. At a certain point, the mother says to the daughter, “Stay here; I’m going to try to find some ripe bananas.” The mother goes off. She finds some ripe bananas and shouts in the direction of her daughter: “Guwënämâânêê!” “Uuuuu! . . . ” she replies. “Ué lu mä rä ba lumä péane—koloini—këkë tén.” So the daughter runs up and they climb up the banana trees. They eat and eat. [ . . . ] They stuff themselves with bananas. The owner of the field arrives at that moment and sees them both perched up in his banana trees. “Ah, so it’s you who’ve been eating all my ripe bananas!” They tumble out of the banana trees in a hurry and take flight; they run to take refuge in their hole. So the man collects some dry wood, then he takes a fire starter and rubs it on the surface of the pieces of wood. The fire falls into the hole and spreads in the direction of mother Tibo and her child. They are burned alive and they die. No one lives at their place anymore, whereas there is someone who lives at the owner of the banana plantation’s place. Your turn to tell another one. The end. A. Bensa and J.-C. Rivierre (1994), Les filles du rocher Até, pp. 408–413. Storyteller is Elise Pwadaé

Chapter Four

Transformations The Dynamic Nature of Kanak Oral Traditions

Oral traditions, the living archives of Kanak societies, exist in a state of dynamic equilibrium and are constantly being transformed as they integrate new events and developments that take place in the cultures from which they arise. As components of oral traditions, oral literatures are also constantly undergoing transformation, and various factors can contribute to this process of gradual change. The storyteller’s version is shaped not only by her/his own experience, memory, and talent as an orator; it is also influenced by the performative context. Contextual factors, such as the age, gender, composition of the audience, their response and interaction during the performance, and the social and political implications of the material to be included, all have an effect on the final form of the story recounted. The fact that multiple versions of a story, legend, or myth may be in circulation further adds to the variety of material that the storyteller has to draw upon or react to during the performance. In essence, each story is the unique product of a set of historical, social, and psychological circumstances, filtered through the person of the orator at a given moment in time. The text “The Stockmen” clearly illustrates another dimension of the ongoing process of transformation essential to any oral literature, namely the incorporation of new cultural developments, experiences, and ideas into the existing body of oral tradition. Elements that result from contact with Europeans, such as the bull, horse, rifle, revolver, knife, glass, and fence, are integrated into the story of the younger brother saving the elder brothers. These elements would have been relatively recent at the turn of the last century, when the story was recorded in the Ajië language by Sisil, one of the Kanak transcripteurs who contributed to Documents néo-calédoniens (Leenhardt 1932, 482–484). 63

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• Custom is able to adapt to circumstances, modes and environments. It is never fixed, as the Word which inspires it is living. Klein et al. 2000, 8

[ . . . ] Certain closing formulae of the tâgadé arise from an extralinguistic image, the meaning of which the non-initiated reader might not grasp: mwââ tö-ba-puu, â mwââ tö-ba-tëcî-wë, â guwë mwââ wiâ cè taaci go: “May this send you to sleep and awaken you, you will tell the next one . . .” or more precisely, “This will send you to sleep and awaken you, in your heart and your liver, it’s over to you to give the next. . . .” [ . . . ] These formulae, which reappear often, call on the audience, stir their feeling and ensure the perpetuation and enrichment of the literary genre. The latter is called to be transformed, it must not remain in a fixed form. The places and situations are often different depending on the story teller. Bouchet, Gurrera-Wetta, Siorat-Dijou 1984, 19

•

Another source of transformation of the stories of Kanak oral literature derives from the networks of contact and interaction that have existed between Kanak peoples and other indigenous peoples throughout the Pacific for several thousand years. This contact is always changing in frequency and scope and has certainly been extended through the movement of European ships carrying people and stories between islands. Versions of “The Rat and the Octopus”, which explains the relationship between the two creatures (not a particularly friendly one) and the reason for the dark spots found on the octopus’ head (for which the rat must take responsibility), are found throughout the Pacific region, from the islands of Micronesia to Niue, Tuvalu, the Cook Islands, Tonga, and Samoa. Different versions of the story also exist in many parts of Kanaky/New Caledonia. The transition between oral and written codes is a very significant source of change in oral literature over time. Sound recording, transcription, and translation processes modify stories as they cross the

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oral-written divide by removing contextual elements critical to meaning from the stories. Further modification occurs as a result of the translator’s stylistic, structural, and ideological decisions during the translation process. There has always been a great deal of variation in the strategies used to bring elements of Kanak oral literatures to a reading audience, and the variety of strategies employed has led to a diversity in the translated texts produced. The first documented translations of Kanak oral literature were undertaken in the latter half of the nineteenth century. In 1853 Father Mathieu Gagnière wrote to the Superior General of the Marist order, enclosing a number of stories from Kanak oral tradition, seven of which survive, including “Bigne and Jola”. In his letter the missionary is almost apologetic about the quality of these texts, which, according to Bensa, were selected for evangelizing purposes and served Gagnière as a tool for learning the language (Bogliolo 1999, 150). The doctor Victor de Rochas wrote La Nouvelle-Caledonie et ses habitants: Productions, moeurs, cannibalism in 1862. This book contained the first two Kanak stories translated into and published in the French language. De Rochas wrote that his method of translation involved the production of an abridged version in which repetitions were limited, but that the version retained the original colour of the tale (de Rochas 1862, 218). De Rochas’ translations were accompanied by information on the oral literature, the art of oration, and the social contexts in which the telling of the stories took place. Jules Garnier, credited with the ‘discovery’ of nickel in New Caledonia, presented, in his Voyage à la Nouvelle-Calédonie, a translation (his own version, ending in “etc., etc.”) of a hoot, or ceremonial oration, related to him by a young Kanak interpreter as it was proclaimed by the chief of Arama in 1864 (Bogliolo 1999, 150). In Trois ans en Nouvelle-Caledonie, the story of his time in New Caledonia from 1867 to 1870, Jules Patouillet claimed that only a few legends had not been forgotten and were preserved by oral tradition, and he presented a literal translation of a legend he had heard in Houagape, the “Legend of the Sugarcane Canoe”. He also recounted the arrival of the first Europeans in New Caledonia and described its landscape, geology, and fauna as well as the food, institutions, religion, and music of Kanak peoples (L. Laubreaux 1996, 19–20). These early translations would not have been possible were it not for the Kanak ‘informants’ who first interpreted these stories and orations for French translators who were not at all competent in Kanak

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languages. Victor de Rochas writes that “this oration was translated for us later by a young native assistant”; Jules Garnier was guided during his time in New Caledonia by Poulone, whom he referred to as the “serpent de bronze”, and Louise Michel relied on her friend and informant, Daoumi, and his brother to interpret the Kanak oral literature that she encountered (Bogliolo 1999, 150). Over the course of the 150 or so years since these initial translations were written, a great variety of people, amongst them doctors, missionaries, ethnographers, writers, political activists, and academics, have attempted by means of translation to portray and to understand the vital oral literatures of the indigenous peoples they encountered. In the process they have, to varying degrees, transformed the stories they translate by introducing stylistic, thematic, and linguistic elements that derive from their own cultural environments. The tales from Kanak oral tradition published by Louise Michel (1830–1905) provide an example of the kind of transformation that can take place during the translation process. Michel had been sentenced to deportation to the penal colony of New Caledonia in 1871 for her part in the popular uprising that was the Paris Commune. She took an interest in Kanak cultures and languages and was able to encounter these at close hand through her friendship with Daoumi, the son of a Kanak chief from Lifou, and his brother, whose name she does not mention. Both were to be her ‘informants’ about the Kanak world. Her translations of Kanak oral literature were published anonymously as “Légendes et chansons de gestes canaques”. These appeared in installments in the first civilian newspaper in Nouméa, Petites Affiches de la Nouvelle-Calédonie, from 1875 (Bogliolo 1996, 33). Though she made efforts to learn Kanak languages, Michel did not possess sufficient linguistic skills to translate directly from the Kanak to the French. No formal grammars or dictionaries existed, and Michel spent a relatively short time in New Caledonia, with limited contact with Kanak. Using her own poetic vision, Michel in fact attempted to re-create the ‘genius’ of the legends and stories that she only partly comprehended and in doing so transformed them significantly (Bogliolo 1996, 23). The incorporation of elements of Louise Michel’s ideology into her published collection further illustrates the way an oral literature can be transformed by the translation process. Central to Michel’s ideology was her identification with the struggle of the oppressed, whether the French people battling the injustices of the Third Republic or the Kanak peoples struggling against the colonial oppressors. The struggle

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• This Kanak literature is inscribed in collective memory and is not written. [ . . . ] To pick up an image proposed by a Togolese colleague and friend, we can say that ‘oral literature is a little like music without scales’. Léonard Sam (Filippi and Angleviel 1999, 3:106)

Our friends are going to leave us, They are going to depart tomorrow on the great sea. May the winds be favourable to them! May they find the sea gentle and calm! May they reach their destination! etc., etc. Jules Garnier (Filippi and Angleviel 1999, 3:150)

•

of women for equality was an important dimension of this identification (Hart 2001, 108). In Légendes et chansons de gestes canaques (1875) women feature prominently as prophetesses, sorceresses with knowledge of the healing arts, warrior princesses, self-sacrificing mothers, and sacrificial victims. In the book version of Légendes et chants de gestes canaques, published in 1885, Michel significantly modified the 1875 texts, adding her own reflections on Kanak intellectual capacities and languages in chapters such as “Musique et danse canaques” and “Aptitudes des Canaques”. The 1875 version of “Idara”, about the prophetess who sings of the coming of the Whites and their transgressions against the Kanak peoples, was significantly rewritten. A commentary on the status of women in Kanak culture was added in which Michel claims that the word for woman is némo, which is also the word for “nothing”. She goes on to introduce Idara, a takata, a healer, sorcerer, or hypnotist whose stories are still told by the tribes, even though they treat their women as animals. The absence of an original version in Kanak languages from both the 1875 and 1885 editions of Légendes et chansons de gestes canaques, Michel’s romantic strategy for recreating the ‘genius’ of Kanak oral literature, her preoccupation with explaining the origins of the scourges of war and cannibalism in this society, and the fact that her own reflec-

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tions and ideological perspectives are woven into the narrative make it evident that the transformation of the original stories was significant. From before the annexation of New Caledonia by France, missionaries played an important role in the collection and production of translations of Kanak oral literature. The first Catholic mission was established on the Grande Terre at Balade in 1843. Polynesian Protestant missionaries known as natas had been teaching and evangelising in the local languages of the Loyalty Islands and the Île des Pins since the 1840s, and the first European Protestant missionaries arrived in Maré in 1856. Life in close proximity to Kanak and the by then wellestablished necessity of learning about Kanak languages and cultures in order to translate the Bible for evangelical purposes meant that missionaries became familiar with Kanak oral literatures. Well-known examples of translations by missionaries from the late 1800s to the 1930s include those undertaken by Père Pierre Lambert, a priest who founded the first Catholic mission at Belep in 1856 before moving on to Nouméa in 1863, the penitentiary Île Nou in 1869, and the Île des Pins in 1876 (O’Reilly 1980, 213). Père Lambert’s Moeurs et superstitions des Néo-Calédoniens was published in 1900 and brought together his notes and observations from the time he spent among the Kanak peoples of Belep and the Île des Pins (Lambert 1999). Although predominantly a study of the beliefs and cultural practices of the Kanak peoples he lived amongst, Moeurs et superstitions des Néo-Calédoniens included translations of war songs, ‘novels’, stories, and legends that Père Lambert described as elements of “the literature of the unlettered” (Bogliolo 1999, 149). As a missionary and scholar of Kanak lan­guages and culture during almost fifty years in New Caledonia, Lambert was also well placed to act as an informant for European voyagers who didn’t speak the languages of the region. In the case of the following extract from Lambert’s “Caledonian Novel”, the absence of the original in the Kanak language makes it difficult to determine the extent of the transformation of the story during the translation process. It is likely that Père Lambert, who undertook linguistic studies of the Kanak languages he encountered, has used the present tense in his translation to reflect the use of this tense in Kanak storytelling, thus staying close to the original story. However, by entitling the story “Caledonian Novel”, he appears to be assimilating it to a European literary genre that is characterised as ‘fiction’ and has no equivalent in Kanak oral literature. In 1932 the Protestant pastor, ethnographer, and linguist Maurice Leenhardt, who had been living in New Caledonia in the A’jië-speaking

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Houaïlou region for over twenty-five years, published his collection of translations of Kanak oral literature in Documents néo-calédoniens. In this work Leenhardt translated a collection of vernacular texts, legends, songs, and oratory that had been transcribed by Kanak men training to be missionaries. He encouraged these students, who had learned to read and write and taught him to speak the A’jië language, to transcribe material relating to customs and oral traditions that they considered significant. The writings of fifteen of the transcripteurs form the basis of Documents néo-calédoniens. Bwêêyöuu Ërijiyi, described as the first Kanak writer, was one of the most important of Leenhardt’s collaborators in this undertaking. Ërijiyi, who was around forty years old when he met Leenhardt and began training as a nata, was a highly respected, experienced, and knowledgeable member of an influential lineage, organiser of pilous, and sculptor of masks (Clifford 1982, 141). He provided Leenhardt with transcriptions of A’jië oral literature and explanations of elements of A’jië culture (such as orations, legends, customs, and sketches) in his writings from 1912 to 1925, a number of which were reproduced in Documents néo-calédoniens. Large passages of Ërijiyi’s writings were also reproduced in their entirety in Leenhardt’s Notes d’ethnologie néo-calédonienne (1930) and Vocabulaire et grammaire de la langue houaïlou (1935) (Aramiou and Euritein 2002, 11). For Leenhardt, translation was a reciprocal and collaborative undertaking. The process consisted of numerous, lengthy discussions between himself and the authors of the texts (the transcripteurs) in order to arrive at a satisfactory understanding and rendering of their meaning in French (Clifford 1982, 142). In Documents néo-calédoniens the original texts as transcribed in the A’jië language are presented with interlinear translations into French. These word-for-word translations are faithful to A’jië rather than French syntax. The more literary French rendition

• The Canaques, lying on their stomachs on the grass under the coconut trees around their huts, love the never-ending stories, they often add to them as well. That is why the stories vary.

•

Louise Michel (1988, 71)

Table of contents of Documents néo-calédoniens (M. Leenhardt [1932], Documents néo-calédoniens)

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is presented alongside the original and interlinear translation, making it possible for the French reader to glimpse the structure of the A’jië version. Leenhardt’s approach, in which the original is included in the published text alongside its translations and in which A’jië transcripteurs are consulted in the process of translation, illustrates the potential for the transformation of Kanak oral literature to remain close to the original, in form and in spirit. This kind of transformation sits at the opposite end of the spectrum from the transformations of Kanak oral literature wrought by Louise Michel in Légendes et chants de gestes canaques. The post–World War II period also saw translation activity undertaken by anthropologists and linguists in New Caledonia who recorded and translated elements of Kanak oral literature. These feature in such works as Jean Guiart’s Contes et Légendes de la Grande Terre (1957), André Haudricourt’s La Langue des Nénémas et des Nigoumak: Dialectes de Poum et de Koumac, Nouvelle-Calédonie (1963), Marie-Joseph Dubois’ Mythes et traditions de Maré, Nouvelle-Calédonie: Les Eletok (1975), Françoise Ozanne-Rivierre and Poindi Téin’s two volumes of Textes nemi (Nouvelle-Calédonie) (1979), and Alban Bensa and Jean-Claude Rivierre’s Les Chemins de l’Alliance: L’organisation sociale et ses représentations en Nouvelle-Calédonie (région de Touho) (1982) and Les filles du rocher Até: Contes et récits Paicî (1994). In these texts, elements of Kanak oral literature have been translated in order to attempt to understand and explain Kanak languages and societies as they are evolving and to preserve linguistic and cultural information. The period following the signing of the Matignon and Nouméa Accords in the aftermath of the Événements of the 1980s, in which an atmosphere of violence and near civil war hung over the French territory, has seen the establishment of governmental agencies with the responsibility of supporting and encouraging programmes and initiatives that work towards the valorisation of Kanak cultures and identities. The linguistic climate and political context of Kanaky/New Caledonia has meant an increase in translation activity, with translation projects undertaken by trained linguists, the team of the research centre L ­ ACITO (Laboratoire de Langues et Civilisations à Tradition Orale), the French national research agency the CNRS (Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique), and the Historical Society (Société d’Études Historiques de la Nouvelle-Calédonie, SEHNC). Translations of Kanak oral literature have been published by the Bureau de Langues Vernaculaires for educational purposes, by the Kanak Cultural Development Agency (Agence de Développement de la Culture Kanak, ADCK), in

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the Kanak cultural review Mwà Véé, and by Kanak researchers and writers such as Jean Euritéin, Sylvain Aramiou, Weniko Ihage, Léonard Drilë Sam, Claude Lercari, and Kaloonbat Tein, amongst others. The recently published bilingual (Paicî–French) children’s volume Téâ Kanaké: I pwi âboro nä caa kärä î-jè wâro kê / Téâ Kanaké: L’homme aux cinq vies is another example of the dynamic nature of Kanak oral tradition. Through the poetic rewriting of the Paicî origin story by the young author Denis Pourawa and the illustrations of his colleague Eric Mouchonnière, the book attempts to re-create a sense of the beauty and power of the spoken Word. Taking contemporary youngsters on a journey into the universe of oral tradition, it provides children with a point of reference, a means by which they can connect with a Kanak identity. One of the central characters of the first Kanak novel, L’Epave (The Wreck) by Déwé Gorodé (2005a), is a storyteller. In the nightclubs of Nouméa or recovering by the beach after a night of binge drinking, Lila/Dalila will tell, for example, the story of a very young Kanak girl who is pinched one night by a big crab and falls under his spell. The reader recognises the traditional tale of “Tädo-Tädo and Crab”, adapted here to reflect the central concern of Gorodé with relations between men and women. Her characters Eva, Maria, (He)léna, Lila, and CoralRose, archetypal fallen women, or femmes fatales, who can also be powerful women or witches, engage in battle with the patriarchal colonial seducer, the sea captain, or with the double Kanak elder and orator, Old Tom, also a sorcerer and ogre. In Lila’s allegory the young girl, victim of her own seduction, will finally decide to avoid the powerful pincers of the returning crab by moving aside at the last minute and allowing his pincers to fall into the fire. Gorodé’s rewriting of the texts of oral tradition points to the sexual meanings implicit in many of these stories. It also suggests that the separation of the physical and the spiritual, body and mind, or Word and everyday life is another outcome of evangelisation and colonialism—an alteration of Kanak Word. Translation of Kanak oral literature has thus been undertaken for various reasons, more specifically in this case to rethink incest, the power of sexuality, and gender relations, but most commonly to conserve knowledge and cultural heritage. The words of the Malian scholar Amadou Hampaté Bâ, “in Africa, when an old man dies, a library burns”, can be applied, to a certain extent, to all oral cultures, and translations can give access now and for future generations to Kanak cultural heritage. Translation is also a means of linguistic preservation,

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a record of languages, of contemporary and archaic forms and usages. In addition, translation is undertaken to bring elements of Kanak oral traditions and cultures into the non-Kanak realm, to acknowledge the importance of Kanak culture in the New Caledonia of today and the future. The process of transformation of Kanak oral literature through translation is shaped by the translator’s strategies and the social, historical, and ideological context. Important factors that have an impact on the transformation process include the context of the collection and transcription—that is, who transcribed the texts and their methods; the cultural and linguistic competence of the translator, which determines how much they were able to understand and convey; and the degree of collaboration with the providers of the source text during the translation process. It is important to be aware of the processes of transformation undergone by elements of Kanak oral literature and the influence of the translator on them because the resulting translations play an important role in mediating the image of oral literatures and, by association, Kanak cultures projected to a wider public than that of their culture of origin. Kanak oral literatures, as part of the living archives of the Kanak world, are the repositories of the political, historical, linguistic, cultural, and aesthetic heritage of its peoples. These literatures reflect the ongoing transformations of Kanak societies as they participate in the dynamic process of communication and change taking place within New Caledonia and globally. Our final section will trace the influence of the published body of texts from Kanak oral tradition and the continuing importance of oral or dramatic storytelling on the so-called ‘emerging’ literatures of Kanaky/New Caledonia as the country confronts the challenge of a ‘common destiny’. The Stockmen There were five brothers who lived together. When news reached them of a notorious bull who guarded the gate to the fence line, towards the very edge of the country, the eldest says, “Men, wait for me here, I’m going to go and see this man of great repute. Who is he?” He prepares a horse, mounts it, takes a rifle, and, addressing his brothers, says, “Men, I’m going. Watch the flower in front of my house closely. If it dries out, it’s because something sad has happened to me. If it doesn’t dry out, it’s because something good has happened to me.”

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“Yes, okay,” they replied. He left and followed a very long road. He arrived very near the place where the bull lived. The bull turns around and sees him. “Come quickly,” he says to the cattleman, “you’ll be my meat.” The rider fires a shot, but the bull avoids it, charges, knocks over horse (and rider), and throws them into a hole. All of the brothers saw the flower wither. “Aou!” they said. “A sad thing has befallen our eldest brother.” And they stayed there at their home, weeping. The next oldest brother said, “Men, stay here. I am going to find the eldest brother. Watch my glass. If it fills with blood, you will know that a misfortune has come to me. There will be nothing if I have met with success.” He mounts a horse, takes his rifle, and follows a long road. He arrives very close to the place where the bull stands; the bull turns around and sees him. “Come quickly,” he shouts, “you’ll be my meat.” The rider fires his rifle, but the bull avoids the shot, charges, knocks over horse and rider, and throws them into a hole. The brothers notice the glass. “It’s filled with blood,” they said. And they wept, “Alas! Misfortune has come to that man.” The next brother, addressing those who remained, said to them, “Wait for me here. I’m going to go and find those two. If a spot of blood appears on my knife, you will know that misfortune has befallen me. I will have met with success if nothing appears.” He mounts a horse, takes a rifle, gallops off, and arrives not far from the place where the bull is standing. But the bull turns around and sees him. “Come quickly,” he shouts to him, “you will serve as my meat.” The man fires his rifle at him. The bull avoids the shot, charges, knocks over and throws into a hole both horse and rider. The two brothers at home saw the spot of blood on the knife and wept for a long time. The next brother said to the youngest, “I’m going to go and find them. Stay here and watch over my hen’s chick. If it dies, it’s because misfortune has befallen me. If it lives, it’s because I have succeeded.” He hurries and comes to the bull, but the bull turns around and sees him. “Come quickly,” he says, “you will serve as my meat.” The man fires his rifle, the bull avoids the shot, charges, knocks over and throws into a hole both horse and rider. And down there, at home, the youngest weeps over the chick. “Alas!” he laments. “All my elder brothers have disappeared!”

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He weeps for a long time. Then, “I’ll go and find them,” he decides. He dashes about and gets a horse with short legs. He takes a revolver, a knife, and gallops off. The road is long, but he soon approaches the place where the bull stands. Now, the bull turns around. “Come quickly, you will be my meat!” he cries. “You too, you will be my prey,” replies the youngest brother.

M. Venon.

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The bull runs at the young man, throwing its horn, but the young man avoids the blow. Twice the bull charges him; twice he avoids its horn. “Ah!” he says. “Are you trying to devour me?” And he pulls back the hammer of the gun. The bull is done for; he staggers about, turns around twice on the spot, and falls heavily to the ground. The youngest brother runs over to him and sticks him with his knife. So then he went over to the hole and saw his elder brothers lying at the bottom. He wept in mourning for them. Later, he went up to the forest to collect some herbs. He brought them back, took a yam, a pidara sugar cane, and ran back to his brothers. He cooked the yam, chewed on the herbs, and proceeded to spit them onto his brothers. The eldest was first to stir and sit up. The youngest brother spat a second time, and the second eldest stirred and sat up. It was the same for the other two. “Do you feel strong?” he shouted to them. “Yes,” they replied, “we are strong.” So he held out to them a piece of wood from the heart of the gaïac tree. “Place your feet on this gaïac heart so that you will be strong.” They all stood up on the piece of wood. “Do you feel strong?” asked the youngest brother. “Yes,” they said, “we are all as sturdy as can be.” “Why then,” he continues, “weren’t you older brothers the strong ones and why didn’t you capture the bull? But now let’s go and prepare the oven at home.” They all got up, took the bull, and went back to their home to cook it in the oven. They ate it, and they are all still there in their house today. Translated by Maurice Leenhardt from the text in A’jië written by Sisil. M. Leenhardt (1932), Documents néo-calédoniens, pp. 482–484.

The Rat and the Octopus  ◙ There once was a rat. One day he felt like going sailing. Off he goes and with his teeth cuts down two thick sugar canes. He hollows them out and puts them together to make a Caledonian-style boat. In no time his sails are sewn and there he is launching his boat. Already he’s down the river, pushing on the bottom with a long pole, when he comes across Kiak (the swamp hen). “Rat, where are you going?”

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“I’m going out to the reef.” “Wait for me, then; I’ll go and get my fishing line.” She goes and gets her fishing line and they set sail together. On the way they find Konk (the heron). “Where are you going?” “We are going out to the reef.” “Wait for me, we’ll go together.” He hurries off, gets his fishing line, and they hoist their sail. The boat picks up speed. There they are already at the end of their journey; they lower their sail and drop anchor. “Off you go,” says the rat, “go and fish for shellfish; as for me, I’ll stay on the boat and keep guard.” While the two birds are away fishing, the rat, who is on guard, gets hungry on his boat made of sugar cane; he starts to eat it, he eats it all up. Having eaten his boat, he goes to rest on a rocky outcrop. Meanwhile, the rising tide has already covered the reefs when our two fishermen turn up. “Rat, where is our boat?” “I ate it because I was hungry.” “So, friend, you ate it, did you? Well, then. May we remind you that you don’t have wings to fly away with.” With these words, they both fly away and leave the rat on his rock, already partly under water. He starts to cry, he starts to weep for himself. The octopus hears him. “Who’s crying there?” “It’s me, Rat.” “You’re crying; what’s the matter?” “I’m crying because my two companions have just abandoned me.” “Briam! Hatêté! [Cut out a piece of your stomach!] Stop your grieving. [ . . . ]” Then he comes up to the rat and says to him, “Come on, get down and sit on my neck.” The rat gets off his rock and crouches on the head of the octopus. And Octopus starts swimming. He has already swum half the distance when the rat feels a great need to answer the call of nature. He relieves himself right in the middle of his benefactor’s head. “Aaélolot!!” “What are you laughing at?” “I’m laughing, seeing how fast we have been going.” So the octopus swims on. [ . . . ] The rat does his business again on his head. “Aaélolot!!” “What are you laughing at?” “I’m laughing, seeing how fast we are going.”

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The octopus is encouraged and goes twice as fast; they are already close to the shore. The rat does it once again on the head of the animal who saved his life. “Aaélolot!!” “What are you laughing at this time?” “I’m laughing for joy, seeing that we have arrived.” With these words, he jumps onto dry land and, turning back to his benefactor, says to him by way of thanks: “Hey! Hey, Octopus! Octopus! Look on your head, you’ll find what was making me laugh so much. [ . . . ]” “Buane tiamam!” [Your father’s head!] says the octopus. And he starts chasing after him. But the rat reaches a hole and congratulates himself on the success of his trick with loud peals of laughter. Translation by Père Mathieu Gagnière of a story in the language of Balade, ca. 1853, in F. Bogliolo (1999), “De la littérature orale kanak à la littérature calédonienne”, 3:162–163.

Bigne and Jola They lived together near the rock of Uébuane; there Bigne constantly and humbly served Jola. One day, the latter said to his servant, “What do you say we make a net for ourselves? Because, look, we haven’t any food, neither puer nor puégat; nor taro nor yams, nor fruit, nor flying fox nor ialé. Look: we eat only a few fruits of the ua and iélat. So let us make ourselves a net, in order to catch some fish for our table.” This said, they set to work. Bigne is assigned with making the twine and Jola weaves the net. The task completed, Jola says to his companion: “Bigne, remain here at the house; you will collect fruit from the ua and iélat, you will look for leaves to make our drink with. When your work is finished, you will come home and wait for me. As for myself, I am going to cast the net for the first time.” With these words, he goes: standing on the rock of Uébuane, he casts an eye over the sea and spots a shoal of chalos. He reaches it; he hurries: all the fish are in the net. Seeing him there, he looks like a man standing in the middle of a taro field; he only has to bend down and take as much as he pleases. And now, here he is back home, bent over beneath his heavy burden of fish, which he sets down with an air of self-satisfaction. “Bigne,” he says, “where are our provisions that you have gathered?”

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“Here they are,” says Bigne. “Buam!” adds Jola. “You will not eat today, because, you see, these fish caught with the strange net, well, it is fitting that I alone should eat them.” “Of course,” adds Bigne, “what’s the use in me eating? You eat alone, because you are the eldest and you are chief.” And of course, Jola eats it all himself and refuses to give Bigne any food at all. That evening, he gives the same orders to his servant. The next day, he goes fishing again and meets with the same success. He approaches Bigne’s house. The servant had tightly strapped his belly with a vine. “Bigne, where are our provisions that you have gathered?” “Here they are.” “Come on, then, let’s get the cooking done.” “Buam! Jola, I really don’t have the strength because I’m dying of hunger . . . .” “Eéé! Learn to put up with it a little.” So Bigne comes down to Jola’s place, but his legs are so weak that he hurries to sit down. “Ebuam! Stand up, stand up . . . .” “Alas, if only I could! But how can I possibly? I don’t have the strength.” So he comes and sets about wrapping the fish. They cook. Once the fish are cooked, the cooking pot is emptied. Then Jola says once more, “Buam! Refrain from eating again today.” Bigne answers, “Yes, of course, what’s the point for me? You eat alone, because you are the eldest and you are chief. As for myself, I will go back and sit in front of the house by the entrance.” Meanwhile, Jola sets about eating; he eats so much that his belly grows bigger before one’s very eyes. As for the other, he no longer really has a belly; he collapses and dies while his companion is still engrossed in filling his belly. Once the meal is finished, he shouts, “Come, Bigne, hurry up and go and throw away the scraps . . . .” Bigne does not answer. So he says, “Hey! Bigne’s not answering; what’s wrong with him, then?” He gets up to go and see, and when he gets there finds him stone dead. So he starts to weep . . . but as it takes flight, Bigne’s soul speaks up and says, “Be cursed for refusing to give me any food!” “Ah, Buam Bigne! Who’s speaking? Oh, it’s his spirit!” So Jola continues with his tears and lamentations. While he stays

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there and grieves for a long time, he no longer has a faithful servant to prepare his meals. Meanwhile, Bigne’s soul makes haste and, after a long walk, ­reaches the souls of his mother and father (niane me tiamane, one never puts the name of the father first, but rather that of the mother). When he gets there, they say to him, “You’re dead, so what happened to you?” “It’s because of Jola; he deprived me of all food and I died of hunger.” “Buam! It’s your home here, and when he comes to our home, we will beat him.” Meanwhile, Jola weeps, and day and night his body shrinks before one’s very eyes for he no longer has a servant to prepare his meals. . . . On the one hand, he eats nothing; on the other, his tears will not dry. He dies and their lands become uninhabited; today the place is nothing more than a desert. Translation by Père Mathieu Gagnière of a story in the language of Balade, ca. 1853, in F. Bogliolo (1999), “De la littérature orale kanak à la littérature calédonienne”, 3:169.

Idara, the Prophetess She sits beneath the coconut palms, Idara, the prophetess. Around her, the young girls lead the evening dance. Before her, when she falls silent, the young men play reed flutes to applaud and honour her and to allow her to rest. At her sides are the old men and the warriors, at her feet the children and the women. Idara is the daughter of the tribes; she has fought with the braves against the pale men. Idara is the mother of the heroes; it is she who binds their wounds with the chewed leaf of the vine cut by the light of the moon. It is she who gives them the warming bouis to drink; she again who sings them to sleep with the magic chant. Listen old men, Idara is about to speak! [ . . . ] “When the Whites came in the big canoes, we cursed them, because they attacked us with lightning and we had only arrows, spears, and stone axes. They sowed their seeds on the lands of the tribes; they put up stone villages in the valleys, in the places we chose for our own, near water and coconut palms: under the rocks that shelter the canoes. “The white men saw the valleys full of banana trees and yams, the

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mountains covered with taro; they saw all the tillits of the huts and he looked upon all of this with eyes of scorn. “The Whites walked the length of the big rivers and looked down on our fields with pity. But you, o White Men! You have tools to open the earth, and we have only sticks, fire, and the stone axe! “If you had but the resources of nature, would you be greater than us? And whatever your riches, you must envy us something, to come all the way from the other shore of the great lake to the land of the tribes. We have fought you and we have cursed you, you who come to rob us of our homeland. We will fight you and we will curse you still. But who brings you? And what breaths have blown your canoes to our shores? Surely the day must come when all the tribes will come together from all the corners of the world, from across all its seas! “Blow, o young men, play the reed flutes! Idara has spoken! Old men, your turn now to speak, the tribe is listening.” L. Michel (1996), Aux amis d’Europe, pp. 32–33.

Caledonian Novel—Père Lambert The adventurous Kabo sets out. She walks and walks and walks, leaving behind her the lands of chief Téa Baak of Bondé. [ . . . ] of chief Téa Mouélanben of Pouébo. [ . . . ] of chief Téa Pouma of Balade. [ . . . ] of chief Téa Aobat of Arama. [ . . . ] And finally finds herself on the shore of Pouaïaram, the strait that separates the big island from the Nénéma Islands. Jébaba, the powerful spirit of that shore, notices the predicament of the voyager; he calls to her and invites her to come and stay with him. And thus Kabo is destined to become the wife of Jébaba. Several days later, Téa Aobat stages a celebration, a great pilou to which he invites all the neighbouring tribes. Jébaba goes along with his daughter, and Kabo goes with them. Now, during the gathering, Kabo catches everyone’s eye. Téa Pouma sends one of his subjects to ask her to be his wife. She refuses. Téa Aobat makes the same approach. She refuses. Téa Nénéma, in turn, asks for her hand. She refuses. Finally, Téa Bélep Tsiaoup makes the same proposal to her. She accepts eagerly. [ . . . ] He takes his new wife into his homeland, on the island of Nit. When the Aobat pilou is over, Jébaba and his daughter return to their village, but Kabo is not there. “Where is Kabo?” says Jébaba to his daughter.

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“I know not; she was taken away during the pilou.” “Who took her away?” “We neither saw nor heard who took her.” “Did I not say that she was to be my wife? Hmm, I know the impudent scoundrel. . . . Stay here. I am going to fetch her and I’ll make sure I find her.” He goes to the home of Mandiapoundop, who inhabits the reefs. “I come to tell you that Téa Bélep has taken the woman I had chosen for my wife and I ask you to help me get her back.”[ . . . ] “What do you have there?” asks Mandiapoundop, seeing the sharp-edged stone. “If you are wanting to go to Nit with the intention of spilling blood, I refuse to come with you. So leave the stone here and let us go.” “No,” says Jébaba, “this stone must follow me.” And he insists on taking it with him. “I tell you again,” says Mandiapoundop, “I want no part of such bloodthirsty plans.” They leave and soon they come to Nit. They find Kabo, who was sleeping alone in a separate hut set apart from the rest. Jébaba goes in, raises the sharp-edged stone, and plunges it into Kabo’s breast. “What are you doing?” says Mandiapoundop, trying to stop him. “Did I not tell you that I didn’t want to witness any acts of cruelty?” Jébaba hears nothing but his own anger; he wants to finish what he has begun, and at that very moment his victim breathes her last. [ . . . ] Translation by Père Pierre Lambert of a story in the language of Belep, in P. Lambert (1999), Moeurs et superstitions des Néo-Calédoniens, pp. 336–341.

Kabo’s spirit appears to her sister, telling her that Kabo has been murdered. After Kabo has been buried, Téa Tsiaoup comes to look for her, as he wants to see her body. When he calls out her name Kabo emerges from her burial covering, sits up, and then stands. The couple goes to her father’s house and they finally return to live again on Nit.

Part II

Exploration and First Contact

Engraved bamboo (detail). (L. Michel [1996], Aux amis d'Europe)

The Eighteenth-Century Explorers Encounters on ‘primitive’ beaches still intrigue and attract, as Survivor, the recent TV series set on tropical islands, reminds us. Global media and tourism ensure that Pacific islands today still conjure up seductive images of swaying palms, blue sea and sky, and a life of ease in a balmy climate. Even before the advent of photography, the late eighteenth century provided the first version of this persuasive and durable image in the lyrical descriptions of Tahiti (‘la Nouvelle Cythère’, after the birthplace of the Greek goddess of love) that resulted from Bougainville’s visit there in 1768. Had Rousseau’s ‘Noble Savage’ been located? Travel literature came of age, captivating an informed reading public. The eighteenth century in Europe was also the ‘Age of Enlightenment’, a period in which intellectual movements conceived and expounded upon by philosophers and scientists of the day emphasised the importance of reason, universal moral judgment, and rational argument. Enlightenment influences coupled the desire for the improvement of society with the age’s thirst for scientific knowledge. At the end of a long era of conflict, Europe had become outward looking, emerging at last from a series of wars over religion and imperial domination. J. G. A. Pocock, in his essay, “Nature and History, Self and Other”, in Voyages and Beaches: Pacific Encounters 1769–1840 (1999), postulates that in the discovery of the outside, the Enlightenment questioning forced Europeans into self-discovery. Through these encounters with exotic Otherness, eighteenth-century Europeans were formulating new perspectives on their own history and society. Pocock shows the significance of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s belief that man was born ‘good’ and that society had corrupted him, that any movement away from the natural state was a corruption of man’s innocence. Europeans had ‘history’, civilisation with all its attendant evils; the Other, met in a natural state on the beaches of Oceania, did not. In fact, Pocock theorises, when Europeans ventured ashore in the Pacific, they encountered cultures for which they had no real “interpretive paradigm”. It is therefore no surprise that in spite of the scientific bias, and perhaps because of the influence of Enlightenment thinkers—Rousseau in particular—misconceptions and misunderstandings resulted. From around 1760 the shape of the earth was determined and maps were reasonably accurate. The notions of the previous century, including those of ‘antipodes’ or ‘opposite-footers’, and the depiction of seas full of monsters and other fanciful creatures were largely gone.

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The development of the science of navigation (especially the estimation of longitude) and the increasing sophistication of navigational instruments enhanced the accuracy of information being brought back to Europe by explorers. By the eighteenth century the role of science was in the ascendant. The idea of ‘nature’ that lay at the heart of eighteenth-century science was based in natural history. Because of this, the biological sciences enjoyed improved status, and science became the medium for understanding the universe, thus largely dictating the terms under which voyages of exploration set out. The ships’ crews included scientists, artists, astronomers, cartographers, and naturalists. Their task was to measure, explain, and record, as accurately as possible, what was before their eyes, with the newly published classification system of Linnaeus enabling naturalists to classify the specimens they found. However, alongside this record of empirical knowledge in the journals of the travellers, philosophical musing and lyrical description are also to be found. Two motivations existed side by side: scientific inquiry and belief in utopian discovery. Scholars on board the vessels were interested in a wide range of subjects and carried aboard libraries of books to aid their work. Draughtsmen and artists were employed at the service of the natural historians, leaving a fascinating record of drawings and paintings, sometimes recorded with meticulous accuracy, but sometimes also curiously influenced by classical models and the fashions in European art at the time. Over the previous two centuries the sailing ships of many European nations had criss-crossed the Pacific Ocean. Most of the scattered landmasses in this vast sea had been charted and some were visited on a regular basis. The islands of New Caledonia were the exception. Sequestered from the gaze of the explorers, the large central island known today as Grande Terre was the last significant landmass to be ‘discovered’ by seafaring Europeans. The land itself had a very different aspect to the volcanic islands of Polynesia, as it loomed high and dark above the horizon, with sea cliffs threaded with plunging waterfalls. An extensive reef system enclosed a huge lagoon that extended a great distance northwestwards from the north of the island, and a complicated scatter of reefs and islands protected the southern reaches.

Chapter Five

James Cook A Positive Account of Balade, New Caledonia, 1774

On Sunday, September 4, 1774, a sailing ship captained by Englishman James Cook entered the harbour at Balade on the northeastern coast of New Caledonia. Cook had set out from Santo in the New Hebrides in late August 1774 and sailed southwest, ostensibly heading for New Zealand. Fate and the elements, however, conspired against his making landfall there in time to observe the solar eclipse of September 6, 1774. His more westerly route had caused him to encounter the new landmass by accident, or so it would appear. This second Pacific expedition of Cook on board the Adventure and the Resolution carried a complement of scientists, astronomers, naturalists, and artists. Sir Joseph Banks had planned to travel with Cook, as he had for the successful first voyage. Serious differences arose from his requests to modify the ship to accommodate his expanded entourage, modifications resulting in the ship becoming unseaworthy. Cook records, “In plying down the river the Resolution was found to be very crank, which made it necessary to put into Sheerness in order to remove this evil by making some alteration to her upper works” (Cook 1997, 150). This understatement sums up events that led to Banks’ angry withdrawal from the voyage. J. R. Forster, a German-born naturalist, and his eighteen-year-old son, Georg, took his place. By the time of his second Pacific voyage from 1772 to 1775, Cook’s reputation had been established. From humble beginnings he had risen to prominence within the Royal Navy for competence in seamanship, charting, and surveying, and through the good offices of mentors. In the journal of his second voyage he speaks of his simple origins, which make his narrative less than an ‘ideal’ account of exploration, implicitly confirming 87

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the existence of a shared understanding of the role of the man of letters and the conventions of a ‘genre’. I shall therefore conclude this introductory discourse with desiring the reader to excuse the inaccuracies of style which doubtless he will frequently meet with in the following narrative and that, when such occur, he will recollect that it is the production of a man who has not had the advantage of much school education, but who has been constantly at sea since his youth; and though, with the assistance of a few good friends, he has passed through all the stations belonging to a seaman, from an apprentice boy in the coal trade, to a Post Captain in the Royal Navy, he has had no opportunity of cultivating letters. After this account of myself, the public must not expect from me the elegance of a fine writer or the plausibility of a professed book-maker but will, I hope, consider me as a plain man, zealously exerting himself in the service of his country, and determined to give the best account he is able of his proceedings. (Cook 1997, 148–149)

The principal aims of Cook’s second voyage were to test the new Kendall-modelled chronometer, vital for the accurate estimation of longitude, and to ascertain, finally, the whereabouts of the fabled southern continent, Terra Australis Incognita. This southern continent was thought to exist as a necessary ‘counter-balance’ to the landmasses of the northern hemisphere. The orders concerning Terra Australis Incognita were contained in the ‘secret instructions’ given to Cook on both the first and second voyages, and enjoined him to observe and chart the continent, to demonstrate ‘civility and regard’ for the natives, if there were any, and to take possession of a convenient site within the country in the name of the king. These instructions confirm that there was a colonising agenda behind Cook’s journeys. The two ships of the expedition had become separated in November 1773, with the Adventure subsequently reaching England one year ahead of the Resolution. Having sighted and landed on New Caledonian soil, Cook was able to carry out the necessary observations of the eclipse on an island in the sheltered harbour at Balade. His stay in New Caledonia lasted nine days, and the entire period on land was spent around the harbour. Leaving the survey of the remainder of the coastline of the island incomplete, he then left for New Zealand, coming across uncharted Norfolk Island on the way.

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The Cook Narratives of First Encounters Cook constantly rewrote and revised his journal in the course of this second voyage. He seems to have had no concerns about the effect of hindsight on his text, which was therefore a mixture of firsthand impressions and careful revisions. The shipboard journal was written with publication in mind, which explains the assiduous revision. After his return to England he entrusted John Douglas with the editing of the manuscript. The work, entitled A Voyage towards the South Pole and Round the World, appeared in 1777, when Cook was at sea on his third voyage. It was also his last. Cook was never to read his published work, meeting his death in Hawai‘i. Cook’s journals provide us with a commander’s account of shipboard life. Close examination of the texts confirm that Cook’s style is somewhat dispassionate and largely unadorned, although there are occasional moments of philosophising and even the odd flash of emotion. During his first voyage of discovery, and whilst contemplating the peoples of New Holland (Australia), for example, Cook comments on the lack of dependency on material possessions of the ‘Other’. From what I have said of the natives of New Holland they may appear to some to be the most wretched people upon Earth, but in reality they are far more happier than we Europeans; being wholly unacquainted not only with the superfluous but the necessary Conveniences so much sought after in Europe, they are happy in not knowing the use of them. They live in a tranquility which is not disturbed by the Inequality of Condition: the Earth and sea of their own accord furnishes them with all things necessary for life, they covet not Magnificent Houses, Household Stuff Etc, they live in a warm and fine climate and enjoy very wholesome air, so they have very little need for clothing. (Beaglehole 1999, 174)

The above extract provides an example of Cook’s perhaps inevitable viewing of the people he encountered through European eyes, judging their condition according to European norms. Although Cook is ostensibly observing the indigenous peoples, this passage, which comments on the materialism and economic inequalities in Europe, is in fact also a critical reflection on European society. The ‘Other’ is largely what Europe is not. If there is an interpretive paradigm at work filter-

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ing the understanding of the peoples the French explorers would call les naturels, it is Rousseau’s concept of the ‘Noble Savage’. At the same time, despite Cook’s praise of a society viewed as ‘happy’ and ‘equal’ in its nonmaterial simplicity and closeness to nature, his frequent use of the rhetorical figures of litotes (understatement) or circumlocution may conceal another, less explicit, narrative. When the natives are described as unacquainted “not only with the superfluous but the necessary conveniences”, the reader is left to decide whether the paradox reveals only the materialism of European society (Beaglehole 1999, 174). Does it simply critique what that society considers to be necessary, or does it also reflect a recognition at a more or less conscious level of a very real material impoverishment amongst the ‘Noble Savages’? Apart from his usual observations of a nautical nature and pragmatic details concerning the restocking of the ships with wood and water (food being in short supply), as was his habit, Cook devoted several pages of his journal to his observations about the people of this new land. Although there is evidently a good deal of supposition in Cook’s observations, the people are described in realistic detail, as are their houses, implements, dress, burial customs, diet, and means of cooking food. Cook describes the indigenous niaouli tree—a species of Melaleuca—and comments that there was plenty for “our botanists” (the Forsters) to gather and study. The pirogues of the Kanak are also given a thorough investigation and description. Cook met the person the crew took to be the chief of the area, a man whom they believed was called Tea Booma. His judgment is a positive one of a people who are amicable, honest, and helpful: “They are a strong, robust, active, well-made people, courteous and friendly, and not in the least addicted to pilfering, which is more than can be said of any other nation in this sea” (Cook 1997, 258). The amount of contact that Cook actually had with the local people would have been severely limited due to the brevity of the stay, illness, preoccupation with astronomical observations, and the necessity of rewatering and gathering wood. Also, although he was by now familiar with Polynesian societies, this was Cook’s first encounter with the Melanesian societies of the New Hebrides (Vanuatu) and New Caledonia. These factors may explain why his descriptions are hedged with concessive clauses, provisos, and hypotheses often indirectly glossing his positive statements. “The infertility of the country will apologize for the natives not contributing to the wants of the navigator” (Cook 1997, 263). Nonetheless, he was able to give the following shrewd summary:

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Melanesian man. (J. Cook [1777], pp. 118–119)

“Were I to judge the origin of this nation, I should take them to be a race between the people of Tanna and of the Friendly Isles; or between those of Tanna and the New Zealanders; or all three; their language, in some respects, being a mixture of them all” (Cook 1997, 259). The ‘discoverer’ noted the irrigation systems for the taro and yam gardens “watered by little rills conducted by art from the main stream” and observed the use of earthenware cooking pots. Nonetheless, Cook’s account concluded that the people had little to share or trade, had no great variety of household utensils, and could offer only the “privilege of visiting their country undisturbed”. An expedition to “take a view of the country” (Cook 1997, 253) got underway on the morning of September 7. When they reached the summit of a nearby mountain, the vista enabled the crew to see the coast on two sides and to judge the breadth of the land at that point. Cook commented that the mountains and hills were unable to be cultivated and were covered only by some coarse grass and the odd shrub. In fact, not only was there an indirect comment on a limited or insuf-

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ficient diet, but New Caledonia was also described directly as “sterile” (Cook 1997, 261) and unable to support a large population. A comparison with the landscape of New Holland (Australia) favoured Australia: “Nature has been less bountiful to it than any other tropical island we know in this sea” (Cook 1997, 261). This conclusion would presumably not be shared by present-day travellers to New Caledonia. Cook did note the picturesque quality of the plains along the riverbanks and the seashore and felt that the huge lagoon and its shoals would contain much seafood. The vast encircling reef would offer protection from the outside world. He pondered the possible presence of mineral wealth hidden in the hills. During an exchange of gifts on board the Resolution, Cook presented Tea Booma with two dogs and received a few yams and some sugarcane in return. The next day Cook expressed the wish to leave behind two pigs for breeding purposes. He felt that pork would be a welcome supplement to the natives’ diet, which seemed to rely on fish for protein. Tea Booma was nowhere to be found, so the pigs were presented to a group of elders who accepted the gift in return for some yams, but with apparent reluctance. Because of the weather, and under pressure to complete his observations, Cook was obliged, with regret, as he noted in his journal, to leave the coasts of New Caledonia without fully exploring them. Thus the English sailed away from the newly named New Caledonia with hazy and contradictory notions of a society revealed to European eyes for the first time. In a departure from his usual practice, Cook did not ‘claim’ New Caledonia for England, but had an inscription carved onto a tree, noting the ship’s name, date, and what he termed a “testimony of our being the discoverers of this country”. Of course, it was the Kanak who, almost thirty-five hundred years earlier, had been the ‘first’ discoverers. Cook’s Arrival at Balade We had hardly got to anchor before we were surrounded by a great number of the natives, in sixteen or eighteen canoes, the most of whom were without any sort of weapons. At first they were shy of coming near the ship but in a short time we prevailed on the people in one boat to get close enough to receive some presents. These we lowered down to them by a rope to which, in return, they tied two fish that stunk intolerably. These mutual exchanges bringing on a kind of confidence, two ventured

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Map of Cook’s exploration of New Caledonia in the Resolution in 1774 indicating the “Sea coast seen from Balade”. (J. Cook [1777], pp. 26–27)

on board the ship and presently after, she was filled with them and we had the company of several at dinner in the cabin. Our pease soup, salt beef, and pork, they had no curiosity to taste, but they ate of some yams which we happened to have left, calling them oobee. This name is not unlike oofee, as they are called at most of the islands except Mallicollo; nevertheless, we found these people spoke a language new to us. Like all the nations we had lately seen, the men were almost naked having hardly any other covering but such a wrapper as is used at Mallicollo. They were curious in examining every part of the ship, which they viewed with uncommon attention. They had not the least knowledge of goats, hogs, dogs, or cats, and had not even a name for one of them. They

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seemed fond of large spike-nails, and pieces of red cloth, or indeed of any other colour; but red was their favourite. After dinner I went on shore with two armed boats, having with us one of the natives who had attached himself to me. We landed on a sandy beach before a vast number of people who had got together with no other intent than to see us, for many of them had not a stick in their hands; consequently we were received with great courtesy, and with the surprise natural for people to express at seeing men and things so new to them as we must be. I made presents to all those my friend pointed out, who were either old men or such as seemed to be of some note; but he took not the least notice of some women who stood behind the crowd, holding my hand when I was going to give them some beads and medals. Here we found the same Chief who had been seen in one of the canoes in the morning. His name, we now learnt, was Teabooma and we had not been on shore above ten minutes before he called for silence. Being instantly obeyed by every individual present, he made a short speech and soon after another Chief, having called for silence, made a speech also. It was pleasing to see with what attention they were heard. Their speeches were composed of short sentences, to each of which two or three old men answered by nodding their heads and giving a kind of grunt, significant, as I thought, of approbation. It was impossible for us to know the purport of these speeches but we had reason to think they were favourable to us, on whose account they doubtless were made. I kept my eyes fixed on the people all the time and saw nothing to induce me to think otherwise. J. Cook (1997), Captain Cook’s Voyages 1768–1779, pp. 250–251

The Pig Incident Early in the morning of the 12th, I ordered the carpenter to work to repair the cutter, and the water to be replaced, which we had expended the three preceding days. As Teabooma the Chief had not been seen since he got the dogs, and I wanted to lay a foundation for stocking the country with hogs also, I took a young boar and sow with me in the boat and went up the mangrove creek to look for my friend, in order to give them to him. But when we arrived there we were told that he lived at some distance and that they would send for him. Whether they did or no I cannot say, but he not coming, I resolved to give them to the first man of note I met with. The guide we had to the hills happening to be there, I made him understand that I intended to leave the two pigs on shore and

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Dance, Y. Bouquet. (ADCK)

ordered them out of the boat for that purpose. I offered them to a grave old man, thinking he was the proper person to entrust them with but he shook his head and he, and all present, made signs to take them into the boat again. When they saw I did not comply, they seemed to consult with one another what was to be done and then our guide told me to carry them to the alekee (chief). Accordingly I ordered them to be taken up, and we were conducted by him to a house wherein were seated, in a circle, eight or ten middle-aged persons. To them I and my pigs being introduced, with great courtesy they desired me to sit down and then I began to expatiate on the merits of the two pigs, explaining to them how many young ones the female would have at one time and how soon these would multiply to some hundreds. My only motive was to enhance their value that they might take the more care of them and I had reason to think I, in some measure, succeeded. In the meantime two men having left the company, soon returned with six yams which were presented to me; and then I took leave and went on board. J. Cook (1997), Captain Cook’s Voyages 1768–1779, pp. 256–257

Tools and Weapons Notwithstanding their pacific inclination, they must sometimes have wars, as they are well provided with weapons such as clubs, spears,

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darts, and slings for throwing stones. The clubs are about two feet and a half long, and variously formed; some like a scythe, others like a pickaxe; some have a head like a hawk, and others have round heads; but all are neatly made. Many of their darts and spears are no less neat, and ornamented with carvings. The slings are as simple as possible but they take some pains to form the stones that they use into a proper shape which is something like an egg, supposing both ends to be like the small one. They use a becket, in the same manner as at Tanna, in throwing the dart which, I believe, is much used in striking fish, etc. In this they seem very dextrous; nor indeed, do I know that they have any other method of catching large fish for I neither saw hooks nor lines among them. J. Cook (1997), Captain Cook’s Voyages 1768–1779, pp. 259–260

Modesty of the Women The women of this country, and likewise those of Tanna, are, so far as I could judge, far more chaste than those of the more eastern islands. I never heard that one of our people obtained the least favour from any one of them. I have been told that the ladies here would frequently divert themselves by going a little aside with our gentlemen, as if they meant to be kind to them, and then would run away laughing at them. Whether this was chastity or coquetry, I shall not pretend to determine, nor is it material, since the consequences were the same. J. Cook (1997), Captain Cook’s Voyages 1768–1779, pp. 263–264

Chapter Six

The Forsters Cook’s Philosophers Abroad

J. R. Forster, the naturalist on board the Resolution, was an Enlightenment polymath of extremely wide-ranging interests. His writing covered numerous topics, his training several disciplines. A linguist, he was also familiar with philosophically informed travel writing, having translated several travel accounts, including those of Bougainville and of pupils of Linnaeus. A fellow of the Royal Society, Forster, aged forty-three at the time of the voyage, had a reputation for being a difficult character to deal with. This is borne out by the odd wry comment of Cook and a full-blown dispute with William Wales, the astronomer on board the Resolution. Forster’s son, Georg, who accompanied his father on the voyage, seems to have been a brilliant and precocious scholar. It was understood that J. R. Forster had contracted not to publish material in advance of the official record of the voyage. After the return to England, and in the midst of J. R.’s acrimonious disputes with Wales and the Admiralty, Georg, who was not subject to any such constraints, hastened to publish his two-volume Voyage round the World in 1777, a few months ahead of Cook’s official publication. This history suffered from a lack of scientific detail and references because Georg had no access to the official records when he was writing. Nonetheless, the account is described by Pisier, who translated the section on New Caledonia from English to French, as lively and picturesque. In the introduction to the 2000 edition of Forster’s journal the editors observe, with the hindsight of their own century and of postcolonial theory, that, “though their observations were often accurate and their speculations perspicacious, the internal values and dynamics of these cultures were essentially beyond their [the visitors’] vision” (For97

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ster 2000, xxxii). Forster presented the lack of signs of difference in status between the (clearly respected) chief and his subjects as evidence of a ‘state’ in its infancy. It has been suggested that the inhabitants of the main island of what is now known as New Caledonia, seeing these white men in their huge ships for the first time, assumed that they were returning ancestors. The offering of a fish, known to be poisonous, as described by both Cook and Forster, may well have been a test of these presumed ancestors’ powers. In fact, as Forster noted, after initial curiosity, the reactions of the inhabitants appeared to be closer to indifference: “The temper of these people in general was indolent, and almost destitute of curiosity” (Forster 2000, 580). In the Melanesian islands of Vanuatu and New Caledonia, the explorers found a different reception from the warm welcome given them by the Polynesian societies in the Society Islands, for example. They remained ‘outsiders’, the absence of sexual contact being one manifestation of this exclusion. Forster’s account, nonetheless, is detailed, with lengthy descriptions of artefacts, appearance, and dress of natives encountered. There are references to botanical expeditions and to the numbers of species captured, gathered, or shot for study and classification. Language difficulties influenced contact with the inhabitants in New Caledonia. By this time explorers’ vessels often carried Englishspeaking Polynesians who were able to interpret the closely related Polynesian languages of the Pacific for the scientists. The crew themselves had also acquired some knowledge of Polynesian languages from previous voyages. The different nature of the Melanesian languages of New Caledonia meant that the Europeans were unable to converse with the Kanak people. Forster, like Cook, hinted at the mineral wealth that would be discovered in the nineteenth century by Jules Garnier (Forster 2000, 575). The Forsters’ praise of the complex irrigation and cultivation system of the Kanak, curiously inconsistent with their previously expressed view of the people as “indolent” and “lazy”, bears out Cook’s positive description (Forster 2000, 573). The Cook expedition visited the island during the sunny period, when the ground was being prepared for new planting. The harvest was over and, as the country appeared to be in the midst of a drought, the fruits of Kanak labour were few. This may have been the basis of the impression of poverty of the soil and general conditions recorded by both Cook and the Forsters. Bronwen Douglas, a contemporary historian, notes that the Balade area where the Resolution anchored was

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and still is a relatively dry and infertile part of the Grande Terre (Douglas 1970, 180). Writing for European Readers The writings of Cook and the Forsters fed the English appetite for travel accounts from exotic locations. None was more exotic than that of the South Seas, with its images of abundant food, salubrious climate, and beautiful (and available) maidens established by Bougainville’s account of Tahiti in his 1771 Voyage autour du monde. The “timidity” or shame that appeared to explain the apparent coquetry of the “nymphs” who welcomed the Europeans with ambiguous gestures now appears to be largely a function of the eighteenth century’s understandings of feminine behaviour, intimated in part by Bougainville’s use of circuitous language to describe female sexuality. It now seems very possible that these young virgins were, in fact, less than willing. Of almost equal fascination was the region’s darker side, represented by tales of cannibalism and the violent death of mariners. Cook’s remarks about the language (there were in fact many languages) of New Caledonia derived from astute observation. But even with his disposition towards contacting and understanding other cultures, the complex nature of the Melanesian culture seems to have been beyond his comprehension. Lexicologist Jim Hollyman has exhaustively studied Polynesian influence on the Kanak and their languages, and indeed Cook and his crew did recognise a few Polynesian words, notably aliki, or chief. In 1774 Cook made no reference to Polynesians, so it is assumed that he met none. However, La Billardière, of the later d’Entrecasteaux expedition, reported meeting light-skinned Polynesians whose language he was able to negotiate by virtue of his knowledge of other languages acquired in Tahiti and elsewhere. Thus the first known contact between Kanak and Europeans took place. Cook’s knowledge of Pacific custom, gained from the Polynesian islands, gave him some understanding of how to conduct the encounter with the Kanak people. Based on European accounts, the result of this encounter, however, may be characterised by mutual incomprehension and a number of unanswered historical questions, particularly in relation to d’Entrecasteaux’s later description and the hypothesis of (Cook’s) ‘fatal impact’: why did the Melanesians accept the pigs with reluctance? Did the goods distributed subsequently cause dissension and warfare among rival groups? Cook’s alternatives of chaste modes-

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ty or coquetry to explain the distance women maintained or Forster’s failed attempts at seduction were clearly products of European notions of femininity and not of any understanding of Kanak gender relations, although Cook did note that women were not permitted to participate in the exchange of presents. Beyond the ritual exchange of gifts, the language difficulties and unfamiliar Melanesian customs were a significant barrier to further understanding. Although Cook gave a generally very positive account of the people he encountered, he and the Forsters were also struck by the ‘infertile’ nature of the land, which was not claimed for the Crown. The English ship sailed away, leaving the island to its isolation for eighteen more years. Description of Women The women were in general of a dark chestnut, or sometimes mahogany brown colour; their stature was middle-sized, some being rather tall, and their whole form rather stout, and somewhat clumsy. Their dress was the most disfiguring that can be imagined, and gave them a thick squat shape. It was a short petticoat or fringe, consisting of filaments or little cords about eight inches long, which were fastened to a very long string, which they had tied several times round the waist. The filaments or little ropes therefore lay above each other in several layers, forming a kind of thick thatch all round the body, which did not cover above a third part of the thigh. These filaments were sometimes dyed black; but frequently those on the outside only were of that colour, whilst the rest had a dirty straw-colour. They wore shells, ear-rings and bits of nephritic stones, like the men; and some had three black lines longitudinally from the under-lip to the chin, which had been punctured by the same methods practiced at the Friendly and Society Islands. Their features were coarse, but expressed great good-nature. The forehead in general was high, the nose broad and flat at the root, and the eyes rather small. Their cheek-bones were very prominent, and the cheeks commonly plump. Their hair was frizzled, and often cut short, as among the natives of the Society and Friendly Islands. G. Forster (2000), A Voyage round the World, pp. 570–571

Temperament of the People  ◙ But the character of the inhabitants, and their friendly, inoffensive behaviour towards us, gave us greater pleasure than all the rest. [ . . . ] They

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communicated a number of words of their language to us, which had no affinity with those we had learnt before in other islands; a circumstance sufficient to discourage the greatest and most indefatigable genealogist. Their temper seemed to be as indolent, as it was good-natured and harmless. It was very rare indeed, that one of them chose to follow us on our rambles; if we passed by their huts, and talked to them, they answered us, but if we went on without addressing them, they took no farther notice of us. The women were rather more curious, and sometimes strayed in the bushes to observe us, but would not venture to come near, except in the presence of the men. G. Forster (2000), A Voyage round the World, p. 573

Women Here I found three women, one middle-aged, and the others somewhat younger, who made a fire under one of those large earthen pots which I have already mentioned. As soon as they saw me, they made signs that I should leave them; however, being desirous to see their method of cooking, I came in, and saw that they had stuffed the pot full of dry grasses and green leaves, in which they had wrapped up a few small yams. These roots are therefore in a manner baked in this pot, or undergo the same operation which the natives of Taheitee perform by burying them under a heap of earth, among heated stones. It was with difficulty they would give me time to intrude so far; they repeated their signs that I should go away, and pointing to the huts, moved their fingers several times under their throat; which I interpreted, that if they were observed to be thus alone with a stranger, they would be choaked or killed. I left them after they had made this gesture and peeped into the huts, which I found quite empty. Returning into the wood, I met Dr. Sparrman; and we went to the women again, in order to look at their work once more, and to be convinced whether I had properly interpreted their signs, or whether they had only some particular objection to my appearance. We found them in the same place, and walking up to them, immediately made them a present of some beads, which they accepted with great expressions of joy; but at the same time they repeated the gestures which they had made when I came alone, and looked at us as if they would add entreaties to the signs, with which we immediately complied, and retired. G. Forster (2000), A Voyage round the World, p. 577

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The Pig Incident We accompanied captain Cook the next morning into the river to the eastward, where he went to give his friend Heebaï a little pig of each sex, in order to provide, if possible, a stock of domestic animals for a nation, whose good, inoffensive temper seemed highly to deserve such a present. We found this man and his family at the huts where we had first seen him; and captain Cook having delivered the pigs to him, each of us contributed his mite of knowledge of the language, in order to make it intelligible to him, that the propagation of these animals would supply him, in course of time, with constant food, and that they deserved to be carefully nursed. He, as well as the whole family, were surprised at the sight of these creatures, and at first expressed so much dislike and dread of them, that they made signs to us to take them back. We now redoubled our efforts to convince them of their error, and at last prevailed upon them to keep the pigs. It must be allowed, that swine are far from being well-looking quadrupeds, and that those who have never seen an animal of that class, cannot be supposed to like them at first sight. Men seem to have had recourse to animal food through necessity at first, as the depriving any creature of life is an act of violence, which demands a powerful cause, before it is made familiar by habit. When they had the choice, it should seem that such ill-looking animals as hogs were commonly rejected, till a more urgent opportunity proved, that, in spite of their appearance, their flesh was as delicious as that of sheep and oxen. The poor natives of New Caledonia had hitherto tasted no other animal food than fish and birds, and therefore the introduction of a quadruped into their œconomy, could not fail to surprise them. G. Forster (2000), A Voyage round the World, pp. 556–587

Systems of Government That simplicity which is remarkable in their domestic life, cannot fail to be conspicuous in their government, Teàbooma was acknowledged as a chief in the district opposite the ship’s anchoring-place; but the poverty of the country did not afford him great and exclusive advantages, and luxury being hitherto unknown, he lived like the rest of his countrymen. Among a people so simple we cannot expect exterior marks of deference; and the only act which seemed to indicate a certain degree of homage on their part, consisted in delivering to the chief, the presents which they had received from Mr. Pickersgill at their first interview.

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View in the Island of New Caledonia. (J. Cook [1777], pp. 110–111) The curiously romantic setting of Hodges’ painting of the Isle of Pines was executed after the fact from a glimpse of this island through an eyeglass as the ship sailed past.

The neighbouring districts are not under the government of Teàbooma, and probably have their own chiefs; or perhaps each family forms a little kingdom of its own, which is directed by its patriarch, as must be the case in all infant states. G. Forster (2000), A Voyage round the World, p. 593

Chapter Seven

D’Entrecasteaux A Negative Account of Balade, 1792

On September 29, 1791, two ships left Brest Harbour in Brittany, France, bound for the Pacific Ocean. La Recherche was commanded by Contre-Amiral Bruny d’Entrecasteaux, leader of the expedition, and L’Espérance by Huon de Kermadec. On board both ships was a complement of ‘savants’ to carry out the necessary observations now considered an essential part of all such voyages. These scientists and scholars included Charles Beautemps-Beaupré, engineer and hydrographer whose meticulous charts were lasting evidence of the mission’s successes, and Jacques-Julien de La Billardière, both doctor and botanist who was the principal naturalist of the expedition. With the ships went the hopes and fears of the navy and the National Assembly, for their main mission was to recover information as to the whereabouts of M. de La Pérouse, who had himself left Brest in 1785 in command of the ships La Boussole and L’Astrolabe. Nothing had been heard of La Pérouse since he left Botany Bay, New Holland (Australia), on March 10, 1788. Disquiet had been growing, and it was finally decided to send the d’Entrecasteaux expedition to ascertain what had befallen the captain. And so the instructions to d’Entrecasteaux commanded him to retrace, as closely as possible, the path of La Pérouse and to uncover whatever information could be found concerning his fate. These instructions tell us that there was at least a double objective for the expedition: to search for La Pérouse and to conduct a scientifically driven exploration of any lands and seas that might be discovered in the course of his voyage. The ships set sail from a country in political and social turmoil. France was in the middle of a revolution, and the ships’ crews represented a microcosm of the France left behind, with monarchists and republicans living side by side. 104

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Enthusiasm for the voyage was virtually unanimous, as the expedition of La Pérouse had been a source of national pride. Also, the French had an eye on the English discoveries and colony formation in Australia. The ancien régime had launched the La Pérouse trip, but the National Assembly was also happy to send ships to recover what could be recovered. Before his disappearance, progress reports from La Pérouse had arrived in France, where the literate population had been reading them avidly. Botanical and zoological specimens and geological and cartological data were also expected from these expeditions. The two ships of the d’Entrecasteaux expedition visited New Caledonia twice. In 1792 they charted the western coastline of the island and its array of reefs with great care, but failed to find a gap in the reef through which they could pass. The ships returned in 1793 from Van Diemen’s Land in order to explore the Balade region, where, they reasoned, La Pérouse himself may have anchored. D’Entrecasteaux’s Narrative of ‘Discovery’ The French expedition knew the Cook accounts. There had been a translation into French of Cook’s journal, published in Paris in 1778, about one year after the publication of the English original. So it was with surprise that the French found the reception given to them in New Caledonia, where the ships anchored for twenty-two days, differed greatly from the impressions recorded by Cook and his crew eighteen years earlier. Many scholars have attempted to explain this difference. In contrast to Cook, d’Entrecasteaux and his companions were disgusted by what they saw as incontrovertible evidence of cannibalism, and this coloured all their subsequent observations. The French initially deduced that lack of food had driven the natives to this extreme. New Caledonia presented formidable difficulties to the French sailors. The seas surrounding it were strewn with uncharted reefs, the winds were strong and unfavourable, and the inhabitants, themselves needy, were unable to provide supplies of fresh food. Indeed, all the French accounts describe the natives of Balade as very thin and malnourished. It could be that the strongly negative impressions of New Caledonia and its inhabitants expressed by these early French visitors were coloured by the failures and difficulties of the expedition thus far. No trace had been found of La Pérouse. D’Entrecasteaux’s great friend and fellow commander, Huon de Kermadec, died at Balade and was buried there hastily, at night, with no mark on his grave, for fear the natives would

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find his remains. The Kanak made no attempt to disguise from the sailors the fact that they consumed human flesh, and the fear of being cannibalized (the concern for Bougainville’s fate) appears to have been a major preoccupation for the visitors. The Kanak were further considered to be prone to thievery, meaning that whilst ashore the crews were constantly on the alert. Initially unprepared for what appears to be a hostile reception, the French quickly determined that when they went ashore in strength, or were accompanied by heavily armed soldiers, the Kanak left them in peace. Unpremeditated, opportunistic attacks seemed to occur whenever the French were few in number or arms. Seeking Information in the Footsteps of La Pérouse We sought information to endeavour to learn whether the inhabitants of New Caledonia had seen any European ships on their coasts. We were led to believe that they remembered Captain Cook; but I would not swear by it: besides we did not see any of the objects that he claimed to have left on their island. However, the eagerness which these islanders demonstrated to acquire axes, for which they had the same name as the inhabitants of the Friendly Isles, seemed to indicate that the knowledge they had of them had been given by Cook, and that the navigator had also taught them that name. In general, they attached very great importance to iron, and they appeared to us to understand its value. During one of the excursions that were made to the summit of one of the mountains close to our anchorage, the natives told us that two ships had been seen near the western coast. Although we did not have a definite idea of the time when these ships had been seen, it seemed to me however, that they were talking about our own frigates, but that is all we were able to learn from them. We did not know their language well enough for us to uncover more information. Nevertheless, we were able to gather an understanding of several words during our stay; but we never understood a sufficiently large number of them to succeed in forming sentences. In New Caledonia even more so than in the Friendly Isles, the islanders have the habit of repeating the words that they hear spoken, and to say élo that is to say, yes; our first thoughts had been that we had understood each other: but greater experience taught us that we had to be very careful about giving too much credence to the first pieces of information we gained from them. This habit, which is almost universal amongst the peoples of the great ocean, must have caused the misunderstandings and contradictions that can be found in the ac-

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counts of various voyagers, who, having made only a very brief stay at a similar island did not have the time to rectify the false notions that they first received. Several people who made vocabularies of the Balade language appeared convinced, contrary to the opinion of Captain Cook, that the whole island is named Balade. They reached this conclusion when, on top of one of the mountains near our anchorage, several of their guides indicated ‘Balade’ in all directions, and taught them at the same time the name of several islands, such as Balabéa, Cook’s Observatory Island, that they called Bouguioué etc., making a clear distinction between those which were inhabited, and those which were not. E. de Rossel (1808), Voyage de d’Entrecasteaux envoyé à la recherche de La Pérouse, pp. 347–348

Portrait of Bruny d’Entrecasteaux. Lithograph by Antoine Maurin (1793–1860), printed by Lemercier, 1837, Mitchell Library, New South Wales. (E. and M. Duyker [2001], Voyage to Australia and the Pacific)

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Assessment of the State of the People We decided that the inhabitants were at war during our stay at Balade, or that hostilities had just ceased, because we saw a great number of men with recent wounds. Besides, the human flesh that we saw them eat, which could only be that of their enemies, suggested that the hostilities were fairly recent; we could not suppose that they would be so cruel as to keep their victims alive for long; the hunger which stalks them would not permit them this barbarous refinement, the very idea of which brings a shudder. I am inclined to believe that the goods left by Captain Cook at Balade had brought war upon the inhabitants of this area; and that this war had not gone well for them, since they retained nothing which they had received as presents or as barter. Our sojourn could be equally disastrous to them. Indeed, the various items that Europeans give to the people that they visit must excite jealousy and envy from those who have received nothing, and incite bloody wars. The spoils gained from these wars, whose single goal is to remove from a tribe goods to which the neighbouring tribe has no rights, cannot be considered as anything other than public theft perpetrated with violence. This must create the taste for private theft: perhaps this is one of the causes of the introduction of this vice among the inhabitants of New Caledonia, if they were really free of it when Cook visited them. A fairly large number of abandoned huts tended to confirm our belief that some scourge had afflicted this land; the signs of devastation, which were encountered at every turn, led me to believe that this affliction was that of war. Extremes of misery were particularly evident in the interior of the land; the women and children we met there were mere skeletons: it was a sight that aroused compassion. E. de Rossel (1808), Voyage de d’Entrecasteaux envoyé à la recherche de La Pérouse, pp. 354–355

Leaving Balade The paucity of resources that this island offers, the surrounding reefs, the ferocity of the inhabitants, even the difficulty of finding water although it is fairly abundant there, all these serve to keep navigators away. Had it not been for the attempt to discover some trace of M. de la Pérouse, I would not have returned a second time; but having been prevented from landing last year by the continuation of the reef west-

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wards, it was necessary to return to assure ourselves that this was not the same reef on which M. de la Pérouse had been shipwrecked. From the accounts of Captain Cook and Mr. Forster, I had attributed the mild and simple customs that I believed they possessed and the tranquillity I presumed that they enjoyed, to this truly unusual situation that seems to isolate these islanders from the rest of the world and must protect them from the invariably fatal visits of strangers. But from the time we became acquainted with this barbaric people, I discovered that the barrier surrounding them serves to contain them within their borders, and prevents others being eaten by them. That is the fate which must befall unfortunate navigators shipwrecked on such a perilous coastline, who would be forced to seek asylum amongst these ferocious savages. E. de Rossel (1808), Voyage de d’Entrecasteaux envoyé à la recherche de La Pérouse, pp. 358–355

Chapter Eight

La Billardière Observations of a French Naturalist

La Recherche and L’Espérance. Watercolour by Frédéric Roux (1805–1870). Album de l’amiral Willaumez, 1827. (E. and M. Duyker [2001], Voyage to Australia and the Pacific) 110

La Billardière  |  111 I have noticed with astonishment in the course of the various interactions which we have had with these Savages that the authority of the chiefs seemed virtually nonexistent; but I was less surprised to see them exercise sufficiently great power when their own interests were at stake; for most of the time they seized upon the articles which their subjects had received from us. J. La Billardière (1798), Relation du voyage à la recherche de La Pérouse fait par l’Ordre de l’Assemblé Constituants pendant les années 1791, 1792, p. 246.

The naturalist with the d’Entrecasteaux expedition, Jacques Julien de La Billardière, displayed the same assiduous attitude to specimen gathering as had his counterparts on the Resolution. At every opportunity he set off on expeditions along the shore and over the mountains that separated the coast where the ships anchored from the Diahot Valley that lay beyond. La Billardière is credited with the discovery of the n’bouet, or hache ostensoir, as the French termed this ceremonial weapon. One Kanak gave a graphic demonstration to an avid audience of sailors of this instrument’s use in the ritual preparation of human flesh for consumption. La Billardière insists particularly on the unusual sources of nourishment to which the inhabitants had recourse. He describes their habit of eating spiders and recounts in fascinated detail the widespread practice of eating steatite—a type of soft, spongy earth with no food value whose sole purpose, he postulated, was to assuage pangs of hunger. The dry season seemed to have extended to a drought, and the lack of food to have been exacerbated by war. D’Entrecasteaux records the extreme thinness and wretchedness of the women and children seen farther inland. The French and the English accounts both record puzzlement at the seeming lack of authority wielded by the ‘chiefs’. La Billardière’s account presents the chief’s prerogatives of precedence in a somewhat negative frame of self-interested behaviour, unable to account for the paradox of the lack of outward trappings of preeminence and the prerogatives of the chief. La Billardière’s use of rhetorical devices, including circumlocutions, to criticise the observed society indirectly recall those of Georg Forster, who, also noting the unsophisticated nature of authority and political organisation, observes that the “simplicity which is remark-

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able in their domestic life cannot fail to be conspicuous on their government” (Forster 2000, 593). Forster adds that Tea Booma, the ‘chief’, had no great and exclusive advantages, living as he did in the same conditions as his countrymen. As in the case of Cook, the French visitors of the eighteenth century had limited ways of understanding the complex hierarchical systems and responses they encountered. Their conclusions were based on European models and understandings and a short period of contact with and observation of the inhabitants. Even so, despite the difficulties with communication due to the European sailors’ lack of understanding of Melanesian languages, and despite the inevitable Eurocentrism of these texts, the amount of information recorded, both through description and conjecture, is quite remarkable. The attempts to explain the differences in the portraits painted by Cook and the Forsters in 1774 and by d’Entrecasteaux and La Billardière less than nineteen years later reveal the extent to which these accounts of early exploration, far from being simply factual reports or scientific accounts, are in fact literary and rhetorical texts. These texts are the product of the circumstances of exploration and the ‘new’ and curious ‘natural’ peoples observed, but also of conventions of style and the expectations of particular readers. Apparent infractions of European law or morality, such as cannibalism and theft, are thus recurring topics. It is this literary aspect, their openness to more than one reading, the information inscribed indirectly or to be found in these texts by reading between and behind the lines on the page, that constitutes them as founding texts of any New Caledonian cultural history. Expedition’s Progress During our stay in New Caledonia we were not able to gather any information about the fate of the unfortunate navigators who were the object of our search. However it is not unreasonable to believe that this dangerous and almost inaccessible land has been fatal for them. It is known that La Pérouse was to have reconnoitred the western coast and a shudder of horror is felt when considering the fate that befalls unhappy voyagers who are forced by shipwreck to seek refuge amongst the cannibals living there. J. La Billardière (1798), Relation du voyage à la recherche de La Pérouse fait par l’Ordre de l’Assemblé Constituants pendant les années 1791, 1792, pp. 247–248.

Kanak man. (La Billardière [1971], Voyage in Search of La Pérouse, plate 35)

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Cannibalism When we were half way up the mountain, the natives who were following us urged us not to go any further and warned us that the inhabitants on the other side of this chain of mountains would eat us. However we continued to climb as far as the summit, for we were sufficiently well armed not to fear these cannibals. J. La Billardière (1798), Relation du voyage à la recherche de La Pérouse fait par l’Ordre de l’Assemblé Constituants pendant les années 1791, 1792, pp. 197–198

Undoubtedly they wanted us to understand that they only devoured their enemies; how would it have been possible to meet so many inhabitants on these lands, if hunger were the only cause for their decision to eat each other. J. La Billardière (1798), Relation du voyage à la recherche de La Pérouse fait par l’Ordre de l’Assemblé Constituants pendant les années 1791, 1792, p. 195

Chief ly Authority I have noticed with astonishment in the course of the various interactions which we have had with these Savages that the authority of the chiefs seemed virtually nonexistent; but I was less surprised to see them exercise sufficiently great power when their own interests were at stake; for most of the time they seized upon the articles which their subjects had received from us. J. La Billardière (1798), Relation du voyage à la recherche de La Pérouse fait par l’Ordre de l’Assemblé Constituants pendant les années 1791, 1792, p. 246

Theft On returning to our landing place, we found more than seven hundred natives who had gathered from every direction. They asked us for cloth and iron in exchange for their personal effects, and soon a number of them proved to be the cheekiest of thieves. Of their varied repertoire of ruses, I will describe just one that was played on me by two of these rogues. One offered to sell me a little bag worn at his waist containing

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Jacques-Julien Houton de La Billardière. Lithograph by Langlume after a portrait by Alexis Nicolas Noël (1792– 1871). (E. and M. Duyker [2001], Voyage to Australia and the Pacific)

some stones fashioned into oval shapes. No sooner had he untied it and made as if to give it to me with one hand while receiving our agreed price with the other, than at the same time, another Savage, who had positioned himself behind me, let out a loud cry making me turn my head towards him. Immediately the first rogue ran off with his bag and my things, trying to hide himself in the crowd. We did not wish to punish him, even though most of us carried firearms. However it was to be feared that these people would regard this act of benevolence as a sign of weakness and become more insolent still. What happened a little later seemed to confirm this. Several of them were so bold as to throw stones at an officer who was no more than two hundred paces from us. Once again, we did not wish to deal harshly with them; Forster’s account had painted them so favourably we needed still more factual evidence to destroy the good opinion that we had formed as to the mildness of their nature; however we soon had incontestable proof of their savagery. One of them came up to Citizen Piron holding a freshly cooked bone and was in the process of devouring the remains of the flesh still attached. The Savage offered to share his meal; Piron, believing that he was being offered a piece of some quadruped, accepted the bone on which only some gristle remained. When he showed it to me, I recognised it as the pelvis

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Kanak woman. (La Billardière [1971], Voyage in Search of La Pérouse, plate 36)

of a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old child. The natives who were gathering around us indicated the position of this bone on a child; they readily acknowledged that the flesh that had covered it had served as a meal for one of the islanders, and they even gave us to understand that they considered it a very tasty cut. This discovery gave us great concern for the crew members who were still in the woods; a little later, however, we were happy and relieved

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to find ourselves all assembled together in the same spot, no longer fearing that one of our crew had fallen victim to the barbarity of these islanders. J. La Billardière (1798), Relation du voyage à la recherche de La Pérouse fait par l’Ordre de l’Assemblé Constituants pendant les années 1791, 1792, pp. 190–191

Chapter Nine

Nineteenth-Century Perspectives

Eugène Vieillard and Èmile Deplanche France took possession of New Caledonia sixty years after the visit to Balade by d’Entrecasteaux. The beginnings of colonialism in New Caledonia, following the prise de possession in 1853, were slow and faltering. In the context of French history, the young colony seemed a marginal proposition and was far away, small, and easily forgotten (Merle 1995). During the reign of Louis-Philippe, Contre-Amiral DupetitThouars had been instructed by the retiring Minister of the Marine to take possession of New Caledonia. This was effected at Balade in 1843; however, the action was not ratified by France both for economic reasons and for fear of upsetting the English. Dupetit-Thouars was recalled. Ten years later, the French flag was raised again in New Caledonia by Contre-Amiral Febvrier-Despointes. The motivation this time was the desire to establish a penal colony. In 1854 the seat of power was transferred from Balade to Port-de-France (Nouméa). In fact, from 1854 to 1860 New Caledonia was administered from Tahiti. Growth in the new colony was very slow and clustered around Port-de-France. A few military posts protected the missions and the small number of settlers who traded in sandalwood, coconut oil, tortoise shell, and bêche de mer. In 1860 there were around a hundred white settlers in the country, and not all were French. The surveying of land for settler concessions provoked attacks by the local tribes, perpetuating the fierce reputation of the Kanak. The colony began to grow when separated administratively from Tahiti and with the arrival of convicts. By 1870 the European population, excluding soldiers and convicts and those on short-term tours of duty, had risen to around thirteen hundred. About twenty-five thousand convicts were transported 118

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to this distant island by the French judicial system, and most of these were required to remain after their prison term had been served. It was against this early colonial background that a collection of essays by Eugène Vieillard and Èmile Deplanche appeared in France in 1863. Both hailing from Normandy, they lived in isolated posts where they dispensed medical treatment to soldiers, settlers, and Kanak. Like the accounts of the eighteenth-century ‘scientific’ explorers, their reports focused on a custom that had, since Montaigne’s sixteenth-century text “On Cannibals”, remained a major object of fascination, if not a fetish, for Europe: “We have visited tribes where Whites were eaten a week after our passing through, whilst we had been received with perfect civility” (Vieillard and Deplanche 2001, xvi). Given their official capacities as navy doctors, armed forces gave them protection from such threats in remote areas of the colony. Vieillard and Deplanche were keen naturalists and, as with the first French explorers before them, reported their findings and observations with honesty, scientific rigour, and a talent for detailed observation. But of course they, too, drew upon European notions to understand the Kanak behaviour and customs they observed. For example, concepts such as private property and individual ownership or title frame their descriptions of land ownership, as the authors grapple with the unfamiliar by relating it back to the familiar. The complex structures of land ‘ownership’ within Kanak society are not elucidated by their accounts, but a moral is drawn indirectly as each essay allows the authors to be critics of the Kanak society they observed from experience, but as outsiders. Perhaps by giving expression to the perceived inadequacy of the Kanak system by comparison to the familiar European model, these writers prepared the ground for the future confiscation of Kanak land. The depth of detail of their work nonetheless places it in a different category from the picaresque chronicles of whalers and other seafarers or the philosophising texts of scientists who had not experienced life in the colony firsthand. Accounts of sustained lived experience also distinguish their work from the necessarily more superficial observations made by Cook and d’Entrecasteaux in the previous century. Any myths of the eighteenth-century ‘Noble Savage’ exploded by close-hand experience are now eclipsed by nineteenth-century enthusiasms for imperial enterprises, applied science, and social reform. Vieillard and Deplanche’s Essai ranges widely and comprehensively across the nineteenth-century New Caledonian landscape, encompassing the

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physical landscape, geology, climate, and soil, and including seventeen essays on the Kanak people, their character, religious practices, feasts, illnesses, funeral practices, the status of women and marriage, hunting practices, and food preparation. During the passage of time since the first tense encounters between Kanak and European in the eighteenth century, the frames of reference with which the European observers viewed New Caledonia had changed dramatically. What was seen as an unknown and utterly alien new land for discovery and exploration, although still largely unknown and often dangerous, was now a colony of settlement where the French flag flew and where settlers were established, albeit precariously in many cases. The demands of these nineteenth-century Frenchmen on the land and its people were much more complex than those of the first découvreurs; after all, they were establishing a new colony. The questions of land ownership assume central place. Scientist-explorers such as Vieillard and Deplanche showed great interest in the local environment and realised the need to understand the psyche of the Kanak intimately, so as to facilitate living in close proximity and the advance of the ‘civilising mission’. Their impressions also represent the dawning of ethnological awareness. There is no evidence that such an understanding was shared by most of the local French population, as the

19th Century Views of Kanak, Collection Nicolas-Frédéric Hagen. (ANC)

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colonial imperative was preeminently to subdue both the land and its inhabitants to a European order. As Frédéric Angleviel (2005) has demonstrated, historians and observers from outside manifested greater interest in the ‘original people’ than those who came to settle. The refusal to acknowledge the presence of the people they displaced and their culture legitimized the colonists’ position. Land and Land Ownership Territorial boundaries between each tribal area are clearly defined; arable land is under the supreme authority of the chiefs; it is divided up amongst them, and they sometimes reserve the largest portion for themselves; another portion is in the hands of the nobility, and the rest, reserved for the needs of the tribe in general, is not owned by anyone exclusively; and so is a sort of communal property. Land is passed down to the children; the eldest inherits all the land as of right; nevertheless there is sometimes a division between several heirs. It is often exchanged either for other land, or for gifts. A few women, especially those who belong to chiefs, enjoy certain property rights, which however are never as extensive as those of the men. Land, as we have said, is under the authority of the chiefs; they have supreme control over all of it; however, this entitlement carries certain restrictions in the case of the domains of lesser chiefs, and for such land to change hands, the high chiefs must obtain the agreement of the real owner. Is this a case of true ownership that even the high chief cannot ignore, or is it just a matter of not offending the sensibilities of his inferior? At the time of the occupation of the territory at Balade, the site where the fort was built belonged to a lesser chief from Wombane. Although the Téama had agreed to the concession, it was necessary to obtain authorisation from this lesser chief, who received the compensation, at least most of it. Property rights are so inherent to the New Caledonians’ thinking that they are exceptionally good at asserting them. In 1855, Captain Edwards, who traded in sandalwood along the coast, was anchored in the bay of Baiaup. Taking advantage of some free time, his sailors set about prospecting at the edge of the river, hoping to find some gold. After digging out and washing a little sand, one of them produced two almost imperceptible flecks of gold and held them out on the tip of his finger. Several natives were watching the goings-on; one of them, Traughan, seeing this gold, forbade the English to continue their search, telling them:

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“You are on my land, and this money is on my land; this moni belongs to me.” Things became rather heated and it took the intervention of the Fathers to prevent a fight. Throughout his life, Traughan never excavated anything, but always argued his right to stop anyone else who set out to do so. And as for the gold discovery, although the flecks of gold were real, the find was merely a bad joke played by one of the sailors. A stranger who settles with the tribe cannot possess land without authorisation from the chief, who assigns to him land that he may cultivate. Like the others, he is constrained by tribal law, and the chief can exercise over him all the just and unjust prerogatives he has in his power. An English sandalwood trader called Djemy settled at Ienghen with the permission of the chief Buarat, in order to extract coconut oil. Having produced a fairly large amount, he was about to go and sell it when Buarat intervened and claimed half. Djemy pointed out that as he had paid for the coconuts, the demand was unjust. But to that Buarat replied that, as Djemy lived amongst his people, he was his subject, and therefore constrained by the same laws as the others; that in demanding half of the produce he was extracting no more than his due. Djemy did not greatly appreciate his explanation; seeing this Buarat added, “It is good of me to bargain with you, you know, when I can take everything and have you killed; leave my land quick smart or watch out!” Djemy heeded the warning and hastened to depart, and Buarat himself kept the oil, which he used to his own advantage. E. Vieillard and È. Deplanche (2001), Essai sur la Nouvelle-Calédonie, pp. 72–74

The Character of the New Caledonians  ◙ Like all the uncivilised people of Melanesia, the New Caledonians are vain, deceitful, lazy and mendacious; they are vindictive and cruel, and they can be seen to sacrifice a stranger, a woman or a child with the lightest of hearts. They are arch dissemblers, and if they are in too weak a position to take revenge at the time, they will conceal their anger, hiding it away inside, seemingly unaffected by the insult; but should a favourable opportunity present itself, even after several years, they hasten to seize upon it, and the longer they have waited, the more terrible is their vengeance. One cannot be too cautious regarding their flattery, their protestations of friendship, especially if there have been difficulties with them in the past; these protestations always conceal some unsuspected trap.

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Self-interest and fear seem to be the two motives for their actions; in their eyes leniency and goodness are signs of weakness, and their shameless abuse of your complaisance will often put you in the most extreme situations. But if you know how to make yourself feared, while at the same time acting justly towards them, then you will have many friends, you will be respected, you will receive gifts; and they will come to you and say, quite naively: “We give you gifts because you make much fear in our bellies.” M. Chassériau, officer in command at the Balade outpost, complained one day to the chief of the Puma tribe about the insolence of the inhabitants of Bondé, to which the latter replied: “You want to be good like a father to us; that’s bad, we’re only good when we’re really afraid. Kill, and the Bondé people will not be insolent.” Is this to indicate that we should despair of bringing this people to a better situation? No. The New Caledonian is too intelligent not to understand the benefits of civilisation; he already appreciates the consequences of it, and if up until now, we have not been able to induce him to abandon certain customs, there exist various explanations for this negative result. It is necessary for the future of our colony, and also for humanitarian reasons, to win over this people; the task will be difficult, it is true, but certainly not impossible. Above all it will be achieved by treating them with kindness whilst maintaining a just but strict severity, by ensuring that they participate in our works, by paying them a salary, and above all by obtaining guarantees from the chiefs that this remuneration not be taken away from them. As soon as we set about creating farming communities, a large number of natives should be attached to them as assistant workers, chosen especially from amongst the young men; they would then form an impression of our methods of cultivation, they would see the advantages to be had from raising cattle; they would seek to raise some themselves, and soon we would see the disappearance of anthropophagy, this scourge of societies in the natural state. E. Vieillard and È. Deplanche (2001), Essai sur la Nouvelle-Calédonie, pp. 22–23

Political Organisation Power is hereditary, but it is not always the eldest son who replaces the father; the latter can designate at will, which of his children should succeed him. In all tribes, Salic law applies and an infraction of this law

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led to a major power struggle on the Isle of Pines in 1856. At that time, a chief by the name of Vandega governed the island. The missionaries, who had been warmly welcomed by him, lost no time in exercising a certain degree of influence over his mind, which they then used to further their own interests. Vandega fell mortally ill; it is said that on the point of death, he asked to be baptised. But there was an obstacle to his dying wish; like all chiefs he had several wives; on being forced to recognise one of them as his legitimate wife and thereby repudiate the others, he was most embarrassed, for he loved them all equally, or rather he bore the same indifference towards them all. Well, suffice it to say that in the end, somehow or other he made his decision, and designated as his wife and legitimate spouse, the mother of a little girl whom he recognised as the heir to his power, to the exclusion of her brothers. But anyone who has lived for any length of time amongst the New Caledonian tribes, and who knows the contempt which the men have for their women, will never believe that a chief raised with such ideas, could, of his own volition, have instigated such a revolution in tribal customs. If one wishes to seek for the causes which led to such a result, one finds them in the dispositions of the natural heir of the deceased chief, a man of remarkable intelligence, but who, without opposing the development of the new beliefs, refused to embrace them himself. A faction supporting him formed, turmoil broke out on the island, and nothing less than the intervention of the French authorities was needed to maintain the young Queen in place. E. Vieillard and È. Deplanche (2001), Essai sur la Nouvelle-Calédonie, p. 66

Louis Thiercelin, Traveller and Raconteur Whilst Vieillard and Deplanche concentrated their gaze on the flora, fauna, and what they saw as the childlike behaviour or male-dominated political organisation of Kanak society in the 1860s, Dr. Louis Thiercelin’s publication painted on the wider canvas of the Pacific Ocean. Thiercelin, too, was a medical doctor whose position on a whaling ship inspired a lifelong love of travel and adventure. Thiercelin’s narrative begins in characteristically conversational fashion: “Who hasn’t heard of New Caledonia, by repute at least, since the French took possession of it in September 1853?” The verbs he chooses to express annexation (“took possession” or “got hold of”, “possessed itself of”) express a certain and curious aggression. Thiercelin

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himself visited New Caledonia for the first and only time around 1863, and the first chapter of his book Journal d’un Baleinier, Voyages en Océanie, published in 1866, introduces his reader to the capital, Nouméa. Thiercelin’s account includes wide-ranging comments about the state of the colony as he saw it, and reflections on colonialism in general, especially on French colonialism in comparison with the colonial enterprises of England. The book is peppered with his views on the English, and reference to the obvious rivalry that he felt existed between the two nations recurs throughout the narrative. Alive to the issues of his day— colonialism, commerce, and the application of science to the service of man—Thiercelin’s journal raises these issues as they are played out in the Pacific countries he visits. He shares assumptions of European superiority with Vieillard and Deplanche, and his observations concerning the native populations he encounters, their hierarchies, and behaviours are again ethnocentric, with Europe, the model, now set clearly at the pinnacle of civilisation. One example of this view is found in his description of a canoe containing two black men and a white man approaching the ship as he arrives at Iande. Thiercelin inevitably has recourse to the stereotype, using the epithets “fierce”, “cannibal”, and “savage” to describe these Kanak as one of “the fierce inhabitants of Iande, only yesterday cannibals” (1866, 269). It transpires that the white man is an Englishman who had made his “home sweet home” amongst the Iande people and had a Kanak wife. Thiercelin launches into a long discourse about what the white man can teach the black man, resorting, as an educated man, to classical allusions to embellish his point: “May we not see a new Apollo in this rough sailor, much superior to those around him, thrust out from Olympus and giving these savages their first lessons in agriculture, science and art?” (1866, 269). This is, however, a more positive view on métissage than will prevail in later texts by colonial writers, where biological and cultural mixing are invariably a source of degeneracy. A man of his time, Thiercelin enthusiastically adopted the ideals of colonial expansion and French exploitation of the resources of its colonies for the purposes of colonial and penal settlements and trade. He was, however, also something of a free spirit, and expresses some exasperation with the bureaucratic attitudes of the French authorities. A comparison between Thiercelin’s attitudes towards Kanak and the New Caledonian environment and those of the eighteenth-century explorers suggests that the countryside was being observed with new, more calculating eyes, and with a more practical view of its potential

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for development than was expressed by the first so-called ‘discoverers’. Thiercelin is unquestionably Eurocentric in his views, but nonetheless, as in the work of Vieillard and Deplanche, we can trace in his writings the beginnings of an understanding of the effects of colonialism and a disregard for the rights of indigenous peoples who are reduced, as the contemporary Kanak politician and writer Déwé Gorodé would put it, to “nothing”. This impact is viewed phlegmatically within the common ideological frames of the period as an inevitable consequence of the advance of superior European civilisation. The written records of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century encounters form a unique contribution to our ‘knowledge’ of first contacts with the Kanak world and what made up these accounts—that is, how the explorers saw (their frames of reference), what they saw, and, to some extent, what they were unable to see or say. The attitudes and outlook of the European explorers of this time are redolent with Eurocentric myths, presuppositions, and judgments. Some of the myths of the time—the idea of the ‘Noble Savage’, for example—were discredited by the evidence of the eighteenth-century explorers themselves, and their creeping disillusionment. The principles of reciprocity and continuity later found to structure the beliefs of Kanak society were beyond the explorers’ immediate understanding; language difficulties in the eighteenth century meant that any in-depth communication was limited or nonexistent. There was no real equivalent of the self-conscious enterprise of contemporary postcolonial thinking, which, in critiquing the unequal power relations inherent in colonial discourse, attempts to open up the understanding of the encounter to include the excluded point of view of the Other, looking or writing back to the Empire. The early accounts have been taken by historians as eyewitness testimony of the meeting “of two branches of the human race who were unaware of one another and who had evolved differently”, as Bernard Brou puts it in his “Préambule” to Pisier’s history (Pisier 1974). In the postcolonial era, rereadings of these explorers’ texts do not diminish the respect owed the restless spirit of inquiry or the detail of careful observation, but they allow the frames in which they were written and the absence of the Other’s voice to be made visible and thus alter our reception of the original accounts. This revisiting also permits some teasing out of information concerning Kanak customs and beliefs, some approximation of the misrecognised Kanak gaze (back) in the explorers’ mirror. The texts of the nineteenth-century colonial writers will also make some attempt to capture that gaze.

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Description of the People The Regent whom I have already spoken about is a beautiful specimen, unfortunately too rare in the country. However amongst the nobles, men of good height and impeccable form are found fairly often; but he was so superb as to be exceptional even for his own class. The commoners, who I saw at the oil plant and at the mission, were so inferior to this chief that they seemed to belong to another race. Their faces were generally frightfully ugly, with horribly wide mouths, pointed teeth, flattened noses, and foreheads that were low, without being too receding. Their wiry, frizzy hair had a tawny or reddish tinge which made them uglier still. [ . . . ] And as far as ugliness is concerned, the women whom I saw when I first arrived were every bit a match for the men. Their faces were hideous, their drooping breasts like bladders half filled with water, their stomachs were wrinkled like the skin of an elephant, their limbs spindly, thin and dirty. L. Thiercelin (1866), Journal d’un Baleinier, 1:311–312

Ownership of Coconuts We had little in the way of fresh supplies, so the captains decided to supplement them by harvesting some coconuts on the beach alongside the anchorage. Four boats made this short expedition and soon returned loaded to the gunwales. I made a few observations about the impertinent nature of such an undertaking; I declared that the fruits of Caledonia were someone’s property, just as in France; I observed that if the Caledonians were to go and fill their canoes with Normandy apples or Gascony grapes, they would be given a poor reception; no one took the slightest notice of my remarks; they even laughed in my face. My words were utterly futile. [ . . . ] Such disdain for ownership is a disaster in the making for it gives the savages the wrong idea about the nature of good and evil and incites them to acts of vengeance; it encourages their natural penchant for theft, and makes the unsuspecting victims who arrive later, pay for the crimes of the real culprits, who escaped punishment because of superior force or a prompt departure. L. Thiercelin (1866), Journal d’un Baleinier, 1:314–315

Part III

Early Texts Missionaries, Settlers, Convicts, and Kanak

Engraved bamboo (detail). (MNC)

Compulsory Labour, Y. Bouquet. Yvette Bouquet (b. Koumac, 1955) draws on ancient petroglyphs for inspiration, ancient forms that link her to wider Polynesia and the Pacific. Her visual language pays homage to the past, portraying Kanak oral culture as well as family history and the legacy of colonialism. Contemporary themes illustrate the ambivalence of modernity and the changing roles of women alongside social problems such as alcoholism. (ADCK)

Chapter Ten

Colonial Representations of Kanak Culture

The work of early colonial writers constitutes the first body of written New Caledonian literature. More particularly, it provides a rich source of information on the customs and attitudes of the settlers. Colonial texts illustrate the complexity of relationships with other settlers, with the colonial authorities, with the indigenous people, and with a land at once a new homeland and a place of exile. They reveal both individually coloured and collectively shared attitudes towards the people whose culture they were displacing, and whose land they were often appropriating. The history of the colonisation of New Caledonia began in 1853, when France took possession of the main island, deciding to use it as a penal colony. Considerable political discussion preceded the final decision, but the territory seemed ideal for the purpose. There was a large main island and many smaller islands far from France and eighteen hundred kilometres from the nearest land mass, Australia, thus making escape impossible. The climate was tropical but more temperate than that of the French penal colony in Guyana, where the harsh climate had resulted in a climbing death rate, from 13 percent to 25 percent, in the first four years. The Caledonian land seemed fertile, and the texts of Jules Garnier, explorer and prospector in the early years of the colony, confidently predicted that with European husbandry the plains would become prairies and rice fields. Possession of the islands would also give France a foothold in the South Pacific, where the British presence was substantial. The British transportation experiment in Australia was appealing, with its expectation that an arid land would be transformed into a prosperous colony. Unlike the British system, however, which allowed those who had served their sentence to return to 131

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Great Britain, the French system proposed lifelong exile for those who had been given a life sentence, but with the possibility of a land concession for deportees who had completed their sentences. Prisoners would construct the buildings, the roads, and other essential services, and released convicts could become industrious farmers in the outlying districts. In all, a penal colony in New Caledonia, with its promise of rehabilitation, seemed to be a practical, humanitarian, and politically expedient solution to the burgeoning prison population in France. During the political discussions that preceded the final decision, the fact that there was already an indigenous people living in the land seemed to be of little, if any, relevance. The islands were sparsely populated, and in 1857 the first governor, Du Bouzet, pointed out that he had been able to proceed with the establishment of Port de France (later renamed Nouméa) as if there were no inhabitants. He predicted that if the immigrants went farther afield to establish settlements or mines, the local people would be readily won over by a friendly approach. The first convicts were sent to New Caledonia in 1864. Ships came and went, carrying more than twenty thousand people to the new land until 1897, when transportation ended. The first to be selected were those who had been sentenced to hard labour and whose skills might be useful: young, working-class men, factory workers, builders, and farm workers. Most of these were from France, but there were also a number of Algerians, twelve hundred of whom had been made captives after the repression of the rebellion in Kabylia. The second main group to be added was that of repeat offenders, and, finally, following the siege of Paris, 3,928 political prisoners arrived during 1872–1873, after the defeat of the Paris Commune. Most of the last group eagerly returned to France after an amnesty in 1879, but for the others the journey to New Caledonia was a voyage of no return. The world of the early deportees was predominantly a male preserve; 98 percent of the prisoners were male, as only those female prisoners who chose to be deported were transported at this time. Later, with the inclusion of repeat offenders, the percentage of females was increased, but only to twelve. This is reflected in the colonial literature, where women, if they appear at all, play a very secondary role. The dream of colonisation did not match its reality. Settlement focused on the main island, La Grande Terre, a long landmass with a high mountain range running like a spine, dividing east from west, with most of the arable land on the west coast and along the western river valleys. After the establishment of the main centre of Port de

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France, convict settlements were set up throughout the main island in ‘the bush’. Built near the coast, these settlements were small and isolated. The terrain was rugged, and roads were no more than cart tracks impassable in bad weather. The New Caledonian soil was stubbornly resistant to the cultivation of northern-hemisphere produce. The semi-tropical climate was unpredictable and prone to cyclones, droughts, and flooding of the estuaries and valleys. From time to time locusts would wipe out crops. The previously discounted indigenous populations were in fact Kanak tribes, well established on ancestral land and following long-standing traditional trading and matrimonial pathways, who soon rebelled against the appropriation of their land. For the Kanak, exile from their ancestral land left them in limbo, with no identity, a state described by Mariotti in one of his novels as neither living nor dead. Understandably, the appropriation of land resulted in uprisings, and the death of colonists ensued. Rebellions were defeated by the modern weapons of the French soldiers, often helped by collaborating Kanak who were traditional enemies of the rebel groups. In the repression of the uprisings, Kanak casualties were high and their villages often subjected to a scorched-earth policy. The establishment of large ‘stations’ for cattle breeding, the proliferation of small holdings, and the land acquired with the suppression of each rebellion gained the colonists more arable land and pushed the tribes into less productive areas. By the beginning of the twentieth century the Kanak were confined to reserves occupying less than 10 percent of the landmass, often far from their own ancestral lands, subject to laws that restricted their movement, and required to work as indentured labourers in order to be able to pay a poll tax imposed by the colonial authorities. The destruction of Kanak customs and lifestyle is not a prominent feature of the earlier writing, but as the twentieth century began, there emerged authors who were born in New Caledonia or who lived and worked in the bush and who became more aware of their Kanak neighbours and of the vast cultural differences, recognising the injustices inherent in a colonial system of which they themselves were an integral part. In 1894 Governor Paul Feillet, anxious to see more progress and find a workforce to sustain economic and social progress, promoted assisted immigration. His objective was to populate the colony with honest French immigrants, and he pursued a policy of moving New Caledonia from its status as a penal colony to that of a respectable, productive French colony. Largely due to his efforts, the transportation sys-

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tem ceased in 1897. Only several hundred families responded to his call for assisted immigrants, and they were given land and a financial settlement. However, much of the most productive land had already been allocated to freed convicts, not all of whom had any farming knowledge and many of whom showed no commitment to the efforts needed to make their small plots of land productive, and this was one of the many points of contention between the two groups. At the beginning of the twentieth century rural and coastal New Caledonia was a patchwork of large cattle ranches, isolated farms, and small socially and geographically demarcated settlements. These were made up of either free immigrants or freed convicts, with governmentdesignated reserves for the original inhabitant on higher and less fertile grounds. There was little social contact between the ex-convict concessionaires and the voluntary colonists, and neither group had much contact with the Kanak tribes other than to employ men on the ranches and women and children on the coffee plantations. Added to this mix were small numbers of workers from la Réunion and Japanese, Vietnamese, and Indonesian indentured labourers who had been brought in to work in the nickel mines and on coffee plantations. The social divisions were clear-cut and are reflected in the literature of the time. From this population, which peaked at twenty-two thousand in 1901, a small but proportionately substantial number of writers emerged. Jules Garnier’s Voyage à La Nouvelle-Calédonie 1863–66, both a traveller’s tale and a kind of manual for the settler-explorer-prospector, first published in the Metropolitan journal Le Tour du Monde in 1867 and 1868, may well constitute the earliest significant account of the adventure of colonial conquest. Eddy Banaré’s PhD thesis on colonial writing in New Caledonia, “La littérature de la mine en Nouvelle-Calédonie (1853–1953)” (2010), contends that Garnier’s descriptions show Metropolitan French readers an accessible and “pacified” land ready for colonisation. This “jewel of the Empire”, however, requires much from its pioneers: individual sacrifice, energy, duty, and courage. For Banaré, Garnier both evokes the official grand colonial narrative and actively participates in the creation of a land that is no longer the utopia of the eighteenth-century ‘discoverer’, naturalist, and scientist, but the land of the ambitious and resolute settler. However, if there are echoes of Governor Guillain’s message, “civilize, produce, rehabilitate”, in the imaginary represented by Garnier’s narrative, Banaré’s analysis also points to elements of anti-colonialism in this colonial text, including a criticism of the negation of the Kanak and the refusal to take advantage

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of the possibilities indigenous people have to offer the colonist. Garnier’s own analysis of the Kanak is seen as double: a savage characterized by fighting or cannibalism, or a passive subject open to the ‘light’— docile, hospitable, and knowledgeable about the land and therefore of use to the prospector. Banaré’s work demonstrates the important links between administrative correspondence, cartoons, memoirs, poetry, and the early press and the emergence of the first New Caledonian writers: Baudoux, Laubreaux, and Mariotti. The daily newspaper Le Messager made stories and poems available in the first instance, and Baudoux’s descriptions of life in the colony initially appeared in the daily paper Le Moniteur. In her doctoral thesis Liliane Laubreaux (1996) lists ten authors (one of whom had never been to New Caledonia!) whose works were published between 1872 and 1891. These texts are informative, in particular those of Louise Michel, one of the very few women authors, who was a political prisoner following the Paris Commune in 1871. Michel, the “Red Virgin” who fought on the barricades of the Commune dressed as a man, spent seven years in the colony and wrote extensively of her life there and of her proletarian interest in the Kanak, whose cause she supported during the uprising of 1878. However, it could be claimed that only from the beginning of the twentieth century did any literature written in or about this young colony begin to develop a Caledonian identity. Most of the writers of this era were French men, and the bulk of their work describes rural life on the main island, La Grande Terre. Through their fictional or biographical writing we learn of life in small settlements or on isolated properties ‘in the bush’, an expression that became the description of any region of settlement distant from Nouméa, regardless of the topography. They were the journalists of their time, recording their personal impressions of daily events and of cross-cultural encounters and their interpretation of the imposition of one culture upon another. As with all early colonial writers, they were to a greater or lesser extent caught in a cultural no-man’s land where they were not completely at ease with their new environment, nor had they broken their bonds with their pasts. They wrote of differences, and most of the texts illustrate the unforeseen difficulties of trying to wrest a living from a country that might initially have represented an ideal. While each author presents an individual perspective, collectively their writings trace the cultural threads that interlace the history of the

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early years of the dramatic changes that colonisation brought to New Caledonia. Georges Baudoux Georges Baudoux came to New Caledonia in 1875, at the age of six, and lived the rest of his life in the colony where his father was in the military prison service. Until Georges was eleven, the family lived on the Île des Pins, a beautiful but isolated island that served as a centre of deportation for those whose crimes were less serious and for many of the political prisoners. Georges rarely attended school and it was not until the family moved to Nouméa, when he found a job with a printing firm, that he began to educate himself. During his young adulthood he tried his hand at many different types of work: fisherman, stockman, prospector, and, latterly, mine owner. Baudoux’s first works, three Kanak legends, were not published until he was in his forties; in his biography of Baudoux, Bernard Gasser (1996) points out that the prospector claimed that he did not have any intention of having them published, but that the editor Alin Laubreaux made the decision for him. Subsequent works were based on Kanak legends or were tales of immigrant life in the bush and were published under the name of ‘Thiosse’, a Kanak pronunciation of Georges. The stories of Georges Baudoux are characterised for Banaré by the use of cliché, picturesque or surprising ‘realist’ detail, mysterious and impossible romances between exoticized Kanak and settler. His work subscribes, Banaré concludes, to the epic narrative of the stockman and prospector of the mining bourgeoisie of Baudoux’s own origins. Despite Baudoux’s portraits of colonial arrogance, including the lack of respect given the bones of Kanak ancestors, and despite the writer’s images of bloody, gaping wounds made in the sides of mountains, for Banaré, Baudoux ultimately buys into the imperialist myth of the relentless march of progress. However, in a century torn between the dream of remaking the sacred motherland of France abroad and the harshness of local economic realities—agricultural crises, Kanak revolt, convict escape, and violence—the budding ecologist and the pioneer ‘betrayed’ by foreign speculators who turns in despair to a kind of pastoral utopia simultaneously reveals the fault lines and fissures at the very heart of the colonial ‘grand narrative’. The first translated extract is taken from Baudoux’s collection of stories and legends, Légendes Canaques, first published in 1928. Ber-

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nard Gasser argues that this collection is to some extent autobiographical and that the response of the young French man is a reflection of the author’s own youthful, Eurocentric attitude to Kanak myths, the sceptical attitude of a young man sure of the superiority of his own culture and dismissive of the values of the cultural ‘Other’. It is also clear that Baudoux is fascinated by Kanak women’s ‘secrets’ and their understandings of sexual danger and taboo. Tili, daughter of a Kanak mother and a European father, has been brought up in her mother’s tribe. Sitting beside a waterfall, she is explaining the significance and the importance of Kanak myths to her sceptical companion. The extract speaks of an area once occupied by a tribe of fishermen who fled from the “thunder” that came from French sailing ships. The region has been taken over by European immigrants, and both Kanak traditions and ancient sacred objects have been scattered and destroyed. The ironic comedy of human manners in Baudoux, his critique of received ideas and superstitions in both cultures (in this instance, “the chaste Tili’s” fears), nonetheless contains a recognition of the significance of Kanak cultural loss. In the excerpt from Baudoux’s story Kaavo, the title character sets off to find locusts to feast on, unaware that she is being watched by a warrior from a rival tribe. The warrior lies in wait for this daughter of a chief and makes her his captive. Unable to take her sexually, as this would be usurping a chiefly prerogative, he kills her in scenes of serial gruesome violence and then offers the virginal body to his chief. Baudoux’s characteristic irony comes into play as Kaavo, who sets out to feast, is then feasted upon. In the preface to his Légendes Canaques, Baudoux states that his stories are founded on true accounts of incidents and legends that he heard from Kanak as they sat round the fire at night when on cattle drives. He also claims that he has told the tale simply, as would Kanak storytellers, with no embellishment and no analysis. However, Baudoux was writing for European readers, and his rendition of the tale demonstrates an emphasis on the exotic and the primitive, a European fascination with cannibalism, and voyeuristic concern for the ‘plight’ of a defenceless young and beautiful female victim at the mercy of a fierce warrior. In this excerpt Baudoux likens Kaavo to a bronze statue of classical proportions, a European model of female beauty, and dismisses her and her race as people with ‘simple’ ideas. European canons, moral and aesthetic codes, recourse to stereotypes, and a certain misogyny lie behind Baudoux’s realist portraits of Kanak life, which is presented as

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fixed and outside time. The gap between the races in these texts is still unbridgeable. In “That Old Tchiao” Baudoux is an outside spectator trying to situate himself in the mind of an old Kanak who saw the whites arrive. Baudoux’s Tchiao desires to appropriate the treasures they possess. Even if Baudoux produced some very realistic descriptions of Kanak life (Speedy 2006), it is evident to a contemporary reader that Old Tchiao shares many of the presuppositions and limited understandings of his European creator. The Waterfall—Georges Baudoux The young European man who, since the last pilou has become Tili’s companion, is trying very hard to make her understand that all these stories of ghosts, spectres, and devils, all more or less evil, are figments of the fearful Canaque imagination, and that one should attach no importance to these fables. Tili objects. “Of course! You say that because you don’t know, because you have never seen them. But the old Canaque people of long ago, they saw them, they knew.” “The old people had hallucinations, they saw devils everywhere, and the old people of long ago, the ancestors, knew even less than the old people of today.” Tili: “We don’t need the old people to know these things. We can hear for ourselves. Listen to the waterfall, up there, deep in the valley . . . listen. Do you hear it . . . ? It is not the water that is speaking. Water doesn’t know how to speak. When the voices are still and then start again very quietly, it’s devils telling stories of long ago.” “What are they like, these wicked devils who are always chattering away. You can’t ever see them.” “Of course you can’t see them. During the day, they disappear into the mountain forests but at night they come out and roam around everywhere, watching men and women. They watch us living. And if anyone gets too close, they hide behind the bushes or behind the rocks. You don’t see them but they’re there, you can hear the leaves rustling. Often they dive deep into the water and talk to the eels and you can’t hear them anymore.” “And what interesting things can the devils possibly tell the eels?” “I won’t tell you that. It’s Canaque business. White people can’t understand.”

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“You won’t say because you don’t know. You’re making up these stories. If you knew, you would tell me about it at once.” “No, not about the devils of the waterfall, I wouldn’t. It’s forbidden, but the other devils, yes, you can speak about them.” “Then tell me a story about the devils, one of the stories you can tell everyone. Perhaps it’ll frighten me. Come on. Tell me.” In a hushed voice, Tili begins her tale: “You know, at the Pagoumène headland, the one you can see over there, well, at night, you can hear devils dancing the pilou in the caves in the mountain. As soon as night falls, Canaques won’t go that way. They stop before going over the pass, on the track through the serpentine rocks that goes from the Bay of Pagoumène to the Bay of Ohlande. To keep the devils away, Canaques light fires on the edge of the beach, then they sleep there on the sand until daybreak. If the Canaques were to cross the pass at night, when it’s dark, the dead would come out and kill them.” Later in this story the following conversation takes place. Tili will not enter the water and tries to explain why. Horror Stories—Georges Baudoux “I didn’t get into the water because it is forbidden by the old people from long ago. They knew. They had seen. And they put the taboo on it. Us Canaques, we listen to the old people.” “They put a taboo on what?” Tili hesitates, avoids answering, and at last makes up her mind to reveal a little of the mystery. “The men can bathe in the waters of the waterfall but the women can’t. It’s taboo. There are eels that are evil. Those eels they’re the colour of rocks. You can’t see them.” “So what do they do, these evil eels?” “Oh! There’s no need to say it. You know very well.” “But I don’t. I know nothing at all. How can you expect me to know since you never say anything straight out. You talk and talk and I never know what you’re saying.” Obsessed by her secret, Tili finally frees herself from its grasp by telling the story: “You know how eels slide about. They force their way inside the women. They gnaw at them, they bite them to death.” “Now I understand. It’s dreadful. But if you don’t go in the water, I don’t think there’s any need to be afraid of these eels.”

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“Oh yes there is. There’s still a lot to be afraid of. When the devils tell the eels, the eels come out of the water at night. Like snakes they crawl around in the grass, they smell out the women sleeping and go where they know they can do them the most harm.” After such a clear explanation, since it would have been in bad taste and most ungracious to force the chaste Tili to spend the night standing upright beside the fire in mortal fear, the mats were rolled up and the couple went off to sleep on the floor of the boat, on the water, out of reach of the hungry eels. And that was that. Further along in the text Baudoux himself comments on this passage, demonstrating some irony but also a certain sympathy in relation to the loss of the old beliefs that animated the Kanak world. A search for the origin of this Canaque legend, emanating as it does from facts which are not understood and which have been projected into the realms of the supernatural by the sorcerers’ credulous and persuasive imaginations, would yield no useful information. We only know that half a century ago this dramatic danger extended its menace to the Bay of Ohlande and that since then, invading civilisation has destroyed the domain of the ancestral traditions without any respect for the taboos. Thus, in the Bay of Pagoumène, where, long ago, under the shady banyan trees, between mossy stones and amongst a tangle of creepers, ancient skeletons became disarticulated, where gleaming jaw-bones gaped, and brachycephalic skulls rolled, the opulent house of a Director of one of the mining operations now holds sway. The bones of the ancestors have been brushed aside. The little path, hollowed out over centuries, on which the Canaques would never venture once it was dark, has been cut off by galvanised iron buildings, where the thrum of engines can be heard and the ringing of anvils under steel hammers. These are no longer the evocative sounds of the past. And on the other side, beyond the pass, on the little plain that, at night, used to give refuge to phantoms and muffle the rumbling of the reefs into a rhythmic underground pilou, civilised men have symmetrically lined up the burial mounds of their cemetery. It’s always the same thing with superior races: “Leave this place that I may take it over.” And further away at the Bay of Ohlande, at the place named Paagougne, under the gently waving coconut palms, along the beach fringed

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with kelp, just in front of the waterfall haunted by misogynous eels, a rustic settler, a modern day Eumaeus, raises pigs. It’s the end of everything. Faced with these desecrations, it is certain that the Canaque devils, the “Kââ-goume,” the mysterious eels, and the “toguis” have hidden themselves in the depths of their caves, leaving the field free for hydraheaded monsters, for gnomes and goblins, sprites and woodland fairies who are recognized mythological entities and are entitled to settle everywhere together with the souls of civilised people. G. Baudoux (1989), Légendes Canaques 2, pp. 37–43; 175–177

Kaavo—Georges Baudoux Off she went, along the path, Kaavo, the young popinée from the tribe that lives at Témala, Kaavo, the daughter of the chief, Kaavo, the beautiful young girl with the fine, copper coloured skin, betrothed at birth by her parents to Attéa, the son of the chief of the tribe at Voh. Off she went along the path, not a care in the world, parting with her arms the swamp grass and the drooping wet reeds, heavy with dew, which barred her way. Startled swamp hens and herons flew up into the air as she went by. Off she went, Kaavo, and droplets of dew hanging from the twigs and shining like pearls sent little shivers across her copper skin as they brushed against her naked body. Off she went, Kaavo, pulling in her belly, tensing it against the cold. With her firm jutting breasts and with her arms, she parted the sea of green and yellow vegetation, pulling apart the tufts of more sombre blue. At times, above the rolling vegetation, only her head would appear, crowned by an enormous frizzy head of hair reddened by white lime. Now and then she would stop in a small clearing to expose her naked body and limbs to the caresses of the rising sun: artlessly she would adopt the studied poses of a bronze statue. She was statuesque indeed, Kaavo, with the supple, healthy, physical beauty of a creature who has developed without constraint, in the fullness of nature, bathed by the fresh air and invigorated by the sun. Her supple waist and hips had the arched curves of a Greek amphora, her rounded limbs with their long muscles had a harmony of their own. She was a beautiful human animal in all its strength and grace. [ . . . ] Off she went along the path, Kaavo, the undulant swaying of the fringe on her white tapa moving in time with her agile and rhythmic stride. Off she went, Kaavo, not a care in the world. Where was she going, Kaavo, at such an early hour? Usually, popinées are afraid of the cold, they only leave their huts much later in the day, when the wind and the

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sun have soaked up the night’s dew and dried the leaves. Where was she going, Kaavo? Kaavo, like all those of her race, had only very simple ideas; and for her, as for them, the great problem in life, the one and only true problem, was to eat, to eat a great deal, and to be constantly eating. And just like all those of her race, Kaavo loved food, but among her own people she was well known as a gourmet, and on that morning, Kaavo wanted to eat a delicacy of which she was particularly fond. As a daughter of a chief, it was surely her right, was it not? She knew very well, Kaavo, where she was going, and what she wanted; yesterday, at nightfall, when the flying foxes begin to leave the woods, she had seen a cloud of locusts descend on the top of the valley, not far off. And she knew that to catch many locusts easily, one had to go early, in the morning, while their wings are still wet with dew; at that moment they cannot fly off. She would be able to gather them by the handful. Off she went along the path, Kaavo, not a care in the world, anticipating a right royal feast. G. Baudoux (1996), Kaavo, pp. 57–60

That Old Tchiao—Georges Baudoux Tchiao is an old, old Canaque, he cannot grow any older, he is too old. He walks bent double. He is thin, so thin. He’s little more than bones and sinews stretched like taoura cords, a living skeleton covered by a black skin like parchment, wrinkled, folded. His bald head shines like a dried coconut, he has no more than a few hairs around his head and in his ears too. His beard is an old yellow beard, sparse, with bald patches. . . . His eyes are rheumy, the sun dazzles them, he blinks against it. . . . He walks leaning with both bony hands on a stout stick. . . . He is a little mad, Tchiao, he’s given up talking to people, he is always alone, muttering. [ . . . ] When he was young he had a mind that was open to progress. He had learned from the Canaques from Pouebo that the White Man would bring many useful things, that he mustn’t be killed. [ . . . ] He had also tasted the yams of the White Man. They were better than the Canaque yams. They were finer, they were not sticky in your mouth, and even the peelings were good to eat. . . . But the Whites always cut up their yams, they only gave away bits of them. And as for Tchiao, well he wanted to have a whole one. One day Tchiao saw a large canoe that belonged to the Whites, with

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two masts and many, many sails. The canoe came to anchor in the Bay of Youanga. Tchiao took two baskets made of coconut leaves. He filled them with yams, then he loaded them onto the back of his popinée, who meekly followed him. He arrived at the shore opposite where the boat was anchored and

M. Venon.

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waited on the beach until the Whites were ready to come ashore. There were Canaque canoes in the mangrove creek. He could have taken one and gone on board, but that would not have been wise. When he was on the boat the Whites would have killed him, to eat him. That was only natural. With the obstinacy and patience of his race, he waited through the whole day for a small boat to reach the shore. To keep himself entertained, he fished for crabs and fish. [ . . . ] When the Whites were ashore, talks were held, signs were made, always at a distance, and a mutual understanding was reached. Tchiao left his two baskets of yams on the sand, and the Whites threw him one of their yams which he caught in flight. He went back to where his popinée was waiting. From that day forth, Tchiao’s life changed. In the eyes of the other Canaques, he had acquired some strange, mysterious ways. He set off at small sun, without saying where he was going. He came back when the sun was at its highest, without saying where he had been, and he never brought anything back. Sometimes he climbed up a hilltop, always the same one, carrying a parcel made up of his own mixture of herbs. From below, he could be seen making gestures that none of the Canaques recognised. He was casting magic spells, evil spells. It was incomprehensible. He was not a sorcerer, Tchiao, but he was becoming one. All the Canaque men, all the popinées and all the pikininis began to be afraid of him. It was serious. The Council of sorcerers had to meet, and it was decided that they must find out what Tchiao was up to. What manner of calamities was he calling down upon the tribe? What tongui was he invoking? Whose death was he planning? Perhaps Tchiao himself would have to be killed in order to ward off the evil eye. All the sorcerers of the tribe kept an eye on him. . . . Tchiao had noticed that he was being watched, he varied his times of departure, he changed directions, he played cunning. . . . They were reluctant to kill him. Tchiao had become a sorcerer of a very special kind. . . . When he was dead, he would come back, a terrifying form in the black of night. This sorcery went on for several moons, they were beginning to become accustomed to it, when one day, a chance encounter led the established sorcerers to discover what witchcraft the fearsome Tchiao had been up to. He was in a small clearing in the forest, running around a circle of a dozen or so yam poles fixed upright in the ground; he was holding bunches of herbs in his hands, swinging them back and forth; from time

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to time he would fall down on all fours, then put his mouth to the soil and speak to it. . . . Tchiao was willing the yams to die, there was no longer any possible doubt. The next day the great chief of Gomen sent his guard to seize the person of the evil-doer, Tchiao. When Tchiao arrived, the great Council and all the sorcerers had assembled. . . . The executioners were present, awaiting orders. The chief charged Tchiao with having put a curse on the yams, in order to kill all the yams of the tribe. Tchiao defended himself bravely, “No! That is not true! It is the White Man’s yams that I have planted, I am the only one here who knows how to grow them. . . . I call on the rain to fall on them. . . . I call on the dead who have the knowledge how to make yams grow, I call at night for them to help me grow the yams of the White Man.” The defence was good, but they had to go to the evidence. . . . All the great Council, followed by the executioners, repaired to the clearing in the forest. They searched at the foot of a pole pointed out by Tchiao and they found pieces of the peel of the White Man’s yams. Tchiao had planted a whole loaf of bread, fortunately for him there was still some of the crust left. The other poles had been put there as a ruse. The Council of sorcerers, having met in secret assembly, came to the following conclusion: “the yams of the White Man only grow in the soil of the White Man; they cannot grow in the Black Man’s soil.” And now Tchiao is old, old, and the young men who have worked among the White Man, those who have drunk his rum, those who put on trousers, laugh at him. . . . And old Tchiao is not happy. He, old Tchiao, wanted to grow the yams of the white tayos, so that the whole tribe could have a great caï-caï. He did not succeed because the other Canaques done bad. . . . Instinctively, old Tchiao knows full well that something has changed in the nature of things. And as he is a bit deaf now, when he sees Whites or Canaques smiling, he always thinks that they are talking about the bread. And in response, old Tchaio protrudes his lower lip, makes clicking noises with his tongue, and leaning on his stick, he goes on his way, living symbol of a fading past. G. Baudoux (1989), Légendes Canaques 2, pp. 36–43

Jean Mariotti Jean Mariotti was born at Farino, a tiny settlement deep in the New Caledonian bush, the son of a Corsican deported for an ‘honour’ killing who had became a significant figure in that community. As an in-

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fant Jean had a Kanak nurse whose influence, he claimed, had a profound effect on his writing. Mariotti attributes his knowledge of Kanak mythology and legends to the almost “unconscious voice of [Mandarine’s] race”. As he grew older he and his elder sister lived a life of remarkable freedom, roaming freely in the bush. The nostalgic evocation of this childhood permeates his autobiographical fiction, A bord de l’Incertaine. Mariotti left New Caledonia when he was twenty-four and did not return for more than twenty years. All of his works were written in ‘exile’, where New Caledonia remained the magic place of his childhood. Mariotti wrote novels and short stories between 1929 and 1942, but for much of that time he also worked on three publications now often referred to as “The Trilogy of Poindi”. The three works follow the adventures of a father, Poindi, and son, Aïni, as they unwittingly become participants in a series of mystical and mythological episodes, each of which has its origin in Kanak legends. The first extract we have translated, an incident from the first of these books, occurs after Poindi has been hunting and has given the sorcerers a bird that suddenly becomes half bird, half fish. The sorcerers have declared this to be an evil omen, but rather than kill Poindi and consume his flesh, they give him the opportunity to redeem himself. Forbidden to carry any arms but allowed a fish hook, he must perform a series of tasks. With his young son, Aïni, Poindi sets off. At one point in their adventures the father and son kill and eat most of an eel, not knowing that it is a transmogrification of the soul of the renowned warrior Tamata. In a subplot the eel magically comes back to life, only to find that two of its vertebrae are missing. Aïni has attached one to his shell necklace; the other is being kept safe by the moonfish, which is the spirit of Tamata. Without the two vertebrae, the eel/Tamata cannot become whole and, without bodily integrity, cannot change back into the soul of the dead warrior and return again to the land of the dead. The restitution of the vertebra allows the eel to give Poindi advice that leads him to the accomplishment of his last task. Poindi brought back so many notous from his hunting in the Strange Valley that, in the repeated telling of this story, they have become so numerous that twenty strong men would have been needed to carry them. The sorcerers were pleased. They dipped the half bird, half fish in the water beside Poindi’s canoe, and the fin of the fish floated away to be collected by the eel. Poindi was reinstated as the greatest warrior in his tribe, and the eel swam away to become part of the moonfish, which was its saltwater transmogrification, after which, being whole, it could become the soul of Tamata and return to the world of the dead.

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Artist Van Rompaey, 1948. (In Mariotti [1996b], Les Contes de Poindi)

Poindi and the Eel—Jean Mariotti Eyes closed as if he were sleeping, Poindi was stretched out beside the creek, thinking of all that had happened. “He’s sleeping,” Aïni said to himself. “I’ll take the shell fish hook

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and go fishing with it. Poindi says it’s only good for fishing in salt water. Perhaps that’s not right. The magic fish hook can fish anywhere and catch anything that it wants.” “What are you doing there?” cried Poindi. “Why are you scratching my head?” “I wanted to look for lice, while you were asleep.” “No! You were pulling on the shell fish hook.” “I wanted to make sure that the shell fish hook was tightly fastened and that the line wasn’t damaged.” “I’ve already told you to leave that line alone, you wicked boy!” “Yes, but nevertheless, I did cast it into the water and you caught a fish like no one will ever catch again.” “The Devil’s catch, the sorcerer called it. Because of that fishing expedition they will have me roasted in the oven.” Aïni said nothing more but gently tried to pull the line out of Poindi’s hair. And Poindi became very angry, sat up and threw a stick at Aïni’s legs. Aïni dodged the blow by jumping out of the way. “Kouiiii!” he cried. Poindi was pleased for that stick had been well thrown and the blow difficult to avoid, and yet Aïni had managed it. Never mind his mischief! The boy would not easily be hit by sling or spear, and would be good at dodging blows. Poindi lay back down, and this time he fell asleep. Aïni approached very slowly, very carefully and stole the line away from him. Poindi did not awaken. “I’ll cast it into the water, just to see  . . . ” Aïni said to himself. He took a few paces and threw the line into the creek. The line had hardly entered the water than it began to spin away. Aïni pulled and pulled, but he wasn’t strong enough. He called out to Poindi. Exasperated, Poindi came running over. Aïni had already been pulled into the water up to the knees. Poindi pulled on the line and brought in a weird-looking eel. An eel that was all twisted with only one lateral fin. For such a small eel, it was pulling very strongly on the line. All of this was not natural. “It’s all twisted! It has only one fin!” cried Aïni. “Be quiet!” Poindi looked at the eel. The eel looked back at him with the eyes of a man. “Ah ha!” said Poindi. “This time I think the fish hook has done its work.” “Who are you?” Poindi asked the twisted eel. The twisted eel told him that he was the warrior Tamata, looking for the rest of his bones, so that he could return to Lolonn, the underworld of the dead.

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“Tamata, the renowned warrior, the only one who has ever been able to get out of the Strange Valley, beyond the Dark Peak?” “Yes! I am Tamata. I am looking for my bones. I went back to the Strange Valley, but they are not there.” And Tamata told his story. “I am the warrior who ate you,” said Poindi. “I didn’t see your human eyes.” “I was asleep,” said Tamata. In turn, Poindi told his story. “The bone that your son is wearing in his necklace is mine,” said Tamata. “It was to get it back that I wanted to pull him into the water. The moon fish that you are talking about is MY moon fish. It has my other bones.” “Take this one,” said Poindi, throwing him the vertebra from Aïni’s necklace. “Now, can I go back to my tribe?” “Yes.” “But what can I give to the Sorcerer as proof?” “Tell him to soak the fin of the notou-poisson in the water, in five days, at the place where your canoe is. And then the notou-poisson will become a notou again. As for me, I will return to Lolonn.” “I will do as you say.” Tamata was happy. He said to Poindi, “I shall tell you how to get to the Strange Valley, the place where the big, white beaked notous like to run around on the ground like cagous. The palm trees in that valley are red like the blood of men. Their trunks are red, their leaves are red. Red like blood. “Go to the little wall which bears the signs made by the Red Men*, climb to the top of the rock. Stand at the foot of the large banyan tree and then turn around with your back to it. Then walk one hundred ­paces, straight ahead. There, scratch around among the fallen leaves. Under the leaves, there is a square stone. In the centre of it is the deep imprint of a man’s foot. Put your foot—your right foot—in the imprint. Then bend forward until you can touch the ground. There, under another smaller stone you will find a yarrick, a packet with magical powers that will guide you towards the valley and lead you back to the same place, once your hunting is done. “Throw the notous that you have killed into the creek. You must * Mariotti alludes here to the belief that the curious petroglyphs found in New Caledonia were the work of a prehistoric race of “Red Men”, who would have preceded the arrival of the Kanak around 30,000 BCE.

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make them into a packet with the bark of the banyan tree that you will see there, a banyan unlike the others. The creek will carry your packet beneath the earth of the mountains, and it will come to rest at the foot of the rock of the Red Men. There you will pick it up. “In five days I will come and look for my fin, so that I can go back to Lolonn.” And the twisted eel—who had grown a little and was a little less twisted since Poindi had given him back his vertebra—set off in the current of the creek, towards the sea, to look for the moon fish. J. Mariotti (1996b), Les Contes de Poindi, pp. 162–165

Chapter Eleven

Portraits of Colonial Society

The Nervats ‘Nervat’ is the nom-de-plume of husband and wife Paul Chabaneix and Marie Caussé, who lived in New Caledonia for four years, from 1898 to 1902. Paul was a medical officer in the French army colonial service. He and his wife had belonged to a literary group in Toulouse and had both written poetry published by the respected Mercure de France. During their stay in New Caledonia they lived in several different districts and finally settled at Pouembout from January 1901 until April 1902. Founded as a penal centre, Pouembout was a small settlement several days’ journey from Nouméa in a region that at the beginning of the twentieth century was populated mainly by ex-convicts working on their land concessions or in the community. The administrative centre for the northwest region of the main island and under the jurisdiction of the penitentiary authorities, in its early years Pouembout had the reputation of being a most unsafe place to visit. The excerpt translated below is from the novel Célina Landrot: Fille de Pouembout, named after the heroine. Célina is the daughter of French ex-convicts who have been granted a land concession. The property is near the village of Tombouène, which has been accepted as an anagram of Pouembout. In the book, Tombouène has a baker, a butcher, a farrier, three liquor outlets, a general store that sells goods and alcohol—and is described as “reeking of alcohol and vice”—and a cooperative store known as “the syndicate”. Most small settlements of this kind had a colonial office, an army doctor, and a military post manned by French soldiers. Contact with other settlements would have been by boat or by a long, difficult journey on horseback. The poetically 151

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described landscape and the wide range of characters, including exconvicts, stockmen, store men, casual workers, a doctor, a priest, and a government administrator, provide a vivid and comprehensive record of life in the New Caledonian bush at the beginning of the twentieth century. Typical of life in these isolated communities, where there was little if any contact between the colonists in established settlements and local tribes, there is little mention of local Kanak. This particular episode illustrates the need of many early immigrants to re-create the life they have left behind. The food and the style of the doctor’s dinner party are reminiscent of the life he would have led in France, but his guests are very different. They provide a crosssection of the more socially acceptable of the Caledonian rural population: the owner of the local store, a ranch owner, a stockman/ranch manager, a Marist priest, and an adventurer. The servant, however, is a convict still wearing his prison uniform, and he is a reminder of the reality of life outside this chosen circle. Living in a Pacific island land for which a distant Paris and its cultural norms remain the touchstone creates significant tensions and insecurities in the psyche of New Caledonians of European origin, as the incongruous photograph of a European picnic in the bush dem-

Colonial Life in the Bush. (ANC)

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onstrates. The representations of settler society by Kanak artists on bambous gravés in the eighteenth century and the contemporary adaptations of this early art form reveal the strange and often comic character of the symbols of white society and power (horses, guns, trousers, handbags and long dresses, policemen, and convicts) as seen through Kanak eyes. The Dinner Party—P. and M. Nervat Beneath the Doctor’s veranda, shaded by climbing plants and swept by the breeze which made the shutters bang against their wooden posts, the servant, a convict dressed in the grey cotton uniform of the penal colony, was almost finished setting the table. A ray of sunshine made rubies sparkle on a red glass carafe, and the well-polished silver cutlery gleamed beside the white porcelain plates. The man regarded the whole effect with satisfaction, narrowing his eyes as a painter does for a painting, and then, with a pin, went over and fastened one of the corners of the tablecloth that was trailing on the ground. Following this, with measured steps, he walked over to the door of the study where the Doctor was working, knocked three times discreetly, and declaimed ceremoniously. “The table is set, Major. Dinner is almost ready. Would the Major care to give me the key to the storeroom, so that I may fetch the fine wines and prepare the plate of pastries?” “Here you are, Némorin,” said the Doctor, and the key, thrown from the window, landed at the feet of the convict, who picked it up hastily and with obvious delight. He walked quickly to the kitchen. In his haste, just for a moment he let slip the austere mask of the servant trained to work in a grand house. Perhaps the important duties of butler were going to his head. He climbed up on a chair, took a carefully corked one-litre bottle from the topmost shelf, and then went to the storeroom. There he chose a bottle of Nuits, one of Bordeaux, two of Champagne, deftly prepared his plateful of pastries and, with no less dexterity, filled his own pockets. From a ham that hung from one of the rafters he cut a large slice for himself, and completed his series of operations by substituting the litre bottle that he had brought with him for a litre bottle of a similar shape, similarly corked and containing a liquid of a similar colour. This done, with the composure of someone with a clear conscience he went out of the room, turned the key twice in the lock, then with the light, soundless steps of a footman or a burglar (he had been both),

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he went off to put his own provisions in a safe place, before laying out those of his master. The guests were beginning to arrive. The noise of the trotting horses of Jean Ferrier and Mr. Lecoff and the metallic screech of the wheels on the old wagon that brought Father Arnould rang out almost at the same time. Némorin, a table napkin across his shoulder, just like a servant in a comic opera, walked over, bowed before the newcomers and led them to the Doctor’s study. The latter left his book and shook hands with his guests. Némorin pulled up chairs, and when everyone was seated comfortably, put a tray of decanters and glasses on a small round table. “We will have an aperitif while we are waiting for Mr. Labarthe and Mr. Deraismes, who, I am sure, won’t be long.” With methodical care, Mr. Lecoff and Jean Ferrier poured themselves an absinthe, and Father Arnould accepted a finger of quinine wine. They chatted. The missionary was sitting bolt upright on the edge of his chair in a somewhat formal posture. He mopped his forehead frequently with a yellow checked handkerchief. He was Breton, with an astute mind, and a humble and gentle soul. His voice lacked confidence, and from his distant education in the seminary he had retained only a little of the soothing eloquence characteristic of the priesthood. Mr. Lecoff moistened his lips cautiously with the contents of his glass. He drank in tiny sips, for he was obsessed by the possibility of illness. He remembered a story told by his mother who was as much of a hypochondriac as he was, about a relative who had developed pneumonia after drinking a glass of iced water on returning from a hunt. And, once again, he became aware of the clamminess of his skin. He had felt compelled to keep up with Ferrier, who always went at a brisk pace. This discomfort affected the interest he was taking in the conversation, and made him look ill at ease. Meanwhile, Némorin was announcing Mr. Labarthe. He was wearing a loosely fitting grey suit which floated about his lean body. He moved briskly round the group shaking each hand firmly. His grip was so strong that his bones left red imprints on their fingers. He had an angular face, with little facial hair although he was almost 40, and wilful cold blue eyes. He refused an aperitif. He suffered from a stomach complaint. Alcohol was absolutely forbidden him and he did not trifle with his diet. They were only waiting for Mr. Deraismes before they could be seated. The Doctor consulted his watch. It was 12.15 p.m.

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“Let’s give Mr. Deraismes until the half hour,” he said. “If he’s not here by the half hour we’ll lunch without him.” “Who’s talking about having lunch without me,” called a shrill voice. “My apologies, gentlemen, if I’ve made you wait. A thousand apologies, but my watch deceived me. Such a good watch (a gift from my uncle, Colonel Deraismes, for my first communion), I don’t know why the devil it has taken to going slow. I dare not give it to Mr. Verdieu to repair. His reputation is well known. I shall have to entrust it to you, Mr. Labarthe, when you go to Nouméa.” “Willingly, Mr. Deraismes!” The newcomer, dressed in white flannel, a Kodak camera slung across his shoulder, wearing a straw boater and ankle boots of soft leather, was twirling a gold-topped cane in hands gloved in pale suede. An incorrigible and imaginative storyteller, he passed himself off as an officer who had resigned his commission. (Later it would be discovered that he had been a non-commissioned officer and that he had left the army after some shady business.) In conversation, whatever the subject under discussion, he would give weight to his arguments by attempting to dazzle his audience with the authority or example of various members of his family, who, had they been consulted, would doubtless have preferred mention of their names to have passed his lips less often. His ridiculous elegance stood out in the simple company he had entered, and his appearance had brought a brief smile to everyone’s lips. “As we are all here, let’s be seated, gentlemen,” said the Doctor, and he led the way beneath the veranda. Némorin circulated around the chairs with ease, passed the food, poured the wine. The only infringement he permitted himself of the cardinal rules of the model butler was to show too much interest in the remarks exchanged at his master’s table, to smile and to show his approval; he almost went as far as joining in the conversation. With the exception of Mr. Labarthe, who drank milk mixed with Vichy water and ate nothing but eggs, minced meats and pureed vegetables, everyone ate and drank well. The food provided was plentiful and refined, and the guests were loud in their praise of the roast, milk-fed pork stuffed with truffles and white poultry meat, Némorin’s masterpiece. After the salad of coconut palm hearts, the convict brought in the dessert: little finger bananas, the first oranges, guava jelly, a Savoie spongecake, a bowl of cream, a Livarot cheese, and a plate of dried almonds still in their soft shells, after which a wine has more flavour. He set down two bottles of Champagne in front of his master and withdrew.

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“Are you still happy with Némorin?” Mr. Labarthe asked the Doctor. “Heavens, yes. . . . He’s a fine cook. . . . You know that I like good food. . . . I overlook many faults in light of his culinary expertise. . . . He’s an arrant drunk, a sham artist and hypocrite of the worst kind, an imperturbable liar, and the most cunning thief that I have ever known. . . . In other words, the very finest of fellows.” M. and J. Nervat (1987), Célina Landrot, pp. 109–114

Later, the guests wait in vain for their coffee. The doctor goes into the kitchen and finds Némorin very drunk and lying in a pile of broken, dirty dishes. The well-known passage below is taken from A bord de l’Incertaine, a collection of incidents in the life of two children who in age and lifestyle resemble the young author and his sister. It describes a session in a schoolroom deep in the bush, conducted by the French teacher for whom only her European background and culture have any relevance. Madame Boubignan’s classes deny the reality of all that New Caledonian life holds outside the ‘French’ classroom.

Monsieur Dame, Y. Bouquet. (ADCK)

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The Four Seasons—Jean Mariotti  ◙ “For the first period, I shall give you the subject of the composition that you are to rewrite,” said Madame Boubignan. In her beautifully neat, regular, well-formed handwriting, she wrote on the blackboard: “The Four Seasons. Describe the four seasons of the year, say which one you prefer, and why.” “As you can see, it’s the same subject that you wrote on last time, but your work was so dreadful, you’ll have to do it again. Jean-Claude! Stop looking out the window! Pay attention! François, you didn’t hand in this composition, why not?” “I couldn’t come to school because of the rain, Ma’am. I couldn’t cross the creek for four days.” “That’s correct! I have a note from your parents. So try to listen more carefully than your classmates, to make up for lost time. Now sit down.” The little fellow who, for four days, had not been able to cross the stream swollen by the rains, sat down, dumbfounded. “Stand up again François. What are the four seasons?” “There’s winter, Ma’am, winter with snow . . . everything is white, and there’s smoke coming from the chimneys, and the trees have no leaves. And then there’s spring, when the birds start to sing and the flowers . . . flower . . . and then there’s . . . and then there’s . . . ” “There’s, . . . ” Madame Boubignan encouraged. “There’s, . . . ” repeated François, struggling. “There’s, . . . ” asked Madame Boubignan again. “There’s, . . . ” repeated François, without going any further. “Extraordinary!” exclaimed Madame Boubignan. “And to think that this child hopes to pass his Certificate of Studies! All right! Who can tell me what the four seasons are?” Several hands went up. “Me! . . . Me! . . . Ma’am.” “Let’s see . . . you, Ludovic.” “There’s also autumn, Madame, then spring, and winter.” “That only makes three. And what’s the fourth season? Let’s do it together; it’s quite simple. When is it hot? What is the hottest time of the year?” Voices mingled: “It’s in December, Ma’am!” “It’s in January, Ma’am.”

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“No, Ma’am, he says it’s in December and it’s not. It’s in January!” “No, Ma’am, he says it’s in January and it’s in December!” “You’re all wrong, children. Summer is neither in December nor in January; it goes from the 21st of June to the 21st of September. The months of July, August and September are the hottest.” The month of July . . .  François stood up politely, and said with an obstinate look, “No, Ma’am, in July and August it’s cold. Papa says he can’t get the bananas to ripen. The sun isn’t as strong. So it’s winter.” “François,” said Madame Boubignan calmly, “open your book and read it, before interrupting your friends with nonsense. In the first place, I was asking Ludovic. In the second place, we’re not interested in bana­ nas, but seasons. Open your book and read what it says. You will find all this in your geography textbook and in your reading books. When I talk about seasons, I am talking about the real seasons, and not about the kinds of weather we happen to have here. December is the month with snow and July the one with sun.” Madame Boubignan spoke eloquently. [ . . . ] The children listened, fascinated, swept away into a fairy tale, picturing to themselves that wonderful country—the one true country, where the year revolves like the images in a kaleidoscope, where one season leaves the scene, taking with it all its attributes, and where, after the last clear day of a spring full of birds and flowers, you wake in the gentleness of a summer golden with wheat and drowsy in the sunshine. Then, as the cycle continues, you wake again, on another morning, in a world of ripe fruit and copper-coloured leaves. Then, on the morning of another day, the countryside has changed overnight and winter has settled in, displaying her white attire and her frozen ponds. They saw these unknown seasons exactly as Madame B. described them, each one staying true to its image for three months, then withdrawing magically to give way to the next season. And always, deep down, that heavy feeling of shame weighed down on them, the humiliation of not belonging to the world that all the books spoke of—the real one: The Real World! No textbook ever mentioned the season or the time of year for the harvesting of the coffee berries, of the ambreuvade pods, or the vanilla pods, but they all spoke of the “golden harvest.” Then, every child thought his father was making a serious mistake, an error, almost committing a crime, by not growing wheat. However they all hoped that one day their world would become what it ought to be, just like the one in the books, mindful of the divisions of time.

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From the previous chapter: So they accepted all the information that they were given and felt vaguely uncomfortable knowing that they were an inferior sub-species that delighted in the sun, the bush, the forests, the waters of the rivers, the waterfalls and the sea. If they had known how to express themselves, they would have asked that, as a sign of heavenly grace, as an indulgence and a pardon, they might be allowed to love the things that made them happy. That they might be allowed to love these things without having to remember that this love and the feelings of well-being it engendered were signs of inferiority. With all the innocent enthusiasm, all the trust of their age, they tried to follow the models presented to them, but their efforts were in vain. For their unworthy instincts spoke louder than anything else and in spite of their best efforts, they remained who they were. J. Mariotti (1996a), A bord de l’Incertaine, pp. 82–86

Alin Laubreaux Born in 1899 in New Caledonia, Alin Laubreaux was sent to France in 1914 to further his education. In 1918 he returned to New Caledonia, where he spent the next three years. The newspaper he founded, Le Messager de la Nouvelle Calédonie, was the first to recognise the talent of Georges Baudoux, whose work he published in his paper. Laubreaux wrote most of his eight novels in France. In contrast to the work of his contemporaries, much of the action in his novels takes place in an urban setting. An outspoken critic of the colonial authorities, his characterisation of colonists often underlined the indifference, patronising concern, or barely concealed contempt they felt towards the Kanak. In 1931 he wrote a letter to the Paris press complaining, as Leenhardt had also done, about the treatment that had been given to a contingent of indigenous New Caledonians from the mainland and people from the Loyalty Islands brought to Paris as participants in the International Colonial Exhibition. This representative group had been housed in small huts in the botanical gardens far from the others, on show as exhibits rather than as participants. Laubreaux’s opposition to the Second World War and his support for the Nazi regime led to his arrest and his being condemned to death. He escaped to Spain, where he later died. His political affiliations led to ostracism and his work has been largely ignored until the present. In the translated extract from Le Rocher à la voile, Gabriel, a six-

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teen-year-old Kanak of the Wagap tribe, has arrived in Nouméa to work for Jacques Molardon and his wife, Marie. Gabriel has attended mission school in the bush, and this is his first position as a servant. M. Felgères, Jacques’ respected friend (and Marie’s current lover), is visiting the couple. In this passage from his best-known novel, Laubreaux highlights the indifference and arrogance that could be displayed by colonial immigrants towards Kanak. Later in the story Felgères decides that the young Kanak, Gabriel, shows potential, and there is a dramatic and humorous contrast between the arrogance and the high moral tone of Felgères, who tries to ‘civilise’ Gabriel by filling his head with Western classical literature, and the incomprehension of the young Kanak. Gabriel has been used as a go-between, carrying messages to and from Felgères and Marie. Felgères’ hypocrisy is recognised by the young Kanak, whose resistance reveals him to be imbued with more moral principles than his ‘superior’. A Kanak in Nouméa—Alin Laubreaux Jacques had come to meet him when the boat arrived, and had driven him straight to the house. Marie and Felgères were chatting as they awaited their arrival.

Coffee plantation, Collection Nicolas-Frédéric Hagen. (ANC)

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Postcard, ca. 1880. (MDVN)

“Here he is,” said Jacques as he pushed open the door. Gabriel, intimidated and awkward, stood at the door not knowing what to do with his hands or where to place his bare feet. “Well? What’s the matter with you? Come inside!” He took a step forward. Marie looked at him with indifference. “He’s clean, but he looks shifty to me.” Gabriel felt a light sweat break out on the back of his neck. Marie continued, “Do you understand French?” “Yes ma’am,” he replied, and happy to show off his ability he added, “I went to mission school until I was fourteen.” But Marie was not listening. She had turned towards Felgères to ask his opinion. The editor of the daily newspaper Océanien français stood up, and with some ceremony, walked around the Canaque and tapped him across the shoulder blades as if he was about to sound his chest. Finally he gave his verdict. “He has a good constitution; his neck is strong, abdomen normal, and his rib cage is well-developed enough. We must hope that his mental qualities live up to the good impression given by his physique.” And addressing the Canaque, he asked, “How old are you?” “Sixteen,” said Gabriel. “Sixteen. It’s an age when one is capable of understanding, even in races as poorly evolved as your own.”

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He sat down, slowly crossed his legs, paused, and then said, “You’ve been to school you say. That, my boy, is an act of generosity you must not forget. Thanks to the education you’ve been given, here you are, torn from the barbarism in which your ancestors have been stagnating for centuries. You will never fully appreciate the value of such an acquisition. Now you are at least in a position to register the words of civilised people, and when they make an effort to come down to your level of intelligence, to grasp their meaning. Now you have arrived in Nouméa which was once no more than an unhealthy swamp covered with untamed bush, the haunt of wild animals. The French have made it the capital of your country and you can see for yourself the fine town that they have erected in a place your people knew no better than to abandon to a jungle of pestilential weeds. You were naked, defencelessly exposed to the elements; we have taught you how to use clothes, we have taught you decency and cleanliness. To make light, you used to set fire to torches dipped in resin, by rubbing two dry branches together; now you have simply to put a match to a gas lamp to produce a light as bright as day. These are the results of civilisation. But don’t forget that this gift doesn’t come without obligation, without gratitude on your part. In exchange for the benefits we have bestowed upon you, you must show yourself to be a zealous and respectful servant, honour your masters and, should it be required of you, you must be loyal to the point of sacrifice.” Gabriel, stunned by such eloquence, was staring wide-eyed and listening intently whilst Molardon, who had been following the oration in open-mouthed amazement, interrupted the proceedings with a sweeping triumphant gesture towards the Canaque, “Do you hear that?” he cried. However Felgères hadn’t finished. “This Canaque reminds me of a young Breton peasant who came straight from his village to serve in my apartments on the Champs Elysées. He could neither read nor write, and spoke only his local dialect. Within three months, he was working as my secretary, wearing a morning coat, fine polished shoes, and could be shown in the best of circles.” Marie stifled a yawn. “You can go now,” she said to Gabriel. “Tell the Javanese to show you to your room, at the bottom of the yard, behind the chicken coop.” A. Laubreaux (1996), Le Rocher à la voile, pp. 130–132

Chapter Twelve

Living in the Bush

Marc Le Goupils Marc Le Goupils lived in New Caledonia between 1898 and 1904. He came to join his two brothers, who had been farming for four years, and took over an adjoining property. He lived and worked on this new plantation for six years before returning to France, disillusioned by the ineptitude of the colonial administration. Le Goupils had been a secondary school teacher in France, and he wrote extensive notes about his life on the isolated farm, eighty kilometres from Nouméa. The new ‘writer’ did not publish his observations until 1928, when he added a postscript to each chapter on the changes that had taken place in the years between. His accounts meticulously recorded details of life on the farm, from the materials used to construct the farm buildings to the number of cattle and the daily tasks. In stark contrast to the sophisticated, well-planned meal described by Nervat in the previous chapter, Le Goupils often bemoans the boring and limited daily diet because of the impossibility of growing the vegetables of the northern hemisphere and the inevitability of Australian corned beef at every meal, as it was more economical to sell their own cattle rather than eat the meat. In Dans la brousse calédonienne Le Goupils describes the introduction of schooling for the Kanak children employed on the farm, and this account is an interesting adjunct to the history of the slow and gradual inclusion of the Kanak people in the education system. The first schools were missionary run, with the primary concern being the souls of the pupils, and where the divisions of Catholic and Protestant often added to existing tribal differences. State schools were started in 1885, but the participation rate varied from district to district. Kanak 163

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pupils were segregated and taught only for the first three years of primary school until 1913, when this was extended to the complete primary programme, on completion of which they could be granted a primary certificate. The slow rate of acceptance of Kanak pupils into the state education system can be measured by the fact that it was not until 1962 that a Kanak student passed the baccalaureate. In the following excerpt Le Goupils expresses his delight but also his surprise at the ability and enthusiasm of the Kanak children. A Kanak School—Marc Le Goupils We have opened an evening school for young Canaques. Some claim that it is easier to control animals than men. But we came here too late to learn how to use the bull whip, and since we are obliged to treat the Canaques as men, it behooves us to do our best, in order that they may be the best men possible. These good souls have put their trust in us; by enlightening their trust we shall not lose it. Results have already surpassed our expectations. The opening of the school, or as they call it ‘la lécole,’ has been welcomed by our young taïos with an alacrity that we had not anticipated. They are punctual, and eager to attend, and in class they apply themselves in exemplary fashion. That is not saying enough: In Soumé, son of the late chief Samuel, who is following the fast pace set by his companions with rather uneven steps, one can detect, at its most naïve, the sentiment shared by all, that this is a path to the stars. If you could see them, Hilaire, Gabriel, Francis, Césaire, Soumé, Isidore, eagerly settling down along the tables, each one in turn, bracing himself to spell out the letters, the syllables, and the words that the teacher has written on the blackboard. Even more remarkable, after preliminary exercises written on chalk slates, our schoolboys have now been entrusted with pens and notebooks. These youngsters, each seated before a page of white paper, come to us after a long day in the fields. They are not equally gifted in calligraphy, but each page, every one, is as neat as one could wish. Even Soumé, whose efforts are betrayed by the clumsiness of his fingers, has an exercise book that is admirably well kept. Gabriel is a born mathematician. Addition and subtraction are a mere game for him and now he has begun to tackle even the difficulties of multiplication with the greatest of ease. Hilaire, son of the venerable Josimond, is a serious one: in all respects the model pupil. But the pearl of the class is little Francis, so small, so unassuming, so wise, so clever and so quick.

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The class is held in the coffee shed, in the evening, after work has finished. The pupils assemble on their own initiative for ‘la lécole.’ They come running to the boss ma’am, their teacher, to get their exercise books, slates, lamps, and all the other ceremonial objects. It’s a solemn ritual. A celebration. Ah! What fine youngsters! The class on Sunday morning is devoted to teaching through pictures. The teacher comments on reproductions of the most wonderful natural phenomena, industrial miracles, and various scenes of civilisation. And, all eyes and all ears, jostling to get the best view, the six little lads let out long, loud whistles of admiration. In a postscript at the end of the chapter, added in 1928, the author comments on the content and says of this particular passage: Five pupils of ‘la lécole’ at Nassirah, and the older brother of one, served on the French front during the Great War. All acquitted themselves valiantly. One of them was killed in the summer of 1918, while acting as a runner on a liaison mission. It was our mathematician, Gabriel, that fine lad of the difficult days of 1902, who once proclaimed his feelings towards his employers with such good-hearted audacity— “Here at Nassirah, things is good.” M. Le Goupils (1928), Dans la brousse calédonienne, pp. 205–209

Paul Bloc Paul Bloc was an officer in the French merchant navy and served on one of the last sailing ships to round Cape Horn. In 1902, like Le Goupils, he joined his brother in New Caledonia among the few hundred colonists known as colons Feillet, who came under the immigration scheme initiated by Governor Feillet. They took over a property when Paul was in his twenties, and although his brother returned to France, Paul spent the rest of his life in New Caledonia, working in the bush for sixteen years. In 1919 he moved to Nouméa and founded his own paper, Civisme, becoming a spokesman for the rural communities. Bloc was an ardent royalist, a devout Catholic, and a traditionalist whose right-wing views colour his portraits of the characters who live in the bush and, in the text selected from Le Colon Brossard, his portrait of a Kanak woman. However, in Les Confidences d’un cannibale Bloc makes an interesting attempt to place himself inside the head of a ‘Canaque’, Tiagou, and to view white society from the ‘Other’s’ perspective.

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In the preface to his novel, Le Colon Brossard, Bloc explains that his characters are all drawn from real life, and he names the young man on whom the hero of his novel is based. The book describes the adventures in the life of a supremely optimistic ‘Feillet’ colonist who faces all kinds of encounters with other human beings as well as natural disasters with remarkable equanimity. In the extract we have selected, Brossard speaks circumspectly of his loneliness and the impossibility of finding a European woman to share his life, a reflection of the reality of that time when young single males made up 60 percent of the rural non-Kanak population. Tracing colonisation through women’s itineraries recalls the initial dearth of European women, due in part to the harsh and insecure living conditions in the bush, which resulted in a number of unions between settlers or army officers and Melanesian women, offered in some cases by a local chief. The incidence is difficult to quantify, as these women have disappeared behind their husbands’ family names—names that reflect the mixed (if largely European) character of the earliest settlement in ‘Port-de-France’ and, in particular, the Irish diaspora in the Pacific via Australia (e.g., Higgins, Paddon). Settler families with names like Lynch, Casey, and Oliver, but also Ohlen and Metzger, were recruited to the early settlements. These names tell us little about the founding women, of whom the “Niembé” of Bloc’s tale may well be one. Idyll—Paul Bloc  ◙ This chapter begins after the settler Brossard has been ill and has had to resist his neighbour’s attempts to take over his land. Bloc’s text still reflects the old myths of the charming and available Polynesian maidens, as opposed to the unattractive and fiercely guarded Melanesian women. Bloc presents Niembé as an emancipated and independent Kanak woman living in Nouméa who chooses to grant her favours to Brossard in return (implicitly) for what the white man can bring. Brossard moved back into his house, quickly settled down, thanks to his strong constitution and to the excellent New Caledonian climate, and resumed his rustic life as an unmarried planter. That year he had the joy of seeing the first flowering of his coffee plants; it was one of the greatest joys of his life. These small white perfumed flowers were the just reward for three years’ labour. He made a

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small bouquet and sent it to his neighbour, Motrais, with a brief note: “Knowing the interest you have shown in my coffee, I am sending you the first flowers.” This was the one and only act of vengeance taken by this man who never held a grudge. . . .  He was already envisaging future harvests, of which these were the precursors. He imagined and experimented with all kinds of ingenious contraptions reminiscent of the gallows, the catapult and the battering ram. This machinery, when the mechanism did not break down, succeeded in setting in motion a heavy, mechanical pounder which then fell into the crusher at a rhythmic ten strokes a minute. With time and patience the problems of treating his coffee would be solved. This creative work delighted him. But, as passionately attached to his work as he was, now and then, his preoccupations could not prevent Brossard from succumbing to the imperious weight of nature’s greatest  law. Sometimes, in the evening, having finished his meal, soothing sleep did not come easily, and loneliness would weigh heavily on this thirty-year-old man. He did not want to think of marriage before he was able to ensure a minimum of comfort for his companion. Besides, he was instinctively wary of any threat to his independence. His romantic encounters, haphazard and generally unsolicited on his part, did not leave him with pleasant memories. For if young single settlers did not lead an entirely monastic life in this respect, they were somewhat disadvantaged on this Canaque isle. The lack of white women meant they could dream only of native maidens, and, in these climes, a dusky Venus was difficult to meet and not terribly appealing besides. Indigenous mores are highly refined. The adulteress risks the most sadistic of punishments. The ways of these cruel, jealous Maoris are a far cry from those of the easy and indulgent Tahitians. In New Caledonia, the genius of Loti would have been short of material for his masterpieces: odes to the charms of gentle and easygoing Rarahu maidens. Their women are carefully guarded. Only a few, those rejected by their husbands, became communal property. To be able to live with a popinée (the name for a Canaque woman), one had to have the chief ’s consent, and observe traditional formalities. These included the payment of a stated sum which, in a way, was the purchase price, and presents for the relatives and the tribe. Some young settlers, weary of living in lonely solitude, complied

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with these requirements. It was a costly business in the long run as they then had to support the family, who used and abused their hospitality. Relatives would arrive without warning, bringing welcome gifts, sugarcane, taro, and yams, but would not leave until well supplied with tobacco, cloth, provisions, etc., and not until they had well and truly eaten their fill. . . .  With these close contacts with the natives, a change would take place, the white man would gradually become used to their ways, fall under their influence. He would learn the language, become involved in tribal gossip and would end up going completely native. However, these unions were not sought after, at least not by the Feillet settlers who generally had higher aspirations. Our Brossard was content with fleeting encounters. In the evenings at Darel’s store, he would amusingly recount various incidents. He took care to take with him a musical instrument, the ‘harmonica,’ which the popinées name niemby, and which was a coveted and seductive object. . . .  To the niemby, one would add a comb and a stick of tobacco. Some of these ladies, the more assertive of them, would also demand a pipe. . . . There’s no accounting for taste, as they say. . . .  However, Brossard did have one romantic liaison that was more memorable and more flattering. Her name was Niembé. When she was quite young, a married Administrator had obtained her from a chief, to look after his children. She had therefore been taken to the main town where she lost all contact with the tribe from which she had broken free. She had learned to speak French, had acquired domestic skills, and was a creditable cook. She was the bright, resourceful young popinée, making her way in the White Man’s world. From time to time she would put in an appearance in the bush to see her relatives, but she distanced herself from any authority and guarded her independence. She had a taste for feminine elegance which she cultivated to the point of wearing stockings and shoes, something quite unheard of in those days. One day, coming back down out of his forest, Brossard was surprised to find her sitting on the veranda. She was playing the niemby, gently tapping the ground with a piece of wood to mark the rhythm of its melody. Brossard had seen her several times, but had not approached her. “Hello, Niembé! What are you doing here?”

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But Niembé did not like idle words and, keeping her distance, she calmly continued to play the niemby. If she had come alone, it was because it pleased her to do so. She had noticed Brossard, and wanted to get to know him better. Wasn’t her presence statement enough; what was he waiting for? Why not simply embrace her there and then? Others wouldn’t have had such qualms! Surely he could see that she had brought her little bundle of clothes with her? . . .  Why was he so shy? And then, suddenly, she stopped her music and threw him one of those glances whose universal language is of every race and every land. Brossard was not so stupid that he hadn’t grasped its meaning. That day his coffee went untended. . . . P. Bloc (1996), Le Colon Brossard, pp. 111–114

The extract we have translated from Jean Mariotti’s Remords encapsulates the problems in the daily life of a family struggling to survive on their land concession in the bush, dealing with a well-documented and widespread problem—that of the failure of the majority of the farming concessions that were granted to ex-convicts. In Les expériences coloni­ ales, Isabelle Merle (1995) produces figures showing that only 10 percent of ex-convicts became established on the land. The others left in despair or were dispossessed by the authorities when they were unable to work the land profitably. Mariotti’s text also sketches a rather negative (prejudiced?) portrait of the shopkeeper of Asian extraction, unwilling to fall out with the colonial authorities. The local store at the centre of the text was an essential part of the infrastructure of small settlements, the commercial centre for towns far from Nouméa, where land transport was slow and arduous, and shipping supplies infrequent. Struggles of a Small Landholder—Jean Mariotti In this text Vaudois and his wife Françoise are ex-convicts—he found guilty of murder, she of infanticide. They have been granted a land concession. Vaudois is not a good worker and hates the daily responsibility of caring for the land and of providing for his family. His property is run down and his predicament reflects the reality for those ex-convicts who had neither the experience nor the will to work the land. The struggle to put food on the table, to find money to pay for essentials, has led him to collect rubber from another property.

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When, at eleven o’clock, he heard Françoise shout, “Come and get your soup,” he was still standing there, in a daze. He was unaware that time had passed; it had made no impression on him. Uneasy and strained, he came into the house and sat down, not daring to raise his eyes towards his wife. Françoise was going back and forth, bustling about, being busy. Without looking at her, Vaudois was well aware what that attitude meant. Each gesture was a silent reproach. I serve the soup on time. I am not an idler. I tidy up the house without worrying about being tired. I take care of my children. I . . .  The way the soup tureen was put down on the table, the way the half-open drawer was pushed shut, the way the food was given out to the children underlined the contempt in the I of each of these silent statements. Vaudois lowered his nose nearer to his plate and ate without speaking. When the meal was finished, as she was filling the bowls with coffee, Françoise said, “We’re nearly out of sugar.” Vaudois raised his eyes towards her. “And flour too,” she added nastily. “Make me a list,” he told her. “I’ll drive to Banoa and bring you back everything we need.” “How’re you going to pay? You know very well that Monsieur Buman won’t sell us anything else on credit. You’re going to kill one of our cattle. If you go on like that, the whole herd’ll be gone and then what?” “There’s no need for that, Françoise. I have 100 kg or so of rubber left; it’ll get us by.” She looked at him balefully and stood there without replying, quite put out to see that he was avoiding the reproaches that were already on the tip of her tongue. When Vaudois arrived at Buman’s store, the little man with the white beard was pattering around behind his counter like a white mouse. He stopped at the sight of the stockman, and tilted his head to one side to allow his gaze to filter through between his spectacles and eyebrows. Then, having thus weighed up the newcomer, he greeted him with a courtesy that was entirely professional. “I’ve brought you some rubber,” said Vaudois in a firm, resonant voice. [ . . . ] “Tsk . . . tsk . . . rubber,” tutted the little man sadly. “Well then, shall I put it on the scales?” Vaudois asked. Mr. Buman leant his two hands on the counter, head bobbing forward with every word. “I am sorry, Mr. Vaudois, so sorry, but I cannot buy your rubber. You don’t have any banyan trees on your property. That

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could get me into hot water, Mr. Vaudois. You couldn’t have collected this rubber on your property. I’m not saying this for you, Mr. Vaudois, but there’s so much stealing goes on with this rubber.” “But look here, Mr. Buman,” said Vaudois, “you know very well I didn’t steal it. “It’s not the first time that I’ve sold it to you . . . rubber, that is. I collect it, from the forest, like everyone else.” “Sorry, Mr. Vaudois, so sorry, but you know, rubber, cattle hides . . . I’m not saying this for you—a bad business all that. . . . A very bad business. So, bring me some coffee, Mr. Vaudois. Or some maize.” J. Mariotti (1997), Remords, pp. 107–109

A Simple Story—Jean Mariotti The following excerpt from Mariotti’s Le dernier voyage du Thétis again illustrates the difficulties faced by those ex-convicts and their families who had been granted a land concession—difficulties often insurmountable even for those who had been farm workers in France. The libérés were shunned by both free immigrants and by the Kanaks, kept under strict supervision of the penitentiary administration, and had to

Settler Farm at Canala ca. 1866, E. de Greslan. (ANC)

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battle with farming conditions completely alien to the ones they knew. A few of the older, unmarried concessionaries did choose to return to the penitentiary, as in this story. Dripping with sweat, Badu sat down on a fallen tree trunk, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He sat there, overwhelmed with despair. His stubborn face softened, smoothing out the deep lines that made it look so rugged. Badu looked around him with a discouraged look of defeat, then with a look of hatred, hatred for this uncivilised country that, for ten years, had remained a foreign land. Ten years! It had taken him ten years of constant struggle, ten years of thankless labour to clear these five hectares of land from dense virgin forest, and to plant them. . . . And then! In a few months, he had seen his strong young coffee plants shed their leaves. In July, just at the very time when each plant had reached maturity, and was almost covered with a harvest of ripe red fruit. “Dirty rotten country,” he said. He spat to give full weight to his

Ile Nou Prison, Collection Nicolas-Frédéric Hagen. (ANC)

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insult, and it summed up all the confused hatred that he did not know how to express. He could sense the hostile forest around him, always ready to take back the land that had been cleared, and above it all the stifling hot sun. The bird songs told him that France was thousands of leagues away. He listened with hostility to the nostalgic plaint of the green pigeon, the musical scales of the winghiri, and the deep, cascading hoot of the notou. No! There was nothing that reminded him of French soil. In fact, these very bushes that he had tended for the past decade, these coffee plants with leaves that had once been green, a deep shiny green, he did not love them half as much as the honest plants of his own country. And was the harvesting of these red fruits work for Frenchmen or nothing more than easy plunder fit for monkey-pawed savages? Disturbed when he realised that his hands were idle, Badu looked at them as if they were foreign objects. Automatically, he took a clump of earth and crushed it under his thumb. Even the smell of that clod of earth was a foreign smell. It was a combination of the smell of the vegetation, the cries of the birds, the brilliance of the light, and the echoes from the valleys, and it created an ambience that Badu vaguely sensed was no element for his own race. Beneath his rough peasant hand, the earth was still crumbling, re-

On Death Row, Collection Nicolas-Frédéric Hagen. (MDVN)

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leasing its strange smells. Badu shook his head and thought about giving up the struggle. He felt defeated, robbed of his strength. A thought that had been haunting him for some days took shape and he expressed it out loud as country people often do. “I’m goin’ back in.” For him as for many men, these words had a particular significance. To go “back in” meant to go back to prison, for Badu wore the woven straw hat and the grey cotton uniform. In the past, in his village, he had killed a man. “I’m goin’ back in,” he declared, with relief. He remembered the penitentiary, the monotonous life, the regular meals, the days that flowed one into the other, grey, always the same, with no worries. . . .  From the floor of the valley, the raucous sound of a horn rose towards him. Eleven o’clock already! He stood up and slowly walked down towards his hut—the thatched roof could be seen through the trees. He remembered how last year he’d had to give up his plan of giving it a corrugated iron roof. He didn’t like the hut itself either, this hut without a chimney, and whose design in no way recalled the houses of his own country, which sat firmly and squarely on their stone walls. Breastfeeding the youngest of their offspring, his wife was waiting for him on the veranda. Although still young, her body was misshapen by too many early pregnancies. She wore only a cotton dress, and her feet were bare. The four children, the eldest of whom was seven, came in seeking their pittance. Badu moved forward ponderously, put down his hat and sat down. He took out his large work knife from its sheath, made the sign of the cross over the bread, cut into it and handed out thick slices. Without a word, he bent his head and noisily lapped up his soup. The children, who could sense a storm brewing, had fallen silent. J. Mariotti (2000), Le dernier voyage du Thétis, pp. 121–123

Chapter Thirteen

Women’s Lives

In the Penal Colony The excerpt from Les femmes bagnards by Odile Krakovitch, which appears in Regards de Femmes, the exhibition catalogue and anthology of texts on New Caledonian women, describes the life of female ‘criminals’ (numbering around two thousand in total) sent from France to the penal colony of New Caledonia. Many of the deported women were sent to work in the gardens or to be seamstresses in the convent at Bourail, and married off in groups to liberated male convicts, in support of the policy of populating the colony. Krakovitch credits deportee Louise Michel with having passed on the knowledge of what went on in the female penal institutions. These were no sensational stories of torture or love; just a daily life characterised by hunger, work, punishment, solitude, and oblivion. Krakovitch’s text echoes this poverty and monotony. According to Krakovitch, feminine criminality in the nineteenth century was not due to desire for wealth, power, or the wish to revolt. For women, crime—theft, infanticide, murder—was defensive, provoked by extreme economic poverty or conjugal violence. Moreover, female prisoners were sent to New Caledonia less to be punished than to be utilised for hard labour and for their ability to procreate. Women were fundamental to colonisation. Marriage would seem a liberation for many of the women serving sentences in the penal institutions. Forty young women, ‘orphans’ (abandoned by indigent single mothers, for the most part), were sent out on the Fulton in 1863, each with a small trousseau provided by the Empress Eugénie to meet the needs of settlers desiring to establish a family. They were followed closely by thirty prospective brides on the Isis, accompanied by three 175

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sisters of the order of Saint-Joseph de Cluny. In 1873 the Virginie transported a further group who were married off almost immediately with a fifteen-franc trousseau offered by the governor. The Fénelon carried thirty women from the Saint-Lazare convent (women taken off the streets), a further sixty-nine wives and children joining their deported husbands, and a number of wives of free settler families fleeing the political miseries of Alsace-Lorraine. Over six hundred marriages were celebrated between 1870 and 1895. Such women were then bound by their husband’s life sentences of exile. Daily Life For all the women, the uniform is a grey cotton dress for work and a blue striped one for walks or mass. They also wear a black headscarf folded diagonally, and a straw hat with a black ribbon. Like everything else, the clothing allocation is designed in metropolitan France, and by men, so it is not until 1905 that we find “sanitary linens,” a basic necessity for women, added to the clothing allowance! But the meanness of the clothing allocation is nothing. The worst thing is the daily monotony, the heavy, silent atmosphere where the slightest hint of laughter is punished. In the prison cell block, the wake up call is at 5.45 a.m., followed by prayers. Then the women clean the dormitory and the boatshed that serves as a workshop. Finally, breakfast is served: coffee for those who can pay, thin, watery soup for the others. At 7 o’clock: The bell sounds for work; at this point they come to be given their job for the day then they go and sit down on the small packing case that contains their belongings, everything that they own. They have no other seats, not a table, not even a miserable little bench. . . . As soon as the work is distributed, the strictest silence must be observed until dinner, which is served at 11 o’clock. At 9 o’clock and at 3 o’clock the rosary is recited. At 4.30 p.m. work finishes. Supper and recreation are at 5 o’clock. The women go to bed at 6.30 p.m., in absolute silence. On Sunday, there is a two-hour walk under the Sisters’ surveillance. This regulated, dreary life, punctuated with punishment for infringement of petty rules, leads to escape attempts and depression. Accustomed to a variety of physical activities, many of these women are incapable of sitting still for a whole day. What is more, hunger, the penal

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colony’s most shameful scandal, is ever present. And so, they learn to work the system and use the black market: just to survive. They eat into their meagre savings, put aside for the return to France or for setting up a new life in town. The Penal Administration takes a third of their wages, a third is kept in the prisoner’s savings book (but managed by the Penal Administration), and a third is at the disposal of the prisoners. These wages, initially reserved for petty repeat offenders, are very quickly extended to detainees imprisoned for serious crimes, in order to increase motivation and production. Some prisoners are employed by private citizens as cooks, domestics, or dressmakers. This is considered a privilege. The daily distribution of these outside work assignments serves as a means of exerting pressure and as a form of blackmail for the Administration and the Sisters. The masters abuse their power so ruthlessly that these jobs sometimes amount to near slavery. Unlike the men, the women have no qualifications; most of them don’t know how to read or write. This lack of training is deliberately maintained by the administration so as to underpay the female labour force. Cooking, dressmaking and other feminine professions are not recognised as qualifications, so as to pay the women at the lowest salary scale. This generates revolts, and leads to unemployment and prostitution after release from prison, for want of a profession. S. Ouvrard-Culand and V. Defrance, eds., Regards de femmes (1998). “Daily Life” reprinted from O. Krakovitch (1990), Les femmes bagnardes, p. 13

A Kanak Woman Recounts Her Mother’s Life The memories evoked here in this simple but dramatic contemporary oral narrative are those of the childhood of fifty-year-old Naomi, now living in Nouméa, as she was growing up in the tribu (now called customary lands) of Goyetta. Naomi evokes with deep affection the memory of her mother, Pouya, a descendant of chiefs. She describes the hard daily life of this Kanak woman who worked on the coffee plantation and in the fields as well as preparing family meals, sewing, and caring for her family. The father of the family was a Christian pastor, and the family read the Bible together. Naomi asserts the value of her applied education, citing the knowledge and work skills passed onto the daughters by the mother both by example and practice. Her account

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highlights the extent to which, despite the customary “piles of food” prepared by the mother and the importance of the Word and childrens’ necessary obedience, European practices had influenced the lifestyle of the Kanak, even those living on customary lands. Naomi’s narrative bears oral witness to the life of a Melanesian woman born in the first half of the twentieth century living in her tribu. The Code de l’Indigénat meant that only a relatively small number of Kanak women were authorised to leave their tribu and work in Nouméa alongside Tonkinese women as domestic servants, but this Kanak group was subject to the curfews and restriction of movement of the Native Code and isolated from their roots and culture.

Scenes of Kanak Life, M. Néporon. (ADCK)

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Naomi: A Kanak Woman’s Life My mother used to tell me that back then, things were very hard; there was the old law of the whites. A white man would come and ask the chief for men to work. The chief would choose them. The money from the work was given to the chief. That’s how it was. As for my mother, she worked in the coffee plantation, but she was paid by Mr. François J., who also used to bring us lots of fish from his fishing trips and legs of deer meat. We were used to the ways of the whites. So we had more freedom. My mother was very strong, very hard working. She had ten children. She always got up before us and went to pick coffee beans, you know, the berries. She came back towards midday, and left again around one-thirty or two o’clock. Before leaving in the morning she would prepare things for the meal. All in separate piles. In those days it’s my father who used to cook, together with the one or two children who stayed home in the house. The others went with my mother. She showed us how to clear away undergrowth and weeds, how to gather and how to harvest, especially on Saturdays when there was no school. That’s how it was in our family; we were shown what to do. You obeyed the Word. According to the seasons, she would work in the coffee or yam plantations and we would help. She worked in the fields, in the plantations; she loved to make lovely gardens, with flowers. The front of the house was very well kept. It was very pretty. There’s still one hibiscus there that she planted. When they cut down the coconut palms she planted I wasn’t happy, I cried. It’s as if she wasn’t still with us, as if she was gone; it’s a lack of respect. And, we raised chickens and pigs too. . . .  Mum also had a sewing machine; she used to make us very pretty mission dresses and knickers. She showed us how to do it; she wanted us to know how to do everything later on. She also knew how to weave. She really was a hard-working woman. In the evening, the whole family came together again to eat, sitting on the mat around the lantern. First there was a prayer, each of us in turn so that we’d learn, and lastly my father or mother. After that, my mother gave us each our plate and we’d eat. She prepared very good traditional food; she loved us. We would clear away the dishes, but we wouldn’t wash them straight away, only

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the next day. Then our father would read the Bible to us and explain it. These were very happy times. It’s my father who taught my mother to read and write, because my father, he knew how to read and write before everyone else in the tribe. The chief himself didn’t know how to read. I wonder how he signed the passes to leave the village. My father also knew how to speak and read Mare, for the bible was in Mare, and he translated it into Païcî for the others. My mother also spoke French. That wasn’t the case with other women of her age. When the soldiers came into the tribe they would quickly run to the back. Not us children. We weren’t afraid of the whites; we were happy to be able to speak French. My mother, when she was a little girl, never went to school, but the women were taught the Bible by the missionaries. S. Ouvrard-Culand and V. Defrance, eds., Regards de femmes (1998), pp. 67–68

Chapter Fourteen

The Voice of the Other

In fact, only a (very) small number of nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century texts give access to indigenous voices, particularly in letters. The publication in Lettres de Maré of some thirty-nine Tusi nengoni—letters sent back and forth between Kanak chiefs in exile in Poulo Condor (French Indochina) and their families or the missionaries on the Loyalty island of Maré (mention is made of the London Missionary Society [LMS] pastor, Mr. Jones)—provides a distinctive perspective on the past through personal and intimate testimony. Like the texts of oral tradition, these letters also provide a sense of the rhetorical traditions that underlie communication between speakers of Nengone. Many of the letters describe the difficult conditions of exile, in particular the chronic shortage of food and the prevalence of sickness. The Kanak chief Détéane speaks of the chickens he raises and shares. His laments for the chiefs who have died, including his elder brother Djéwineé (alternative spellings are used, including Djéouiné), and the uncertainty of mail—nonreception of news of his father’s death on Maré, the secondhand news of a birth—are common themes. The chief’s injunction to his interlocutors to keep him in their prayers is a reference to the new (Protestant) religion (one letter suggests that making the sign of the cross ‘in the Catholic way’ is the cause behind a chief’s death) and also an indirect reminder of obligations to the chief and his rights, despite his absence. “Mother of Thipi” (women are given the name of their children, which enhances their status as mothers) is accused of violating the law by “playing around” (i.e., having an affair) with Wamango. “Mother of Thipi”, who may well be the widow of Détéane’s older brother, Djéouiné, is threatened with retribution if she dares to touch “their” things. The “you two” of the address to “Mother 181

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of Elisabeth” is probably a translation of the ‘dual’ pronoun used in Nengone tongue for a single mother-child unit or person. Interestingly, Détéane seems to understand his own exile in Kanak terms—that is, as the result of the malice of enemies currying favour in high places and not as a punishment by colonial authorities for fomenting attacks on Catholic chiefs. The letter we have translated was sent in 1881 by Détéane—who was exiled to the small prison island Poulo Condor, south of Saigon— to his extended family on Maré. A first ‘war’ of religion between Catholic and Protestant converts during 1869–1870 on that coral atoll had been followed by the four-year voluntary exile of one thousand Catholics to the Isle of Pines. A further revolt in July 1880 resulted in the exile (by the administration) of fifteen Protestant Kanak to Poulo Condor. Détéane’s letter is a moving communication of feelings of attachment to family and traditions. It also allows the chief to reassert his authority and some oversight over the tribe and his possessions. Beneath the new art of writing, in French, the structure of Détéane’s first language can still be detected. Address to an interlocutor, repetition, use of ‘dual’ or plural pronouns, the cyclical character and rhythm given by regular reference to death and to births, for example, recall traditional palabres and highlight the oral (and strategic) character of Détéane’s communication. Letter from a Kanak Chief in Exile Letter from Détéane to his family. Baneso, Koneko Street. Wo, Éni, Maré, New Caledonia. Poulo Condor, 15th November 1881. Well! Mother of Elisabeth, I learned from the tusi [letter] from the Mother of Ani that my father had died. Why didn’t both you tell me about it? I think that you didn’t do the things that you should have for my father. I saw the letter from the Mother of Thipi and I was greatly saddened and I started to cry and I gave a shirt and ten sous for the funeral of my father—I was the only one to make the gift. No one helped me—the others didn’t help me—I alone. I was already very much grieved by the death of Djéwiné and now my father too—I am greatly distressed. Alas poor

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father and poor Djéwiné. Mother of Joné, my heart is troubled because my father and Djéouiné have both passed on. Oh my poor father! I am so unfortunate. Alas when I reach the shore again at Éni, I’ll find myself alone and my elder brother Djéouiné will not be with me. Alas! How humiliated I am [how much I have lost] no longer having my father or my brother. Here is more. You didn’t tell me that your child was a boy, and I haven’t had any news except from elsewhere and through other peoples’ letters. It seems like you are not thinking of me in your prayers. Whereas I am praying for you. Both you pray for me with fervour, that’s the important thing. As I will pray for you. Here is something for my aunt and my uncle Wathoukada and Djémo and my uncle Waïmane and the boys, my subjects living at Pétiivéou, I miss you all; the whole family. I’m telling you my aunt Wadjodjone and my uncle Wathoukada that Djéouiné is dead—Here is what is wrong with him—he had bad dysentery. After three weeks he died on the 10th of June. Then Kapéa died on 14 July. My dear aunt, I was crying bitterly over Djéouiné when the letters for the others arrived announcing that my father was dead. And so I didn’t stop crying. What could I think of but crying? I am so unfortunate. Alas! When I come back home to Maré, whose home will I come ashore to? Oh! My poor father! Poor Djéwiné! I don’t sleep anymore, I just cry because I am mourning my father and Djéwiné. Here is more. I never stop thinking of Ani and his mother who, while amusing herself with Wamango, cut [injured] Ani with an axe and I am very sorry about that. Tell her not to despoil our things, mine and Djéwiné’s—if there’s anything missing when I come home again she will have me to deal with. Why did she give those things away to the Mother of Hashéane during a dance (pia), tell her to take them back again because she is breaking the law with Wamango and then has the audacity to put her hands on what belongs to us, to both of us. I heard about what she has been doing. As for Djéouiné, it’s she who made him die, and Ani is also her victim. That’s what I have to say to you. Now my mother Wadjidjone, I’m here to tell you that we are greatly hungry in this place. We eat nothing but rice,

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without anything else to cut [the monotony], and a salted fish. Then each month we receive a pig—some clothes and three francs each. On this little island we are much sick. Here is more. I raised chickens and I shared them with the chiefs. Wanakami had one of them, Lali one. Wéinané one, Wachoïmane one—Haïemé one, and Yongoméné, Tiéléné one. Here is more. Washoima and I bought a monkey and it is tied up in our house, it bites, it is very vicious, it is destined for Dadatié. Wachoïmane paid us for the mourning ceremony of Waguiané then he paid for the mourning for Waïdéou to Wanakami and we others, we paid for the mourning of Djéwiné to Yongoméné, and also Yongoméné paid us for the mourning of Kapéa. Here is more. Our exile came to us because of Kanedyo and Wanaïé who gave pigs and money to the governor of Nouméa. And then I don’t know, we cannot know how many years we will remain here—they haven’t told us. Maybe two, that’s my thought—but I don’t know anything—it’s a matter for God who is powerful. This is the end here. It is I, Détéané Sabo who is fond of you. Good day. Talofa with me on my letter, the letter of I, call me Détéané. Here is more, Wadobéré died on September the 21st. Announce this to Kouli. When you have read my letter, let the teacher write straight away to Mr. Jones to tell him that Wadobéré is dead too. Don’t wait, hurry as soon as possible to tell Mr. Jones. It is very important. K. Bopp Du Pont, L. Idoux, and F. Bogliolo (1999), Lettres de Maré, pp. 56–58

Mariotti, Baudoux, Laubreaux, Bloc: Colonial Writers as Critic and Conscience of Society and as Literary Precursors In 1929 Jehanne d’Orliac could still write of the Melanesians, “They are without memory and without project. How absurdly utopian to

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consider them free citizens, with rights equal to ours! How dangerous to leave them rotting in their ignorance and barbarity! They haven’t been of the slightest use to us for civilisation, and we haven’t been of any help to them for their development” (Bogliolo 2000, 140). Despite the significant Melanesian uprisings of 1878 and 1917 and the recovery and revaluing of indigenous oral tradition by Michel and Leenhardt, and despite occasional textual witness to their lives by Kanak, the structures and dominance of the nineteenth-century colonial regime and mentalité were not substantially modified until 1945. As we have seen in this overview of the first published New Caledonian texts, the work of the early twentieth-century novelists now recognised as the founders of an ‘emerging’ literature (emerging at least in the sense of the recent acknowledgment of its existence by Europe) contains critical portraits of colonial society and increasingly empathetic representations of the ‘Canaques’ who existed alongside it. Yet the attempts to speak from within a Melanesian consciousness by writers such as Mariotti, Baudoux, Laubreaux, and Bloc remain suspect. The voice of the protagonist of Mariotti’s 1941 novel, Takata d’Aïmos (Mariotti 1999b), the cunning sorcerer, outwitted and left to waste away by the avenging lizard, overlays Melanesian tradition with many of the colonial stereotypes of exotic primitivism. The myths and legends Mariotti claims to have garnered at the knee of an adoptive Kanak mother as the unconscious voice of her ancient culture, and which play a major part in his writing life in France, are mixed with ancient European and Mediterranean myths and heroes. Bogliolo’s pioneering thesis on New Caledonian literature has suggested that Mariotti’s writing transmits an overriding sense of loss—of the oral, the heroic, the epic, and the universal—as it seeks to retrace its steps to direct contact with the mysterious and intense world of childhood, the fascination of the primitive in a modern, fallen world guilty of destroying the ancient harmonies. Home, then, is the land where one cannot be, like the hybrid land of both exile and new home (terre d’exil/terre d’accueil) that New Caledonia came to be for many of its less-than-sovereign inhabitants. In the novels of this son of a convict-settler, raised in the ‘bush’ outside Nouméa, “a savage who received the education of a civilised man” (Mariotti 1998, 54), there is a constant movement to and fro between the deep blue of the Pacific and the boat rocked by the ocean “surrounded by a crown of shining coral” that is New Caledonia, the land of the “disinherited” and the temporal depth of Mediterranean Europe, with its ancient “temples constructed lace-like out of stone”(Mariotti

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1996a, 207). This ‘hybridity’ goes beyond the simple transfer of Kanak cultural referents to French space. However, profound ambivalence marks the movement between Mariotti’s command centennial work of 1953, Le Livre du centenaire (Mariotti 2001), in which the writer eulogizes the foundation of the colony, and his last work, Daphné (Mariotti 1999a), in which two mad prospectors, figures of the blind violence of colonialism, finish up by blowing up their island. Baudoux, too, reverses the usual referents of the terms ‘savage’ and ‘civilised’ in his later work in which he also looks critically at European colonial society. Yet his earlier and sometimes sexualised focus on the bloodthirsty and barbaric in Melanesian societies—in Kaavo or Légendes Canaques, for example—reflects both an ambivalence towards this Other and the expectations of his ‘civilised’ readers: their interest in local colour, the erotic, and the exotic. Paul Bloc, like Jean Mariotti (or, before him, Victor Segalen, who, in Les Immémoriaux, presents precolonial Tahiti through the mind of a protagonist, Terii, seeking the lost civilization of his ancestors), attempts to speak through the mouth and see through the eyes of a native protagonist, the naïve but wily Tiangou, in Les confidences d’un cannibale (Bloc 1998a). Similarly, Baudoux puts himself into the head of ‘old Tchiao’. The old Kanak’s attempt to grow the “yams of the Whites” is not so different, however, from the mimicry of the colonial masters, argued by the postcolonial critic Homi Bhabha to be characteristic of the behaviour of the ‘colonised’. For this appropriation is presented less as astute and strategic than comic. The planting of bread and performance of the necessary fertility rituals is a sign of Tchiao’s childish credulousness and assumption of white superiority (for him, the ‘yams’, or bread, of the whites have a prestige Kanak yams do not). The frames of sorcery, primitivism, mistreatment of women, and cannibalism, by means of which the reader establishes his own superior identity in terms of the opposition with the Kanak ‘Other’ or what he himself is not, are still omnipresent in these ‘colonial’ fictions. Nonetheless, all of these novelists, who are clearly New Caledonian rather than metropolitan writers, give a voice to traditionally silenced indigenous characters. Mariotti and Baudoux, in particular, explicitly denounce the cultural dispossession of the colonial period as leading to incompleteness of Kanak being, and at the end of their respective writing itineraries, both authors allow Kanak characters to reverse the roles and present the European coloniser as the ‘Other’. There may not always be a great deal of humility in the colonial writ-

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ers’ attempts to put themselves in the head of the Kanak, but there is a degree of listening, knowledge, and relative empathy in these representations that make them of value in the very limited corpus of written representations of these indigenous peoples. Rather than seeing these texts as reflections of a lost Kanak identity, for contemporary Kanak these representations may provide information on the positive as well as negative ways in which contact with Kanak culture was filtered and reconstructed within ethnocentric frames and terms by some of the more sensitive and critical European minds of the times, and sometimes adopted as authentic by the Kanak themselves. At any event, the pens of writers of European origin who lived at least for a period alongside them and who recorded what they saw and felt from their particular colonial contexts provide invaluable, if partial, records of the (non) encounter of the two cultures. The Secrets of a Cannibal—Paul Bloc In the following text the settler Paul Bloc speaks for Tiangou, the Kanak, attempting to see the white world from inside his head. Bloc uses this device to satirize New Caledonian white society, particularly materialism: the thirst for gold and minerals, the planting of cash crops such as coffee, but also their mores and customs such as dueling. However, once again Bloc’s satire of white society also carries the clichés of white indictment of Kanak mores, particularly the disregard for their women, and this text follows the account of the barbarous punishment of Kanak women with heated stones in the event of suspected adultery. What did you do Tiangou after the death of your employer? We carried on working with the new Whites who came from all over. In Port-de-France I was often used as interpreter for the Whites since I knew how to speak French. There were large meetings, in the houses that fed people, called restaurants. Often they asked me if they could go into the back country to get land for farming, but I didn’t understand because each area had its own chief, but they said they would pay for it. But I didn’t dare give them advice. Some wanted to take me with them, but I didn’t dare because I was scared of the Taatas who didn’t know me or our language. Little by little, soldiers started to come and they went and set up

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posts in the back country. And the Taatas understood that if they killed the Whites, there would be revenge. And then there were Tardy de Mont­ ravel’s canons that they’d all heard. And then also the Taatas were welcome guests in Port-de-France and could even eat meat and when they had worked for the Whites they gave them their coin money and food in the restaurants. They were starting to understand money. The Whites asked me if cattle could eat here. I said yes because I’d seen Paddon’s cattle at Ile Nou. And you would see ships arriving from Australia with cattle and horses that were herded northwards. I learned later they were being taken towards Saint-Vincent. In Port-de-France, there were houses, also called cafés, where the Whites gathered and they drank beer, wine and gin. They didn’t speak the same language, but they understood a few words. From time to time, you’d see someone bring a little earth in a box and everyone would look at it. You’d hear: gold, gold. Then they would argue and shout. There were some Whites from Australia who knew about gold and they left to find it in the hinterland. I didn’t understand so they showed me a watch or ring and said, “Gold!” Some left to find gold and never came back. One day, someone else came with some green earth and you’d hear: nickel, nickel. All over the place, the Whites were talking about nickel. What did you think of it all? I said to Marie, that night, “These new Whites are mad. The first Whites bought wood, sea cucumber, copra and mother-of-pearl, but these ones want green or yellow earth and they kept saying ‘Gold, nickel.’ ” Some of them said you had to search in the river or by the sea, others said in the mountains. In the back country, the Taatas did not understand. They said the Whites wanted to take earth to cook it and no doubt to eat it. This was the talk of the tribe. The Taatas, in the great famines, ate earth but not that earth. In the end, they thought the Whites were sorcerers because they’d been told that by cooking the earth you could make gold or iron into axes and picks. Some tried but did not succeed. The sorcerers explained that it was their devils that made these things happen.

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And what did you say? I learned after, later, how to do it but I was getting old and Port-deFrance had grown. These Whites, they were like a big tribe and they often had new ideas. First, they talked about cattle, then gold, then nickel. Afterwards, they never stopped arguing, some of them talked about coffee. [ . . . ] They also had strange ways of doing things that we didn’t understand. One morning, on the parade ground in front of the Pointe Chaleix, I was with a friend; I saw a group of White men arguing and who seemed to be studying something. They looked like chiefs. Often the Whites would ask me to help them carry something or clean up, cut wood; but that day, one came and told me to leave. So I went and hid behind a tree, in the bushes and I saw two Whites standing close together and holding out a piece of sharpened steel at arm’s length. There was another between them who seemed to be watching and supervising. There were others who were a little further away. And then, all of a sudden, after a command, the two in shirts tried to stab each other and after a moment they stopped. One had blood on his arm and another White came and treated him. He was a doctor. It was later explained to me: it was a married White man who was fighting with the other because his wife had been to the other’s house. And the husband had been hurt; not much though. I was told later that this was what the White chiefs do when their wives commit adultery. It’s called a duel. Others would fight with their fists or beat the wife. So the Whites were madder than the Taatas! In the tribe, the adulterous wife was punished in the place she had committed the sin, with red hot stones from the fire, and Marie, my wife, laughed when I told her the story. She couldn’t understand why the deceived husband could get himself wounded or killed when not a word was said to the wife. P. Bloc (1998a), Les confidences d’un cannibale, pp. 33–34

Failed ‘Métissage’/Impossible Third Spaces In the late nineteenth century the dissident voices of the political déportés had already produced a discourse critical of the fever and the speculation of various mining rushes and of the ‘corruption’ and inadequacy of the administration in assisting its various populations. Their denun-

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Soldiers, Y. Bouquet. Yvette Bouquet’s work provides another perspective on the comic character of European institutions, seen this time through genuinely Kanak eyes, in her depiction of soldiers. (ADCK)

ciation of the exploitation of contracted labour from the New Hebrides (described as “contracts in human flesh”) or of the requirement that mine workers spend a good part of their wages at the store operated by the mine owners constituted a socialist and anti-capitalist critique. The fiercely satirical portrait of colonial society in the work of Alin Laubreaux in the early twentieth century derives rather from his (ultimately extreme) right-wing positions. Alin Laubreaux, like Paul Bloc, critiques the contradictions and limited understandings of a “segregated and prejudice-ridden colonial society dominated by competition for land” (Jones 2001, intro), drawing on the tropes of colonial literature—travel, destiny, adventure and exile, stories of encounters with the exotic Other in foreign settings—in order to construct similarly mixed and ambiguous ‘portraits’. In Laubreaux’s work, too, exile is figured as an unsettled state of hybridity in the form of the push-pull attraction and repulsion of both places, colony and home country, and the impossibility of writing out of either pole. The potentially hybridising relationships, those that could have

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breached the gap between the cultures or the social categories or the island and the continent, fall victim to discrimination, violence, or assimilation. Métissage is staged in Laubreaux but fails; it, too, inevitably defaults to exile. Wara (1932), for example, recounts the impossibility of a future relationship on the Isle of Pines between the métisse Wara and her white lover, Pascal. In Wara’s subsequent voyage to Paris and her transformation into Elise, the young woman’s assimilation to European and Parisian respectability is portrayed by Laubreaux as a failure of the two societies to create a third hybrid space where Wara could also retain her Kanak identity. Yan-le-Métis (1928), a plagiarized version of Baudoux’s novel Jean M’Baraï: Le pêcheur de trépangs (1919/1920), again plays out the impossibility of being in-between cultures. Yan is caught up in the black-birding trade. Captured by ‘slavers’ in his turn, he is used to ‘breed’ children for food in Black New Hebrides and later sent to make money as a boxer in white Australia, where he is ironically renamed “Johny Blackie, the Maori”. Yan turns out to be marginal in all so-called “pure” societies, notes Diana Jones (2001), and despite his attempt to follow the path of his Breton father, he has no option at the end of the novel but to strip off his European clothes and return to the mother’s tribe. In an ironic twist, Gabriel, a Kanak in another Laubreaux novel, given a Christian name through the influence of a mis-

Coffee plantation, Collection Nicolas-Frédéric Hagen. (ANC)

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sionary education, must sign his ‘tribal’ name to become a member of a colonial troop, a tirailleur Canaque, in the French army. In fact, as Jones concludes, most of the hybrid characters in Laubreaux’s work are killed off, illustrating the premise that diversity and Otherness destroy relationships and that hybridity (biological métissage or cultural mixing) cannot yet fulfil its promises in colonial societies. Paul Bloc also pre­ sents métissage negatively as late as 1965 in his portrait of mixed-race young women in Les filles de la Néama (Bloc 1998b). If to be ‘postcolonial’ requires the critique of the essentialist discourses of the colonialist impulse and their construction of privilege and power, then these ‘colonial’ fictions take tentative steps in that direction, attempting to allow the Other to speak, reflecting on the possibilities opened up by hybridity. Yet two-way bridges between the communities are still barely discernable on the horizon of this ‘founding’ colonial fiction.

Part IV

The Modern Period From Colonial New Caledonia to the Kanaky-New Caledonia of the Noumea Agreement (1998)

Engraved bamboo (detail; modified). (L. Michel [1996], Aux amis d'Europe)

Chapter Fifteen

From Colonial Regimes to Their Contestation (1870–1946)

The push to empire from 1870, accelerated by the meeting in Berlin of the European powers, gave rise to triumphantly colonialist affirmations. These intensified what were designated 128 years later as the “shadows of the colonial era” (Nouméa Agreement of 1998). The attitudes of 1870 were not, in fact, so very different from those found in the earliest settler representations of the indigenous peoples. Jacques Arago speaks of “the fierce Caledonians whose religion is cannibalism” (Arago 1854, 90). Colonial texts continued to imply the founding principle of the naturalness of the domination of the superior and civi­ lised West over the primitive and barbaric native. The ‘Noble Savage’ had disappeared into the background. Speaking of this “natural law” in 1871, the prospector Jules Garnier claimed that those with skill displace those without, the strong displace the weak. His 1867 Voyage to New Caledonia (Garnier 1978) had created an imaginary of a new axis, Paris-French New Caledonia. In this dynamic, the European and Melanesian ‘races’ were seen as fundamentally and irreparably antithetic: “Colonial and human theory that requires that one extend oneself by a gradual mixing of the conquering and the conquered race is not practicable here, for the native and the white, through a natural instinct, repel one another and cannot come to agreement on any point” (Garnier 1978, 214–215). Such, then, was the widely shared politico-cultural background against which a very few exceptional and idealistic political activists reacted: Louise Michel in the 1880s or missionaries like Maurice Leenhardt in the first decades of the early twentieth century. A handful of such writers translated and disseminated a hitherto denigrated oral tradition, collecting and attempting to restore prestige to the texts and languages of a culture whose spirituality had not been rec195

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ognized. Michel’s text “Idara, the Prophetess”, for example, gives voice to the undervalued ecological and spiritual knowledge of a Kanak woman living close to the earth. Michel does not always avoid the ‘paternalism’ present in Le Goupil’s positive description of Kanak at school in his coffee-storage shed at Nassirah, but she speaks glowingly of her pupils in the “Canaque” school she set up despite threats of disciplinary procedures against her by the penal administration if she proceeded. “Never, perhaps, had I had more disciplined . . . more attentive pupils. The Canaque is curious and intelligent” (Michel 1983, 57). The stereotypes of their time inevitably influenced these writers’ horizons. The ‘prophetess’ serves Michel’s own revolutionary and prophetic idealism: she shares the evolutionary perspectives of her time. Her introduction to her Légendes et chansons de geste canaques (Michel 1996) situates Kanak myths and legends in the “childhood of humanity” alongside the great epic poems or else in the Middle Ages, as in her short text on the ritual sacrifice of a young girl at the river mouth to ensure the supply of black pearls needed to make customary ‘money’. Nevertheless, Michel, with her utopian dream of the solidarity of ordinary peoples against oppression, and Maurice Leenhardt, in his identification with a patriarchal society resembling that of the Old Testament and “on its way toward God” (Bogliolo 2000), can be seen as precursors of an emerging Caledonian literature. Both were also to become early exponents of a new understanding that bridges could be built between the cultures. In this process, Leenhardt’s texts come to have authority for both European and Kanak alike, and Michel will herself become a character of testimonial fiction as well as of an inspiring and passionate history that can be seen as both of Europe and of the Pacific. A novel by Agnes Chabrier, Noire est la couleur, first published in 1966 and reedited in 1971, tells the story of a young aristocrat deported in error and befriended by Louise Michel. A children’s story published by Catherine Régent in 2003, Emma de Ducos, recounts the experiences on La Virginie, in 1873, of the only child making the long ship voyage. Emma travelled with her mother, the wife of a political deporté, in one of the two great cages that separated the men prisoners from the women. Emma’s shipboard encounters with the charismatic “Red Virgin” are narrated in the letters the young girl writes to Jeanne, her soulmate left behind in Montmartre. On Ducos, she is reunited with her father, an artisan exiled for his role in the Paris Commune. In Emma’s later letters the reader meets Michel again, teaching in the difficult conditions that were the lot of the political deportees on the mosquito-infested and

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bush-clad Ducos peninsula. The young girl recounts the materially difficult life of the deportees in their one-roomed houses without kitchens, a life made even more restrictive after the escape of the Comte de Roche­fort to Australia, aided by an English sea captain. Her moving story ends with the premonition of her own impending death from tuberculosis. The tomb of this very rare child on the former penitentiary island of Ducos, observes Régent in her epilogue, was pillaged by people who believed the site held the hidden treasure of the déportés and later “destroyed by the administration for political reasons. . . . Today, no trace of Emma remains. For this reason it seemed natural to us to retrace the life of ‘the child of the déportés’ ” (Régent 2003, 81). Such contemporary stories, which make Louise Michel a precursor, a larger-than-life New Caledonian writer-heroine (“Destiny, what will you make of my giant dream?” she herself writes in a late poem), are part of a growing body of fiction whose sympathetic, semi-fictional characters are used to (re)inscribe the status of ‘victims’ of the colonial experiment that the Nouméa Agreement has extended to most groups of immigrants. Leenhardt’s empathetic reflection, for Bogliolo, reveals both his desire to understand the very significant and particular relationship to Kanak ceremonial or ritual speech and his own theological frames of thinking. As James Clifford’s seminal monograph on Leenhardt (1982) argues, the translation of the arrival of the Christian God as the arrival of the Word (the bao, or ancestor-god) that came to this village, then stretched out to cross the mountain to that other side of the island reveals, for Leenhardt, what is different or untranslatable between the cultures. By paying close attention to the ways his natas translate the French parole (word) into A’jië (the local language) as no ewekë (being), and by recalling the words and actions of Mindia, the chief of the Houailou area, Leenhardt’s writing articulates the idea of a sacred, chiefly Kanak “Word”, the very expression of being and becoming that might serve to bring new understandings to worn-out Protestant European conceptions of the term. Leenhardt’s analysis, framed by his understanding of the “Word” as this is articulated in the Bible (“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God”) and of the importance of the Word of God in the archaic biblical patriarchies of the Old Testament, nonetheless attributes value to Kanak understandings and sees these as capable of breathing new life into Western thought. Kanak writers and artists have now taken up the challenge of using written language and visual representations to articulate the Word.

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In a 1998 volume of the Kanak journal Mwa Vée, devoted to the oral-written question and the problematic status of writing, Weniko Ihage notes the particular problems around speaking for others, observing that there are many kinds of ‘word’—clan word, funeral word, a word for marriage, and especially a sacred word corresponding to the total collective consciousness of a clan that must not be divulged (1998, 7). Not anyone can speak and not everything can be said. The Kanak writer, then, is uncomfortably positioned. She/he may place her/himself outside his culture to write as a critical individual. Paradoxically, the written sources available to her/him include such ‘hybrid’ works as Leenhardt’s Do Kamo (that is, new trans-cultural forms produced within the contact zones of colonisation). Language—Maurice Leenhardt In Do Kamo, Maurice Leenhardt’s study of the Kanak person that was to become a founding text in both communities, the missionary-ethnographer devotes a chapter to the ways in which ‘the Word’ (la Parole) constructs the social behaviour of members of the group and plays a role in consolidating and stabilising what he sees as the “Canaque personality” (1947, 226–227). The following excerpt further investigates the Word and Speech or Language (le Verbe), the nature and power of oratory, and the rules that bind it. The Word is also Being and God, a creative and active virile power. The Caledonian chefferie, whose authority rests entirely on the prestige of the word, curiously confirms the above observations. The chief ’s task is to recall in rich oratory all the traditions, alliances and famous deeds of the clan, all its obligations, all its honour. His word consists of set narratives, mythical or otherwise, of im­ ages which evoke moments of valour, it is a living discourse, it is the wisdom and the spirit of the ages, it has symbolic value. It gives meaning to tradition, gives it present relevance, places men in the times in which they are living, raises them to a higher plane and calls them into existence. The task of the Caledonian chief is one of ministry—it could effectively be compared to a presidency. He is the repository of the word of the clan. The chief is the speaking voice of the clan. This is not my definition. I heard it from the mouth of an authentic chief, Mindia, one day when a governor with a curiosity for cultural spectacle had asked to see a chief give one of those fervent speeches ‘that set the passions of their

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people ablaze.’ Now this governor, who had scant knowledge and regard for native traditions, had previously been party to a political game that colonisation sometimes encourages: he had reduced the territory of the high chief Mindia, who was of very noble lineage, for the benefit of a few upstarts who were after titles and spoils. Invited to produce speeches, we see these pseudo-chiefs prancing around the afore-mentioned first magistrate on horseback, then, one after the other, all decline to oblige. And, when pressed by the governor, they finally admit: “Only Mindia can speak.” Attention turned to Mindia. And this is the reply he gave: “These nobodies say that they are chiefs, let them prove it.” And shrugging his shoulders in pity for these upstarts, he added: “The chief is the word of the clan.” I translated this by ‘the speaking voice’ of the clan. On this occasion, Mindia refused to cheapen the word by speaking in this context because, as he explained to me later: “How will I still be able to address my people, if they know that I have trifled with the word of the clan?” The word in the mouth of the chief is as sacred as the altar beneath the hand of the priest. The words of oratory, like the rites of the altar, must not be profaned. The Melanesian needs both in order to establish his place and his identity. At the beginning of this study, we asked how the Caledonians, when they were still savages and knew only a few snatches of French, could have found, on contact with the White Man, a correspondence between the syllables “no ewekë” and the term ‘word.’ Where did this equivalence come from? Certainly no European pointed it out to them. The term ‘word,’ for us, has been emptied of any real significance. But the Canaque himself shows us the secret of its interpretation. In the colony, it is sometimes the case that the White ‘gives his word,’ and in so doing, commits himself in the profoundest sense. It is sometimes the case that he ‘speaks down,’ or ‘speaks with contempt’ and the Canaque perceives this behaviour as typical of the White Man. It is sometimes the case that he acts noisily, in disregard for the native’s security, and the latter feels the bite of his action. The Canaque enfolds in a single representation, what he observes in the White Man: his thought, his speech, his actions. And when the White thoughtlessly uses the term ‘word’ to describe his utterances, or when he becomes threatening, and tells a Canaque struggling to make himself understood to “Repeat your words,” there

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is no doubt in the Canaque’s mind that in this ‘word,’ the secret being of the White is manifest. The word was quite evidently the translation of “no.” No objection can be made to the Melanesian translation. It is correct. The word and language in all its many forms are indeed the expression of being. It is a pity that, in our French language, no term has arisen which has absorbed the underlying sense that Word or Language had originally expressed and could still express—the reality that Word (in its reduction of meaning to everyday chatter) or Language (in its complexities of grammar or theology) can no longer transmit. Or can it be possible to restore to these terms their original freshness? It is nonetheless remarkable to discover men who have not yet developed conceptual thinking using a concrete term that translates a reality which provides a solid foundation for the development of this very thinking. This thinking can be seen at work in the prayer of the first Canaque Christians when Christianity came to their area: they thanked God that “the Word had come to this village, then it had stretched out and reached out and reached that valley, then it stretched out again and crossed the mountain and reached the other side of the island.” Using the concrete image of an object which stretches out, the Canaque saw in the word the presence of God breaking out like a sudden storm, here and then over there—a vision of an active word, not simply a creator, the embodiment of an ongoing agency, not simply an original creation. Anything and everything that stimulates or gives impetus to his spiritual and mental life is Word or Language. M. Leenhardt (1947), Do Kamo, pp. 226–228

Translation Note: The English translation of Parole is (spoken) ‘Word’. However, the biblical term in English for the French equivalent le Verbe is also ‘Word’. In order to show the kind of linguistic distinctions Leenhardt was making between la Parole and le Verbe in his comparison of French language and the Kanak languages he was encountering, we have translated la Parole as ‘the Word’ and le Verbe as, variably, ‘Speech’, ‘Speaking Voice’, or ‘Language’. Transitions to Modernity (1946–2005) There were major changes in the French colony during the period 1870– 1945, despite the dominant colonialist ideology and the central role of the French administration. At the end of the nineteenth century the

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The Word, P. Boi. (ADCK)

“tap” of what was now decried as “the dirty water” of deportation was turned off. The emphasis was shifted to free settlement, with the project of Governor Feillet to introduce the production of coffee for the local and metropolitan market. The popular concept of colonial New Caledonia, as it was scandalously exhibited in 1931 to huge throngs of the curious in Paris’ botanical gardens in the Colonial Exhibition, was radically reshaped when the country rallied to De Gaulle and, in 1942, became the Pacific base for Allied operations. The influx of American (and Allied Pacific) troops was so great that they considerably outnumbered the local population. With the soldiers came technology, roads, hospitals, and more racial integration than a hitherto structurally segregated New Caledonia had seen. Victory, first in Europe and later in the Pacific, brought the vote and citizenship to ‘women and natives’ and the abolition of the Native Code in a modernized country. Despite some contestation (and

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Spirit World, P. Boi. (ADCK)

the earlier Kanak revolt of 1917, aggravated by forced conscription in some areas), participation in the armed forces against Germany in the ‘world’ wars may well have enhanced Kanak sense of pride and identity. By the time of Jean Mariotti’s death in 1975, the new territory was changing dramatically in the aftermath of the nickel boom and the ensuing bust. Where Mariotti had found it necessary to return to Europe to write as a way of resolving the contradictions of his land of birth and his search for harmony between man and the world, the political ‘troubles’, or virtual civil war of the 1980s, were accompanied by a literary effervescence in the territory, a wave of writing by Caledonian as well as French-born writers. Theirs were projects of recovering memory to create collective identity and a new historical consciousness: cultural texts served as a means of thinking through the political situation and formulating political claims and moral messages. Most often, identities were constructed, in what has often been called the land of the unsaid (le pays du non-dit), through remembering and speaking of a silenced colonial past, in a rewriting of colonial history through the literary creation of ‘places of memory’.

Chapter Sixteen

Rewriting Colonial History Transitions to Modernity (1946–2006)

The French journalist Jacqueline Sénès lived in New Caledonia from 1930 until the mid-1980s. Sénès was particularly interested in the transitional period of the 1950s, the call by the Union Calédonienne for greater local autonomy, and its credo of “two colours, one people”. Exploring ‘white’ New Caledonian rural communities and traditions that were disappearing (Sénès 1982), Sénès published a number of reports and books containing photographs, letters, interviews, and biographical texts. Written in the midst of the so-called “troubles” of the 1980s, her settler novel, Terre violente (Violent land) (1987), ­sketches out the dramatic history of the colony through the fortunes of the pioneering Sutton family. Their courageous battles against cyclone, plague, drought, locusts, menacing natives, and the threatened loss or takeover of their hard-earned and beloved land provides the personalized foreground to a reflection on the political history of the territory. At the heart of Sénès’s settler history lies the claim of the centrality and the spiritual value of the land for both communities. The novel was later remade as a joint Australian and French télé-film and shown in France on the ARTE (Association Relative à la Télévision Européenne) channel in May 1998 to celebrate the signing of the Accord de Nouméa by the Front National de Libération Kanak et Socialiste (FNLKS) independence party and the loyalist Rallye Pour la Calédonie dans la République (RPCR) party leaders and the French prime minister, Lionel Jospin. When the heroic John Sutton dies of the plague in his efforts to help the tribe struck by the disease, the adventures of the widowed Helena as she attempts to earn a living in the mines in a violent society where power and control lie in the hands of men, and her refusal to let 203

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rape and disfigurement daunt her, put female pioneering courage into the foreground of this epic family saga. A number of the characters in the colonial drama appeal to the reader’s sense of the tragically mixed character of the varied communities of the early settlement. In Terre violente the Sutton family has been assigned the labour of a convict, a doctor deported for performing abortions to help women in difficulty, close in his understandings of the world to the curious, knowledgeable, and sometimes hostile or malevolent figure of Magnus, sorcerer of the local tribe. The diversity and multicultural character of the territory are presented as both problem and potential strength. Terre violente stages the continuing drama of métissage in the character of the mixed-race son of an indigenous woman, Clarice, and a rescued shipwrecked Breton sailor. In this story of violence and love set against the historical backdrop of the young colony, dark-skinned Wanatcha, who sees himself as European, finds himself rejected by the white community and falls into regression and degeneracy, misusing the power he acquires over the Sutton property and becoming an abusive mine manager. Some two decades later the télé-film invents a possibly different future for Wanatcha, namely a ‘mixed’ marriage with the daughter of the Suttons, his childhood playmate and sweetheart. Peter Brown (2004, introduction) finds a plea for the need to recognize métissage as “a doubly inclusive rather than exclusive category” and as a chance for “enrichment [ . . . ] rather than as a handicap” (311) in Terre violente. Violent Land—Jacqueline Sénès In the rainy season, Helena brought a little girl into the world. Jane’s birth coincided with a significant event for the free settlement: the ground was broken for the opening up of the Amiens Pass to Governor Feillet’s novice settler-farmers. One hundred convicts were about to begin work on the project. Even if the new Governor had put an end to the deportation of convicts to New Caledonia, he nonetheless intended to put those who remained to good use. Plantations were springing up everywhere. The locals took delight in seeing these rooky landowners striding through the savannah, with their walrus moustaches and their clogs, shaking the sweat from their brows, emerging from the trees pushing their Breton ploughs, calling to one another in dialects from Picardy and Normandy, studying the unfamiliar plants, fixing their finicky gaze on the exotic strangeness of fruit they did not recognise, scrutinizing the

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texture of the sky, constantly taken aback, one minute by a sudden gust of wind, or the next, by the cloud formations of the Southern Oceans. They came from everywhere, some with gold in their pockets and others in rags, metropolitan French observed with a degree of irony by the other settlers, the Anglo-Saxon disciples of the sandalwood trader Paddon. John, although he was the son of one of the early pioneers, did not make fun of these new settlers. He believed sincerely in what was already being called, not without a hint of scepticism, Mr. Feillet’s “utopia.” Here, far from everything, among the dust of the atolls, in spite of time and distance, this “Antipodean France” would blossom and, all cruelties forgotten, the world would be proud of this canaque island. While recent recruits set up make-shift houses in the hills and swept their porches with straw brooms, John was planting his coffee plants, hoeing out the rows, right down to the sea. While he waited for the miraculous first flowering, he experimented with growing ceara, rubber trees whose shoots he was careful to prune back hard in their very first year to ensure vigorous growth. He was well aware that it would take long months of waiting before the coffee bushes would be fully productive. And so he tried his hand at a number of related experiments in do-it-yourself horticulture, assisted by Satar and Satip, two Javanese from Batavia, who had just arrived with the first contingent of workers from the East Indies, according to Mr. Feillet’s grand plan. These two “Kakanes” with their spindly legs and cotton pyjamas were accompanied by a female compatriot, with a black chignon and fitting silk bodice. People called her “la Bayou.” According to the phases of the full moon and the equinoxes, she took turns in sharing the bed of each of her two companions. J. Sénès (1987), Terre violente, pp. 71–72

Rewriting the Free Settlement Experiment of the ‘Colons Feillet’ The diaries of Marc Le Goupils, Comment on cesse d’être colon: Six années en Nouvelle-Calédonie (1910) and Dans la brousse calédonienne, souvenir d’un ancien planteur, 1898–1904 (1928), which tell the story of the battles of this well-educated plantation owner from Paris with Governor Feillet, form the basis for a 1998 letter novel, La colonie perdue (The lost colony). In her story, Joëlle Wintrebert refracts Le Goupils’ texts through the perspective of his young daughter, Sophie. The reader hears of the efforts and sacrifices made to develop the station of Nassirah, where the Le Goupils are pioneers of a coffee plantation near the

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turn of the century. The adolescent girl’s diary records the day-to-day events in the mixed community of some fifty souls, including assigned, indentured, convict, and Kanak labour. She confides to her young Parisian girlfriend the stories of her own growing up and her passion for a young Kanak chief from the local tribe that has been exiled from its customary lands for rebellion. The young chief is promised to a marriage destined to enhance the recovery and future strength of his tribal group, and he tells Sophie he is not free to respond to her adolescent passion. The Le Goupils family enters politics to combat the dishonest use of the colonial subsidies for development and the racism common among fellow settlers. But they will finally be obliged to return to France, their hard work and idealism defeated by the system and their fortunes depleted in what the title suggests was a failed French experiment in developing a colony of settlement. Sophie’s uncle, a doctor, dies helping his compatriots in Nouméa who are dying from an outbreak of plague. With its portraits both of resourceful pioneers who work to help the oppressed Kanak against the administration and to fight plague and of bad colonists who mistreat their Melanesian workers, Sophie’s diary writes over Le Goupils’ own benevolent turn-of-the-century paternalism and speaks in a contemporary voice of the injustices and hardships suffered by Feillet settlers, déportés, indentured labourers, and Kanak alike. The final message of the novel is one of openness to difference and of the bonds that can be created between men and women of goodwill. Through its young protagonist endowed with a feminist consciousness, Wintrebert’s La colonie perdue introduces modern understandings of equality and acceptance of difference across race, gender, and social class. At the same time, it vindicates the enterprise of the ‘good’ settlers and lays much of the blame for the failures of the colonial period at the door of the French administration’s limitations. Both Terre violente and La colonie perdue create spaces of ‘free’ European settler memory of hardship, endeavor, and contribution to the shaping of a pioneer society. Recovering and Retelling the Stories of Penal Colonisation As late as 1906, in a little-known novel entitled La Tourbe (Istivie and Seinguerlet 1979), cited in Bogliolo’s exhaustive study of literary ‘emergence’ from 1774 to 1909 (Bogliolo 2000), the authors, P. Istivie and E. Seinguerlet, speak of a magical island with generous vegetation and

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enchanting sites that has been transformed by legislation into a “dump for the army of vice and crime”. Liliane Laubreaux’s 1996 thesis also cites Marc Le Goupils’ presentation of the experiment in settlement by criminal transportation as a failed one: “a lamentable cohort reduced by the machinery of the penal colony to wrecks, sordid marginalized souls, wandering the colony, their swag on back, stopping where they will, on impulse” (Le Goupils 1910, 156). The dreaded Nou Island of the nineteenth-century penal colony (La Nouvelle) has since become the peninsula of Nouville, the site of the university, a theatre, and the Territorial Archives. The so-called ‘Amsterdam Project’ has seen historians of the last two decades recovering diaries and eyewitness accounts of life in the cellblocks and of the conditions of the almost twenty-one thousand libérés given a small land concession to develop. A number of biographies of the déportés have been published, as well as collections of “memoirs” of Feillet settlers and Pauline de Aranda-Fouché’s posthumous A mes enfants calédoniens, with its portraits of liberated convicts. Contemporary writers such as José-Louis Barbançon, with his La Terre du lézard (1993), are also rehabilitating the often painful and unspoken stories of these early European inhabitants. Jean Vanmai The historical fiction Pilou-Pilou: Chapeaux de paille (Pilou-Pilou: Straw hats) (1998), by Jean Vanmai, a second-generation Vietnamese born in 1940 on the Chagrin mine in Koumac of parents who had arrived in the last contingent of contract labourers, is the first volume of a trilogy that paints a vast historical fresco of New Caledonia. The novel puts the writer into the skin of likeable deportees, courageous men transported in cages on a brutal sea voyage often for relatively minor misdemeanors, for their principles, or for crimes of ‘honour’. Vanmai’s protagonists defend justice through the hell of the penitentiary system, its curious fraternities, cruel punishments, and public executions for those who resist the regime. Set against the background of the 1878 Kanak revolt, Vanmai’s human dramas of tough men working in the quarries, breaking stones and being chained in with the toughest criminals, prey to often brutal guards, creates empathy for this second unwilling group of settlers. In the following extract the various destinations of Vanmai’s characters disembarking from transportation illustrate the historical re-

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search done by Vanmai into the distinctions made by a rule-bound penal system, and the fiction evokes the inhumanity of the penitentiary with emotion. Pilou-Pilou: Straw Hats—Jean Vanmai  ◙ Chaired by a high-ranking civil servant and the commandant of the Penitentiary, with wardens in attendance and a convict acting as secretary, the classification commission had assembled. In light of reports produced during the voyage by the ship’s Captain and various military guards, the commission had the task of dividing up the new arrivals into classes, according to the qualities or faults of each individual. Following this, a number of convicts belonging to the first three classes were rapidly transferred to the various penitentiary centres situated on the mainland. The political prisoners, condemned to imprisonment in a fortified enclosure, left aboard longboats for the Deportation Camp on the Ducos peninsula, situated approximately two kilometres from Nou Island as the crow flies. As for the ‘ordinary deportees,’ they set off in the direction of the Isle of Pines, the southernmost of the Caledonian territories, thirty-five miles away to the south of New Caledonia. Since he was classified amongst the non-dangerous deportees, Robert Turgat left with his family, aboard a little vessel that operated regularly between the island and the capital. He hoped with all his might, for himself and his family, as well as for his fellow travellers, that in this new homeland, he would find peace and a little more human compassion than he had witnessed at the penal colony on Nou Island. Meanwhile, Gaétan Lechantier, along with a number of criminal deportees, was relegated without hesitation by the infamous commission to fourth class. As soon as their heads had been shaved, they were thrown in with the other tough cases and taken to what was known as the correctional area. After so many days and nights spent in the ship’s hold, in a space that was miserably cramped, dark and squalid, Turgat’s friend was now but a shadow of his former self. But dazed and confused as he was, he had been half expecting this fate. “So now I have become a true convict,” he sighed, nevertheless unwavering in the clear-headedness that typified him so well. “I shall have to be brave. I’m going to need all the courage I can muster.”

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Then, with a fierce determination that shone through despite his feverish and anguished gaze, he continued, “Great pain and suffering await me, as they await us all here. For me, the struggle goes on regardless.” Deep down, he hoped however for a degree of leniency on the part of his new jailors. “If only they could spare me the chains . . .  .” Then, in accordance with the regulations and just like all the other convicts, he was assigned a registration number. He always disregarded the ‘vile number,’ stubbornly refusing the arbitrary reduction of his personality to a statistic. “For as long as I live, I will remain Lechantier Gaétan and nothing else! . . . ” he promised himself with the certainty of a proud man, sure of himself and his convictions. “Never will I be made to yield to these demon slave-drivers on this particular point, no matter what the threats, no matter what the suffering. I will remain a human being. Never will I be a vulgar . . . registration number!”

Escaped convict pursued and returned to the penitentiary by Kanak auxiliaries. Engraved bamboo (detail). (L. Michel [1996], Aux amis d'Europe)

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Ernest Sautard, because of his imposing size, was sent to the bakery at the Penitentiary Depot as a woodcutter. The vagaries of the assignment process meant young Duchenal and Sentillis from Marseille were reunited working in a sand quarry by the sea. Unaccustomed as they were to such hard and painful labour, shovelling sacks of sand left them at the end of each day with excruciating backache. For them, the only consolation was finding themselves together in the same hut in the evenings; for from then on, they were completely isolated from their old travelling companions. Pichout Théodore, enrolled in one of the teams of labourer-gardeners, was made responsible, along with his new colleagues, for the maintenance of the convicts’ garden, located not far from the Marais hospital, and which supplied the camp with fresh vegetables. J. Vanmai (1998), Pilou-Pilou, pp. 171–173

Catherine Régent—Justine ou un Amour de Chapeau de Paille Catherine Régent’s 1995 popular historical romance, Justine ou un amour de chapeau de paille (Justine or in love with a straw hat), tells the story of an impossible love affair between the daughter of a colonial dignitary and a ‘straw-hat’—a convict and her father’s house servant, deported for murdering the man who raped his sister. Set against the injustices of historical deportation, Régent’s suffering ‘hero’ reinforces the myth of the wronged convict with a heart and exposes the social segregation that separated the rural communities of free settlers and liberated convicts. Written, like Sénès’ novel, from a woman’s perspective, it exalts courage and the pioneer spirit in women. In her nonfictional study of the tiny free-settler community of one hundred families at Voh, the historian Isabelle Merle (2005) shows that these settler families were recruited precisely because they were largely unlanded in France. Without any real possibility of understanding the traces of Kanak culture on the land around them, they considered that there was “nothing” at Voh. The only value lay in the often unevenly productive plots of land that they had been allotted. Faced with isolation from France, from neighbouring communities, and even from Nouméa, the lives of these early rural settlers were difficult and often perilous, and the rare Melanesians they encountered were felt to be alien or threatening. These settlers, who were in a materially impoverished environment relative to landed peasants in

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Penitentiary (prior to 1870), Collection E. Robin. (ANC)

France, believed that whatever they made of their land was largely due to their own efforts. However, as Merle points out, what these settlers had access to, and French peasants did not, were servants—assigned indentured labour, convict labour, or Kanak prestations (service)—and the status that lay in the refusal to mix as equals with liberated prisoners. It is this fierce hierarchy of ‘class’ (or origin) and race in the early colony that may explain the depth of racism and class distinctions that persist in the present, particularly in the poorest rural areas. Valesdir—Rewriting Colonisation after Independence: Settler Stories Catherine Régent’s novel shows both the historical existence of class distinctions and their breakdown through romantic love. Her first fiction, Valesdir, set in the colonial era in New Hebrides from 1905 to 1924, is a traditional homage to the European pioneer spirit as this sets about in her novel establishing order and cleanliness, battling against all manner of obstacles, including mosquitoes, illness, cyclones, and the local Protestant pastor who is the enemy of the Swiss emigrants’ Catholic family faith. The themes of double allegiance (to old Eu-

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rope at war and to their new adopted land); the centrality of the tender, hardworking, and courageous pioneer wife; the natives in various stock roles as background labour, old healer, young concubine, devoted guide, and interpreter emerge as standard tropes of the (neo)colonial novel. The fiction also foregrounds the dilemma of devoted pioneer mothers faced with the inevitable racial mixing necessary to find wives for their sons. The only thinkable mixed unions are between white men and native women. Otherwise, the ‘natives’ remain a largely indistinguishable mass, often menacing or under the sway of the Protestant (English) missionaries and an unreliable workforce for the colonist’s plantation. Set in the Anglo-French condominium of the New Hebrides archipelago, the story tells of the sacrifices made by the family of Charles Trenal, courageous in the face of disillusionment and broken promises by the French Society for the New Hebrides. Battling a violent natural world at Epi, they struggle against the odds to make that French colony home. The political stakes of the book, written after Vanuatu became independent in 1981 and many descendants of settlers had been forced to leave, some for New Caledonia, and crying for their beloved country, are evident. Régent’s novels can be classed as neocolonial romances, but their underlying themes are also the modern ones of the necessity or inevitability of breaking down the barriers of class and race and the right of the pioneers and their descendants to a hard-earned homeland. And as Blandine Stefanson (1998) puts it, consciously or unconsciously, these neocolonial romances inscribe scenes of the Melanesians’ contribution to the development of their own lands confiscated by colonisation that are highly ironic. Indentured Labourers Rewriting Colonial History Sénès and Régent produced (hi)stories of settlement dominated by Europeans. In 1873 Jules Garnier discovered nickel in several locations. As the indigenous peoples were considered unsuited to the needs of largescale industrialized employment, meeting the increasing demand for labour of the mining industry—resolved in the past in part by bringing workers from the Reunion Islands or using convict labour—resulted in looking towards Japan, China, Indonesia, and Vietnam. Jean Vanmai’s Centenaire de la présence Vietnamienne en Nouvelle-Calédonie 1891–1991 (1991) traces the history of the first contingent of Indochinese workers, 791 men and 50 women, disembarking in 1881 from the port of

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Hai Phong in the region traditionally known as Tonkin. Only 41 on board the first boat had chosen freely to apply—the remainder being political prisoners of French colonial rule in Indochina—but like all the imported labourers, they had accepted five-year contracts. The area of North Vietnam from which the labourers came had a large population and insufficient work and food to sustain its people. A few of the young people were also fleeing traditional arranged marriages. The contracts for the immigrant workers were the same regardless of their origin and stipulated that women would be given work suitable “to their sex”; families would live at the same work site; and lodgings would be sanitary and work clothes free. Minimum quantities of food were carefully set down. Vanmai’s historical novel suggests that few of these conditions were met. Workers were on their feet performing physically demanding tasks in the fields or mines, on public roads, or as servants ten hours a day with only Sundays to rest. Discipline was often harsh and unjust. Migrant workers could be arrested for refusing to work. The permitted ratio of men to women (five to one) encouraged violence against the scarce women, who thus became easy targets of the foremen at the mine. Women often sought the limited protection offered by marriage. By the time the last boat from Vietnam arrived in 1939, there were almost four thousand Vietnamese workers in New Caledonia. The last wave, whose story is told in the novel Chân dang, went on strike to demand fairer treatment. Subsequently, Ho Chi Minh’s resistance to French colonial rule in their homeland served as a rallying call. After the 1944 Treaty of Brazzaville many returned home; others set up businesses in New Caledonia. Contracts ended during World War II, but as repatriation proved impossible during this period, in 1945 all contracted workers were granted free residency and minimum working conditions. Vietnamese could finally change jobs and move around the country. When many publicly celebrated victory over the French at Dien Bien Phu in 1954, the community became somewhat alienated: its pro-Communist positions were feared and its wealth and predominance in the small business community envied. Two boats left Nouméa in 1949 and 1950, but conflicts between the French and the Viet-Minh stopped repatriation from proceeding. Repatriation was now promoted on both sides, and between 1960 and 1964 nine convoys were sent back to Vietnam. The thousand or so who remained, taking French citizenship, are considered ‘Caledonians’ who most often worked themselves out of the ghetto using their own spirit of enterprise.

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Justine or In Love with a Straw Hat—Catherine Régent François Marie-Pierre Malville, prisoner no. 5213, assigned by the penitentiary as a house servant, for good conduct, to an engineer, the notable M. Leblondeau, has been drawn reluctantly into a clandestine affair with his employer’s daughter, three months before his liberation after sixteen years of detention. Despite the social gulf that separates the classes to which they belong, Justine realizes that it is not a perverted passion but love that drives her. Profession: houseboy. Christian Names: François Marie, Pierre. Surname: may be Malville as it once was so very long time ago, or, more recently, Convict 5213. Age: 30 according to his birth certificate, more like 45 or older in his head. Physical Appearance: attractively male in the opinion of women, a thick-set brute according to penal administration criteria. Address: 20 Rue Napoléon III, at his master’s house, down the bottom of the yard. This is how the ex-convict and secret lover of Miss Leblondeau defined himself. It was she who had chosen him. For a long time he had rejected her advances for fear of finding himself back in the penitentiary. Justine had overcome his resistance but made him swear to keep their liaison a secret. She ran no risk in that respect, he was well acquainted with silence, he had learned to live with it. [ . . . ] Curled up at the end of her bed, Justine wept, aghast at her own perversity, insulted by François’ words. The power of words could be terrifying. He the convict, scorned by humanity, had dared to call her a whore. How dare he! She would never let him use her as a means to vent his rage. He seemed to have forgotten that she had the power to send him back to the vile dungeons whence he had come. It would take only one complaint, one lie. Convict 5213 had no protection from the changing moods of Miss Leblondeau. This whore could be formidable. [ . . . ] A letter to her lover. A spontaneous confession. A release. “François, the whore no longer exists. Did she ever, really? For a long time I thought I could draw from your caresses the strength I need to live. Forgive me. How could I have believed that I only needed to seduce you to tame your heart? Your bitter laughter haunts me still. I confess that the turmoil of my hungry body prevented me from recognising my love for you. François, I feel like I’m the one in exile. And those hands of yours, those monstrous hands with their cursed charms that have had you deported here to the horror of the penal colony, I love them for

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it. Reason tells me to beware of this dark chasm that draws me down. You, the convict, I, the woman of good society. Can we slake our thirst at the springs of hope? Can the human mind understand the paradoxes of the heart? I am plagued with doubts. What if, at the bottom of the abyss, there were to be only hate? I dread the disaster of incomprehension. Prejudice. François, how can I tell you I love you? How can I counter your disbelief?” [ . . . ] Malville had his own concerns. He was worried about his immediate future. In three months he would be liberated. If all went well, after sixteen years of detention. In any case, the convict had to obey the law. The law of May 30th, 1854. The law which required him to settle in New Caledonia. Like all convicts whose sentence was greater than eight years. Freedom, but with forced residence in the colony. After all, they owed a debt to the country that had accepted them. A country that needed to be populated. From convicts they would become procreators. So the Administration had decreed. C. Régent (1995), Justine ou un amour de chapeau de paille, pp. 9, 18, 20, 84

When François becomes a libéré on a small plot of land near Bourail, Justine follows him, but social prejudices prevent the couple from marrying or being together. Justine’s lover then participates in one of the (largely failed) social experiments in the colony, the mass marriages arranged with convict women given their freedom provided they married libérés. These women were chaperoned during a short courting period by the sisters at the convent at Bourail. Justine, for her part, joins the free-settler community and attempts to build a cattle station in the bush, with the help of the local settlers and Kanak. Jean Vanmai—Chân Dang Jean Vanmai, a largely self-taught writer whose first language is Vietnamese, traces his writing vocation from the evening in 1960, when many of his family and friends were leaving Nouméa on the Eastern Queen in the long-delayed post-contract repatriation to Hai Phong. With “anger in his belly” Vanmai decided to defy the taboos and produce a fictionalised but historically documented account of the difficult lives of his community. These are popular historical novels, but their content is revealing of the tensions and changes within and between the different groups that make up contemporary New Caledonian society.

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Chân dang (Bound feet, or contract labourer) and the contemporary sequel, Fils de Chân dang, set out to show that the New Caledonians of Vietnamese descent have also helped develop and create the wealth of present-day New Caledonia. Like the French convicts, the chân dang are presented as victims—of physical and mental isolation, unsanitary conditions, poor rations, harsh laws, and cruel overseers. The main character’s (Ming) ethics of duty to superiors and humanity to inferiors, self-respect, loyalty, diligence, and magnanimity evoke the exemplary life of a follower of Confucius and Vietnamese values—that is, what the group has to offer the New Caledonian community. Vanmai’s novel, which relies on the author’s memories of the camp where he was born, bears witness to the conditions of life and work and the beliefs of his parents’ generation. While it explains empathetically their situation as victims of cultural exile, it also seeks to reinforce the received image of what this community brings to the New Caledonian country taking shape: dignified respect, political reserve, and active economic participation. It will take the sequel saga of the boat people to modify this cultural duality. Transnational Communities: The Caledonian-Vietnamese A recent series of interviews, in which Helen Johnson collected oral histories of Vietnamese New Caledonians and analysed the identity motifs employed (2005), confirms Vanmai’s vision of an identity shaped by the migration (or re-migration) of voluntary contract labourers, the rupture within the community created by the repatriation of the majority in the 1960s, the Indochinese war with France, and the pressure from visiting (Communist) Vietnamese to persuade the community to return to their homeland with their wealth. Johnson’s work makes it clear that women were rarely agents in this history; they remained in New Caledonia with their fathers, or with their husband if he had decided to settle, or returned to New Caledonia with their men in kin reunion programmes after the Vietnam War. Johnson’s respondents tell of families joining the floods of boat people waiting for repatriation in Hong Kong camps, some having been considered unpatriotic for choosing French over Vietnamese nationality and being obliged to re-emigrate from North Vietnam. For Johnson, then, younger Vietnamese-New Caledonians are constituting their sense of community in relation to a new base or home in the former host country. But for many this is more as transnationals whose relatives are scattered throughout the former French em-

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pire and the United States. This community, victim of the Asia-Pacific diaspora and the often traumatic lived experiences of the twentieth century and of family wealth often eradicated by a Communist regime at war, situates itself among a mosaic of peoples and cultures of the twenty-first century, constructing a society “that shares the benefits of dynamic trans-national communities with a more inclusive, localised, sociality” (Johnson 2005, 100). In the face of Kanak nationalism, the historical fiction Chân dang and its sequel clearly have strategic objectives in revealing the Vietnamese community’s difficult history and legitimating a place in a future Kanaky/Caledonia earned through suffering and hard work. The community’s role alongside the French in the exploitation of the country’s resources is presented as a debt owed. The future for the ‘island of light’ is to be one of racial tolerance, multiculturalism, and, centrally, economic dynamism and prosperity. Although métissage was anathema to his community until the 1960s, it is presented by Vanmai (whose own wife is a Polynesian from Futuna) as a positive aspect of its somewhat idealized future. A Day at Work in the Mine—Jean Vanmai Their strength was dangerously low and still waning. “Our legs . . . won’t hold out much longer at this rate,” Ming groaned, furious at being treated so badly. He hadn’t quite finished his sentence when one of the men in a team ahead of them stumbled on a rock and lost his balance. The beam swayed, then thudded heavily to the ground. Its bearers had had just enough time to dodge out of the way of the deadly weight. Watard was beside himself with rage, his whip cracking again over the heads of the young men. “I don’t believe you lot! You should have finished this job long ago. Call yourselves men! Half-bit weaklings! I’ll teach you how to work!” The men resumed the infernal pace of the work. A great stack of beams now lay piled up at the tunnel entrance. Nonetheless they went on working, inexorably. Dao was exhausted, sweat poured off him and his vision was blurred from such a violent effort. All of a sudden, he lurched forward, like a drunk. “Look out!” Ming yelled at Watard, who was in their way. But to no avail. Stumbling forward, Dao had staggered into the foreman, who was almost knocked over by the impact. However some quick footwork enabled him to regain his balance. He picked up his hel-

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met, which had fallen on the ground, and then set off after Dao, who was following Ming towards the tunnel. Once they had offloaded their burden, the foreman dealt the young man a terrible blow across the shoulder with his whip. Dao, his face convulsed, paralyzed with pain, didn’t realize what had happened to him. Then he whirled around violently, as if warned by some sixth sense. He faced Watard, threateningly, ready to leap at his torturer, who was preparing to lash out at him a second time. Frightened as he was, Ming had the presence of mind to throw himself at his companion, grabbing him roughly by the arm and pushing him to the ground before the blow could reach them. Holding him down firmly, he said, “Dao, don’t lose your head! I know it’s terrible to be treated this way, but he has the upper hand. For heaven’s sake, restrain yourself!” Dao was beside himself, he gritted his teeth and made a violent effort to keep his self-control. Livid, but silent, he stared at the man with the whip. His gaze revealed a mute and terrible anger. J. Vanmai (1980), Chân dang, pp. 78–79

Although many of the chân dang renewed their five-year contracts, their lives continued to be sustained by desire for a return to their homeland, respecting filial and patriotic duty, to be buried with their ancestors. In the next extract, the older generation argues in favour of a petition to the government to provide the promised repatriation of their families. Phuc, a model of kindness and calm solicitude who had one of the better situations in the mine, shows a passion for repatriation. Although Ming and Lan wish their son to marry, they have not forced the issue, and he will decide to stay in Nouméa when his parents return in 1963, reflecting the shift in values of the younger generation. The Call of the Fatherland—Jean Vanmai  ◙ Phuc is speaking. “Through hard work and perseverance we have succeeded in many fields: commerce, construction and small business. Some of us have become tailors, others hairdressers. As for our vegetable gardens, they are the envy of all the market gardeners. Our young people, for their part, have become mechanics and electricians, and are highly valued by their employers. But despite all our hard-won gains, we want to return home, because in our hearts the call of the Fatherland is stronger than all the money we possess.”

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Quat, a tall, thin man, with a troubled look on his face, took his turn to speak. “I am the father of a large family,” he began. “I agree wholeheartedly with this motion and I want to tell you about my own situation. I arrived on this island well before most of you. I have grown children now, and my eldest son is already the father of a young girl who is growing up fast. I have a fourteen-year-old daughter, and she too is married. However my two other boys are aged seventeen and eighteen and . . . would you believe it, the young rascals persistently refuse to get married! Despite the threats made by my wife and I, despite the morality and the logic of the arguments that we tirelessly put before them, that children owe respect and obedience to their parents . . . useless—nothing works!” His face darkened and he continued in a weary voice, “All it requires of them is simply to say, ‘Yes father, I want to get married.’ We will look after everything. We will find them a young girl from a suitable family, hard working and in good health. Can you imagine, my sons won’t even have to look for their future wives! I swear I’m incapable of understanding young people today; if my parents had been in a position to offer me such an opportunity, I would have said a thousand times ‘Yes father, yes mother, I want a wife!’ ” Quat, the unfortunate father, became carried away. “But, these two fools maintain they are still too young, that they have all the time in the world to think about starting a family!” He stood there, lost in thought for a moment, then asked, “Is it their Western education that is twisting their thinking for them to act in this way?” Looking pensive and worried he added, “I’m very much afraid it is. All our education, our traditions will be brought into question in the near future, sooner than you think! Let me try and explain my view of this more clearly.” Lan followed Quat’s speech closely. “Up until now we have kept a hold on them as best we could, getting them to observe and respect our ancient traditions. We have even managed to marry them exclusively to children from within our own community. And it’s a good thing we have because it means there won’t be any problem taking them home!” Raising his arms in the air, he cried out suddenly, “But woe betide us, parents, if we wait another few years, we will lose them! Because the day will come when we can no longer stop them from marrying a girl or boy from this land, of a different nationality to ours! Once that happens,

Javanese Couple. (ANC)

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the children will no longer be willing to follow us. There will be unbearable separations, families will be torn apart, the father will find himself in one country and the son in the other. And so we must act quickly and demand our repatriation,” Quat concluded. “It’s in everybody’s best interest, the interest of the entire community!” The audience was convinced and people nodded their heads in approval. And immediately they set about drafting the petition to the authorities of the Territory. J. Vanmai (1980), Chân dang, p. 358

New Hebrides, Indonesia, Japan . . . Vanmai has produced general Caledonian histories and the story of the mixed allegiances of his own community. Historians have shown that 24 percent of the 5,148 labourers from the New Hebrides died working in New Caledonia, but no writer has yet narrated their story. Following Vanmai’s breaking of silence, Marc Bouan, born in Koné in 1946 and a descendant of the Indonesian indentured labourers who began arriving in 1895, published a first novel, L’Echarpe et le Kriss, in 2003. Interviewed after the 2003 colloquium on “young” New Caledonian literatures (in Faessel 2004), Bouan defines the recent phenomenon of the “emergence” of histories by the minority ethnicities in New Caledonia as the result of a reconquest of identity and assimilation to French culture and language and, in his case, to the “syncretism” and search for harmony with the environment that, for him, characterizes Asia (58). Bouan finds a similar syncretism at work in the creation of the rural Caledonian, the bushman or broussard, a mixing, among others, of “the cattle farmer, the small miner, and the often wretchedly poor former convicts settled on the land” (Bouan 2003, 143). Also in 2003, Dany Dalmayrac’s novel, Les Sentiers de l’espoir: Kanak et Nippo-Kanak, presented another and very particular experience of ‘victimization’—that of the Kanak-Japanese community. The six hundred Japanese workers, all single men, who arrived in New Caledonia in 1892 were the only imported labourers considered to be free immigrants. From 1920, however, it appears that a clandestine organisation in New Caledonia was preparing the Japanese invasion of the South Pacific, and this suspected ‘fifth column’ exacerbated the jealousies aroused by the success of certain small Japanese businesses, despite the fact that some of the Japanese small farmers had married local Kanak women. When most of these Japanese residents were re-

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quired to report to the authorities in Nouméa on 9 December 1941 and were then transported from detention to the infamous Île Nou or to prisoner-of-war camps in Australia, their mixed-race children remained behind, often stripped of their fathers’ possessions. Dalmayrac tells the story of Suzuka, who is motivated by nationalistic Shintoism to sign a contract in New Caledonia. After the shame of exile to a harsh internment camp in Australia, he returns to a devastated Japan and, finally in the 1950s, to New Caledonia, where, despite opposition, he acknowledges his feeling of belonging and of being formed by the land he will henceforth adopt. In recognition of this, Suzuka founds a Japan–New Caledonia association to link children with fathers separated by the war. A secondary thread of the story follows Hurio, who, despite his marriage to a Kanak woman, also agrees to work as an agent of the emperor as a ‘true’ Japanese against Western control of the Pacific. The reader follows the story of Hurio’s mixed-race daughters, Anaïs and Hélène, sent first to the convent as ‘orphans’ to work for their subsistence and later leaving their adoptive Kanak ‘father’ as adolescents to avoid the marriage he had in mind for them in order to work as maids in a Catholic school in Nouméa. Anaïs revolts violently against the subaltern condition and the racist slurs she encounters. Another character, Alex, is an example of the stereotype of the illegitimate métis, who, rejected by his white father and living in the shadow of his white brothers, loses his humanity, becoming an alcoholic who abuses and despises the Kanak. The landowner, René Egle, argues that métis lack due respect and sow disorder and makes the commonly shared argument for racial purity. The wise old Kanak, Rick, the girls’ adoptive father, believes, for his part, that the ‘true France’ will eventually give the Kanak and their mixed-race children the same rights as Europeans. Dalmayrac’s adventure novel contains a curious mixture of political positions that range from right-wing nationalism, even racism, to left radical discourse against injustice and inequality. The novel paints a glowing picture of the material ease and benevolent philanthropy of the occupying American troops, the abundance they bring to the mission and the tribus of the valley. The Americans are characterized by their smiles, candy, moving pictures, respect for women, and naïve desire to do good and set an example with their refusal to abuse their immense power. In the final instance, however, this novel, too, depicts the Japanese engagés as a humiliated and exploited group, and thus as victims. Hurio

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appears to have died in the revolt of the prisoners at Cowra in Australia, although the possibility is also left open that he simply abandoned his New Caledonian family and resettled in Japan with a new young wife. The ‘hope’ inscribed in the title is less than self-evident. It seems to reside principally in Suzuka’s desire to serve both his land of origin, Japan, and his land of adoption. Dalmayrac, who identifies himself as a Kanak with a Japanese ancestor, has also published a volume of short stories. Arlette Peirano—The Popular Novel and Romantic Métissage Vanmai’s and Dalmayrac’s novels raise the issue of biological and cultural mixing. Peirano is herself a métisse, born in France of parents from Madagascar, self-identifying as from Reunion and a citizen of the world. Nonetheless, Peirano has spent more than thirty years in New Caledonia, where she claims to have “put down roots” and is seeking answers to the country’s future in nine-hundred-page fictions exploring cross-cultural love relationships. As she observes in an interview reproduced in Jeunes littératures du Pacifique Sud (Faessel 2004), the invention of characters, “writing with the heart”, permits her to live a nonbanal existence, a double life, beyond conventional morality. In fact, Peirano’s novels, Kanak blanc (2001), Tabou suprème (2002), Métis de toi (2003), and Le Gardien de l’Ile Noire, (2005), exploit the shock value, novelty, ‘depravity’, and sexual excitement of mixed-race romantic encounters in Oceania in the mode of exotic popular romance. The adventure of the young ‘Caldoche’ heroine of Tabou suprême, rendered helpless by a broken leg and sequestered in a cave on the island of Maré with a magnificently proportioned, young tattooed chief living in selfexile from his chiefdom in the Marquesan islands to expiate a crime, is representative of the highly coloured and explicitly sexual relationships that dominate Peirano’s fictions. These novels mine post-colonial and feminist tropes (interrace relationships and the independent, modern woman), but principally to produce titillating stories of passion and adventure. These include the discovery of a hidden cultural treasure in the Maré caves, accounts of the narcissistic life of the waiting wife of an all-important high chief on a Pacific island, and the heroine’s discovery of her almost ‘incestuous’ love for an adopted half-brother. Yet, like Mills and Boon romantic novels, they serve not only to stage, but also ultimately to naturalize the tropes they draw on, particularly those of mixed race and mixed marriage or relationships. To this extent Peira-

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I. Waia.

no’s novels make their own contribution to the thinking of ‘hybridity’. A number of detective novels, notably by A. D. G. (Joujoux sur le caillou [1987]; C’est le bagne! [1988]) and Baudoin Chailley (Nouméa, Ville ouverte [1989]; Kanaky point zéro [1990]), also cash in on the popular interest in the exotic. A Caledonian Pastoral: Politics and Métissage If Peirano’s work indirectly reflects on mixed-race relationships, Ismet Kurtovitch explores similar issues but from a more political perspective. In 2002 the historian and present director of the Territorial

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Archives presented a play entitled Une pastorale Calédonienne. This refracts the events of 12 January 1985, when independence groups boycotted the elections and set up roadblocks and the militant leader Eloi Machoro smashed the ballot box with an axe. The final “neutralizing” of the “terrorist” by the French army at the end of the drama is presented as the outcome of the machistic responses and the enflaming of fears of takeover by the farm owner and mayor, Marcel, and his men, overheard in the play on CB radio. The broadband radio also gives voice to Noël (Machoro the Rebel—given the same name as the chief of the 1917 insurrection), who justifies his occupation of the polling station and hostage-taking, ultimately even killing, to his fellow militant, Mary. The text also gives voice to the pacifist ‘settler’ Charley (Marcel’s brother), who is in love with Mary, a Kanak woman serving as Noël’s hidden radio operator. This introduces a comic scene in which Charley and Mary satirize Nouméa in a mock presentation of the city to tourists, street name by street name. These names of generals, war heroes, and businessmen reflect Nouméa largely as a space of nationalistic French militarism and the exploitation of nickel. Charley and Mary also exchange memories and expressions of love, in music, word-play, and laughter. The two strands of the play create a poignant ‘symphony’ that is both political and personal, comic and tragic. Through the voices on the radio, the play makes visible the willingness to resort to suicidal violence on Noël’s side and the manipulation of fears and incitation to violence on the other. In the absence of any possible single victory, the warm, verbally creative, and imaginative ‘impossible’ mutual understanding of the modern-day Caledonian Romeo and Juliet is presented as the only solution. The epilogue tells the reader that Charley/Romeo dies that night, assassinated at a roadblock ten kilometres from his brother’s farm. Noël, too, dies of a bullet to the head. Mary/Black Juliet returns to primary teaching after a period in prison, obsessed by the loss of her white lover. The best hope for a uniting of the two communities in this play lies in shared grief for their loved ones and the refusal to be ‘strangers’ to one another. As Dominique Jouve writes in her preface, the play is both an homage to, and a rewriting of, Baudoux’s 1915 depiction of a static, unchanging Kanak society in his La pastorale Calédonienne. With its interplay between the personal dialogue of the lovers, the hard-line discourse of the settlers on the broadband radio, and the double-speak of the official announcements by the newsreaders and the high commis-

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sioner, Kurtovitch’s Une pastorale Calédonienne (A Caledonian pastoral) is both a historical reconstruction and an echo of André Gide’s ironic counterpointing in his classic French “pastoral” novella, La symphonie pastorale. A Caledonian Pastoral—Ismet Kurtovitch MARY: So what are we doing here then? NOEL: You know very well. Up till now we’ve had to play the monkey or live under a reign of terror. Tomorrow we will be free. We want our dignity back. . . . We will be free. [ . . . ] MARY: Will we find another country to go to? CHARLEY: Once upon a time in a far-off country, there was a Princess called Snow White. MARY: Not again! CHARLEY: A completely black country then! MARY: No Charley. A colourless country, inhabited by men and women of every colour, who will never, ever again . . .  ALL TOGETHER: . . . be strangers to one another. I. Kurtovitch (2002), Une pastorale Calédonienne

New Caledonians of European Origin: Rewriting the Bush and Cultural Singularity in the Work of Claudine Jacques Claudine Jacques was born in France but has lived her adult life in New Caledonia. Jacques’ characters reflect a kaleidoscope of origins and traditions, and her short stories and novels sketch vivid and dramatic portraits of life in the shantytowns of Nouméa and in the New Caledonian bush. In the collection of short stories C’est pas la faute de la lune (1997), which experiments with the modern ‘horror’ story, Jacques develops literary techniques of suspense, reversal, and dramatic dénouement in a literature that had seen relatively little formal innovation—techniques that add complexity to her sociological portraits. At the beginning of one such short story, “Boghen Station”, a broussard, served by his wife, shares his midday stew (le plat du broussard) with his workers—an old Kanak from Ouaoue and a Javanese from Petit Moindou. The product of a lifetime of hard work, the gnarled, middle-aged man, self-reliant and resilient like “an ironwood tree”, represents rural New Caledonia.

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His wife’s attachments—to the land, to its well-known contours, and to the crops and coffee harvests it produces through the couple’s labours, as well as to her own basic but self-sufficient household—make her an archetype of the rural settler’s wife living in the bush. A long habit of silence makes the old man incapable of expressing his feelings of love for his younger wife, Ginette, while she says nothing about her own negative feelings toward her ‘Old Man’. Advertising a conference on the topic of la Brousse (the Bush) on the Web for a CORAIL conference in 2007 (Coordination pour l’Océanie des Recherches sur les Arts, les Idées et les Littératures), Jean-Michel Lebigre describes ‘the Bush’ from Nouméa as a mythic space in which Caledonian Culture is rooted. It is also a social and economic space at grips with urgent developmental problems, a space being rapidly reconstructed in the present. But as the comic books of Bernard Berger (of European origin) or the paintings of Johannès Wahono (of Kanak origin) have shown, the ‘bush’ is a polysemic concept. Micaela Fenoglio’s 2004 study of New Caledonian literature observes that in Jacques’ work the ‘Station’ becomes a synecdoche for la brousse, half of the territory thus being characterised by the small farmer. A number of Jacques’ texts, particularly the short stories collected in C’est pas la faute de la lune, also speak of the intense life that characterises the ‘bush’ seen from a Kanak perspective: the mysterious metamorphoses of human, animal, plant, ancestor, and spirit worlds. The ‘bush’ Station as metaphor for the small farmer deeply rooted in the Caledonian land by self-denying toil is both defined in apposition to these irrational forces and deeply penetrated by them. The intense physical presence of the surroundings argues for a deep, emotional relation with the landscapes, but the bush is also a place of toil, tears, and fierce hidden passions in Jacques. Jacques’ first novel, Les cœurs barbelés (1998), based partly on her own experience of mixed-race relationships, makes explicit the complex political messages behind her diverse portraits of the deprivation suffered by the small settler-farmers and the descendants of liberated convicts in the rural areas of New Caledonia, and their closeness to the dispossessed Kanak. Jacqueline Ferry (2004) has commented on the political impact of the way in which the novel incorporates real documentary and archival material such as newspaper accounts of political events into its story of an ‘impossible’ romance between a young Kanak engineer, Séry, and a young white New Caledonian, Marilou. In the section entitled “Confidences of an Old West Coast Settler”, for example,

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which is an actual interview with a long-established bush farmer, the latter gives a moving account of his struggle to eke out a decent existence on the land where he was born. His shack of corrugated iron on a mosquito-infested island known familiarly as ‘The Rock’ (Le Caillou) is ‘home’ and shelters a ‘clan’ living in close proximity to its Kanak counterparts. This small farmer tells of his hard labour to make the land productive and the appreciation of the local natives who come to work for him from time to time when they find themselves in need of money. The interview concludes with the settler claiming that despite the feeling of still having French blood in his veins, “We exist. We have our place here”. For this New Caledonian, being French comes after belonging to the island. His identity is ambivalent, neither native nor French. A settler from the French countryside that is already so different from the general white world, as the text puts it, he is also a Caledonian settler close to the black world. Settler métis without knowing it, Jacques’ colonist deplores the destructive anxiety of being at once in one’s own country and an outsider, of living with a suitcase ready to leave if the independence movement makes the departure of the family necessary. The movement of Kanak from the Loyalty Islands or of Polynesians from Wallis and Futuna to live in the emerging Pacific City and of European settlers from the bush to Nouméa la blanche (white Nouméa), accelerating in the 1980s, further increases such cultural mixing. Jacques’ later work depicts the intense and difficult relation to separation from the land in urban Nouméa within new communities that are once again often rather more mixed than their separate origins and their own self-identifications would suggest. Texts such as L’Homme lézard (Jacques 2002a) focus on the dispossession and the sense of community that characterise the shantytowns springing up around Nouméa. Boghen Station—Claudine Jacques He was as tough and resilient as an ironwood tree, she had to give him that much. He had not spared himself working on the station and bore injuries stoically, without an ounce of self-pity. Lately he’d been wanting her to put a pot of niaouli honey beside his bed for the heartburn that kept him awake part of the night. He continued to treat his illnesses himself, as he always had. With canaque herbs. Besides, in these parts there was neither infirmary nor doctor,

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you had to run all the way to Bourail or, worse, right to La Foa for an appointment at the dispensary. “Too far,” he grumbled; “the day’s buggered afterwards.” The modest station backed on to Boghen, over towards Téné, and the road wasn’t always passable. As slippery as a cake of soap when it rained, and with endless hairpin bends. The dirt road started just out of Moindou, right after the last grocer-cum-general store-cum-petrol station, where you could order an omelet, manioc fries and café au lait, and have it sitting down in the kitchen. You had to drive up through guava, mahogany, banyans and the gum trees where flying foxes roost, in order to reach the first pass, called Moméa, which offered a picture postcard panorama: deep blue ocean streaked with ultramarine, the Téremba Passage and an emerald lagoon fringed with sparkling foam. You drank it all in, dazzled and nostalgic, before leaving the sea and the horizon behind you. Heading down again towards the interior, you disappeared under the heavy branches of a leafy prison, a moment of soft shade under tulip trees, along creek banks, but taking the dusty pothole-filled road up to Boghen, under a blazing sun, into a landscape of niaouli-strewn hills and steep-flanked mountains terraced by taro fields, took a superhuman effort of will. After that, you came down into the valley and the station. Then you would see the coconut palms and clumps of bamboo, the maize fields and the coffee-drying racks, the barbed wire fences, the drafting pens and a few head of cattle straying onto the road. A dirt track, crossed by a little stream that flooded twice a year, led to the house. It was bordered with orange, mandarin and coffee trees. It was right on coffee harvest time, and Ginette, forgetting her husband’s presence for a moment, silently calculated the size of the harvest. Already fifty drums of beautiful red berries were lined up against the washhouse, under the cockscombs. And that was just the start. They would get two more picks before the end of the harvest. She would hire some of the girls from the neighbouring tribe to help her. C. Jacques (1997), C’est pas la faute de la lune, pp. 133–135

The text of “Boghen Station” works back from an opening panoramic “shot” of the lonely digging of a grave and a husband weeping for his wife Ginette’s unfortunate death. Tired of her silent, apparently unaffectionate older partner but deeply attached to the station, Ginette had been putting rat poison in her “Old Man’s” food to free herself for a relationship with her new lover. On the final evening, while her back was

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Colonial house, Anzac album. (ANC)

turned to cut the bread, a fly had landed in the poisoned soup. Playing a childish trick on his wife, the broussard switched the plates. Ethnographic Rewriting—Alban Bensa Where writers of fiction are seeking to articulate the unspeakable or the unsaid of colonial history or to contest official ‘objective’ history by constructing complex personal places of memory, contemporary ethnographer Alban Bensa argues for a re-rewriting of colonial ethnography. Bensa has also published a comprehensive and beautifully illustrated history of New Caledonia for the general public, originally entitled Nouvelle-Calédonie: Un pays dans la tourmente (1990), and more recently and significantly retitled Nouvelle-Calédonie: Vers l’émancipation (2002). Although he acknowledges that the early ethnography of Leenhardt has been a major instrument in the transmission of the cultural texts that now add to the monnaie, or cultural reserves, of the Kanak writers, Bensa challenges many of Leenhardt’s ideas. For Bensa, the Kanak time without past and future but with eternal repetitions and rebeginnings, postulated by Leenhardt, derives not from an unchanging Kanak tradition but from the particular situation of the Kanak people,

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of Leenhardt’s time, immobilised on reserves. Bensa himself portrays the structural mobility and historicity of Kanak society and an oral tradition that is a vector of particular political strategies. Tjibaou, too, says Bensa, elaborated diverse foundation stories into modern national and nationalist narrations incorporating a polemical or competitive logic. This contemporary ethnographer supports independence, and his own writing is also presented as a political and ethical tool. In the following selected extracts from his texts, Bensa attacks what for him are the anthropological stereotypes underpinning colonial racism: the “big toe” claimed to be a physical sign of inferior race, the fantasy of the “fatal impact” between civilisation and savagery, the simplification that has led to a common understanding of Kanak land holding as “collective”. His own (re)writing demonstrates that these stereotypes (and their unmaking) are not the product of neutral and scientific analyses but of political discourse in texts written to interest and persuade. Colonial Stereotypes—Alban Bensa As for the Kanaks not only do they not escape from this ‘big toe judgement’ but in addition, they find themselves set apart from the rest of humanity. . . . Thus, referring in all seriousness to Sarasin (1922), Leenhardt (1947:11) has no qualms in claiming on the subject of the Kanaks. Anthropology has shown how, in his physical makeup, in his skeletal structure and his muscles, the New Caledonian exhibits a number of characteristics reminiscent of Neanderthal Man and these characteristics are occasionally even more primitive than those of this prehistoric man. Their square jaw, their eye sockets, their curved toes—explaining why today they can kick a football using their toes without spraining them—and many other distinctive characteristics led Sarasin to see this group as diverging from the line that resulted in Homo sapiens. Less bizarre, but much more widespread are themes often associated with gluttony, laziness and intellectual poverty used as a central line of argument in the bible of contempt still brandished by the perennial denigrators of all colonised people. Black slaves from the Antilles are accordingly stigmatised by Mazeras (1814). “Their soul resides purely in the physical body.” (quoted by Cohen, 1981) The same idea is developed by Father Henry (1910, p.9 in J. Bazin 1985, p.88) with reference to the Bambara people; “squatting under a leafy tree and passing the day away in idle chatter or half asleep is his dream and what brings him happiness.”

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With regard to the indigenous people of New Caledonia, allusions to cannibalism lead the Reverend Father Pionnier to push the caricature of the ‘gluttonous savage’ even further (1911, p.15), more than half a century after the beginning of colonisation. Their eyes glow with a sombre fire. The lips are thick and brutish and part only to reveal two enormous rows of teeth. This play of physiognomy is by no means a smile, it is the hideous rictal grin of the feral animal thinking of its prey and feasting on it in advance. Seventy years later, Kanaks are still not considered exempt from these faults. Geographer Jean-Paul Doumenge (1982, p.455) considers that “traditional society was a universe of survival. Eating well represented the supreme form of well-being.” It could only have been reflections of this kind that inspired the military journal Debout les Paras (no. 97: VII) which, in 1985, represented Melanesians in the following way: [ . . . ] The tradition which consists of seeking only to survive, that is to say deploying the bare minimum amount of effort necessary to continue to subsist with the sole ambition of sleeping after having eaten, has unfortunately yet to die out. [ . . . ] These stereotypes and others that we need not list here are found right throughout the French colonies and remain unchanged throughout the centuries and the social classes. They can be found in the discourse of all colonisers, small business people, farmers, missionaries, administrators or ‘scientists.’ Behind the banality of the ideology, behind its generalisation, however, different levels can be perceived in the appreciation of the dominated populations. Within the same colonised territory, the colonisers could distinguish between peoples considered to be ‘more savage,’ ‘less primitive’ or ‘less evolved’; labels that can vary moreover from period to period and from writer to writer. The Exclusion Strategy—Alban Bensa From 1843 (the establishment of Marists at Balade) until approximately the First World War, the abundant and sinister commentary provoked by the supposed disappearance of the indigenous peoples of New Caledonia was based more on a persistent and commonly accepted rumour than on any clearly established quantitative data. During this period it was only the selective and episodic writing of missionaries, military personnel, administrators (holding posts in Nouméa) or colonists that supported this hypothesis of a major and irremediable demographic de-

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cline of the Kanak people. It would only have been possible to justify and comment on this phenomenon with any rigour by comparing two reliable sets of results. In fact, we now know that such data was unavailable: historians and demographers today have seriously questioned the validity of the estimates of the Kanak population made in the Nineteenth Century. In addition, the second census of the population (the first dates from 1885) did not take place until 1906. And so the general Nineteenth Century consensus that upheld the idea of a rapid disappearance of the oldest occupants of the archipelago appears to be less a product of irrefutable, global surveys than of an ideological extrapolation from scattered observations treated as proof of the ineluctable disappearance of “races.” Revealing for the first time the discrepancy between accessible demographic statistics and the discourse (or desire?) of colonists over a period of sixty years (1853–1914), D. Shineberg (1983, p.42) comments that “intellectuals adopted this model of a catastrophic decline during the Nineteenth Century, without examination or protest.” The distinctive culture of the Kanaks (perceived as ‘savagery’), their weak potential for military resistance and the experience, shared by the numerous colonists arriving at this time in New Caledonia, of a quasiextermination of the Australian Aborigines—these three factors led the French in the South Pacific to a general explanatory model derived from social Darwinism that fitted perfectly with the imperialist interests of the period. This ideology of the Melanesian doomed to extinction has defined the very particular form of racism adopted by this French colony from 1853 until the present day, a racism of annihilation, which only ever considered the Kanak people as non-beings. [ . . . ] Marc Le Goupils, a colonist in New Caledonia from 1894 to 1904, can thus write calmly in his diary published in 1928: “The Canaques will disappear without having understood on what grounds the white race had settled amongst them or on what terms this race intended to live with them.” This morbid philosophy, which treats the Kanak people as an insignificant mass, is what forms the ideological backdrop of the entire history of the colonial enterprise. “Collective” Property—Alban Bensa Contrary to an accepted belief, unchallenged until now, Kanak society is not organised by the principle of collective ownership of land. If this were the case, land rights would be passed down from generation to

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generation within an extensive and permanent entity, the “clan,” with its own area of land unchanging in time and space. The “clan” is a grouping of family units (“lineages”) connected by common ancestors and the pathways they have taken. This grouping is circumstantial, changing, and fluid. Migratory movements, adoptions, and name changes result in the flux of men, women, children . . . and land rights in and out of the vague entity that is the clan. Their respective history, personal or more often familial, the matrimonial alliances contracted by each one of them, are all elements that define distinct “lands.” Often, two brothers do not have the same land ownership. . . . Precise Rules—Alban Bensa Each individual’s connection with the land is the result of a combination of inherited rights and conceded rights. Inherited rights: A man holds land rights over a piece of land from his father and inherits from his grandparents and paternal ancestors the possibility of going to live and plant crops at various points on the “clan’s” migratory pathways. Given that some of these former settlements could have been conceded, under various conditions, to families outside the clan, access to these places becomes the subject of negotiation, contracts and conflict. Extracts from A. Bensa (1995), Chroniques Kanak: L’ethnologie en marche, pp. 109–111, 113–115

Chapter Seventeen

Kanak Rewriting of Colonial History

Artists, too, are concerned with ways of reworking representations of the colonial past and reusing old representations, techniques, or materials to create new “cognitive mappings”. In her portrait entitled Betty, the artist Micheline Néporon reproduces a colonial photograph of a Kanak woman in the mission dress, or Mother Hubbard, that has become ‘traditional’. Representing the exotic and doomed Other, the lost ‘race’ to the European world, the photograph is now reframed and made to speak in Néporon’s own voice. The message written over the photograph—“Betty. Photograph. The bark of the tree . . . But the KANAK spirit remains . . . ”—refers to an indigenous saying that the bark of the tree may be damaged but the heart of the tree can remain strong. The wording, with its capitalization of “Kanak”, is part of the composition and its message seems to be that the transformations of name and dress and morale of the colonial era are just the damaged bark; the spirit remains and will survive. Déwé Gorodé’s Rewriting of Colonial History Déwé Gorodé’s novella, Utê Mûrûnû (1994), one of the first published fictional texts by a Kanak writer, inscribes New Caledonian colonial history and ethnography from an indigenous perspective. Gorodé’s story opens and closes with a male character, Dui Natei, working to construct the barbed-wire fences that enclose the land taken by the colonial administration for settler farms and cattle ranches. These are, then, the very fences that exclude the first inhabitants from their lands, the barbed wire that separates the two communities as in Claudine Jacques’ Les cœurs barbelés. Confined to reserves that occupy less than 10 percent of the territory and kept separate from European enterprises 235

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Betty, M. Néporon. (ADCK)

by the Native Code, Kanak men, Gorodé’s text seems to be saying, in a male-dominated and patriarchal Kanak society, built the very f­ences that exiled them. Under the Native Code, Kanak populations were obliged to pay a poll tax and subsequently compelled by their chief to supply the settler-farmers and ranches with labour, including fence construction, to earn the money to pay for this levy.

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This first Kanak novella proceeds to replace grand colonial history by foregrounding instead the lives of five generations of women, all named Utê Mûrûnû, or “Little Coconut Flower”. All the Utê Mûrûnû are both grandmothers and granddaughters and are intimately connected to the point of being almost interchangeable—as the final line makes explicit, “Utê Mûrûnû, but which one of us?” These female protagonists, who transmit knowledge of plants and women’s medicine, of growing and healing, and of storytelling and tradition from generation to generation, are also identified with Kaavo, “our Princess of legend”—that is, as strong women. The decimation of Kanak lands and culture under colonialism and modernisation and the military conflicts of the period are present only to the extent that their historical shadow falls on the everyday lives of these women close to the earth, to the group, and to the ancestors through recurring rituals of marriage, birth, and death. The imperial history that shapes and intrudes on their lives is both resisted and rewritten. One Utê Mûrûnû goes mad and drowns communing with the duée, or water spirits, after her family has been killed in reprisals following the 1878 insurrection. What has been presented by historians as the Kanak “revolt” of 1917, in which a second Utê Mûrûnû loses both her husband and son, is alluded to in passing simply as the grand pilou—that is, a gathering or (war) dance on the “other side” of the mountain. Men are most often absent fathers or away dying in “irrelevant” wars “against the soldiers of William” in the cold, far-off lands of the Popwaale in 1917 or, later, with the “volunteers” of the Pacific battalion. The massive occupation by the American and Allied armies in the Pacific from 1942 is mentioned only insofar as Utê Mûrûnû’s customary sister, married off to the father of Utê Mûrûnû’s own son, Dui, is a victim of the attractions of the American camps and later becomes a prostitute on the streets of Nouméa, dying of venereal disease. Utê Mûrûnû’s stories of rebellious female ancestors refusing polygamous or arranged marriages or avenging their status as the spoils of war by, on one occasion, drowning the imposed husband one dark night on the way home on a raft, eschew grand narratives of wars, warrior heroes, and political leaders and foreground women’s roles and relationships and their central part in the transmission of life and of culture. Later work will counter any tendency to idealise women, foregrounding their power to avenge as spirits or as the ogresses of tradition. The story of the first Utê Mûrûnû nonetheless begins close to the time of annexation (1853) in the countryside (en tribu), and the last

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Utê Mûrûnû is about to be born in Nouméa towards the end of the twentieth century amidst the political ferment of movements for independence in which her parents are active participants. A spiralling movement of going out and returning, of quasi-identification of generations, predominates, but movement, change, and history are not eliminated from this new space-time with its multiple temporalities and simultaneities. An Introduction to Déwé Gorodé: First Kanak Woman Poet and Writer From her earliest childhood en tribu, or on ‘customary lands’, beside the beautiful estuary of Pwârâiriwâ on the east coast of New Caledonia, Déwé Gorodé told stories to herself or drew patterns on the ground. In the evening, Gorodé remembers, the big sisters, the mothers, the aunties, and grandmothers, sitting around the fire in the case [/ka:z] told tâgadéé in which the ogre or the devil of earlier versions of the traditional epic stories was replaced with the cattle of the settlers. Often inadequately fenced in, the cattle would wander into the gardens of the Kanak and destroy their livelihood. The Kanak writer’s stories were inspired by Paicî literary traditions but also by Perrault’s European fairy tales, Victor Hugo’s little Gavroche, the hero of the barricades in nineteenth-century Paris, or tales from the Bible, told to her by her siblings or her father. Gorodé’s paternal grandfather, Philippe Gorodé, and maternal grandfather, Elaicha Nâbai, a traditional orator, had worked as indigenous pastors with Maurice Leenhardt at the mission school of Do Néva on the central east coast. Her father, Waia Gorodé, also a master with words (see our translation from “Mon école du silence”), worked with the ethnographer Jean Guiart to collect jèmââ, or what have been labelled the ‘foundation myths’, the stories of the founding of the Paicî-speaking region. “Not myths”, retorts Gorodé in an interview with Blandine Stefanson (1998); “for otherwise Kanak would not be here. If you look for the castle of Sleeping Beauty, you are not likely to find it, whereas the significant heroes of the jèmââ are represented or localized by rocks and mountains” (84). Later moving to primary school with her teacher-sister in the A’jië-speaking area near Houailou, Gorodé was one of the few Kanak to continue on (at age thirteen) to the prestigious Lycée La Pérouse in Nouméa. She was again among the first small group of Kanak to leave

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New Caledonia for a university education in 1969, completing a BA (licence-ès-lettres) at Montpellier. In France Gorodé encountered the bards of the negritude movement—Senghor, Damas, and Césaire—and the ideologues of liberation movements. She studied Marxist dialectics and wrote her first poems. On her return to a teaching position outside Nouméa at SaintLouis, Gorodé committed politically to the Foulards Rouges, a radical independence group set up by Nidoish Naisseline (a high chief from the island of Maré), whose meetings she had first attended before leaving in 1969. She later joined Le Groupe de 1878, named after the first Kanak revolt, formed with Elie Poigoune in 1974. Neither prison sentences (for her participation in boycotts and sit-ins after the arrest of friends) nor the birth of a young daughter could stop her activism. Obliged to give up teaching (at a Catholic institution where she had no leeway to change the French syllabus), she became a full-time activist for the next decade, and in 1976 she helped found the Parti de Libération Kanak (PALIKA). From 2001 Gorodé represented this party in the coalition New Caledonian government, becoming the country’s vice president from 2001 to 2009. At the time of publication (in 2011), she remains a member of the government and continues to hold ministerial portfolios. Gorodé’s writing has always been, she claims, secondary to her political aims. These political goals were pursued internationally, for example, in her travels to nonaligned or developing countries and attendance at UN decolonisation committees as the representative for external relations of the major independence party, the Front National de Libération Kanak et Socialiste (FNLKS) after its creation in 1984. She also attended the first World Congress for Women in Mexico on the same visit. In the 1990s she was seconded from her teaching position to work for the Agence de Développement de la Culture Kanak (ADCK), collecting and transcribing Kanak tales and legends for use in schools before resuming teaching of French and Paicî at the College de Do Néva. However, although much of her literary production meshes with her strategic political and social purposes, its scope turns out to be much wider. This is both militant and ‘ethnographic’ writing, giving value to Kanak culture, providing insights into Kanak social organization, space, and time, and rewriting history as narrative of the everyday seen from the Kanak’s and the woman’s side. Beyond the critique of colonial and patriarchal exploitation, Gorodé ‘re-visions’ recent history, includ-

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ing a critique of the divisions and problems within the Kanak world itself. Critic of a society produced by colonialism, she is also the critic and conscience of Kanak tradition. If Gorodé sets out to use culture to affirm a culture, denounce its dispossession, and advance a strategic and militant political consciousness, the interest of her work lies also in its unusual self-searching and its literary qualities. The play, or rather the struggle, with the words and the commonplaces of French is ludic and intertextual, a love-hate encounter with the French language seeking both to extract and use all of its resources and to reveal its limitations in portraying Kanak understandings of the world. Gorodé’s work on and with tense, her overlapping time zones, and nouns or pronouns with multiple referents that telescope or repeat generations and recurring scenes (the name Utê Mûrûnû, e.g.) succeed in creating her own very distinctive textual spaces and a certain yet different ‘pleasure of the text’. Dream and reality, past and present, celebration and critique construct parallel but interconnected worlds. The two poems “Creation” and “Writing” articulate Gorodé’s own dual conception of her role, writing a silenced culture, both re-creating this and designating its often contradictory truths with words. Other themes of Gorodé’s stories, rooted in the injustices of colonisation and the struggle for the future survival of the culture, and concern for its independence and interdependences, are carried by the creation of characters. These represent most often emotionally powerful relationships among the members of the clan, grandmothers and grandfathers, customary brothers and sisters, and also with the ancestors, “those who raise us and are around us.” Sometimes the living earth (mother) herself or the guardian spirits of nature are personalised interlocutors. Both poems and stories stage the problems of modern life (alcohol, drugs, AIDS) as these affect customary Kanak communities (incest, violence against women, sorcery) and urban youth. Gorodé’s work remains deeply emotionally invested in the survival of the best elements of Kanak culture in a ‘common future’ yet to be carved out. It also engages concretely with larger ideological questions—the dangers for spiritual survival in the commodification of work, of land, of being, and of culture by globalisation, the new extension of capitalism. The critical work of Mounira Chatti and of Stephanie Vigier has shown that the themes of revenge and of heritage to be reclaimed across generations also pervade Gorodé’s short story “Case Closed”. Here, a wronged young woman—alias the taboo and seduced priestess of fire—reappears, changing face and colour, at different historical

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The Treasures of Women, P. Boi. (ADCK)

moments (the First World War; Guadalcanal; the political troubles, or “Events”, of the virtual civil war from 1985) to wreak revenge on those men who have betrayed her and to claim back her inheritance upon their death. In each case, the men burn to death. The belief in recurring patterns, in the repetition of the same within the different, illustrated in genealogies by the fourth generation taking the names of the first, for example, informs this theme of a haunting by the past and shapes the distinctive forms of Gorodé’s work. The theme of vengeance will reappear in Gorodé’s first novel, L’Epave (The wreck; 2005a), in which a childhood incident of incest and rape again haunts the text and finally brings about a dénouement that is also a form of re-beginning. The death of the abusive but powerful orator ‘uncle’ may not halt the cycle of incest. Revenge and recovery of heritage configure the political message but appear to derive also from personal preoccupations that relate to women’s lack of power and subaltern status, as from the even more deeply suppressed forces of incestuous passion that lurk behind the lines. Writing writing an island a land

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where beings once were where beings were without being where beings are without being speechless lifeless visionless voiceless beneath the heavy cloak of silence clear felled by the single way of thinking by singleness of thought writing an island a land of water rain-water spring-water sea-water nickel-tinted creek water muddy water of stagnant mangrove where floundering around in the slime or swimming through murky waters like a fish in water becomes an art writing an island a land where earth and stone speak in the place of beings in the place of man in the place of woman so they may speak the place of the child

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who is to be born Sydney, 15 July 1997 D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 48–49

Creation Sorting words   in the water’s flow   on a rock’s crag   with the curve of a stone   at the rim of an eyelid   by the ford of a river   to the throb of a sob Seizing the sense   in the sound of a consonant   in the voices of a vowel   in the quaver of a comma   in the no of a hiatus   in the closure of a bracket   in the finality of a full stop Carving out the idea   to the flow of time   with the flow of years   in the ocean wind   under the sky of childhood   at the gates of memory   on the threshold of nothingness Sorting words   between the lines   against the grain   from breaking point   to point of no return Seizing sense  stealthily

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  or figuratively   from the cesura   to the fracture Carving out the idea at break of day or in the black of night from wound to rupture to live this writing in rags and tatters or as one dispossessed to live writing back against the wall and in foreign territory outside of myself or as an underdog outsider in this language that is not mine. Sorting words till I drop Seizing the sense to writing the self Carving out the idea till I die in the name of what is and what is not or of mine who are no more in the name of those at the frontline of a country yet to be born to the laughter of the children to come Adelaide, 26 July 1997 D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 94–96

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Where Are You Going Mûû?—Déwé Gorodé As the following extract reveals, remembering a ‘colonial’ past of loss is paradoxically inextricable from the project of a recovery of identity and tradition. As in Micheline Néporon’s photograph of Betty, the portrait of the grandfather in this story suggests that if the outer layers, the soft wood, the decay of alcohol-induced abuse and of the problems of modern living can be stripped away, the true and strong heart of the tree is still present for the younger generations. This opening section of the short story recounts the clandestine night trysts of the heroine, Mûû, with a young white neighbour, Gilles. Mûû has ignored her maternal cousin Téa’s warning that white men discard their black woman lovers. When the young woman is abandoned by Gilles to marry a more suitable bride (the white daughter of a neighbouring large landowner), it is Grandmother’s herbs and incantations in a sacred place of the creek that enable her pregnant granddaughter to abort Gilles’ child. Some time later, after eating a bougna prepared by Mûû’s grandmother for the guests at the wedding feast, Gilles dies during the night of apparent self-strangulation. Mûû marries her cousin Téa, and some eighteen years later the “only object that Gilles had deigned to give Mûû”, a photo of himself that she returned when he told her of his engagement, is brought back to Mûû from a homestead occupied by her son and a group of independence militants. Gorodé’s figures are rarely one dimensional. Grandmother (gèè), often a maternal figure of protection and wisdom, also has the powers of a witch or an ogress. “Where are you going Mûû?” “I’m off to listen to the church programme on the radio at Âdi’s place.” “All right but don’t hang around there too long; if your grandfather comes home drunk he’ll be picking another fight with us and we’ll have to sleep outside again.” “Yeah, sure, Gèè. I’ll be back before him.” My grandmother spat on the ground, took a stick out of the fire and blew hard on its glowing tip before relighting her cigarette, tobacco rolled in paper cut from one of those little brown paper bags the Whites in the village give us to put our meagre purchases in. She threw me a quick, resigned glance and added, “Okay, go on then.”

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I raced off into the starry night full of the energy of youth on the threshold of life. I ran down to the beach and into the arms of Gilles. He took me over to our secret refuge, a bed of buffalo grass under some dense bourao reeds. I was safe for that night, anyway. I had let Âdi know to tell Nanny that I was with her. As for Ao, I would still have time to get back before him; we’d be able to hear him and his friends from a long way off, bellowing the taperas or temperance hymns they used to sing whenever they came home rolling drunk from the village. I was only hoping he’d keel over, be out cold, before he could find another excuse for bothering us, Nanny and me. All the times we would run off to the coffee plantation or down to the beach, to be pursued by mosquitoes, all the times we would sleep under the stars in the wake of those alcohol-induced scenes, I felt a terrible hatred for him, but it was a hatred that sleep and the night quickly laid to rest. For, by the dawn of the next day, my grandfather would have recovered his senses, and be back to his normal state, become once again the best of men to both my Nanny and me. Until the next bout of drinking, I never tired of admiring his splendid yams, the enormous spiny lobsters he would catch at night, and the sacks of trocha shellfish he brought back from the island. During these sober periods, he was still the most talented teller of pwara-pwa, and the most wonderful narrator of tagade or the most inspirational of all the elders who knew the genealogies and stories. During those years, in between his alcoholic binges, Ao remained my greatest source of pride. D. Gorodé (1996a), L’Agenda, pp. 15–16

The Ferryman—Déwé Gorodé  ◙ In this text, the history of a valley is constructed through the memories of a number of (non-European) narrative voices. Those from the other side overlap the real world, carried by dreams. “Take this ring, she wants you to have it. Keep it in memory of us. We have to go back to the other side now, it will soon be daylight. Hear that? It’s already the first cock crow.” I did hear what he meant and I watched them steal away along the bank, toward the river mouth, the man in front and the woman a few steps behind, like a Kanak couple from times gone by. But were they really walking? They appeared to be floating above the tall grass along the water’s edge. Then, when they reached the

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retaining wall of the bridge further down the river, they suddenly slipped quietly away into the misty grey waters of dawn, down into a swirling ballet of shark fins. Then, in a flash, the time it took for a second cock crow to tease my eardrums, there they were again, standing in front of me, holding out the silver ring in their entwined fingertips. When I tried to take hold of it, my fingers were stuck to theirs by a kind of invisible, sticky substance. That was what woke me, as the third cock crow echoed through my head in an endless, ear-splitting cascade of sound. Emerging from his partially hung-over dream state, the protagonist recalls the car ride across the bridge to the party the evening before, the lights he had seen on the veranda of the deserted shack where the ferryman had lived, and his encounter with a mysterious woman, Marie, wearing a jasmine flower. This woman, who returns in his dream to offer him a ring, is the Vietnamese companion of the ferryman who some fifteen years earlier had shared his knowledge of the river and the history of the valley with the young boy, recounting his most intense childhood memories. These included a mise en abyme, the story within his story of a Javanese couple of tenant farmers who had introduced him to the spices, colours, and traditions of their Muslim culture, the stories of his Kanak grandmother that first opened up the “enchanted forest of the worlds of dream”, and the account of the ferryman’s own life as volunteer in the Bataillon du Pacifique and in Indochina, fighting at Dien Bien Phu. There, he had come to recognise the justice of the independence cause against the colonial army he served. This internal narrator was the last ferryman on the river, the pathway of the dead according to the old people, who were welcomed to the other world by the crowing of the cock. The ‘detective’ story concludes with revelations of other supernatural, and romantic, connections. I was now wide awake and found myself turning over and over in the palm of my hand the silver ring I had just discovered under the dry bamboo leaves. There were two names engraved on it, followed by “Saigon 1954.” But the ferryman had never told me the story of the young woman with the jasmine flower. I won’t learn until much later, and then only second hand, that at the beginning of the sixties, a car had been found abandoned beside the ferry. It was an ordinary grey 2CV, with no one in it, no papers, nothing to identify it. The police in charge of the enquiry were at that time on the track of a young Vietnamese woman in her early thirties, who was suffering from leukaemia, wanted by her parents in

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preparation for the return to their homeland. The ferryman had apparently told the police and others that he hadn’t heard the car drive up and was surprised to find it there at dawn. Today the ferryman is gone, but neither I nor anyone else ever knew how he left. D. Gorodé (1996a), L’Agenda, pp. 50–55

Chapter Eighteen

Recovering Custom

A major aspect of emerging Kanak literature is its desire to recover and preserve lost or disappearing traditions. Waia Gorodé, Déwé Gorodé’s father and author of Souvenirs d’un Néo-calédonien ami de Maurice Leenhardt, remembers and celebrates customary ways in his unpublished autobiography, “Mon école du silence” (My school of silence). His father, Philippe Gorodé, had worked with Leenhardt as his informant. Waia himself had in fact collaborated more particularly with Leenhardt’s disciple, Jean Guiart. The syntax of “Mon école du silence” reveals the structures of the speaker’s maternal language. This written text incorporates characteristics of oral tradition in its allusive, metaphorical qualities and its use of metonymy to avoid any direct reference that might bring about the loss of mana of one’s group or ancestors. The concrete metaphors and images, and most particularly the musical or incantatory qualities, rhythms, and repetitions, also recall oral tradition. My School of Silence—Waia Gorodé (Waia Gorodé’s text sets the scene.) When my grandfather returned from the Isle of Pines after five years of exile, when he got back home to Poarairiwa, the estuary at Ponérihouen, he restored his kingdom which had fallen into ruin during his absence. The roof of these two cases (houses) had decayed into ruin and the pathway belonging to these two facing cases had been invaded by weeds. [ . . . ] Although words were spoken against his grandfather as a “condemned man” (convicted of striking and killing a Frenchman who had insulted 249

The World of the Spirits, Y. Bouquet. (ADCK)

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him), as a “true servant of his land and of his customary chiefdom”, writes Waia, he used his strength and the courage of the warrior to rebuild the moaciri (peaceful homeland) for the anniversary ceremony of mourning for his son-in-law (Cau Poadé). He himself was the chief mourner. When the Tépô [maternal relatives/guests] tried to tear down the doorposts and the roof of the two huts at the end of the ceremony with European axes, my grandfather resisted the perilous games of the maternal clans with his niaouli baton. When the Tépô struck my grandfather with his European axe to remove the great, tall hat of the Mourner (Ambi) from his head, old Kaké, the condemned man under colonialism, protected his precious hat under which he kept the monnaie.* After this introduction, Waia’s text continues, He was a shark in the pathway, said my grandmother Jenny. But he did not have the right to strike with his club. The Tépô had the right to strike him, to kill him, and to prepare the oven for him, as was the custom. Among the Tépô there were some strong young men of the Neauciwe clan who, wielding their clubs and European axes, who coveted the prized headgear of this subject of the Moaciri homeland, longing to knock it off and seize it. But he himself had taken it off and placed it on top of the great pile of provisions prepared for the Tépô who had come from the valleys of Nebai, Goieta, and even from elsewhere. He made his last offering, and climbed the orator’s ladder in front of the thatch house of his brother who had passed on. The shaft of his club across his broad shoulders, his belly indrawn like the Kupi whistle, his muscular calves swollen by sinews, made the ladder tremble. He twisted his left arm around the end of the ladder and bent his right arm to clasp his weapon. Broken but still valuable and effective to the end, he held it firmly across his shoulders. My School of Silence (cont.)—Waia Gorodé My Grandfather’s Koeare during the ceremony of the Spirit (mourning ceremony for the Ancestor)—On the Orators’ Perch * Translators’ note: Money, or Âdi, treasure that here represents the spirit of his grandson.

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With his bulging bicep muscles gleaming And harnessed to his powerful chest On his ladder he turns his upper body To right and to left, watching the people His belly is indrawn, like the Kupi The sweat runs from his forehead, runs freely Strands of the long hair that had been hidden by the turban of the Mourner Cover the small, sunken eye sockets of the Shark He is naked, my grandfather, on his perch For he is truly an unclothed Adam How fine he is, say the people, with his leg bands Swayed by his movements and the Alize winds He is proud of his two houses, And the pathway between them The work of his fathers, instructed by the gods He is the last Kanak of his tribe To hold to his custom. The central post of his case at Poagai was uprooted and planted elsewhere by the Geographic Commission after the Second World War. Time has passed and you can no longer see any trace of the exact case with its tall central post—but the ashes of the hearth of our ancestors, Bao, they are still there, for all eternity. W. Gorodé (n.d.), “Mon école du silence”. Text communicated by Déwé Gorodé

It is possible that Waia Gorodé, clearly a patriarch with mana, critical of the puritanical attitudes towards the body introduced by the Church, reading the scriptures against the missionary grain, father of eleven children, amateur of his wife, Laura, and excluded from his family clan for a transgression, provides elements of Déwé Gorodé’s complex portrait of the marginalized but powerful character of the ancestor/Old Tom, the ogre who devours his own children in L’Epave. Waia’s written texts also show a deep knowledge of the scriptures acquired as a dikonas, surprising erudition, and a questioning mind that is nonetheless deeply rooted in a distinctively non-European vision of the world. Like those of his daughter, his texts can unsettle a European reader, taking him/her well beneath the ordered surface of a politically correct, single, eternal custom sanitized and explained as deeply spiri-

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tual “sharing as custom provides” for Western consumption. If other Kanak women intellectuals, such as Madeleine Wetta, profess some uneasiness in the face of the public staging of the excessive power of men, of the uterine uncles whose demands cannot be refused, in Déwé Gorodé’s novel L’Epave they accept that it speaks truths hitherto unspeakable. Jean-Marie Tjibaou’s Reconstruction of Custom: The Play Kanaké Jean-Marie Tjibaou presented himself as a Kanak from the Paicî-speaking tribu at Tiendanite in the Hienghène Valley. Despite his political profile, he continued all his life to work in his yam gardens until his assassination in 1989, connected, as he put it, by an invisible elastic band to his group of origin. Born in 1936, son of Wenceslas Tjibaou of Hienghène, a moniteur, or teacher, for the Catholic mission, the young boy was nonetheless distanced from his tribu and his mother tongue and educated in the seminary. In 1966 Jean-Marie became second vicar of the Cathédrale de Nouméa with the encouragement of the family mentor, Le Père Rouel, Marist priest of Hienghène and an outspoken opponent of the exploitation of the Kanak. This authoritarian and strong-willed priest, whose life has recently been explored by Hamid Mokaddem in L’oeil du Père Rouel, was a sufficiently turbulent character to be packed forcibly off to Australia in 1944 by the colonial administration, which had rallied to De Gaulle. Like so many of the Pacific elites, Tjibaou was educated under the wing of the churches, at the Institut Catholique, and the Catholic faculty of Lyons from 1967. Later in Paris, at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, he studied ethnography with Jean Guiart, leaving the priesthood in 1971. “Our identity lies before us” repeated Tjibaou; “the return to tradition is a myth . . . the important day is not the referendum but the day after” (Bensa and Wittersheim 1996). Not having grown up in the culture like his father and grandfather, Tjibaou must ‘invent’ the new Kanak culture out of his mixed educations. In May 1989 this leader of the Independence Party and signatory of the Matignon Agreement of 1988 (see Mokaddem 2005) was tragically assassinated by a disaffected Kanak militant, Wéa Djubelli, on the island of Ouvéa, along with his political second-in-command, Iewené Iewené. It is his speeches and ‘oral’ performance texts, hybrid in their re-creation of tradition, that constitute this second major voice of ‘written’ Kanak literature.

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Mélanésia 2000 The Mélanésia 2000 festival took place in 1975 at the site of what is now the Centre Culturel Jean-Marie Tjibaou, set among the mangroves at the gateway to Nouméa. Tjibaou’s purpose was to recover a silenced Kanak culture and to promote the recognition of its dignity and value. Kanak peoples, he claimed, would no longer be “escapees from prehistory” or “archaeological remains” (Tjibaou and Missotte 1976, 5), but men of flesh and blood represented as descendants of the ancestor in the figure of the first man, Teâ Kanaké. Translated into English for circulation in the Pacific, the book Kanaké, the Melanesian Way gives an illustrated account of the festival and of its grand finale, the playspectacle (jeu scénique), which stages the founding story of the Paicîspeaking group. The 1975 festival marks a turning point in New Caledonian history and in Tjibaou’s own political evolution and rhetoric. The speeches, poems, and interviews collected by Alban Bensa and Eric Wittersheim in La présence Kanak in 1996, along with the text of Kanaké, constitute Tjibaou’s Word, which has played a vital role in the construction of the idea of a Kanak “nation” as a hybrid entity with rights and a future distinctive from, but perhaps complementary to, those conferred by French citizenship. This Word (Parole) was instrumental in the process that led to drawing up the Matignon Agreement in 1988 and the posthumous recognition of the existence of the Kanak people as a political entity by the Nouméa Agreement in 1998. This is a moral and political document with the goal of equality between former coloniser and colonised, a document without precedent in colonial history according to Alban Bensa, who presents and comments on the agreement in the appendices of his book as “La Nouvelle-Calédonie: Vers l’émancipation”. The Nouméa Agreement included an option for autonomy or independence by majority vote with a referendum to be held before 2018, and incorporated the notions of a mixed society and ‘common destiny’ with the formula “destin commun”. In Kanaké, then, the colonial past is presented as an overlapping history that is the foundation for the shared future, much as the pejorative nineteenth-century term “Canaque” with a “c” was transformed by Tjibaou’s hero, the first man, Kanaké, to Kanak (written with a “k” and without French grammatical agreements), to signify pride in being Kanak and the transformation of the negatively connoted language of the past. Tjibaou presents himself as constructing a written memory

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over his culture’s erased traces, an image of itself “rooted but new”, “gratifying and conquering” (Bensa and Wittersheim 1996, 27) in a project of Kanak political primacy. In a similar way, the remarkable futuristic Centre Culturel Jean-Marie Tjibaou, inaugurated in 1998 on the tenth anniversary of the leader’s assassination and based on the traditional shapes of the houses (case) of the village—a mémoire de case, as the architect Renzo Piano called it—transformed the negative connotations of the native hut. Kanak identity construed within a collective gift economy where prestige, Tjibaou observed, lies in giving, giving a lot, and giving everywhere, is relational. This is an economy marked by the taboo and totem of an intense relation with the living land that Tjibaou puts forward in opposition but also in apposition to the material progress of the nation or the self that in New Caledonia has constituted the accepted sociopolitical model. For the Kanak, in Tjibaou’s project, must also play a full role in the economic development of the new provinces they now control. In Tjibaou’s 1975 play Kanaké, published and reedited in a memorial version in the journal Mwà Véé in 1995, knowledge of self is recovered through the reconstruction and sharing of traditional dances with the Europeans. This is knowledge specific to and gifted by particular tribus or villages where the practice of many of the dances had become quiescent after the establishment of the Church. The boenando, or traditional ceremony, that opens the play is daringly presented as the ritual cannibalistic feast particular to the Kanak of New Caledonia and legitimized by its symbolic resemblance to the Catholic Eucharist—“the sacred sacrifice that all cultures have evoked but we alone have dared accomplish” (Dobbelaere and Tjibaou 1995, 17). The second boenando that brings the play to a close is the sharing of the new yams with the Europeans, now no longer masters but guests. The proposal of a fraternal and foundational relationship between European and Kanak thus takes the startling form of a symbolic rehabilitation of the “cannibalism” of Kanaké, the first man, that has haunted European texts since Montaigne. In an interview with Marguerite Duras in 1986 (Bensa and Wittersheim 1996, 217–226), Tjibaou declared that his claims were less “national” than “Kanak”. The first need was to be solid in one’s own culture, to be inventive in the absence of models integrating modernity and traditional souffle, or spirituality. The alienation in the colonial situation resided principally in the fact that to become a man, one had to deny his own (savage) culture, become a stranger to himself and to others.

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There was opposition to Tjibaou’s double project of (self-)knowledge and search for recognition from all sides. The right-wing Rallye Pour la Calédonie dans la République (RPCR) saw it as too political in intent (raising the taboo question of colonisation), and on the left the first contingent of Kanak students organising into new political groups, the Foulards Rouges and Le Groupe de 1878, attacked the festival as insufficiently political. The militants claimed the festival was little more than “folklore” and would inevitably be recuperated within the old frames of the savage (natives dancing naked) and the civilised. Despite the opposition at the time to a cultural politics, the play’s three giant marionettes—caricatures of the agents of colonisation, the priest, the administrator, and the merchant—constitute a bold critique. As the audience watches the self-important captain writing a falsely objective report of native aggression quelled by “our” valiant soldiers, it sees rather the quiet withdrawal of the fearful natives; it understands the Eurocentric misinterpretation of the baskets of gifts offered by the natives as a sign of capitulation or again of the pagan savage taking white men for gods; it laughs at the merchant vaunting the merits of corsets for Kanak women and the priest’s curious homily on the value of a civilisation that includes the mission dress to cover women’s shameful bodies (“the weapons of Satan”). The single published critique of the text of Kanaké, by Mounira Chatti of the University of New Caledonia (2004b), sees the play as addressing only Europeans and stifling protest. Tjibaou’s Kanaké, however, ends with an explicit address to Kanak pride and the assertion that “you will feel within yourself whether you are ashamed or whether you are proud to be here. We want to weave with them and with our children the fraternity of the Caledonia of tomorrow” (Dobbelaere and Tjibaou 1995, 17). The organizers had decided not to make the representative of Christianity too “grimacing and carnivalesque” out of respect for the older leaders and the importance that religion had come to assume in tradition. In fact, the bare-breasted women met with the disapproval both of the protesters (as “humiliating”) and of the Catholic and Protestant elders who saw these women as not conforming to “our” tradition. Supporters point out that the pragmatics of the situation at the time did not allow Tjibaou to talk politics directly or he would not have obtained the major state finance that allowed the festival to go forward. The text of the play itself is marked by striking parallelisms and repetitions. The dances by the tribes/totems of thunder and wind, the shark of Doui, the white-bodied Palako hen, the lizard/yam of life, the

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Centre Culturel Jean-Marie Tjibaou.

Kuni fruit of fertility, the serpent that nourishes the dead and the fields again evoke the performance aesthetic of oral tradition. Chatti (2004b) analyses the mythic movement from death through travail to rebirth, structured dialectically and rhythmically in three parts. The play opens with the ceremony of the sharing of yams among the clans at the end of a period of mourning and the initiation of the chief, Kanaké. This celebration of the return of life and light, the pole of death, or mât karoti, replaced by Kanaké’s planting of the ti (pole of life), is interrupted in the second section by the arrival of the Europeans. The fear and fascination experienced by the natives and the subsequent ‘dark wandering’ of the colonial period lead to the loss of Melanesian culture and spirituality. Kanaké challenges the new arrivals and is imprisoned, but not before he has liberated Kavo from the robe de mission imposed by the missionary that impedes her movement and weighs her down, and not before the couple have danced a first pas de deux. When Kanaké returns from prison he finds Kavo dressed like a prostitute and being passed from soldier to soldier. He rescues her a

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second time, but after this second pas de deux Kavo runs off in shame and Kanaké is unable to save her. Tjibaou’s choice of theme touches on a particular sensitivity of colonial and postcolonial literature, made explicit, for example, in the work of Franz Fanon—the attempt to reverse a history of what Gayatri Spivak has called white men ‘saving’ brown women from black men. As we have seen in “Où vas-tu Mûû?”, Déwé Gorodé’s short stories are also explicit about the dangers of humiliation for young Kanak women in sexual relationships with white men. However, in Gorodé’s novella, Uté Murûnû, petite fleur de cocotier, Kavo is transformed into the figure of “our legendary princess”, emblem of the resistance of strong women to the customary practices that subjugate their bodies to male authority. In Tjibaou’s text the coded message to women is the more limited one of ethnic solidarity and fidelity. In Gope’s play, Les dieux sont borgnes (Gope and Kurtovitch 2002), the positive Kaavo figure, Princess Lotha, also explains that she had consented to marry the chief, her husband, despite the fact that he had raped her, to maintain harmony within the group. The virile character of Tjibaou’s culture is emphasized in the play’s material metaphors and parallel forms. May the lance of your warriors be like a “triumphant phallus” or again, “may your manhood rise up like invincible poles”. Kanaké arrives on stage carrying a ceremonial axe to pull down the mât karoti, the pole of the Avni, those people responsible for the rites of the mourning period, to replace it with the ti, or pole of life, and of games of young male bravery. The phallus, like the pole, is the hybrid sign of life and death, of the ancestor, of transmission, and of fertility in a circulation that brings together sexuality and the land, propagation and reproduction, death and return in a tissue of interconnections. In his production of two women’s dances, Tjibaou draws on the accounts in the work of Maurice Leenhardt. Women’s traditional role in the transmission of the blood line (under the authority of the maternal uncles) is foregrounded in Tableau 2 in a dance where the Avni must pass under the unrolled fringed bands simulating women’s skirts and the path of conception to reenter the world through the womb (women transmit the ‘blood’ and men the name and the status). In a second dance, the jedo (dance for the repose of the dead), women rush at the male group, tearing off their hats, feathers, and cloaks in a ceremony that, not unlike ‘carnival’ or ‘potlatch’, reverses the cultural codes and gives women temporary power, the time needed for them to assert their ‘blood’ rights over the dead man.

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After these dances, which confirm the traditional separation of the genders and gender roles, the third section opens on the recognition of general Kanak dispossession and dances the cultural return to its roots of an uprooted people in a new boenando. This is the sharing of the yams with the European guests “not as masters who impose themselves on us but as invited brothers” (Dobbelaere and Tjibaou 1995, 16), in a mutual and equal recognition of cultures and the end of a second 130-year period of mourning. Through its symbols and its structures, the play’s mise en scène attempts to bring both groups of spectators closer to what Tjibaou describes as the Kanak experience of mythic time and encounter with his gods. Kanaké is the ancestor, the firstborn, the spire (flèche faitière), the central pole, the root, the sanctuary of the Grande Case (Great House); he is the Word that establishes the system of organisation ordering the relationship between men and their relations with the geographic and mythic environment (Dobbelaere and Tjibaou 1995, 47–48). From the opening scene of the play the choices of theme are at once cultural and politically strategic. The link between the re-membering of a culture to construct a unified identity and a nationalist movement claiming back the land and cultural primacy will be made explicitly later in Tjibaou’s writing. The génies familiers who welcome the visitors highlight both the Kanak tradition of hospitality (the absorption of strangers into the tribe to prevent them from swelling the ranks of the enemy) and the status of the Kanak as first inhabitant. In what is perhaps an oblique reference to his unsettling ‘metaphor’ of boenando-Eucharist-cannibal ceremony, Tjibaou wonders whether the causes of Kanak alcoholism might not be traceable to the absence of deep emotional bonding formerly produced by collective ritual. Bensa considers that decolonisation in Tjibaou is ‘thought’ as the payment of a debt of blood, of land taken away, and of humiliation (Bensa and Wittersheim 1996, 59). Kanaké creates striking metaphors of injustice and oppression (“our past shattered like a crushed eggshell in the hand”) and a dramatic narrative of misunderstanding of culture difference (“We were blackskinned and looked terrifying, we weren’t noble savages. We ate human flesh. You said, They’re not men” [Dobbelaere and Tjibaou 1995, 16]). Chatti (2004a) argues that this staging of culture does not serve a memory that is exorcising history, but rather a project of reconciliation. It is, however, just such a project of constructing places of cultural reconciliation, alongside the recovery of places of repressed memory, that

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is engaging many contemporary New Caledonian writers and, indeed, artists. The connections with the invisible world and the power of dream (Filippi and Angleviel 2000, 3:221) remain central to Kanak texts, written and visual. These texts nevertheless integrate contemporary techniques and European influences. The Calling of the Clans—Jean-Marie Tjibaou** Scene 1. The Calling of the Clans (p. 9)

THE CALLER: I call Tikakara, the Thunder which rumbles over the sea when night is as long as day. I call it here first because those men have received the poeti, the bunches of grass for the dance. (The men of the clan of Thunder enter waving little brushes of grass similar to those seen in Polynesian dances.) THE CHIEF OF THE CLAN OF THUNDER: The centre-post of our house had fallen, the conch shells of the spire were buried in the mud. You helped us rebuild our house and place the household spirits who welcome visitors on the threshold. That is why we have offered you the yams you have today. THE CALLER: I call the PALAKO FOWL whose stone is at Canala. May she grant her fertility to our women! (The men of the clan of the Palako Fowl have black painted bodies decorated with feathers and black grasses. They are brandishing poles adorned with black tufts.) THE CHIEF OF THE CLAN OF THE PALAKO FOWL: To make her look upon you with favour, we have painted our bodies with fresh bancoul and we will hold on high the black poles which honour her white body. THE CALLER: I call the SHARK OF DOUI who has four dwelling-places in the sea. I call him so that he may grant fine features to our children and strength to our warriors. (The men of the clan of the shark are covered with mud, which is charNote. A version of Teâ Kanaké was told by Firmin Dogo Gorouna to Jean Guiart (in Guiart 1992, 146). The text of the origin myth in the Paicî language was transcribed in 1975 for Kanaké by Mme. Marie-Claude Tjibaou and her father, M. Doui Wetta.

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acteristic of the totem. They advance, imitating the movement of hunting sharks.) THE CHIEF OF THE CLAN OF THE SHARK: May the shark give your children a flat brow and may the spear of your warriors be like a triumphant male organ. THE CALLER: I call the fierce WIND which lives at PaÏta in a twisted tree. I call him because the grass which grows around his trunk will make our offerings more abundant. THE CHIEF OF THE CLAN OF THE WIND: The harvest which we offer you bears witness to our gratitude. When the earth of the battlefield was covered with our fathers and brothers, you gathered up their bodies and prepared the resting places of the dead. THE CALLER: I call the LIZARD of Houaïlou because the lizard is the yam, he is the life in it; he is the manhood of the clan, the spirit of the dead of the moaro, the peaceful homeland. (The men of the clan of the lizard appear with large blue spots painted on their bodies.) THE CHIEF OF THE CLAN OF THE LIZARD: May this offering of yams carry our greeting of peace up to the very top of your cases where the gods of our ancestors dwell. THE CALLER: I call the KUNI fruit which is the female organ of our mothers. I call her because she brings fertility to those who know how to honour her. (The members of the Kuni clan wave branches.) THE MEN OF THE CLAN KUNI: May your harvests be plentiful! THE CALLER: I call the SNAKE striped with blue and black; they are like destiny surrounding man’s body. I call him because he nourishes the dead to whom we are offering reverence today. (The men of the clan of the sea-snake [plature] are painted with blue and black bands; they advance, imitating the coiling movements of the snake. Some of them shake long balassor streamers striped in black and white.) THE CHIEF OF THE CLAN OF THE STRIPED SNAKE: The striped snake will feed your dead and the yams we bring to you will feed your brothers [ . . . ]

262  |  Part IV. The Modern Period Scene 25. The Welcoming of the Guests (pp. 16–17)

THE MASTER OF CEREMONIES: So the ancient ceremony begins once again and, what was interrupted, today resumes its course. (Musical interlude) (A group of protesters has gathered). Now I turn towards those who are still grumbling and not listening at all. (Rattling of clubs, spears, and slings.) If they keep their hatred deep in their hearts, they are the red-hot cooking pot into which water is thrown, they are the grassland fire that the wind thinks it can put out! (He comes down towards the Whites.) I come back to you, our guests, whom we solemnly invite to this ceremony of peace. (He makes a sign and a group of Kanak brings spears and balassor streamers which they wave with a sweeping movement.) Here are the spears that we offer you to strengthen your arms, and here are the streamers, the poeti; they replace and cancel out the bunches of straw hanging from the mourning posts, they sweep away the quarrels and sadness that had built up between our two lands. Scene 26. Gifts Offered by the Guests

THE WHITE MAN: Following ancient custom, we do not come emptyhanded. The white sails that came from the open sea in earlier times left from here laden with stolen treasure. Today the white sails come to bring you what our country produces. (Here video presentations of the positive contributions of European civilisation will be inserted.) Scene 27. Sharing the Yams

KANAKÉ: This then is your contribution of brotherly exchange to the Boénando. Now it is our turn to offer our yams to the community; the first, which we preserve, is the one we prize the most!

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(Photos illustrate the text.) The first yam is our radiant art at the top of our cases! In the hands of our chiefs.

Apparition, D. Tivouane. Denise Tivouane (b. Pouébo, 1962) grew up speaking French but later felt the need to recover links with her roots. Like many Kanak women artists, she remains reticent about appearing in public or commercialising her art. The objects of her painting pay homage to the inspiration brought by others who have disappeared, to the dead who “see us”, to the communication that passes between the generations from beyond and to the ‘Secret of the Earth’. It is nonetheless through contemporary forms of art—installations and mixed techniques—and the stimulus of international workshops that her art has taken innovative form. (ADCK)

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At the entrances to our villages. It is our poetry which glistens before you like an underground river that emerges into the sunshine. It is our very rituals and feasts which include the communion of shared flesh. Not to satisfy our hunger, but to fully assume our human condition and to exalt it even in the depths of despair in this sacred sacrifice which all cultures have evoked, but that we alone have dared to perform! And here is the second yam which is the beauty of our island. The third yam was still buried in our soil and it is you who dug it up. This is the treasure of our mines whose riches cannot yet be measured. G. Dobbelaere and J-M. Tjibaou (1995), “Kanaké: Jeu scénique en trois tableaux”, pp. 8–17

Tjibaou’s celebration of Kanak culture for didactic and strategic political ends is echoed in a number of Déwé Gorodé’s ‘ethnographic’ stories, again addressed as much to European readers as to Kanak. Like Tjibaou, Gorodé imbues her representations of the sites of tradition, in her case, more familial and intimate sites, with intense emotion. She, too, will celebrate the case, her grandfather’s house, which she presents as a site of lost tradition but still available to memory and, paradoxically, able to promote a certain recovery and affirming of a Kanak view of the world. Grandfather’s House—Déwé Gorodé Grandfather’s house is undoubtedly one of the most vivid images I have retained of my childhood. In my memory, this image is still as radiant as a sun-drenched morning in Kanaky, by the sea. It has left me with a feeling of vastness, clarity and light. To the little girl I was back then it seemed so huge and grand. So much so that today the image comes back to me whenever I try to count the stars in the moonlight or to locate the line of the horizon over there, separating the azure sky from the deep-blue Pacific. And the case is a mirror in which I am a tiny ant, facing the world, the universe. There it was, like a huge, round matron, perched on a small mound

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surrounded by large hewn rocks, at the end of the pathway lined with tall coconut palms. An older and still wider path of columnar pines used to run behind this path; another living trace of the ancestors who lived here in the past. On either side of the entrance, little pink and white flowers resembling lilies grew in the soil surrounding the large rocks. Amongst them, in pride of place, was a coleus plant, whose newest stem is offered to the maternal uncles when a child is born. On the right-hand side, at the end of the bushes, a cordyline plant with its spindly stalk waved its long green leaves, the youngest of which are taken to the uterine relatives to announce a death. It was there, sitting for hours and hours on the low stone wall, that I loved to breathe in the heady perfume of the flowering cordyline mixed with that of the lemon grass that grew there. I would pull out a stalk, crush it between my fingers and wave it under my nose; all the while observing the constant comings-and-goings of the bees gathering pollen from the scented clusters of flowers. Behind the house, in the shade of an enormous banyan tree, a spur of rock completely covered in dark, damp moss jutted out above the earth. The resilient form of an ancient sculpture, like the ones you can still find in our cemeteries, loomed up in front of it, adorned with a conch shell, whitened by the years, riddled with holes, wounded by the elements. A hedge of shrubs with yellow leaves and thin, knotted spindly trunks protected this taboo space. A distant ancestor had been slumbering there for several generations. None of us would have dared set foot on it. Not even one toe. We were much too afraid to disturb the sacred sleep. The adobe walls, a mixture of black mud and of straw, were quite low. In places the split bamboo enclosing the hardened earth poked through. This earth, covered in cracks, seemed to bear each and every one of its fissures with pride, like tattoos wrought by a recalcitrant nature. Above the roof of dried straw rose a solid carved spire supporting two old, worn conch shells. It was one of my greatest pleasures, on rainy days, to sit and admire the cascading drops of water as they slid endlessly down the tips of the straw. To the left of the entrance, a squat, rather old statue presented its facial features carved into the wood. This was the very visible guardian of the place and sometimes, his mere presence filled me with inexplicable dread. Facing the door, a single window looked out onto the rock of the ancestor, out the back. Whenever I was to sleep there, before night fell, I

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would hasten to latch this window closed with its wire hook. People said that a tibo mother sometimes took up residence in the banyan tree and that her distended, sagging breasts became part of the tree’s hanging roots. Around the central hearth, there were a few large pieces of welldried firewood, nicely dry, and cut-up bamboo trunks lining the woven pandanus mats, spread out on coconut fronds mixed with straw and the mountain fern much sought after for this purpose. Two shorter lengths of bamboo cut a small passageway strewn with pieces of white coral, from the doorway to the fireplace. On the right, halfway between the openings, against the wall, there was a large trunk, always locked, upon which grandfather used to put his lantern, his tobacco and his pocket knife. It was said to contain his adi or family treasure. Immediately opposite hung a pouch of woven coconut fronds holding rolled-up mats for customary ceremonies. When such ceremonies took place they were held here, in front of this hut, on the (ceremonial) nuruga lawn, inside the coconut palms lining the path. The last one to be held in this place will be the ceremony to mark the end of mourning for our grandfather, during which there was a nocturnal pilou, a feast and a dance. Gradually, as the months pass, the house will be deserted and finally collapse onto the dry grass that has now grown up all around it. D. Gorodé (1996a), L’Agenda, pp. 7–9

In the final sentence of this celebratory text the use of a future followed by a past tense is quite unexpected and intimates a very particular conception of time. Many other short stories represent scenes that inscribe the powerful emotional impact of customary ceremonies and relationships on the young child, including the oratory of her grandfather’s generation. In the next excerpt it is the grandfather’s traditional knowledge and verbal skills that will win the day against the initial violent rejection of their offer of marriage by the other (maternal) grandfather. Interestingly, the text compares the fear aroused in the child by the older man’s attack with the fear aroused by the settler’s bull in the richest paddocks reserved for the settlers, skirted by the family party earlier on their journey. (Cattle, who destroy Kanak gardens with impunity and occupy their land, become a metaphor for colonial spoliations in both Tjibaou and Gorodé’s writings.) The shared and succulent feast pre-

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pared by the women to celebrate the couple’s ‘betrothal’, described with emotion in all the variety of its colours and tastes, offsets the narrator’s negative response to the maternal grandfather’s initially intimidating tactics and power. However, at the end of the story, as apples from the Kanak tree offered to the narrator by the young bride-to-be to celebrate the occasion rot on the ground some forty years later, the customary marriage is being destroyed by malevolent accusations of witchcraft by the sister-in-law from the “new and bruised mining-lands” supported by drunken charlatans. Once again, traditional values are affirmed, but they are also shown to be at risk from both within and without. The Kanak Apple Season—Déwé Gorodé Brandishing his axe, the maternal grandfather, who did not want us for his granddaughter, suddenly appeared. His gruff voice, hot with anger and loud with fury, let fly a stream of harsh and fiercely cutting invective. As in a trance, he flayed us with words from another time, words of war that burned deep into our entrails, right there, in that same yard, while the same birds were singing, and the same sun shone. An insidious fear gripped me, the image of the bull in the coconut plantation returned and I felt the same goose bumps all over again. Around me, everyone was standing with their heads bowed, all except for my grandfather who had his eyes fixed on the actions and agitated gestures of the other grandfather. My grandfather was preparing to counter-attack. Then suddenly, as if in response to a silent call, my brother ventured a quick glance across at the opposite camp, meeting the eye of his future wife who was furtively wiping away a falling tear. Still keeping a firm hold on the adi, a conch shell wrapped in a piece of shiny, brightly coloured material, grandfather quietly cleared his throat before humbly approving the vindictive speech which his cousin had just bestowed on us. He admitted that he must acknowledge the truth of the reproaches that had been addressed to us for we were without the slightest doubt over-imbued with our own importance in presuming to set foot on the soil of a field whose fruits had already been secretly promised to other, more prestigious clans. We were naught but miserable paupers with meagre fields on niaouli-covered hills, wedged in between the mountain and the ocean. What use were the mulet fish, the lobster, and the cowrie if we lacked fine yams and if the water in our taro fields had run dry? Fish, shellfish, indeed any kind of seafood, would lose its savour in ovens that had gone out for want of food to fill

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them. We had neither hard wood to build our houses nor straw thick enough to cover them. We had no sleeping mats to rest on, our banyan tree no longer gave shade for want of leaves and wilted was the grass of our ceremonial path. Beneath our roof with its gaping holes, our sacred basket no longer held any treasure. All that was true and still we had come. And now here we were standing empty-handed before the maternal relatives, uttering wild words like creatures possessed by the spirits of the forest. We had not lost our way though, we had followed the path laid down by our common ancestors. A path we wished to strengthen, to make longer and stronger. We wished to give new life to the alliance, to fertilise the union to which we all owed being alive, all of us here together. And the mutual bonds between us through our maternal side, how could these have existed if each of us had not been nourished by the fruits of the other’s garden? We had not lost our way, but had come in all humility to ask for the hand of a young girl who would not be our granddaughter, our niece and our cousin, if our blood did not flow in her veins. We had not lost our way but the word and honour resided in the heart of the maternal relatives, under their coconut palms and columnar pines, and it would be as they decided, as our traditions required. D. Gorodé (1994), Utê Mûrûnû, pp. 72–73

From the Cultural to the Political If Gorodé’s celebration of Kanak culture was less uncritical than Tjibaou’s, her political perspectives were also similarly shared yet somewhat dissident. Shortly after the festival in 1975, Gorodé’s 1878 group formed PALIKA and Tjibaou entered the political arena as a Kanak député also declaring in favour of independence. Under the auspices of a movement he called Maxha/Hold up Your Head Again, he became mayor of Hienghène in 1977, and in 1979 he joined the Front Indépendantiste. From 1982 to 1984 Tjibaou was vice president of the government. In 1983, at the political roundtable at Nainville-lesRoches, he helped produce the political theory of double legitimacy (“one people, two flags”) that presented both déportés/transportés and indigenous peoples as victims of history. In 1984 Tjibaou helped found the FNLKS. In 1988, not long before his assassination, Tjibaou asked the French government to build a cultural centre in Nouméa. Like the tableaux staged by Tjibaou, this now famous centre is a hybrid building standing between the tribu and the town, and its cases or “memories of

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cases” remain open or unfinished. In fact, thanks in part to Tjibaou’s inspiration and in part to Mitterrand’s desire to leave grandiose traces of his own passage through the political world, as Bensa puts it, a small minority culture came to possess an extraordinary piece of hybrid contemporary architecture. The centre also has its own Teâ Kanaké entrance pathway, a “Chemin Kanak”, between nature and culture. Tjibaou’s vision of a hybrid independence, figured as a management of inter-independences and a forgiving of colonialism that is not forgetting—the “peaceful rhythm of the boenando that erases mourning and calms anger” (Dobbelaere and Tjibaou 1995, 17)—coexists with the foregrounding of the figure of Kanaké and a reversal of perspective and with the ideal of bridges to be built between communities. Gorodé’s work will challenge many of Tjibaou’s positions, both as too male-focused in its construction/celebration of a very phallic Kanaké and a male-dominated tradition and as insufficiently radical in his lack of suspicion of a hybridity that gives Kanak a secondary place, for example. Nonetheless, Gorodé’s work is also fiercely political. I Wea(the)r Time—Déwé Gorodé  ◙ In the short story entitled “J’use du Temps” (I wea[the]r time) in a play on the word temps meaning time, tense, and weather, Gorodé embeds a political message as the time weaver guides his protégé, a fisherman living in a house on land “reclaimed by his people” along “the path of our country, the long path of our heritage”. The profiteers and the “little sorcerer’s apprentices in rumour-mongering” who oppose his project are denounced. This text targets the Kanak who have let themselves be drawn away from their cultural roots by materialism. Like much of Gorodé’s work, “J’use du temps” is also aesthetically revolutionary, a critique of the limitations of, and work on, French language beyond straightforward realism. It weaves the topos of the recovery of tradition through the narrative by means of a literary construction of Kanak time and space that modifies or deterritorializes, ‘uses’, and playfully ­‘abuses’ the French verb-tense system. Gorodé’s grammatical play operates a systematic undermining and masterful rewriting, weaving time and tense, wearing, wearing away, and withstanding European linear chronology: weathering time. The air is heavy. Unbelievably hot and heavy. Heavy with time. And now I hear Tikakara waking somewhere over by the mountain. His muted rum-

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bling continues in the distance though it is far too hot for him to leave it at that. The gathering clouds, water-heavy, have turned the sky white. My grandmother, who has just finished filling her bag with the taro that she grows in a garden patch nearby, is picking up her machete for it is time to go home. And down below, at the lagoon’s edge, I can see my young protégé, solitary fisherman, net slung over his shoulder, carrying a few fish. He too quickens his pace. He heads towards a pool which is home to two small blue-fish and, as he always does, he will release part of his catch, one, two or three of the smallest ones, live and let live, for the time being. He’s my closest neighbour, one could say, and has been for some time now, since he built his thatch house, his case on this land claimed back and reoccupied by his people, on which I also live, near the track you take to carry the stone of war up onto the mountain. For the time being, his brothers aren’t building beside him, as they have been led astray by the eldest. One foot in a popwaalé sect and the other in his own interests, he’s always trying to scare them into fear of me, filling their heads with silly stories about a supposed curse hanging over this land that he in fact wants for himself, fantasizing a four-star hotel complex, with golf course, marina, Hobie-cat, Jet Ski and other such tourist follies. But apart from such pipe dreams, which, in any case, neither fool nor benefit anyone but himself, the others have a slice of their very own artificial heaven in the grass they smoke, or deal, that is when they’re not bludging a few coins or notes conveniently called “advances”, from aunties and uncles who are working or retired. And so, from shoplifting to burglary, getting gear off anyone who has a telly or a stereo lying around—public service employees usually—they spend their lives behind bars, both prison bars and those that come from drugs and welfare dependency. Brothers still though, no matter what, they come over, drop by his place, making themselves at home in the young fisherman’s case yet leaving him out of the “jobs” they know he will have no part of. Like those whose opinions he shares, he too prefers to look for a way out of this prison that looms large before them and which keeps reducing his people to the non-status of druggies or losers. [ . . . ] Despite his political activism, the time weaver has his darker side. Flashbacks reveal the young man’s jealous, possessive, and unfaithful behaviour that drove the woman he loved to despair. Gorodé is again also speaking of the imbalance of power between the sexes and the scope this provides for the emotional abuse of women. Like the story

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“L’Agenda de Lida”, which gives the title to her second published collection (Gorodé 1996a), this is a further tale of love and male betrayal. The text follows the young protagonist, first as he watches in shame as the woman he loves and has betrayed disappears from his life, then as he returns from the war where he has been killed in “the timeless, formless shape that frightens children”. I ran away and came back by this place from where I could still see the boat disappear slowly into the distance then, as night fell, made my way to the dark flat rock and collapsed there. A few days later I too would set sail, from the Quai des Volontaires for the war from which I shall never return, except to haunt these parts in that formless uniform they use to scare little children and which some claim to have seen passing by at noon on hot and heavy rainy days or at dusk. So I was never to see her again as long as I lived. Only once did she return here, that afternoon, with her daughter who had married one of my nephews, rolling the medicine vine between her hands, to cry her tears there on the dark flat rock. And to me, she is there still, since in the place I am now there is no time, even if, for reasons of language, among others, I must use both words and time, using them up, wearing them away, weaving verbs into time and tense, especially the present, though sometimes also playing the game of past, present and future. The weather, that other face of time, the one they try and forecast, grows hotter and heavier, more humid by the minute. Tikakara’s rumbling grows ever louder. Nanny is cooking her taro now. My cousin and her lover have gone home, each to his and her respective families. The young fisherman gathers wood and stacks it away out of reach of the impending rain. Softly, gently I thread a chain of niaouli flowers onto a wild ipomé vine, and nestled there between its violet bells, I doze sleepily and am borne skywards, up towards the dark flat rock from where the coming storm will catch my pirogue and carry it away, in the disappearing wake of a coastal trader. D. Gorodé (1994), Utê Mûrûnû, pp. 69–70

Chapter Nineteen

A Cultural Politics of Independence

Apollinaire Anova: A Precursor Kanak rewriting of colonial history and recovery of custom is inextricably linked to the wider cultural politics of independence. The earliest Kanak text to assert that the day would come when New Caledonia would be called to attain her independence was a dissertation written in 1963 by Apollinaire Anova, a Marist priest in his second year of a study in the School of Social Science at the Catholic Faculty of Lyons. Entitled History and Psychology of the Melanesian People, Anova’s text, edited and published by EDIPOP in 1984 and again by Hamid Mokkadem and Bernard Gasser with a commentary in 2005 (under the title Apollinaire Anova: Calédonie d’hier, Calédonie d’aujourd’hui, Calédonie de demain), makes the case for an integration of the two cultures on a more equal basis. Most significantly, Anova establishes Ataï, seen by Europeans as the leader of the 1878 “revolt”, as a figure of resistance and as the determining figure of Kanak history. Ataï also represents the tragic lack of understanding and conflict of values between the two cultures. Anova died of leukaemia without returning to his home at Momea. Critics have noted that his notion of a tragic break, a schism in Kanak culture, has been developed by other Kanak writers. Déwé Gorodé and Independence The poems published in Gorodé’s earliest collection, Sous les cendres des conques (1985), speak, some from prison, of a history of oppression and of the radical political function of artistic and cultural forms. Yet in a poem entitled “Independence” in the later collection, Dire le vrai, 272

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independence is represented as ‘a patch of land’ to work. Like Anova, Gorodé seeks to reclaim the ‘history’ denied to indigenous tradition (Vigier 2008), but it is paradoxically women’s values of caring and giving in the everyday that are foregrounded. Equally paradoxically, an individual and different feminine voice speaks for the group in a militant call for political resistance and cultural revival. The following three poems call for rekindling a struggle for culture and its rebirth from under the ­ashes, avenging betrayal from within, as Ataï’s revolt was betrayed by his traditional enemies, the Kanak auxiliaries of the French commander Gally Passebosc. But writing an Other people and their polarized political struggle includes interaction with the (French) Word, appropriated and recrafted to become itself a tool for sedition and change. Dawn Serenade—Déwé Gorodé A kiss exchanged on a path at dawn smell of fire devouring dead leaves of coconut palm fed by wrinkled fingers Our dawn shall have its poem Our country shall have its waking call Dawn serenade to the comrades An elegy to drink beneath the dying eyelid the last teardrop of water run dry under the ashes of the conch shells A guitar to pick out at the end of the night on the edge of the void at the limit of chaos on the echo of mourning on the bloodless lips on the emptiness of the voice that fades and dies

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Ataï and Le Bosc. (ANC)

the restive reticence of the overused cliché the seditious light of the forbidden verb the first cry of the newborn word the bitter dew of the word broken Nouméa, June 1978 D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 16–17

Day after Day—Déwé Gorodé We will try to glue back together the broken pieces of our dashed hopes reform the slaughtered images of our strangled speech rediscover the unity of the scattered word thrown to the four winds of solitude by the gunpowder of violence the poison bottle the bread smelling of small change the customary gesture by the false brother betrayed

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day after day second after second like the river hollowing out its bed the ant counting her dead the foam marking the shore recreate the ritual phrase that unmasks treachery reinvent the magical dance that ensures victory Perlou, February 1975 D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 14–15

Word of Struggle—Déwé Gorodé Word in offering to the native totems word taken back from the ancestral taboos tumbled and polished by the waters of the land like the rounded greenstone of the warrior’s axe burned on the fire stones like a work tool of old Word carved from the zenith of pain like a birth that comes after a long difficult labour Word forged at the point of no return of the tasks that demand everything that take our all Linked syllables to cry out the misery of our peoples Chains of phrases formed out of their long combat this key opening the way to the word that dares make a stand to the poem that defends to a radical poetics and above all to a politics of struggle Camp-Est prison, September 1974 D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 6–7

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Wanir Walépane Wanir Walépane took a different path from Gorodé, travelling to Paris as early as 1964 to begin theological training at the European Bible Institute. Born in 1941, he left the small island of Tiga at twelve to study at the Collège de Havila on Lifou and later at Do-Néva. From 1985 to 1990 Walépane was the pastor for the main Protestant Church in Nouméa and, from 1991, president of the Evangelical Church. Independent since the late 1960s, the Church, with its school network (the Alliance Scolaire), is a significant Kanak institutional player with its own radical Christian tradition. In 1993 this teacher and storyteller published a first collection of his poems in Aux vents des iles. As in the plays of Pierre Gope, the rhythms and repetitions of an Other maternal language break the surface of his text. Walépane’s themes, like Gorodé’s, include denunciation of oppression and ideological manipulation and the critique of violence, alcohol, and loss of dignity. But the call to prayer and to joy in unity and reconciliation that recalls both the rhythms of the Bible and of oral tradition reflects the evangelization that has become part of Kanak customary life. It’s High Time—Wanir Walépane They came They spoke about me Judged me according to their laws Wrote about me Decided Carved Painted Built Planted In my place Today It is high time High time to change To struggle against myself To find myself again Find my place again

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In the bosom of my people In the heart of my land At the heart of the world Hnanemuetra, May 1984 40 ans de poésie néo-calédonienne (1995), pp. 204

Tjibaou’s poem on the meaning for Kanak of the loss of their land, inspired by themes and rhetorical features of oral tradition, is also a call for action. It creates the powerful image of the spirits of the ancestors restlessly wandering their old lands, their access blocked to their sacred places by the settlers’ barbed-wire fences. They wonder whether their children might not have been carried off and transformed into goblins. The Homeland of Our Fathers—Jean-Marie Tjibaou  ◙ The homeland of our fathers is no longer in our hands A foreign flag flies over our land And yet . . .  Our lands are not for sale, Our lands, stolen, sold Sold and sold again, Are still and always will be Not for sale. They are the unity of our people They are the universe we share with our gods, They are the spatial expression of our alliances with our fraternal clans, They are part of our existence. The breath that comes to us from our ancestors Is deep-rooted in our lands The names that we bear Emerge from the raised mounds of our fathers’ houses The blood that flows through our veins Wells from the breast of our maternal relations Who wander in search of the mounds on which their houses once stood, Now trampled and profaned by the White Man’s cattle, Now imprisoned somewhere, Fenced in by barbed wire.

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Where are our altars, where are our ancestors? Blessed the day that sees our return To the places chosen by you as your eternal dwelling-place For a yearly celebration Of our fraternal alliances. During these times when your memory is invoked So that the territories of our clans may be restored, Your skulls and your bones, Scattered by the settlers and their livestock, Slowly but surely come back to life . . .  Incomplete skeletons wandering calmly Through the “peaceful homeland” that was once your legacy. In the night I hear their hesitant steps, They have come back to the homeland and the people are all gone. And from the depths of the ages I hear A melancholy tune in two-part harmony Sweetly enchanting, For any who might care to bear witness, dozing beneath the stars. Extract courtesy of Marie-Claude Tjibaou

Chapter Twenty

Critique of Custom

Many poems in a Kanak voice that show the ravages wrought by colonisation also stage the denaturing of a custom after colonisation or custom’s irrelevance in the face of development. In Gorodé’s poem, “Kanak Reserves” (Réserves Kanakes), the reserves, seen as ghettoes, are presented in a negatively connoted litany: picking coffee, a crop planted for private (European) profit, consuming alcohol that results in violence against women, replacing the traditional strings of adi with pieces of material and banknotes, obeying elders who have sold their souls to the Europeans in power while the ecological and economic spoliations of the nickel industry and cattle raising go unaddressed. The celebration of life en tribu, synonymous with nature for Tjibaou, is shown by Gorodé to be idealised, and its hypocrisies and tyrannies are opened up to question. For example, the poem presented below, “Questions”, denounces indigenous male politicians who, despite their public espousal of the independence cause in their village, privately abuse their power, drink, and beat their wives. Kanak Reserves— Déwé Gorodé planting sweet potato manioc picking coffee working the igname posts straw mud for building the house Adi manu-cloth stores banknotes pwââro [coleus] branches for the uncles fronds of green araucaria and cordyline the word binding the clans 279

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in sadness in joy a mourning a wedding under columnar pines and coconut palms alcohol-soaked weekends or weekdays that end with gospel songs or fights Saturday night parties, hoolies that end with girls on the block cruising around in the car to pick up some more then go home and beat up the missus meetings of the Council of Elders speeches addressed to the district governor or other touring excellency morning mass with or without your grace working at the temple movies at the army base and the rest Sunday afternoon football while the caterpillars tear out the heart of the mountains the Nickel II laden to the hull sets sail off and away out to sea local bush traders and other rip-off merchants take our coffee bananas other fruit The white farmer’s stock grows fat on the other side of the barbed-wire enclosing the tribes the same endless pillaging exploitation locked in locked out, marginalised other world, maybe but a safety valve, whatever else taking in the jobless the out-of-work the old people women children unemployed youth of my country kept under the thumb of the French cop from ‘Indigenous Affairs’ who signs off the papers of the Council of Elders’ meetings shadow zones of the famed isle of light post-card sanctuary of tourists hungry for sea sex and sun zoological parks concentration camps

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tropical ghettos Kanak reserves Camp-Est prison, July 1977 D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 18–21

Questions—Déwé Gorodé Fear at each rowdy liquor-soaked taperas session Anxious terror of beatings, blows sometimes fatal Cooking pots thrown around under the coffee bushes Yet another terrified flight into the darkness feet stung by thistles brambles nettles fire ants biting into the breast that feeds our last born thoughts of suicide amongst other things For tomorrow, again as always, as if nothing were amiss at the meeting, in front of everyone he will speak of oppression, of freedom whose freedom, whose oppression, who by, who with, who for ? so many questions our collective politics will have to answer to Ponérihouen, September 1980 D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 38

Texts for the Younger Generation and the Double Face of Nature and Custom Developing the reflection on nature from a Kanak perspective, the pastor Béniéla Houmbouy (1998, 46–52) observes that as all-powerful creator, nature elicits the feeling that everything is working to provide the small and vulnerable human being with a peaceful and rich existence. The Kanak role in life is to be the guardian and priest of Nature. Yet the Kanak, Béniéla adds, is also required to respect her strict taboos and complex prescriptions—for example, growing certain foods only in particular places, or performing the necessary cleansing rituals be-

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fore a fishing expedition or building. Nature has the power of life and of death over the life that grows from her blood and body. Given that survival depends on vigilance in observing the rules, and understanding what these are from Nature’s slightest signs, fear and the anxiety of protective propitiation become an important and sometimes negative aspect of Kanak culture. A recent production of picture books for children confirms the centrality and the complexity of this force. In L’Enfant Kaori, written by Maléta Houmbouy, a husband, taken captive by a tree for having cut down her ‘child’ without the customary rituals, can be released only when his wife promises to give her firstborn child to the tree. Mèyènô, a Kanak story written in French and A’jië by Réseda Ponga (2004), tells the story of a young child of a forest clan who leaves his grandfather to journey to the sea. Lured into the water by the voices of children, he drowns and joins the spirits of his ancestors. The lizard later finds the aging grandfather and leads him to the sea to be reunited with his grandson in death. Another recent story by L. Tcherko, La vengeance du banyan (2003), in which nature is again a central and dangerous living character, tells of vengeance taken by the spirits of the banyan tree, a leitmotif that haunts both Gorodé and Jacques’ stories. The most dramatic of these illustrated children’s stories is a further adaptation of the myth of foundation and Kanak fable of evolution, Teâ Kanaké (2003). Written by Denis Pourawa and illustrated by Eric Mouchonnière, this is the story of the first man, once a tooth of the moon, then an eel, a lizard, a stone, and the blood of the earth with which he maintains an essential, sacred, but also taboo, connection. In Claudine Jacques’ children’s writing—[email protected]: Ou le vrai voyage de Clara (2001a) and Les Sentiers de l’ouest Calédonien: De Boulouparis à La Foa (2002b), among others—Nature is a sensuous presence or a harsh adversary, but these stories are less about the sacred and more about adventure. Written for young people of the ‘bush’, their sagas— of driving cattle down to the capital, for example—a challenge to courage, call on the perseverance and ingenuity of the pioneering spirit. If fear exists in Jacques’ children’s stories, reason and courage can get the better of it. The Kanak stories of danger, sacrifice, and death are also narratives of cultural initiation, not unlike European fairytales. They unfold and repeat within the womb of a natural world at once devouring and protective, but this world is also inflected by cultural beliefs and practices. Christine Salomon’s (2000a, 2000b) anthropological fieldwork

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demonstrates both the beneficent uses of Kanak customary therapeutic knowledge and its more malevolent abuses. Par les Temps qui Courent and the Critique of the Nature/Culture Identification In her small volume of ‘aphorisms’, Par les temps qui courent (It’s a sign of the times), published in 1996, Gorodé attacks contemporary abuses of customary beliefs about nature and particularly the use of boucans— the magic ‘spells’ or curses, with or without ‘magic parcels’ as intermediaries—used to serve the personal ends of ‘charlatans’. The writer uses play with set expressions of French to examine the common use and abuse of concepts such as “la coutume”, “Boucan” (magic spell), and “Terre” (land) (words or poem titles that appear to encapsulate the central places of Kanak memory or culture) and apparent outside words such as ‘amour’. Gorodé’s ‘signs of the times’ suggest that these lieux communs, or common-places (places/concepts common to all), can have two faces. “Terre”, or “The Land”, for example, is also called “The Rock” (New Caledonia has been named “Le Caillou” in popular parlance)—green rock or nickel-mining resource for capitalist exploitation and possession and strategic rock of French imperial ambitions. It has another, more Kanak appellation, Nâ Puu, “There Where We Sleep”, in Paicî, the land as mother, origin, and end, where what constitutes wealth is self-dispossession. “Custom” is Kanak heritage but seen as denatured by the self-serving rush to power that characterises modern life, becoming a pretext for doing nothing and living off others in the Kanak community who work. The French state, for its part, uses the customary space of the tribu as a place to park the unemployed and reduce unemployment statistics. In “L’amour et d’autres désastres” there is a deconstruction of the term ‘love’ as abuse as in Gorodé’s novel L’Epave. The novel, however, will also incorporate a quest for ‘a paradise of women’ for the right to female sexual fulfilment and pleasure. The Land— Déwé Gorodé For some   the land    For    others    nothing

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   more than a green   rock The French State keeps an ever watchful eye over its strategic rock in the Pacific In my language the land is “Nâ-puu” “There where we sleep” Alone having nothing one morning or one evening one day one night I shall go away back to my mother the Land As I came to my mother the Land one morning or one evening one day one night alone having nothing Under the cement      the land under the concrete      the land under the bitumen      the land under the tarmac      the land

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under the macadam      the land under the asphalt      the land D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 124–125

Custom—Déwé Gorodé The laziness of some feeds off the Custom of others There are those who live beyond their means and make others pay      by their opportune use     of Custom The soul is gone from this word emptied thrown out trashed “Custom” D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, p. 128

Magic Spells—Déwé Gorodé Boucan when you hold us in your spell we are hooked on your magic responsibility flies out the window and we lose it big time

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Boucan when you hold us in your spell the brother hits his sister the nephew kills his uncle the daughter spits in her mother’s face Boucan when you hold us in your spell its just a dog’s life Boucan when you hold us in your spell it’s almost too good to be true for the local witchdoctor quack healing under contract making a pretty bundle but alas alas woe is we it’s too bad but so true too bad for our health for our life too bad for us D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, p. 130

It’s a Sign of the Times—Déwé Gorodé It’s a sign of the times the black briefcase absent from the times of struggle now well and truly present and in a front-row seat if you please looking out for number one f irst in line in the queue for a top job to fill

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number one in line for a position in power D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 122–123

Love and Other Catastrophes—Déwé Gorodé From desire to pleasure the desiring body blooms and desire reduces Love to pleasure Rape of womanhood to prove one’s manhood glory is an inflatable doll Jealousy is a stone in the heart and a noose around the neck of fearing otherness D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 134

Déwé Gorodé and Kanak Women Within her dissection of the false duality of nature/custom and demonstration of the constructed and changing aspects of custom, underpinned by the struggles of individuals and groups to hold power in the tribu as in the town, Gorodé’s poetry has always been particularly concerned with the situation of Kanak women. Christine Salomon (2000a) has written of the other side of the myth of Leenhardt’s notion of feminine and masculine ‘complementarity’ in Kanak custom and the systematic attribution of secondary status to the female term. Her fieldwork has shown the taboo and negativity that touches anything to do with female sexuality, menstrual periods, reproduction, and breast

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feeding. Gorodé’s aphorisms announce the themes of a number of her short stories: “L’Agenda de Lida” (Lida’s diary), the story that gives its title to her first collection, L’Agenda, for example, in which male jealousy and possessiveness and lack of fidelity and commitment are exposed through a young woman’s eyes. However, it is the paradoxical richness of the layers of women’s lives, their customary qualities of selflessness, service to family, and sisterhood, that Gorodé places centre stage in this story, which is also a portrait of Lida’s passionate subjection to the political activist with whom she falls in love. Women in Déwé Gorodé’s Utê Mûrûnû Gorodé’s novella, Utê Mûrûnû, contains a particularly striking passage valuing the earth as feminine and denouncing the exploitation and debasement of earth/woman whether by colonisation, evangelisation, or the patriarchal power structure and gender inequality of customary Kanak society. Women—Déwé Gorodé “ . . . No, I am calling to her, the other woman, the earth, the mother of us all, she who was, who is, and who will be, before us and after us. I am calling her, she, the earth, our mother and our burial place, our life and our death. “There she is, warm, vibrant and alive, between our fingers, beneath our feet. She has lived and she will continue to live what no man ever has. She has given birth and nourished as no woman ever will. And a whole lifetime would not be enough to repay all that she has given.” [ . . . ] Perhaps it is since my Nanny said these words that sometimes, when I am alone working my field, I can hear the voices of the earth. These voices of the earth, as my grandmother Utê Mûrûnû taught me, were none other than the voices of a mother, the voices of woman. And they spoke, especially, to us women, who, better than anyone, were able to understand them. Bearers of seed, we were bound and gagged by prohibitions, branded with taboos that were like rocks blocking the paths of life. From receptacles of pleasure, we became Eves bitten by the serpent invented by the priests of the new religion. Adi, black pearls of customary marriage, we were exchanged like pieces of Lapita pottery to seal an alliance, in between two wars. Matrimonial pathways linking the clans, we survived as best we could a childhood and an entry into adolescence

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that was too often violated by the lecherous desires of old men. Prestige, virility, war—male concepts for the grande case of men, built on the broad backs of women! Sharing, solidarity, humility, the word of women, conceived, nourished, and carried in our entrails of beaten wives. D. Gorodé (1994), Utê Mûrûnû, pp. 20–21

The Question of Sexual Violence in the Pacific and Déwé Gorodé’s L’Epave The cry against incest and the sexual exploitation of often very young women that has continued through history into the present is at the centre of Gorodé’s first novel, L’Épave (The wreck). The story of the young narrator, (Da)Lila, who has fled from familial sexual violence to a marginal life in the city, there to be enslaved for a time to her own sexuality, is not so different from the stories of other Kanak women across generations, (He)Lena, Eva, and Maria, and from the story of Coral Rose, the daughter of a wealthy settler. This novel shocks both with its explicit and taboo references to female sexuality and its exploration of the roles women themselves have played in their own sociosexual ‘slavery’. All of the women characters, both in the present and back through generations, are victims of Old Tom, the ancestor/cannibal ogre, or his avatar, the orator-uncle, and of themselves. Not even the strong woman close to nature succeeds in breaking the pattern. The issues of incest or abuse of children and women, and of women’s complicity with this abuse, are brought into public space and interrogated in a number of New Caledonian texts and across cultures in the same period. V ou portraits de famille au couteau de cuisine (2004), a play by Anne Bihan, a writer of metropolitan origin, born in Brittany in 1955 and a resident in New Caledonia since 1993, opens up similar issues. Farther afield, across the Pacific in Tahiti, Titaua Peu stages questions of violence—including sexual violence—in her autobiographical Mutismes (2005). Gorodé’s novel goes further than Peu’s—or indeed Keri Hulme in the New Zealand Maori novel The Bone People (1983), Grace Mera Molisa in Vanuatu, or Sia Figel in Samoa—both in its deconstruction of an idealising tradition and its complicating figures of abused and victimised women. Women in Gorodé’s works can also be figures of the vengeful or abusive ogress. Male Pacific writers Albert Wendt, Alan Duff (Once Were Warriors, 1990), and Witi Ihimaera will all begin to grapple with the question from their own perspectives towards the end of the twentieth century.

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Women and Music, Y. Bouquet. (ADCK)

The Wreck—Déwé Gorodé Tom and Lena question Old Tom about the existence of the powers for good and evil that Western civilisation and Christianity have driven underground, in the context of a novel that reflects on the particular seduction and subjugations that can be effected by virile power beyond both Christian and Customary morality. But they’ll never have the “mana,” as our Polynesian brothers call it. Tell us about “mana,” grandfather. It’s the inner force we all have within us. Everybody has it within them? Everybody has it, but in some people it’s asleep and in others it’s alive and at work. You have to wake it up then? Depends what for. Because it’s not always used for good. For example? For example, people who use black magic. How do they do that?

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They use their mana to do evil. And what are the leaves and bark and magic packets for? Oh, those are just the visible paraphernalia. Are they necessary or not? The ones that really have the power don’t need them. What’s wrong with the ones that do need them? Their inner force isn’t enough. And what is this inner force made of? Everything that is in you that isn’t subject to what’s imposed on you from outside. But everything’s imposed on me: my humanity, my gender, my colour, my family, my social status, my custom, my religion, my country. And heaps of other things as well. Exactly, this force is what can set you free from all that. By staying an outsider, like you, grandfather? Not necessarily. Power can only be exercised with others. [ . . . ] Yes but it’s always hard to believe in invisible powers and occult forces. It’s only natural, what with the Spanish Inquisition and all. What? The White man’s religion, pastors and priests that did away with all of that. Do you think their brainwashing and cleaning up will have had the desired effect? They should’ve swept in front of their own front door first. This force I’m talking about can’t be erased with a crucifix or a bulldozer. And the Masters of the Inquisition know damn well what it’s used for. In fact, that kind of power can’t be erased. No. Not as long as we’re still here. As long as there are men. As long as there are women. D. Gorodé (2005a), L’Epave, pp. 56–57

A further scene from L’Epave follows the discovery of the rape and murder of Lila, a young woman storyteller with independence sympathies who has fled from abuse in her family and tribe to live a very free life of drugs and alcohol on the streets of Nouméa. Based on a real victim to whom the novel is dedicated (“Marie-Paule of the Garrison shantytown”), Delila/Lila is another of the women characters who have been caught up in the net of sexual games cast by the virile and charismatic

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Old Tom and his fisherman avatars who violate young girls, including from their own families from an early age and “attach their bellies”. One of Old Tom’s avatars is the white sea captain who similarly se­ duces and sexually controls the very young Coral Rose. In the following extract the stridently militant voice of the author rises above and beyond the voices of her characters, stretching out in a generalising diatribe to impugn the condition of women worldwide. Women everywhere, cries her text, and not just in Kanaky, are reduced to objects of male desire, commodities in a market, and at the mercy of powerful men. Despite Gorodé’s unwillingness to accept the label, it is difficult not to describe such a text, if not as feminist, then at least as “womanist” (the term invented by the African American critic Alice Walker). The night before Lila’s funeral, postponed for the enquiry, family and friends take turns keeping watch over the body in one of the air-conditioned rooms at the morgue. Tom and Lena too bring along their lengths of fabric for the customary offering, together with a bunch of red anthuriums. It’s a little private joke in reference to her story about the taro collector. The icy peacefulness of death has fixed Lila’s features in a serenity outside of the time of the living and its attendant horrors. Its violations and its violence. Its unpunished crimes. Children violated, women victims of violence. Unpunished crimes perpetrated by carpet salesmen, arms dealers and dream merchants who use and abuse the female body like a fine filly or a brood mare up for sale in classifieds, commercials and/or on billboards on every street corner. Outdoing each other in degrading womanhood, bringing her down to the status of beautiful sexual commodity. Sexy at all costs and at any price. Even if the price to pay is parity, if need be, since one doesn’t preclude the other. And Lila has been murdered, like so many other sisters, before and after her, to keep her in her place of the prostitute who dared touch a single hair on the head of the strong man. With the murdering rapist’s sex and the strangler’s criminal hands. Jack the Ripper not dead. Even in a little Pacific town, on the other side of the world from the back streets of Mister Hyde’s Soho. And further up, to the North by North-West, Mister Butchery makes a mouthful of Iraqi and Afghan civilians and farmers at the mercy of his bombs. Mister Bullshit. Big names waiting for political parity and all the Delilahs who might still dare to threaten the virility of the Samsons, on the threshold of the third millennium after the sweet Lord Jesus. It’s barely believable! And yet, Lila is there all right, lying on her back with a final, mocking half-smile, thumbing her nose at death,

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Sacred Animals, M. Néporon. (ADCK)

wearing a glittering party dress and a red scarf round her neck to cover the marks where she was strangled. D. Gorodé (2005a), L’Epave, pp. 62–63

Justice, Law, and (Women’s) Rights: The Work of Pierre Gope In Pierre Gope’s collection of poems (1999b), the impact of colonialism is a central preoccupation. Many of the political themes that recur in Gorodé are also present in Gope’s plays and poetry: “Where are they today those warriors/All these forgotten names/We called our elders/ Who has massacred them? [ . . . ] And where are our lands?/And who/ possesses them?” (1999b, 24). Gope also takes up Gorodé’s attack on violence against women, her attempt to find a way to go around the “non-negotiable” rock of custom (Gorodé 1994, 22) while eschewing any claim to a ‘feminist’

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politics or feminine writing in the European tradition. The play Okorenetit?/Où est le droit? (Where is justice?) (1997) tells the story of a young Kanak woman seeking redress for rape. Corilen does not obtain her ‘rights’ from the misogynist Council of Elders, and old traditional tribal solutions of corporal and collective public punishments are no longer applicable, but nor can she solve the problem by her decision to turn to French law, which imposes prison on her rapist. Distanced from her father and her community by her recourse to outside justice, Corilen will be pushed by the misogyny of ‘traditional’ society, which blames the woman for her own victimisation, to commit suicide on her mother’s tomb (the texts of oral tradition suggest that suicide was a traditional solution for women seeking revenge against errant or abusive husbands). In this consciousness-raising play, which toured all the open-air natural theatres of the various tribus of New Caledonia using local actors and natural decors, Gope speaks out to raise awareness of the urgency of the contemporary problem posed in Kanak society by violence against women. This is a moral and political quest to identify and defend rights/right and to find a productive reconciliation of traditional justice and the French legal system. But, like Gorodé, Gope speaks from inside Kanak society and seeks its own solutions. Okonoretit?/Où est le droit? stages a complex theoretical problem in simple and dramatic terms. What is the basis of a just law? Is it that power of life and death over the person who commits an infraction held by the chiefs in tradition—rape that could be punishable by death, as Corilen reminds her father? The latter, a chief often under the influence of alcohol, for his part wants to impose a customary law transformed by evangelisation and now a seeming law of forgiveness or ‘pardon’. But if tradition has been denatured, turned by old men to their own advantage, turning to the hegemonic white law of distributive justice will exclude Corilen from her community, disrespect her father’s Word, her duty of filial obedience. In the final instance there is inevitably a gap between any single law or right and true justice, a remainder between the rights of the individual and the cohesion of the group. Gope is staging the contradictions of his own society and its many and contested voices. He criticises the flaws in the administration of Kanak law by often less than legitimate chiefs, but he also presents the problems for Kanak in simply adopting European notions of justice.

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Corilen, for her part, does not deny the rights of her father nor customary rights because they are patriarchal in their control by men of women’s destinies. It is for want of another solution that she is pushed into opposing the rights of the individual over the rights of the group and of women’s rights over customary rights. As Cango warns the young woman (recalling Utê Mûrûnû’s warning to her granddaughter when the latter decides to refuse a customary marriage because she loves and is pregnant by the man who is promised to her sister), hers is a perilous path. The old man may have the last word, as, contesting his daughter’s decision, Cango argues that the customary roads that seem twisting and torturous to her are also those that best maintain the integrity of her soul. Gope’s play, like Gorodé’s work, thus approaches the contemporary issue of sexual abuse from a particular indigenous perspective going beyond any simple case for ‘human’ rights (for women) over indigenous rights. His play does confirm common outside understandings that welfare dependence and alcohol within a repetitive culture of neglect or abuse from mother/father to son (the case of Corilenʼs aggressor) create pathological distortions of tradition. Corilen recalls a traditional culture that was also dominated by a male gerontocracy but where behaviour was tightly regulated by prescriptions, ritual, and cruel proscription. Part of Gope’s response to the question commonly framed from the European side of whether endemic violence is a result of modern dispossession or of a traditional misogynist culture that allowed polygamy and bartered women promised in marriage is to criticise Western politics for having unquestioningly imposed its own colours (white), its ideologies, and its justice, often with disastrous consequences. “It has killed children/It comes from across the oceans/It has the colour of the West/It has caused bloodshed/It has killed my children” (40 Ans de poésie néo-calédonienne 1995, 69). Gope’s other plays again centre on abuses of power by both colonial and tribal authorities. For example, in Le dernier crépuscule (1999a) (translated into English under the title The Last Nightfall in 2001), the chief, against the advice of his elders, supports the administration’s proposal to move his village to make way for a nickel mine. He visits the khazé (sorcerer) for help in calling on the old gods of the mountains and the waters, learning that they require the sacrifice of his newborn son to ensure the success of the self-serving project. This sacrifice is implicitly accepted. In Les dieux sont borgnes (2002), a play co-authored with Nicolas Kurto­vitch, another chief nego-

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tiates with a multinational, allowing it to move into the village despite his people’s desire to form their own fishing cooperative. Les dieux sont borgnes is a rewriting—part farce, with its ghosts and drunken or fearful sailors, and part political message, with the story of Cook’s arrival in New Caledonia and his later death in Hawai‘i. There, according to Marshall Sahlins (1985), Cook was mistaken for or perhaps mistook himself for Lono, the god of fertility. In Gope’s plays, all power is shown as suspect, corrupting, and most often usurped or misused. The chief of the village in Les dieux sont borgnes, once in power, is reluctant to place the new fishing factories into the hands of the people as a cooperative, preferring instead to work with the multinationals and to replace group ownership and collaboration with monetary ‘dividends’ for greater personal gain. Gope is confronting the burning contemporary issues of the self-interest and corruption that can hide behind so-called traditional power structures in their negotiations with modernity and development, often defending precisely those aspects of traditional structures that maintain male control over the behaviour of women. But like Gorodé, Gope, too, is an artist as well as an activist in search of a rewriting of the dominant ‘colours’, of something new. As he puts it in an interview, “As an artist, I am legion. I have many colours in me, and these colours, I see them in others; they must be gathered together. If France has three colours, blue, white, red, the artist has thousands of colours” (L. Laubreaux 1996, 189). In contrast to Gope, a number of poets show little willingness to espouse divergent New Caledonian ideologies. In “Life in Red, White and Blue”, for example, a poem that won a prize in a competition organised to celebrate the bicentenary of the French Revolution, Nilde takes a singularly republican and very traditional perspective on the country’s colours. Life in Red, White and Blue—Nilde July 14th, red, white and blue Our flag a symbol of peace So that each may speak And to their French soil, Our citizens stay true “La vie aux trois couleurs”, 40 Ans de poésie néocalédonienne, 1954–1994 (1995), p. 143

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Where Is Justice?—Pierre Gope Act 1  |  Scene II

(Corilen’s House. Confrontation between father and daughter.) CORILEN: Father, I need to talk to you. CANGO: No you don’t! There’s no way you’re dropping out of school! I thought we agreed on that, didn’t we? Set the table. It’s time to eat. You get to taste your Dad’s cooking. My speciality. I used to make it all the time for your Mum. CORILEN: Dad, I’m not hungry and I haven’t been at school. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve made a decision. CANGO: Sure you’re not hungry? It’s stew; your mother would often get me to make her my stew. I’d have to take the pot away to get any myself. Your Mum had the appetite of a whale. What a woman she was. . . .  CORILEN: Father! I’ve decided to put my case before the White Man’s justice, so that I can ease the wound inflicted on my body and my soul. Please grant me this favour! CANGO: Corilen, I’m not in the mood to talk about that business today. The case was judged according to customary law. The Council of Elders has returned its verdict. We’re not going back on it. Has my daughter lost her faith in the justice of our Ancestors? CORILEN: No Father! My faith in our Ancestors remains intact. But how can I have faith in those old drunkards who pass themselves off as wise men, and who trample our Ancestors with their injustice. CANGO: Corilen, are you criticising the verdict given against the man who attacked you? I am the representative of the law, and the Council of the Elders are the ones who make the decisions. They have spoken; the Word of wisdom must be respected. CORILEN: Father, do you think the justice meted out by our Council of Elders was true justice? In the past, rape was punishable by death and was often the cause of war between clans. Today, all you need is a bit of gifted cloth to wipe out any offense. CANGO: My daughter, I feel your pain but the sacred law of our customs says I cannot refuse to grant pardon. To seek a further judgment of

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the kind you are talking about is to insult custom and the spirit that underlies it. It is an insult to the tribe, to the chiefdom. CORILEN: Cango, we have always called women dekö, nothings. Today, women are still considered as nothings. Our tears and our worries don’t reach you. Your authority is impervious. You men decide our lot alone, amongst yourselves. Look at me, I’m a rape victim and I have no right to speak out. I’m tormented by the pain of this evil that is still lodged in my belly and you ask me to thank my attacker? How many criminals, how many evildoers have you let walk free? Your justice is blind. The Word of wisdom is dead; you have killed it. And the old men of the Council of Elders no longer possess the true Word. CANGO: Quiet, you’re talking nonsense! I am suffering as much as you are, my daughter. But if I let you do this thing, who in the future will be able to respect the Word of the chief, the Word of Wadrawa, the Word of the yam? CORILEN: Cango, above all else, I am the flesh of your flesh, the blood of your blood. Don’t you feel in your bones the suffering of my entire being? CANGO: I planted you, my daughter, I gave you life and it is my duty to teach you, with authority, to walk in the footsteps of our Ancestors and in return, you owe me obedience. P. Gope (1997), Okonoretit?/Où est le droit? pp. 22–26

Chapter Twenty-one

Writing Together

The 1998 volume of Notre Librairie devoted to New Caledonian fiction, such as Liliane Laubreaux’s 1996 thesis on the emergence of a New Caledonian literature and two recent doctoral theses by Julia Ogier-Guindo (2005) and Stephanie Vigier (2008), are signs of a coming of age of contemporary New Caledonian writing, at least as object of academic attention (with the reservation, of course, that Kanak oral tradition, with its own very long history, can hardly be seen as ‘emergent’). The new literature was also signalled by the first literary collaboration between communities of writers—for example, between Déwé Gorodé and Nicolas Kurtovitch or Pierre Gope and Kurtovitch—collaboration that goes beyond the earlier adaptations of oral tradition by Baudoux, Mariotti, and Laubreaux. During a tour of Australian universities in July 1997, Déwé Gorodé and Nicolas Kurtovitch decided each to write a daily poem on a selected theme. These eighteen poems were first translated by Brian McKay (Kurtovitch) and Raylene Ramsay (Gorodé) in the bilingual Dire le vrai/To tell the truth. We have reproduced and compared three sets of poems on independence, being, and the land. Although both Kurtovitch and Gorodé see independence as rooted in the land and the everyday, for Gorodé this is the freedom to tend her own Kanak garden, while Kurtovitch is celebrating a more mystical (Taoist) ‘universal’ freedom of the human spirit and communion of self with nature. The two poems on ‘independence’ illustrate different views of how political change is to be sought. Gorodé’s poems suggest that Kanak must recover control over their land and protect their particular material and social existence exemplified by women’s daily lives en tribu, their values of sharing and caring. Kurtovitch’s independence is subordinated to moment(s) of physical and spiritual plenitude with299

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in the ebb and flow of existence and the intense search for humanist understandings. This occurs through an Eastern mysticism that allows him to speak of the political situation from side-on. Kurtovitch’s poem on the theme of ‘being’ as knowledge and compassion for the other is one of apology, a ‘sorry’ poem for having denied

M. Venon. Over the fifteen years since the first exhibition of Mathieu Venon’s (b. 1970, Paris) work in Nouméa in 1996, his painting, installation, sculpture, and illustration have been weaving together European forms of art with traditions of the Pacific. The use of these art forms situates his work alongside that of contemporary Oceanic artists.

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the Other’s being and humanity. Gorodé’s poem is a denunciation of the denial of Kanak being by colonial history and a restoring of value to Kanak identity as Âboro, the human being in all that he is. As Micaela Fenoglio (2004, 68–69) observes, despite the theme of being a guest in an adopted land that is not “the land of my ancestors” (N. Kurtovitch 1985, 61), Nicolas Kurtovitch declares to this “wild land/red land/land of black sand” that “I draw my strength and my skill/from your belly” (1998, 43). The poet accepts the Other as “host” in a land whose beaches have welcomed settler ships, a land that has become, for this descendant of the first arrivals, a place for living, for being reborn, and for dying. In his dialogue with the Other, and his acknowledgment of the land as Kanak blood and soul yet as a source of his own “breath of life” and site of his death (i.e., in the adoption of Kanak terms of reference), Kurtovitch becomes a humble and convincing advocate for the ‘timeless’ life force present still under the pavement of the French city. In its evocation of an intense, sensory, and emotional relationship to the earth, Déwé Gorodé’s poem, “La Terre”, is also only indirectly political. Linking the elements of earth, air, and water with the beating heart, Gorodé speaks of the circulation between the human being and the cycles of the natural world, and she, too, reaches towards the possible harmony of all things. But the natural, as we have noted, is subsumed by the social, and as she falls asleep it is the sultan-hen, or the lady-bird, or the scarab-beetle, repository of the spirits of the ancestors, who speaks to her in the voices of the Others, “those around us/and who are everywhere” who link the ‘Other’ (spirit) side with the familial. In “Fer rouge”, a poem written from prison (Gorodé 1985), a cicada who had flown into her cell through the prison bars is the envoy of the earth mother, “nourishing womb/this earth/black, soft as down”. These are symbols of nature but also of specific Kanak belief and meaning systems. Independence—Déwé Gorodé Independence is a bit of garden bit of field a patch of dirt patch of land

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land to work like the woman tending her children her taro her yam day in day out fishing night or day both lagoon fish mangrove crab whether to feed the extended family or for market day whether working at her own pace or at the set hour in her rights and responsibilities for the child to come or the child at school sharing as custom prescribes giving to others fighting her own desires in the face of silence of violence of inaction of apathy and state dependence in the face of the single way of thinking doing speaking living in the everyday our aspirations of being together

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a free country a sovereign nation a people who share Sydney, 19 July 1997 D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch (1997), Dire le vrai/To tell the truth, p. 27. Translation in D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, 68–69

Independence—Nicolas Kurtovitch What did I do today? this morning I crossed a part of the bay due south in a small boat cold, calm day a light wind from the southeast quiet conversations of people nearby flotillas of yachts short courses sailing close to the wind so close we almost collide others are already there this morning this sunny morning pure sky the public square still in festive mood this afternoon I did nothing in Nouméa nor anywhere on the other hand I did recall the time I travelled across most of my Northern Province last month Calm weather following a few days a whole week of storms a patch of lawn between the trees and the bare rocks

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friends on the verandah writing reading and talking waiting for the moment to rake the dead leaves low tide releases its odours frees the stomach of bitter humours At night five nights in a row a little rain keeps watch serene Tao And then on the last evening the unexpected arrival of a friend from Netchaot I had lost touch with him until that moment that afternoon last month once again a peaceful stay What happened last night simply Life the declaration of Independence Sydney, 19 July 1997 D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch (1997), Dire le vrai/To tell the truth, p. 29

The Land—Déwé Gorodé  ◙ A bit of land between the sorghums near a ford under a banyan at the water’s edge where a fern is born on a river bank where a sultan-hen a lady-bird a scarab-beetle speak to me as I fall asleep into dream under a patch of blue sky or a breath of sea breeze

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a ray of sunlight on the rim of its eyelid on the threshold of its gaze where a cicada’s wing glistens or a pearl of dew on a yam plant stem or taro heart where my being beats to the rhythm of earth D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch (1997), Dire le vrai/To tell the truth, p. 39. Translation from D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, p. 78

The Land—Nicolas Kurtovitch  ◙ Speak to me of your land my friend the imprint of your soul speak to me of your blood the wellspring of your soul teach me to know my soul when the path is unclear show me in the call of the conch-shell the source of life’s breath Land that is yours host land welcoming land other blood land to beach on or land to weigh anchor land of waiting or of passing through land to come and die in to be reborn in land without purpose except simply living since such is our destiny in this world Kanak land land as an end land as our end land where one can breathe where transgression can be struggle and existence Many-faceted land

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Mine is a slab of concrete but in the breathing of the ground through this transitory shell I can feel rising through my feet heart mouth belly up towards the mountains the timeless force of life I know so well D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch (1997), Dire le vrai/To tell the truth, p. 41

Being—Déwé Gorodé  ◙ Being being human in the face of two centuries of colonial history when we were without being when we were not were naught we have always known that we were we have always known who we were know now who we are what it is we’re fighting for In my language Âboro is the human being in all he is in all that this being Is D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch (1997), Dire le vrai/To tell the truth, p. 31

Being—Nicolas Kurtovitch  ◙ First of all grant us

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your pardon for having been inhuman for having been with no other thought but to have your land to be thus is like not being Now I want to be now to be seen for what I am This moment is unique time to shed the old skin to be skeleton bone and cartilage and reinvent the human From Knowledge and from Compassion will come the true being elsewhere is so far away we have our lives to shape anew Now let us see one another I see your skin your bodies the genealogies the poles planted in the earth and firmly planted there the old man leading his people Tell me you see the being in the other become human once again D. Gorodé and N. Kurtovitch (1997), Dire le vrai/To tell the truth, p. 33

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Good Fishing, Y. Bouquet. (ADCK)

Les Dieux Sont Borgnes Co-written by a Kanak autodidact from Maré, the play Les dieux sont borgnes (The gods are one-eyed) centres around a humorous imagined encounter between Captain James Cook and the inhabitants of the country that explorers labelled New Caledonia—an encounter seen as resulting in Cook’s death. In fact, if Cook did ‘discover’ New Caledonia,

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or at least discovered it for Europe, he was killed in Hawai‘i, perhaps mistaken for Lono, the god of fertility, as the anthropologist Sahlins (1985) has suggested. As Nicolas Kurtovitch’s wife, Nicole, notes in her preface to Les dieux sont borgnes, the one-eyed gods in this play are not only gods of nature (like Lono), but also chiefs, kings, and ambitious men who take themselves for gods or become greedy for the new god, money. This is a ‘hybrid’ play to which Gope again brings his preoccupations with justice and the use and abuse of power and Nicolas Kurtovitch his apology for colonial spoliation, this time out of the mouth of Cook himself. The play includes slapstick humour, particularly in the character of the dumb sailor, Marco, but the farce, like the slippage between centuries and between languages and accents (English, Metro­ politan French, Caldoche, Nengone), also constitutes a serious staging of the multiple traditions in place. The beautiful and smart Princess Lotha is another figure of a modern Kaavo, or strong daughter of the chief, “our legendary Princess” in Gorodé’s Utê Mûrûnû, and more than a match for the uninvited, lost visitors. Princess Lotha turns on its head the portrait of Pacific women in the early texts of Bougainville, Cook, and their successors. Applying the notions of femininity with which the eighteenth century was acquainted, these speculate on women as either chaste or coquettish (appearing to refuse, said Bougainville, what they are really soliciting). The play is ludic and mocking and full of deliberate anachronisms, debunking history and calling upon the audience to participate. Black actors also play white characters (Captain Cook) and vice versa. For Micaela Fenoglio, “New Caledonia thus plays the role of pioneer in the world of Oceanic theatre. Its theatrical production is increasingly syncretic, called upon to express the different souls that make up the Caledonian mosaic, and bringing oral tradition and writing, aesthetics and identity claims together” (2004, 53). In fact, the idea of Cook being taken for a god of fertility may be the clue to another reading of first encounter, one that Bougainville missed when he considered the very young but strangely uneasy Tahitian maidens offered to the crew to be generous gifts in a bountiful sexual Eden. Later readers have noted that seed was in fact taken (perhaps from gods or perhaps from a new genetic pool) in this ritual ‘exchange’ in which the young virgins appeared to be rather less willing vessels than Bougainville had deduced. Control of proceedings was clearly in the hands of the elders.

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The Gods Are One-Eyed—Pierre Gope and Nicolas Kurtovitch JAMES COOK: It would appear that this land is no virgin; there are people on her. SECOND SAILOR: Good God, we’re in Black Africa. JAMES COOK (Glancing at his notes): Either stop talking nonsense or shut up. No, no, we are in the South Pacific all right. Wait while I find my notes. SECOND SAILOR: Captain! JAMES COOK (Taking a marine chart from his bag): Hang on a minute! SECOND SAILOR: Captain! JAMES COOK (Consulting the map): I said, hang on a minute! I need to check a few things. SECOND SAILOR (Moving closer): But . . . but . . . Cap-tain! JAMES COOK: Yes, what is it? Wait, we have to leave. Weren’t you listening? Grab the bare essentials and leave the rest behind. We’ll come back later. Let’s go back along the coastline to our long boats; they’re our only chance. MARCO: Why don’t we wait for daylight? JAMES COOK: Wait for daylight? To do what—leave? Yes, of course we’ll wait for daylight. We are in the Pacific, after all. SECOND SAILOR: Are they really just ordinary savages or are they hungry cannibals? MARCO: There’s no difference between a savage and a cannibal—they both stick you in the pot. JAMES COOK: I’m the savage, the so-called civilized man. I have upset these peoples’ peaceful tranquillity, disturbed the sleeping lands, disrupted the harmony between man and beast; I have trampled the plants and medicinal herbs, slaughtered trees with my fire, muddied the waters in its eternal slumber, disturbed the final prayers of the old people in their caves among the rocks, frightened children from their place of play, so that they risked falling and splitting their skulls open on the stones. I have silenced the laughter of young people in the woods. I have led these people along foreign paths. I have spoken loud and long of things that were of no interest to them. I have tricked them with iron and alcohol. I have

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diverted rivers, destroyed beaches, and bled mountains dry. I may not be a murderer but I am nonetheless an impostor. (A wild-looking woman appears, accompanied by the spirits of the case.) 1ST SAVAGE: Look how pale he is!  2ND SAVAGE: Whose son is he? Nobody’s.  1ST SAVAGE: Surely she’s not gonna fall in love with a foreigner.  2ND SAVAGE: She’ll chew ’im up and spit ’im out, more like! 1ST SAVAGE: He looks sick to me. A real pasty-face! 2ND SAVAGE: Hey! What’s all this pasty-face! Lay off ’im!  1ST SAVAGE: Hey you! You’re gonna get one helluva hiding! MARCO: Mamma mia, what a gorgeous creature!  . . .  PRINCESS LOTHA: Lotha. Princess Lotha’s the name. MARCO: Marco. Me Marco. Sacré bleu! What a bombshell this princess is. PRINCESS LOTHA: Are you lost? MARCO: I beg your pardon? PRINCESS LOTHA: This is my land you are on. MARCO: We ran aground here. Or rather, we landed here. That’s it, landed. We are prospectors. I mean researchers. Well, no, not exactly; we are explorers. Well, at least that person over there is, not me. I’m just a simple sailor, a poor bloke who landed without really knowing what it was all about. PRINCESS LOTHA: You enjoy poking your nose into other people’s lands? MARCO: Yes. I mean no; I needed money for my family. I accepted the job without thinking through the contractual requirements. It’s my first voyage of exploration. PRINCESS LOTHA: And my first appearance! MARCO: Who are you? The Virgin of the Caribbean? Or the Immaculate, you know, the Immaculate Conception? PRINCESS LOTHA: Princess Lotha, Queen of these Savage Lands. P. Gope and N. Kurtovitch (2002), Les dieux sont borgnes, pp. 20–23

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Being with the Other—Déwé Gorodé Writing together, exchanging knowledge, is a step along the path of being with the Other. In Dire le vrai/To tell the truth, Gorodé suggests that only once the primary task of discovering and valuing one’s own roots has been achieved and “we know who we are” and what constitutes our different cultural knowledge or heritage, can we reach out fully and embrace the Other. This Other is, first of all, one’s kin. Despite her parti pris in favour of the local and her distinctive Kanak woman’s voice, Gorodé, like Leenhardt’s “long god”, can then stretch out from immediate family and clan, across the valleys and beyond, to humankind, as in her poem “Roots”. Métissage and Cultural-Mixing: “Nouméa La Blanche” New Caledonian history has been marked by a dichotomy between the European economic centre, Nouméa (commonly known as “Nouméa La Blanche”), and outside Nouméa, designated as the bush (la brousse). Kanak villages (tribu, or customary lands) are a separate component of the latter. Cultural mixing is not an explicit theme in Gorodé’s stories where the voices are almost exclusively Kanak. Writing of necessity in French, this pioneering writer has little problem with using the Other’s language, stretching this with evident pleasure to fit her own distinctive purposes. Yet Gorodé is also a product of her largely French education—a child of cultural contact with France. More particularly, her exposure to militant left-wing politics in France in the late 1960s and her work with movements such as Le Groupe de 1878, independence political parties, or with PALIKA or FLNKS have her drawing on Western ideologies of liberation. Despite a certain rejection of her Protestant heritage, Kanak integration of Protestantism into custom was also a major influence in her upbringing. Gorodé’s later work is increasingly set in Nouméa, where the ­forces of globalisation are making a major impact. Kanak are concentrated in the northern areas in large working-class families along with the unemployed, many living on benefits. Over 8 percent of the population, including Kanak from the provinces, lives in shantytowns. In “Benjië, mon frère”, her earlier short story in L’Agenda, and in her most recently published group of poems, Le Meilleur des mondes, included as a separate section in Sharing as Custom Provides, Gorodé depicts Nouméa

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largely as a colonial town, a place of loss, marginalization, and corruption of Kanak tradition. Globalisation and the digital revolution, too, are presented as homogenizing and as destructive to local Kanak values. Yet like the shantytowns around Nouméa, these are now an ineluctable part of Kanak life as the Kanak-controlled Northern Province continues to negotiate with the multinational companies to develop a mine at Koni­ ambo and employment possibilities for Kanak young people. In fact, Nouméa has become reintegrated into customary Kanak pathways, and circulation between Nouméa and the tribu is now the norm. Gorodé’s 2005 novel, L’Epave, concurs with contemporary writing across all groups in its sense that the city has invaded the tribu while the tribu has moved into the capital, which, in its turn, is becoming increasingly an Oceanian city. In the chapter entitled “Eva” the latter transforms the property she manages for a bohemian and often absent white owner, with her consent, into a place of Sunday fête and traditional gathering around the sharing of a bougna. Her cabin below the “big house” constitutes both a kind of coastal tribu in the city, or home away from home, for her extended family and a place to party. The characters in L’Epave all move effortlessly between their tribu and Nouméa, to which they bring their dramas of sexual adventure or ‘possession’. In Gorodé’s short stories Nouméa can serve as a refuge for Kanak women fleeing traditional marriage or sexual exploitation. It is also the case that the sexual degradation the city can bring, aggravated by the effects of alcohol and drugs, may intensify men’s customary power over women. In L’Epave Nouméa is a place of libertinage as well as liberty, of self-discovery as well as discovery of the sexual skeletons in the cupboards of both Kanak and settler families. The few white characters are also subjects of comic, or sometimes fatal, sexual antics. New Caledonian writers of European origin, too, have written of the negative aspects of modern urban living in Nouméa, of its alienating effects, of its inhabitants’ lonely wanderings and psychological or material dispossession. It is often less the wisdom of the tribu than its potentially negative aspects—among them boucans, or black magic— that are portrayed as making a recent appearance in the city and contributing to a greater mixing of its cultures. Nicolas Kurtovitch writes both of a lost and sought countryside of ancient and powerful life forces and of modern Nouméa. This is where he chooses to set his first novel, Good Night Friend (2006), putting

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himself in the minds of a Kanak family living in the capital. Kurtovitch narrates a story of their quest to recover the family name and return to the rural place that is its source, thereby making possible the recovery of their full spiritual force and identity. This tale is entwined with a primary story, that of a curse (boucan) and of cyclical retribution. The mother of Léa, one of the young narrators, had been wasting away from the sorcerer’s magic spell, victim of a man with occult powers whose advances she had rejected. Léa visits her father, imprisoned on L’ile Nou for the murder of the sorcerer. She later narrowly escapes the clutches of a group of young would-be rapists in the nakamal, or kava bar, of the shantytown outside the city, where she finally finds her absent older brother, living in the solitude of a garden clearing, and asks for help. By that time, however, her father had been stabbed to death by the vengeful son of the sorcerer. In this curious text, Nouméa becomes the site of the more malevolent forces from the tribu. Kanak have been arriving to find work since the 1960s—first as dock workers or in the Doniambo nickel refinery or as maids living in the cellars of white Faubourg Blanchot, as Utê Murûnû does in Gorodé’s story—the city, suggests Kurtovitch, has developed pockets within it closer to Kanak culture than to European. At the same time, urban industry has spread its tentacles into the countryside, characterised by “the yellowed waters of your country’s river . . . / the soiled tears of your love” and “the machines that extract the nickel/ that uproot the green riches/the green capital”, as the poem “Nickel”, by Déwé Gorodé (1985, 54), describes it, and the city, with its freedoms and its vices, has begun to infiltrate the tribu. Both Gorodé’s and Frédéric Ohlen’s poems speak of the green “belly” of the earth to describe the natural sites desecrated by nickel mining industry; Gorodé presents mineral extraction as violent degradation, speaking of “the gaping wound of red earth” (“Quart de nuit”, Gorodé 1985, 75) and laying blame for the spoliation of the land by nickel mining at the foot of capital, the multinationals, and materialism. This allows her to spare the present white population any blame. Another poet of European origin, Loïck Gourdon, also uses metaphors of invasion, bloody warfare, and destruction by the god of profit to describe the nickel industry and its effects. There is as yet little eulogy to globalisation and industrial development or urbanisation in New Caledonian writing, where the current consensus is around the search for the heart of the old land that continues to beat beneath the asphalt, as in the poetry of Kurtovitch and Gorodé.

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Being with the Other—Déwé Gorodé In the footsteps of my mother toward the land on the path of the ancestors toward the land the voice of my father says that we must go to the fields to school elsewhere toward others to live and to be oneself with others wherever you are alone with the u [spirits] alone in the crowd alone with oneself in a cave or at the stake flowing with the blood of struggle for the land to live as and to be oneself with the other who has not who has nothing who says nothing who does not speak who is dying who is dying to live and be oneself with the other

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who is knocking at your door who is asking who is expecting a child the other who is waiting on your doorstep the other who is on the threshold of your house Adelaide, 25 July 1997 D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 90–91

Roots—Déwé Gorodé Roots stretching out into the day by day into time passing into sun wind rain passing hollowing out earth under stone further deeper always ever further deeper to tie the knot umbilical cord returned to earth on earth’s very belly like the chrysalis casing of cicada returned to earth on earth’s very belly emerging there to land on these very roots to be born to the world before taking flight bending into the wind in flight toward a river ford

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The Street Kids, Y. Bouquet. (ADCK)

or toward waters flowing to sea and beyond toward a country . . .  some foreign quay . . .  railway station . . .  airport . . .  airwaves . . .  a way a road a path toward the other D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, p. 52

Tropical Town—Déwé Gorodé It’s a tropical town with all the iron and the concrete it takes and a few coconut palms

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to ensure that it is so despite all those who would wish it otherwise than all the red white and blues of all those fine facades all those proud cenotaphs that they must suffer still like it or not we’re in France here twenty thousand ks. away from the beloved mother country of all these and other antipodean isles tranquil-ised by the red white and blues of all the old clichés that some carry still as the glorious scars of long ago and times gone by back in the good old colonial days when things were fine and dandy in the best of all worlds of the tropical town D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, p. 146

Netted—Déwé Gorodé little boy will grow up into big boy will surf the net from adventure to adventure will travel the world seek his fortune in search of civilisations lost in remembrance of past time on the computer screen of the cyber-café or the cyber-hut will sail the oceans of the world like a multi-hull helmsman will brave the ocean winds will tangle with sharks, eaters of men

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Jaws that let none be the one who got away spill nothing but haemoglobin over the giant wide screen when little fish grows up into big fish will be caught and fried leaping tangled netted D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, p. 156

Waste Land—Déwé Gorodé Empty now the waste land of my games of old down-under back-street slum child of iron shanty huts and mimosa squats with my back-street mates our heads in the clouds and the nickel factory smoke tagging on the run every wall round the place dodging cops’ sirens with our child dreams and security guards on the rounds with our young hopes of sons of the land leaving on the wind fading with time rage in the heart as every move hits the wall of silence of the haves dismembered by the system of no fair share I am cut off from my brothers of yesterday shattered in a thousand pieces of irrefutable paper that

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won’t stick to the walls of this endless mental prison before the TV screen that bashes my head in with its loin-like truncheon thrust that blows my brain with its global and virtual in total denial of my reality my everyday reality as I live it and my version of things as they happen and my point of view senseless from so much soul searching soul emptying blues before the empty wasteland of our down-under back-street slum child games of old back-streets empty now of all my mates from back then lost somewhere in the system D. Gorodé (2005b), Sharing as Custom Provides, pp. 142–143

Old Nick—Loïck Gourdon Old Nick, Teutonic God, has crossed over the seas To take up residence, thank you Monsieur Garnier, On an island mass, a pile of rocks That dominates the sea. His giant’s pick has drawn blood from the mountains. Red gashes on the face of gap-toothed ridges He has reddened the sea with his mineral blood. Where he smote He made desolate [ . . . ] Golone, Koniambo,

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Baraoua, Kopéto. I hear the green stones that now crash together Inside the crusher with its jaws of steel. I see the yellow trucks that hurtle down the slopes Through the red dust that blocks out the sun. From 40 ans de poésie néo-calédonienne (1995), p. 79

Frédéric Ohlen A prolific and versatile writer, editor, and teacher, Ohlen established the literary section of the sci-fi club and was a founding member of the poetry association. Like the other writers of European origin, Jacques and Kurtovitch in particular, Ohlen engages with the darker aspects of sorcery and bodily enslavements (“I know/The dark forces/The evil curses [boucans]/The power” [from “The Healer”]) so courageously opened up to examination in Gorodé’s novel. Ohlen, too, experiments with ‘speaking with’ or alongside, putting himself empathetically into the mind or imagination of a Kanak. Although his poetry tends to abstraction, Ohlen’s many published volumes of poems range over all the major themes of New Caledonian literature—the land, the sea, custom, loss, writing, being, the Other. La peau qui marche (1999) speaks of the shock of the cultures, of James Cook and of Ataï, of interethnic reconciliation. He evokes the difficulties of the life of the earliest settlers, farming in the bush or surviving the penal colony. Poems in La lumière du monde (2005) describe, in loving detail, the character and smells of the distinctive quartiers of Nouméa. The theme of the perils and tribulations of the Europeanized capital as modern, individualistic, materialistic city and as a place of loss, body and soul, common to Jacques, Kurtovitch, Gorodé, and Gope, is again fully and variously developed in Ohlen’s extensive poetic work. In La voie solaire (1993) Ohlen expresses ecological concerns, regretting the concrete jungle that is replacing the “green belly” of the land and denouncing the power of global commercial interests driving the ‘development’ of Nouméa. “Already/into the red shade/Of the last surviving gardens/In Anse Vata/Advance/The high walls of the Sheratons” (“A celle de l’autre siècle”, in Ohlen 1993, 72). In the following extract from his collection of short pieces in Brûlures (2000), Ohlen’s pen takes on the bureaucracy and the hierarchy of French administration that eats up the lives of little people dependent for their livelihood on state assistance.

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Waiting-Room Heroes—Frédéric Ohlen I been through the ticket queue same as everyone else. Slumped down on the bench same as everyone else. Same as everyone else I’ve waited for me number to come up, in blood red letters above the cashier’s window. Whenever the buzzer rings, ya snap out of your daydream, ya lift your head, you’re on the lookout, waitin’ your turn as ya must, with the infinite patience of the humble, of those who’ve spent their lives trailing from one welfare office to the next, to A and E, the registry office, the dentist, the post office, with the patience of the benefit line regulars, queue addicts, infinite patience of those who’re sick to the teeth of chasing forms and official stamps, wasting one, two, three days over the minutest formalities for a file that goes nowhere, explaining the same thing for the hundredth time to this employee, that employee, civil servants, safe and secure their bums on their seats, who have plenty of time and make sure they take it, the time of the stressed-out public servant who finishes at three and has never taken the bus. There are heroes: corridor and waiting-room heroes, heroes of innumerable dull self-sacrifices, of mazes conquered, battles fought and won, for the hell of it, like climbing some uncharted summit or unknown peak at the end of an Andes or an imaginary Gobi desert. Dull lives, strains and sprains, break-ups and break-downs, along empty roads, with no major deviations but still lined with tombstones. F. Ohlen (2000), Brûlures, p. 19

Chapter Twenty-two

Métissage and Cultural Hybridity

The autobiographical essays of Louis José Barbançon, a teacher and historian born in New Caledonia, bring that writer’s convict origins out of the closet in La terre du lézard and similarly conclude that all communities must speak with their own voice knowing that “despite all obstacles”, they are “condemned to realize a common future” (1993, 89). In the more popular genre of the romantic novel, Arlette Peirano, too, echoes current explorations of the new possibilities of mixed sexual relationships and of Barbançon’s thesis of the presence of a social and cultural in-between-ness that already affects most communities. The characters in Barbançon’s and Peirano’s texts encompass life in both Nouméa and the bush. Claudine Jacques’ short stories, for their part, also portray a Nouméa that is a meeting place and biological melting pot, but often in material and moral dispossession—a Nouméa that is figured most extremely in the story of the monstrous giant centipede concealed beneath the floor in an old building in the commercial area of Nouméa’s Latin Quarter. In a story by Jacques, a young Kanak sets out early in the morning on foot, for want of bus fare, to cross the city and seek work. Cars pass her. Hungry but planning in her head how to use the money she will make to best help her family and dreaming of a better future, she steps out onto the road at a roundabout, is struck by a car, and is killed. A young man of European origin, who lies to the police to protect his friend Mario, also gives up his dreams of a bright future career and kills himself: after an encounter in the hospital with the pain of a young, battered victim brutally raped because she did not consent to sex, he decides he can atone for his misguided loyalty to his friend’s degeneracy only by driving his motorbike over the edge of the cliff with the unrepentant, macho Mario riding pillion. 323

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Jacques’ work reflects not only a mixed Nouméa, but also a ‘­brousse’ that is already more mixed than it thinks, sharing common dreams and problems. In particular, her texts explore the possibilities of biological mixing (métissage) or cultural mixing (hybridity) as a future for both parts of the country. Claudine Jacques Claudine Jacques was born in France but has lived in New Caledonia since adolescence and made the land her own through her writing. The Terra amata that is France—so perceptible in Ohlen’s work, the nomadic wanderings in search of a communion between all things and all peoples in Kurtovitch, the interest in the Other from across a spectrum of continents in the poignant short stories of the journalist Eric Fougère—are replaced in Jacques’ early work by a desire to capture the particularity manifest in the lives of the different New Caledonian groups in their passionate intensity, mysteries, and redemptive encounters. Jacques’ work stages the life of the senses, the spark that can be created by passionate encounter and later by the challenges this biological mixing represents. She is also clear about the perils of exclusivity or of refusing to adapt to the modern world. Where Gorodé remains lyrical about her years spent setting up an EPK (Ecole Populaire Kanak, or Kanak Peoples’ Schools) in the 1980s, Jacques’ text denounces the dangers of any separatism that allows Kanak children to fall behind their co-citizens. So, those kids, they’re just hanging around. They didn’t go to the colonial school, Kanak people’s schools are better. You learn about life in the fields, in the village. About the ideal of Customary life. Is this because of parents not taking responsibility for passing on knowledge? Or parents unable to cope? Or an absolute betrayal by the political leaders? It’s exactly what kids need to fight their way through today’s world, of course. No studies, no training. No profession. (Jacques 2000, 43)

In her portraits of the descendants of small settler farmers in the collection of stories entitled Nos silences sont si fragiles (2001b), Jacques presents a population of broussards with little real connection to Metropolitan France, sometimes living in materially harsh rural conditions

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and often partially dispossessed like the Kanak alongside them. In Ce ne sont que des histoires d’amour (1996), which is, once again, a series of stories that unfolds mainly in rural settings, all but one stage the dramas of mixed-race protagonists or couples and the prejudice or difficulties they encounter, but also the strengths each group can bring to the new relationship. Jacques positions herself beyond the prevalent racism to witness the connections developing between the separate communities. In the short story “Lies”, the young Alicia, resentful of her new stepmother-to-be, presses her grandmother, representative of generations of settlers, to reveal the secret the child senses around her own birth. For the first time Alicia begins to notice that the colour of her skin is darker than those around her. When she hears that her mother was “not of our world” and had been pressured to hide her real relationship with Alicia’s father, the young girl decides to leave her father’s home and go off to the Loyalty Islands in search of that denied part of herself that has been taken from her. A further drama evoking the lack of social acceptance that confronts people of mixed-race origins is played out in the story “Ill-Fated Lives”, in which Anna is rejected by her tribu when she becomes pregnant after a night spent with a young and immature visiting French army recruit. Later, Anna in her turn will reject her own adolescent daughter, Lydia, whom she finds in the arms of her own Wallisian partner, Louis: “What more could be expected of a mixed-blood girl. . . . People like that are no good”, concludes Anna as the heartbroken mother, repeating the words said to her as a young woman by her own Kanak group. However, when Lydia returns home from her adventure with Louis, pregnant, desperate, and repentant, mother and daughter recognize the enduring bonds between them. Against the background of a violent cyclone and their own intense inner suffering, they seal their reconciliation and the acceptance of the mixed-race baby to come with a ceremonial Kanak gesture, nailing a taboue plant to the banyan tree in their yard after the storm. “The Man Who Came from Elsewhere” recounts the disquiet of a large family’s aging patriarch, a Caledonian of European origin, married to Wathaia, a Kanak woman, who realises that none of his children and grandchildren resemble him. It is through the quiet wisdom and intensely reassuring presence of his wife and the happiness of his extended family’s daily life that he comes to find peace and the recognition that physical appearance is not essence.

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The clearly greater taboo of a love relationship between a young woman student, a Caldoche, and a young engineer, a Kanak, frames the plot of Jacques’ first novel, Les cœurs barbelés (1998), set against the historical events of the virtual civil war of the 1980s. Childbirth proves to be the rite of passage that finally enables Marilou to be accepted by Séry’s family en tribu on the island of Lifou, where she has obtained a post as teacher. The physically violent, racist repudiation of the mixed relationship by most members of Marilou’s Caldoche family, settled for generations in the bush on the mainland, the difficulties of maintaining a love relationship in the face of gender inequality in Kanak society, and Séry’s infidelity are never completely resolved. Barbed-wire fences also separate hearts and make the long-term survival of intimate connections between men and women of different ethnicities and cultural backgrounds problematic. The novel’s ending remains open as Marilou leaves Séry and her son on Lifou, with the group to whom he belongs in Kanak custom, and returns home to Nouméa, and a more thoughtful Séry sets out in pursuit. The novel stages a number of scenes of cultural difference and greater or lesser unwillingness on both sides to accept or accommodate this difference. Séry and the tribu agree to a traditional ceremony of public flogging to enable him to acknowledge his fault and ‘divorce’ his first Kanak wife—who had always loved another even though she had dutifully obeyed her parents in marrying Séry. A number of other short stories such as “Nagar” (from Ce ne sont pas des histoires d’amour) include scenes of intense passion followed by possessiveness, a will to dominate, and infidelity or violence that make the long-term relationship impossible. In this case, a passionate affair between Julia, a young woman from Nouméa, and a young man from Vanuatu ends in her violent beating and his subsequent suicide when she decides to leave him. In Jacques’ second novel, L’Homme-lézard (2002a), the lives of young people from a number of different ethnic groups (Kanak, Wallisian, Caldoche, Métis), living in the squats or shantytowns around Nouméa, are closely linked by the shared struggle against the demons of poverty and alcohol that hang around the necks of their marginal communities. Solidarity against the inner violence that this struggle can provoke makes mixed-race relationships in this semi-urban, underprivileged milieu much more of a given. The novel’s title is a reference to the well-known Kanak story of a chief’s violation of a taboo and the unshakeable vengeance of the lizard, clamped to the neck of his victim

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M. Venon.

and pursuing him around the island. Versions of Le Maître de Koné have been recorded by Père Lambert, by Leenhardt through his informant Bwésou Erijisi, by the anthropologists Jean Guiart and Alban Bensa, and also sculpted by the Kanak artist Dick Bone in a striking representation of the giant half-man, half-lizard displayed in the Centre

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Culturel Tjibaou. The sculpture invites individual interpretations and might just as easily be seen to indicate classical fatal flaw or Christian original sin as Kanak retribution. The self-conscious use of such intertextual reference in Jacques’ work comments indirectly on the growing awareness of the new and hybrid New Caledonian literature. The use of ‘true’ historical eyewitness accounts, documents, interviews, and journalistic reports interspersed with the fictional stories in Les cœurs barbelés takes the use of hybridity into the domain of literary innovation. Jacques’ C’est pas la faute de la lune (1997), another collection of stories whose theme is shape shifting or metamorphosis, is also one of mixed inspiration. Clearly influenced by oral tradition and by empathy for the Kanak vision of nature, it also draws on European traditions of folktale that go back beyond Apuleius’ Metamorphoses in the second century. C’est pas la faute de la lune includes tales of a young man who transforms into a turtle, of another young man liberated from imprisonment in a tree, and of two Kanak widows who become sister witches after helping speed their husbands on their path to the afterlife. Following in the footsteps of their mother, who was respected and widely consulted for her knowledge of plants and genealogies, the pair make the trip of a lifetime from the Loyalty Island of Lifou down to Nouméa and around the Place des Cocotiers on their broomsticks, taking a peek at the display of New Caledonian fiction in the window of the Librairie Montaigne. In another of Jacques’ short stories a fire set on a ranch leads to the disappearance of a child who has been possessed by the spirits in the old banyan tree that gave her refuge from the arsonists’ blaze. Subsequently, the men responsible for the fire meet violent deaths, one by one. In “Amalie”, a young Wallisian girl, hitchhiking near a graveyard, is picked up by a young man who escorts her home on his motorcycle. Desperately in love, he returns to see Amalie’s parents, seeking their consent to marriage, only to discover that his beloved has been dead for years and is buried in the local cemetery. Such a story of fatal attraction is not dissimilar to that depicted in the classical European tale of “The Fiancée of Corinth”, where the bridegroom wastes away after the death of his beloved, who continues to haunt him. “The White Lady”, saved by a young chief from drowning in the sea (as in Celtic legend) and brought back to life in a cave, also turns out to be a spirit luring the young chief, who has fallen in love with her, to madness and death. These short stories of haunting and metamorphosis bringing together

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M. Venon.

two different traditions of the ‘supernatural’ appear to be conscious experiments in cultural mixing. Jacques’ novel L’Age du perroquet-banane (2003) is an apocalyptic vision of a post-2018 New Caledonia emerging from the deep fog that has settled over a land apparently devastated by an ecological catastrophe or biblical flood. A small number of the few people remaining seek

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mediation between cultures, inclusion, and shared earth but must also fight to preserve particular memories and the last remaining books. Their enemies are the ignorance and superstition of the underground group of the Obese Matriarch and the cannibalistic savagery of the fierce warrior tribe of the Mountain Heights. Although light is slowly returning to the world by the end of the book, it is uncertain whether the small band of sage survivors from a number of different cultures and ethnicities will manage to hold out. The central consciousness, the Librarian, accepts that she will be devoured by the Fierce Cannibal, but her hope is that this ingestion, her sacrifice of self, may ensure the survival of the precious memory and knowledge she carries. The future in this less than optimistic novel, like the band of sages, is self-evidently multicultural (or barbaric). In Jacques’ now quite significant body of work, biological or cultural mixing in relationships remains both unsolved problem and promise. Any successful mixed relationship in the short term requires self-sacrifice—of Marilou’s son, left with the tribe in Les cœurs barbelés; of Mandela, who dies to release her artist brother, Enok, from the demons of drink and loss of self-respect in L’Homme-lézard; of the Librarian in L’Age du perroquet-banane. Yet as Dominique Jouve (2005) says of Jacques’ work, “She situates herself at the level of a collective consciousness that seeks to always take account of both sides of the question and prefers to ‘suffer with’ than to set at a distance in order to understand. The truth of her fiction is thus an emotional and intimate truth of compassion”. This compassion informs all of Jacques’ portraits of New Caledonia and encompasses the apparently pessimistic imagining of the threatened destruction of its civilisation with an image of a new ark, run by a female Noah in a multicultural society. Beyond her thematics, Jacques’ style, too, reveals an attentive listening to both cultural traditions as well as experimentation in bringing these together creatively in her various uses of storytelling. It may, in fact, not be a coincidence that as in Tjibaou’s Kanaké, the ritual of self-sacrificial cannibalism constitutes the symbolic dénouement of her story. The Black Mare—Claudine Jacques  ◙ The following extract from “The Black Mare” (Jacques 2001b, 25–43) introduces the Métis Karl, returning to his father’s farm across a landscape devastated by two years without rain. He is coming home from prison, where he served a sentence for murderous brawling.

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A. Thromae.

Karl is short and stocky. His worn denim shorts are stretched tight over his broad thighs, a wide belt accentuates his waist, and his shirt, heavy with sweat, hangs open, revealing a chest covered with hair that is much too dense for a boy of his age. His face still has the roundness of youth but deep lines score his forehead. His intense blue gaze

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rests on his family home in the distance, lit up by the blazing red of the bougainvillea. “Before, I used to have to guess at where it was, but now I can see it. I can see it because all the trees are gone.” For three generations his family has lived here, in this wooden house that’s been patched up a hundred times but never once repainted. “We used to fix the roof by spreading tar over the holes; now it doesn’t rain anymore and the creeping rust just eats away at the corrugated iron.” Lost in thought, Karl swears angrily; he has stubbed his toe on a sharp rock and his foot is bleeding. To make matters worse, one flip-flop has just given up the ghost and torn in two. He will have to walk the rest of the way barefoot, over the stony riverbed where only the hardy mimosa still manage to survive. He looks up at the sound of an engine, carried towards him by the prevailing wind. It’s his father’s pickup, coming to meet him. The old man must’ve known I was coming home, Karl thinks, moved at this realisation. His full lips twist into a hint of a smile. In his mind he sees the old man again, striding about the yard in his heeled cowboy boots and American jeans. As far back as he can remember, he has never seen him dressed differently. And always wearing his stock hat, with or without a shirt. His hands and arms are covered with red and black blotches, recurring burns that bleed at the slightest knock. He is Karl’s only family, his only link to the past, the thread that ties him to that infamous forebear from Bordeaux, the scoundrel who seduced and carried off the fair and fragile daughter of East Coast settlers to found their family in this corner of the bush. It seems those blue eyes, their family’s distinguishing feature, came from her. Karl has never known his own mother, a native woman from the Grande Terre, who left him at birth to go back to her tribe. It is from her that he inherited the brown skin and curly hair that mark him as a blue-eyed half-caste. His strong connection to invisible forces and irrational impulses also come from her, though he probably doesn’t know it. Night falls. Father and son have barely exchanged half a dozen words. Looks and gestures hold more weight than words. Karl removes his shirt and takes a piece of laundry soap from the washhouse. In the yard he grabs the hose, attaches it to the wire fence, and shakes himself like a dog under the gushing water. Without un-

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dressing further he vigorously lathers the hard soap over his body, hair and face. His eyes water. A single, swinging bulb casts its meager light over the veranda. Huge cockroaches come out of their holes and invade the kitchen. They open a tin of meat over hot rice and eat in silence. No whisky for the father tonight; he will sleep soundly, his son is home. On this cattle station, as on most others in the bush, they get up at dawn, when the first birdsong announces the day. You need to make the most of the cool of the morning, to do the daily rounds, whether on horseback or in the pickup. This morning Karl jumps in the back of the truck with his dogs. He wants to see the whole of the property from a height. Everywhere the dry earth is torn and fissured by a network of cracks, the bed of the Oumenie is nothing more than a scattering of stones and a film of dry dust has settled over everything; over the gaunt niaoulis, the twisted gaiacs, the fences and the deserted water troughs. Karl’s initial apprehension deepens to agonizing fear. The sixty head of cattle, all that’s left of their herd, are massed around the one remaining supply of brackish water. His father throws down bales of hay and the potatoes provided by the Meat Board as relief for the beleaguered cattle farmers. But the calves are skeletal and the cows’ udders are dry. They won’t last long. Over in the deer enclosure on the hill beside the sea, the drought seems even worse; the sun and sea air have scorched anything that might still have resembled grass. Under a cloudless sky, hundreds of animals await their impending death. Karl is in despair. It was his own foolish behaviour that landed him in prison for those long months when his father needed him so much. But now he’s back. He knows he must bring in barrels of water, ask the Local Council for financial assistance, he must . . . he must. . . . He gets out of the truck to open a gate. He stops, goes up to his father, looks him straight in the eye. “Dad . . . I’m sorry.” He is sorry for everything: for his foolishness, for not being there, for prison, for the drought, for fate. And his father, quite clearly, understands. From here on Karl throws himself into the fierce struggle. Up at dawn, in bed at dusk, he fills the reservoirs and the water troughs by bringing in water in barrels, as many as are needed. Proud and independent as he is, he asks for assistance to pay for his diesel and buy bales

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of hay. Every minute of his day is devoted to this battle and each animal that dies adds to his bitter determination. He can no longer bear to see the dying animals that he finds at each turn of the road, head on the ground and skin stretched over visible bones. Anger wells inside him every time as he shoots the animal to cut short its suffering, and his own. The wind pumps turn uselessly in the dry wells. He feels as if the dust has started to creep its way inside him and that, soon if he is not careful, he will begin to crumble and die like the dry land around him. C. Jacques (2001b), Nos silences sont si fragiles, pp. 26–30

Influenced by the superstitious belief of an Arab drinking companion, in his desperation Karl decides to sacrifice a pregnant mare to bring rain. It is only the reappearance of a Kanak woman sitting on the ground, waiting, and who, inexplicably, he knows is his mother, and the force of invisible links he feels with her that gives him hope and enables him to renounce his barbaric project. At the end of the story Karl makes the black mare his first gift to his mother and resolves to go in search of the attractive young woman journalist from Nouméa whom his cruel project had driven away. “Tomorrow,” Karl says to himself, “it will rain.” Nicolas Kurtovitch: Cultural Hybridity as Transcendence Tjibaou, as we saw, used local founding stories such as Kanaké to create a syncretic national myth. This links the rural and the traditional with a dynamic Kanak culture being constantly reshaped by historicopolitical contingencies that are largely urban and multicultural. Like the texts of Tjibaou or Jacques, the writing of Nicolas Kurtovitch is an investigation of the power of empathetic and knowledgeable exchange between cultures to produce something both new and true to self. Kurtovitch argues explicitly against what he sees as the fickle, fashionable ‘hybridity’ of the chameleon and for the freedom to espouse visions other than one’s own, outside the established order, through what he labels cultural “interfaces”. His novel Good Night Friend (2006), in which he follows the vicissitudes of a Kanak family in Nouméa, is an example of this experiment. Avec le masque (1997a), Kurtovitch’s collection of poems, is a rediscovery of New Caledonian history, Kanak tradition, and shared human relationships with nature. This work attempts to break down cul-

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tural barriers by moving from the particular to explore the identity of ‘universal’ man. Poetry, for Kurtovitch, is thus a form of cultural interface that creates communication between diverse peoples and a step towards shared forms of identity. His search for transcendence or the universal is represented in the first translation by what has become a central topos or shared and powerful cliché of emerging New Caledonian literature: a piece of land to be worked. The extracts selected also follow him entering the Kanak universe, threading Kanak oral stories together in his short story “Veillée”, or bringing a nocturnal pilou (dance) with the ancestors to vivid life. Nicolas Kurtovitch was born in Nouméa in 1955, the son of a Yugoslav father of Serbian and Muslim descent. He had connections to the earliest French contact with the island on his mother’s side (early pioneer family Hagen) via the sailor Jean Taragnat. At the Collège de Sacré Coeur at Bourail, the young Nicolas shared his studies en pension with the four groups he identifies as making up New Caledonian society: those of European origin, the Kanak and Wallisian groups, and the children of metropolitan origin from the military base (Mokkadem 2007, 141). His writing reflects on the theme of mixed heritages, utilising the resources of European/French genres and traditions to describe his island culture, but also experimenting with poetic or literary forms such as haiku, shih, and haibun from Chinese and Japanese traditions. This principal of the Protestant Alliance Scolaire’s high school for Kanak in Nouméa, Do Kamo, has been described as a Jack Kerouac seeking, like him, to “re-enchant” the world through poetic voyaging and form an eclectic universal tradition made up from pieces of the world’s cultures. In Kurtovitch this universal tradition is formulated by a voyaging consciousness that, recalling the philosophical reflections of his New Caledonian predecessor, Jean Mariotti, elects to take up a meditative residence on the refuge of “Cold Mountain” to seek a form of detachment and mental freedom. Andrew McCully (2005) argues that Kurtovitch’s philosophical quest for spaces of full being in harmony with the Other produces a very particular version of the “literature of struggle”. Here, he claims, Third World nationalism is replaced by a struggle for an existential independence. This is presented as a necessary first step towards the creation of a more equal society and takes precedence over socioeconomic or political struggle. However this may be, much of the interest of Kurtovitch’s work lies in the understandings and nonexcluding balance that his work

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seeks between the various ‘traditions’ he attempts to connect with knowledge and wisdom. A tightrope act between veneration of tradition and its critique, between valorisation and appropriation of another’s (Kanak) culture, his texts oblige the reader to consider the relations between tradition and modernity, between coloniser and colonised, from the inside and in all their comedy and complexity rather than simply opposing one against the other. As in Gorodé, the logic of binary oppositions is undermined, and oppositions may be contradictory but not mutually exclusive. The poet also works with simultaneous or overlapping times and spaces, as well as with both the existential moment and the flux of life. In the play Le sentier Kawenya (1998), for example, the range of present Kanak responses to past colonial wrongs is presented through multiple voices in dialogue, in reaction to the indiscriminate capture of a young white woman as hostage. Some characters argue that this violence is justified as collective revenge against present and future generations of those who are the descendants of ‘exploitative’ settlers. Others put the case for humanity and understanding of the young woman’s case on an individual basis and argue for the power of love (the chief’s son is secretly the woman’s lover) or for female solidarity (between the chief’s wife and the white woman). The challenging question is whether the sins of dead fathers should indeed be visited upon the children, whether the energies of the family, of lineal transmission, require retri­ bution. As in Pierre Gope’s or Déwé Gorodé’s work, the theme of return as revenge, foreign to a modern Western consciousness, or of a just justice (as in Gope), is a central one. In Kurtovitch’s play L’Autre (1998), the dialogues between the early explorer Jean Taragnat (Kurtovitch’s own ancestor) and the Kanak chief Bourate, who visits the ship and later accompanies the crew on their voyage, represent both the beach encounters in the colony from the beginning of settlement, and the hospitable ‘Other’ theorized by the philosopher Levinas. Bourate tells the sailor, “We will never leave one another again. Neither you nor me, neither your people nor mine. [ . . . ] I will never disappear from your mind”. The stranger, however, whom one must know and welcome as the world opens up, as Micaela Fenoglio (2004) points out, turns out to be something like a projection of an intimate or hidden part of Taragnat himself. For Kurtovitch, Grand Chief Bourate’s departure to Australia and to New York represents an aspect of the ‘islander’—the desire to leave, to explore other cultures. In the translated extract from a short story in the collection Forêt,

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Terre et Tabac (1992), the garden that the narrator discovers is a meeting place of coloniser and colonised. The European narrator is attracted impulsively to a path in an area outside the centre of Nouméa that he follows to discover a hidden Kanak garden. This is a space in which he finds joy and harmony in simply sitting and being. Initially, the narrator avoids the owner of the land, an old Melanesian woman. When the two do finally meet, it becomes clear that she had been aware of his visits from the beginning and had left him a signal that he should join her. After the initial discomfort of the narrator, the two come to share the space in a similar way. The old Kanak woman comes to this particular garden not to produce food but to think, to be in nature to let herself be—se laisser aller. This simple and vital link to nature is something available to both. This short story, which introduces the theme of Kanak reoccupation of Nouméa that will be developed in Good Night Friend, illustrates the simplicity of what could link Kanak and Caldoche and can be read as a fable designed to show that “desire and love are more powerful than fear of the other” (Kurtovitch 1992, 43). “Au bord de l’eau” (At the water’s edge) portrays the protagonist, Jacques, perhaps the writer’s alter ego (recalling the principal character of Mariotti’s 1998 novel, Au fil des jours: Tout est peut-être inutile), struggling to achieve inner peace through working the land and finding this only once he has followed the advice of a Kanak elder. By his constant effort, he goes beyond himself and his initial dissatisfaction and pain, and with his movements intuitively conforming to tradition, the distinction between the garden and the gardener disappears. This transcendence, which would seem to reflect Zen Buddhism as much as Kanak tradition, not only produces a well-designed garden, but also provides Jacques with a deep contentment. Aside from ‘the old man’, who represents ancestral tradition or may have been imagined, Jacques is alone. The land here functions as a meeting place of the conscious and unconscious minds, of the individual and Nature, suggesting they are not, in fact, separate. The ‘Other’ is, however, present by implication as Jacques can as easily be read as Kanak as European. His identity remains in doubt. The ambiguity indicates that the harmony that Jacques finally finds is available to all, not just those with a particular relationship to ‘tradition’. In “L’Invité d’un jour” (The special guest) Kurtovitch puts himself in the place of the neophyte, following his Kanak friend, Wakolo Pouye, closely and observing the forest dance of his returning ances-

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tors through his eyes, entering empathetically into the different, rich, and mysterious world of the Other. As the work of Stephanie Vigier (2005) on ‘commonplaces’ argues, the place in the forest indicated by the banyan tree, the space of the ceremonial dance, or pilou, like the ‘field’ or ‘garden’, constitute the lieux communs of New Caledonian literature. These places common to all, however, correspond to a shared and necessary reconstruction of identity, and in this case, the lieu commun has a positive role. Whereas the colonial image of the pilou—for example, Baudoux’s long, descriptive passage—creates a highly romanticised and sexualised image of a savage and primitive dance verging on the orgiastic, Kurtovitch writes over and remakes the exotic colonial cliché. Here the timeless pilou in the forest becomes loss of the self, of the individual outline, and fusion of the dancing shapes with nature and with the universe, a pilou recuperated for Kurtovitch’s personal project of identifying with all things in the universe. Yet these places are also material, and the text moves from the Do Kamo High School in Nouméa to a forest near Ponérihouen. In the excerpts taken from “Veilléé”, a long short story, Kurtovitch weaves together a number of the better-known stories from oral tradition. These are taken particularly from Leenhardt’s collection, published in 1932 in Documents néo-calédoniens, but also include elements from the popular story, told Pacific-wide, of the Rat, the Octopus, and the Sultan Hen (or variant animals and birds from these three classes of totems). Framing the narrative with an old Kanak storyteller and empathetically espousing the rhythms of an oral telling, the story centres on a ‘Kaavo’ figure, inhabiting a far-off island and waiting for “the Man from Néawé” whom she desires—a woman strong enough to refuse a series of proposed prospective husbands. The ‘interface’ between the cultures created by this text grafts several traditions onto the foundational Kanak narratives. The narrator adopts a form similar to stream of consciousness, a form (and themes) that, beyond the repetitions, parallelisms, motifs, and rhythmic patterns that mark oral tradition, contains strong echoes both of Aboriginal dreaming and of European fairy and folktale. This compilation of tales continues with the dreaming of the story “The Rat, the Octopus and the Sultan-Hen” before returning to the journey of the chief of Néawé, who, despite trials, will finally carry off Kaavo and settle down, and to the old Kanak orator pacing around the fire. For, as Kurtovitch puts it, his work is about place (lieux) as he lives in his house, in his country, and on the earth, and his detachment

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means the refusal to be a prisoner of self-interest. And, if he is able to write collaboratively with Déwé Gorodé (as in Dire le vrai), this is because he recognises that Caledonia is a Kanak land (“La Calédonie est une Terre kanak”). This does not mean that only Kanak can live there. “I believe that thus writing in two voices is possible because there are paths travelled together” (Mokkadem 2007, 164). It creates problems and anxieties, but is also a liberation. At the Water’s Edge—Nicolas Kurtovitch During his regular walks beside the sea, the author has observed certain signs in the adjoining bush, indicating the presence of Kanak gardens created in clearings. His initial scruples at intruding onto another’s ‘property’ soon give way to a fascinated curiosity that draws him to explore them. [ . . . ] The town is littered with these fields, practically every available hillside is dotted with patches where people grow bananas, yams, taro, sweet potatoes, sugar cane and sometimes even corn and clumps of lemon grass. These gardens feed a steadily increasing population that has difficulty finding decently paid work. In this way, Kanak families are colonising every patch of green around the town, in a kind of strange reversal of our country’s recent history. The author is drawn to one garden in particular, returning to it night after night. [ . . . ] Sometimes I would close my eyes and listen to the myriad sounds of this garden. With practice I was able to identify them, to tell what caused them and where they were in the space around me. Then I would allow my mind to wander, to leave the field and travel back up the coast where the road would lead me home, or to places I had lived, either recently or long ago. Or else I would try to empty my mind; it was a perfect place for meditation and I had to be careful not to fall asleep. Whatever I did, the hours spent in this garden were always filled with a feeling of generosity and calm. I would leave it feeling at peace, my heart filled with beauty and harmony. After several visits to the garden, the author is interrupted by the arrival of the owner, who lights a fire, rests for half an hour, then departs.

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My hunch was right; it was a woman who was taking care of this garden, her presence was palpable. I was really quite pleased with myself for having understood this intuitively. It proved that I was in tune with the place and with the person—female in this case—who had created it. The next day, it wasn’t raining, but as had been my custom for the past several weeks, I emerged from the path at the very moment that the moon, which had been hiding behind a bunch of clouds during my walk from the house, came out and lit the entire clearing, with only the precise outer perimeter remaining in shadow. [ . . . ] This time, standing there at the entrance to this wonderful garden which was becoming so familiar to me and which I was beginning to love as much as my own home, I couldn’t settle on a spot to sit down. I hesitated several times, taking one or two steps in one direction, then changing my mind and heading right, towards a bush that was already dry and dead but still firmly rooted to the ground. And then, just as I was about to sit under it, the spot no longer seemed ideal. I turned around, looking for something else, but this time, nothing; the field eluded me, it no longer spoke to me, I no longer understood it. I knew then that I should leave. Crossing the clearing, I passed by the remains of the fire. It suddenly became clear to me that the best place to sit was by the ashes. And so I sat down on one of the stones. Slowly I relaxed. [ . . . ] I felt good, at peace with myself, my soul in perfect communion with the place, and through it with the whole of nature. And I said a silent ‘Thank You’ to the old Melanesian woman who was the unwitting architect of this immense feeling of well-being. I heard a sound behind me and turned around. She was there, watching me. She stepped forward. The woman tells him to stay and rekindles the fire. “This evening, I have nothing to cook but that wasn’t why I made a fire the other night.” “You knew I was there the other evening, didn’t you. Did you light it for me?” “Yes, I knew you were there, hiding in the bushes behind me. You never once saw me and yet almost every night I wasn’t that far away.” She said that to tease me a little, which created a certain warmth between us. “I did make the fire for you,” she said, “but I guess you didn’t understand.” True, I had never imagined that the flames, the warmth and the

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scent of the wood were all different ways of inviting me to come out of the bushes and join her by the warm fire instead of staying out in the rain. Her attitude was quite the opposite of what I expected from an owner catching an intruder on their property. Apparently, this old Melanesian woman was as curious as I was. The writer apologizes and attempts to explain what has drawn him to the garden. “That’s all right,” she said, “it’s quite okay. If you feel good here, then you did the right thing coming.” She let a few seconds, perhaps even a minute, go by before continuing, “Here, you know, the soil’s not that good and things don’t grow so well. I have other fields further away, on the other side of the hill. Here it’s just because I love this spot, I really like being near the sea. So it’s a bit like you; I do it to dream. I arrive, I do a bit of clearing, then I tidy up, I burn a few things, I plant, I transplant and then I have a sit down and relax. I don’t think about a thing, I just look, or else I think about my children and my old people. I just let myself be.” She went on talking like that for a long, long while, in words and phrases peculiar to her. I knew that she was talking to me about the harmony of her field, which was like the harmony that should exist in our lives; that there is an exchange between the two, one harmony reflecting the other and in return helping it to be even more harmonious and beautiful. She spoke with long moments of silence that I would occasionally punctuate with a word or two. Then she would start speaking again, talking about nature, about her own life and about our lives; about the way to plant some plant or other, which is the same way that we should do everything here and anywhere else. She told me when she had planted her yams and with whom, and why this field was her favourite, even though in fact it had no real use. She talked for a long, long time, and I talked with her, answering her, oblivious to the passage of time, borne along on the sounds and the scents of the tide. N. Kurtovitch (1992), Forêt, terre et tabac, pp. 47–54

Jacques’ Garden—Nicolas Kurtovitch Jacques is attempting to clear a space in the bush in order to create a garden of the type described in “At the Water’s Edge”. But he is frustrated to find that it lacks the natural harmony usually characteristic of such

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gardens. A mysterious visitor encourages him to listen to the v­ oices of his ancestors and old folk—his elders—and be guided by them. Once in the bush, he would walk for another three quarters of an hour to an hour until he reached the piece of ground. His ground! Obviously, the land wasn’t really his: the owners had given him the right to use this space as he saw fit and Jacques had thought of turning it into a field, just a garden really, but a productive garden nonetheless, for growing food. He had been working on it steadily for eighteen days now and it was beginning to take shape; the cleared area was ready to be planted or sown and its boundaries were neatly defined by the bush. Here and there, there were still a few large rocks, but nothing could be done about them: these rocks were like icebergs and removing them would have required a crane, which would almost certainly have upset the natural balance of the field. Anyone would have been proud of what he had achieved. The smoke rising from the two fires where he was burning the cut branches, trunks and stumps, added a totally different dimension to the field. One felt that he had not just been working because he enjoyed the exercise, or in order to put extra food on the table at some time in the near future. His frequent sojourns in the bush were also voyages of self-discovery. With no other purpose than to simply feel alive. But Jacques wasn’t satisfied: he sat on one of the stones, looking at the ground, at the half-burned trunks he had left there, the mounds of earth he had started, and he felt that nothing was right, that he would have to start all over again. He was truly dissatisfied, refusing to start sowing the corn or vegetable seeds or to make holes to bury the tubers. He would come back some other time, perhaps tomorrow even, and start all over again, continue clearing until he felt his field was acceptable, at least as the work of a child from the village, since he seemed incapable of making an adult one. Before leaving—night was already falling—he cast his eye slowly over the whole field, his gaze settling here and there: on a tree whose northern branch formed an impressive elbow-bend; on one of those immoveable rocks, which he often used to prop up the handle of his rake; on the remains of the very first fire he had made, two weeks ago now, just at the entrance to his small clearing, when he took the usual path. Jacques returns obsessively to work his garden but remains unhappy with the result. One day he finds a strangely familiar old man sitting in his field who offers him advice.

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The old man said, “I am going to tell you about the old people of your family, about your old people. You can’t do a thing unless you think about them all the time that you’re clearing your piece of ground. You can’t do a thing unless you think about them whenever you’re deciding what direction to go in. You can’t do a thing unless you think about them when you’re tired and feel like giving up. The old people know everything, they know everything and they know how to tell you; they speak a language that is stronger than death, stronger than time, stronger than distance. They speak a language that perhaps cannot be written down but in spite of this or perhaps because of it, this language endures through time. If you learn this language, if you open yourself up to it, if you open your heart to what is around you, if you open your heart to the nature that surrounds, which is hidden in everyday life but which longs to reveal itself. It will have the colour of your heart, it will have the smell of your skin and the strength of your courage and your love. It will reveal your deepest thoughts, those that allow you to stand upright on this earth, your head tirelessly supporting the weight of the sky. Those that make you a man rather than animal. And when you are beset by doubts, you will have only to come here to collect your thoughts and listen. Listen to the voices of your old people who will be at home here, for you will have built this dwelling place for them, you will have prepared this piece of ground for them, they will have accompanied your every action.” The old man disappears. Jacques goes back to work, but despite his desperate and repeated efforts, he does not succeed in creating the harmony to which he aspires. But suddenly, after clearing a final clump of bushes, he looks again. He sat down, somewhat taken aback. This field was perfect. [ . . . ] A perfect balance between symmetry and disorder. [ . . . ] What surprised him and left him dumbfounded was that he found the field perfectly acceptable; he now appreciated its harmony whereas before he could see only a shapeless mass. After two days of cutting and pulling, two days of searching, questioning, and despair, he was back where he had started. New eyes and a new heart enabled him to appreciate at its true worth this first garden of his, the garden he had worked on calmly and steadily, every day, every week and now, finally, he was at peace with himself. N. Kurtovitch (1992), Forêt, terre et tabac, pp. 39–53

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The Special Guest—Nicolas Kurtovitch  ◙ Wakolo Pouye, an elderly Kanak who is one of the few people capable of recalling the condition of the Kanak people in the period prior to the Second World War, has been the special guest at a ceremony associated with the fiftieth anniversary of the abolition of the French colonial Code de l’Indigénat, the restrictive law governing and segregating the indigenous population of New Caledonia. The author has agreed to undertake the long drive north in order to transport Wakolo to his home at Ponérihouen. After two and a half hours, Wakolo asks his driver to stop so that he may join a group of friends nearby. They make their way through long grass, reach a banyan tree, and enter the bush. [ . . . ] “There’s the clearing. Look, my friends are all there.” And indeed they were. A group of six or seven Kanak men, all elderly, to judge from their appearance. They were standing in the middle of the clearing, a good distance from us, huddled together as if they were cold, cold from the very real cold that comes from absence, the absence of one of their own. [ . . . ] Slowly, softly, the sound began to take shape. It was dictated by the feet rhythmically beating the ground, and by the hands of some of them, clapping softly. The sound was born and grew out of this entire body and now this body was taking me by the hand. The beat was dictated by their chant. It was a soft and extremely melodious song that all, including Wakolo, who had quietly taken his place among his people, began to sing vigorously. Occasionally, one of them could be heard singing above the others, just two or three phrases, no more, and the chorus would bounce off it into another beat almost the same as the previous one. [ . . . ] The different beats kept coming one after the other, until I realised that in fact they constituted a single theme, like an immense breath in time with the bush that, with each passing minute, enveloped us more fully. There in that clearing, I was in a space that was no different from what surrounded me; I felt in no way distinct from the boundless forest against which my back was resting. [ . . . ] It filled the space around me and around the singers, as if we had found our place, there where the clearing ultimately ceased to exist. [ . . . ] I realised that these men were moving as they sang, slowly, imperceptibly spreading out until they reached the edge of the imaginary clearing[;] then, without my being aware of precisely at what moment

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they had changed direction, they were all gathered together again, packed tightly, skin to skin, breathing as one, a single body, as at the start, before the singing and the rhythm of the dance had begun. One voice. Limbs moving in perfect harmony with their breathing so that their movement was imperceptible, and the clearing finally ceased to exist. [ . . . ] One of them [ . . . ] detached himself from the main body and [ . . . ] stood upon a large trunk—or perhaps it was a large rock that happened to be there. And from this relatively low position, barely a foot above the ground, he began to lead the dance. He did so with his voice, his hand, his chest, leaning forward then backward; also conducting with his head, and particularly with his eyes. Ordering different ones to move in one direction or another, two, three or four at a time, which they did, always in time, without ever losing the beat, drumming the ground with their feet or slapping their hands against their thighs. He thus became one single circular motion connected to the rock or trunk. Propelled merely by the sole of his foot, he started spinning, his entire body somehow occupying the entire clearing, in a great circle, right up to the space where I sat and, hence, the dancers and the entire forest came alive behind me. It seemed to me that his long arms were trying to extend the wide circle out, out to the end of the world, to the edge of the dark sky, lit only by a few unknown stars. Each time he stopped turning, he would continue to direct the others, indicating the dance with slight movements that his friends would pick up and elaborate upon, as if the dancers were a single direct extension of his knowledge and his will. The entire scene: the dancers, the shifting beat, which transported me in seconds from one emotion to another, the song which was repeated over and over, the clearing, the night, the ground dancing with us, and the intensity of the moment, generated an overwhelming feeling of delight and a great joie de vivre, always with a touch of humour that was apparent in the numerous occasions in which one or other of the dancers would be off the beat, as if he were trying to catch his partners out. But, being fully conversant with their art, they just as quickly did the same in return, resulting in hilarious flurries of frenzied steps that only seemed to be without any pattern or order. [ . . . ] The whole atmosphere, the forest of whose scents and faint sounds I had been constantly aware, the clearing that for brief moments would regain its almost perfectly circular shape, the night, the moon and the time passing with an impression of reality that had never been so clear to me, drew me into an immense womb-

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Sultan-hen, Y. Bouquet. (ADCK)

like space in which my heart bathed in a heavenly liquid. I was now one with this body over there in the clearing, remote from me yet perfectly tangible, this body without boundary or dimension, celebrating the encounter of a group of friends from another time. [ . . . ] A sign and a single word from the person standing outside the group, and everything stopped. In three seconds, they had gone; there was nothing to be seen, just an empty space. N. Kurtovitch (1997b), Totem, pp. 108–112

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The Night of Storytelling—Nicolas Kurtovitch  There she dwelled in her land. Her land was a mysterious island said to lie in the direction of the rising sun. There were many women on this island, beautiful and of generous reputation. They lived well apart from one another, either alone or with a female relative. The island too was generous; nature was never angry there, and it was said that during cyclones the waves never reached beyond the row of coconut palms along the beach, nor did the wind and rain carry off roofs and houses. Never had the White Man come to this island. The Great Mariner had passed by, with the sun shining high in the sky, but he saw nothing, heard nothing. And yet they all seek it, night after night. They all go looking for the fires that cook food. But their thoughts are not pure and they remain blind and forlorn. The sailors pass by then return home, far out at sea, under the gaze of the women. There she dwelled in her land, her reputation spread far and wide. It reached the man from Néo. For the question of her marriage was of great interest to all. But the maiden in her land would accept no offers. So the chief of Néo said, “I shall go and see her.” And he goes into his house, draws a spear from its sheath, plunges his hand into his basket and takes out a fine, red headband. He takes a feather from its case set in the ribbing of the wall. And finally, before leaving, he makes sure he has a little packet of black powder made from mushrooms, and another of green powder that comes from ferns. He leaves with a supply of mangrove fruits to eat along the way. And he reaches his boat and pushes off. And the wind carries him smoothly and gently over a calm sea. The path showed the way to the village. At the approach to the village he paused to adorn himself, then whistled to indicate his presence. Silence reigned; the forest and the shore were stilled. The birds had all left, as if they had deserted him. The mother of the young maiden looked up, while the girl busied herself in the background, weaving mats. Her face towards the mountains, her back was turned on the man from Néo and the mother spoke. “Who goes there? Who is this traveller and in what village did he grow to be so handsome? Does he come from a place we do not know, from one of those valleys where we have never been, or does he come from inside our own minds?” And she spoke to him, “This person has journeyed here, but from where? Whence comes this handsome traveller?” “I tell you ’tis I, the chief of Néo.”

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“And what have you to say to us, what bring you to us? Your heart?” “I have come to see what good I can do in your house.” “I am happy to hear it. Wait a moment, I shall speak with the children who are nearby weaving mats and counting shells.” And she went over to have a word with her daughter who, throughout the conversation, had not moved nor slowed in her work. And the maiden replied, “I do not know this man; I am staying here. I shall wait for the man from Néawé.” “Very well,” concluded the man from Néo. “I am only offering an exchange.” And he disappeared from the path. [ . . . ] Her reputation continued to spread far and wide, reaching first the chief of Wénaro, where he lived peacefully in his fishing village. The chief of Wénaro was a man who, by his thoughts alone, could attract fish and calm men. His vision was limited by neither the dark night nor long distance, so that one day he saw the island afar off and decided to set off. [ . . . ] The words issued from the storyteller’s lips in an endless stream. As the tale grew longer, the space between his breaths grew steadily greater. He paced slowly back and forth with short steps, as if in time with the breathing of his protagonists: ten, fifteen paces in one direction, then the same number in the opposite direction; with always in the middle, the fire lighting his face, and his skin that glistened in the dark. He looked at no one, just the sky far above him and the story continued: The maiden was waiting for the chief from Néawé. [ . . . ] Finally the day came when the man from Néawé heard a voice, and he said, “I shall go to the land whence I come, to the village of my uncle.” [ . . . ] That night the man from Néawé could not sleep[;] gazing into the distance, he wept silently. He had no way to reach the girl’s village, he would never have the gift of the woman’s maternal relatives, he thought, all his plans had failed, he was powerless to reach her. And he was dejected at being so heavy, his thoughts so tied and bound. For now, he thought to himself, there was nothing more he could do; he might as well sleep. He went a little way off and made himself a shelter out of leaves and wood, and he climbed underneath it to sleep a little. Before long, he had a dream, and in this dream there was a rat, a man, a turtle and some children. Asleep as he was, he could see that the rat was in his house. “I shall sail to the reef,” he thought one day. “I miss the sea spray and the salt on this day.” And he fell asleep. In the morning, he cooked

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The Mask, M. Néporon. (ADCK)

a yam, put it in his food basket, climbed onto a piece of sugar cane, and the little boat went whistling over the waves. Then the kingfisher rushed up to him: “Tell me, Rat, where are you going?” “To the reefs.” “Well then, let’s go together.” N. Kurtovitch (1992), Forêt, terre et tabac, pp. 17–25

Other Voices Writing Back to Europe Weniko Ihage The work of Weniko Ihage, sociolinguist and chargé de mission (cultural affairs) for the vice rectorat of Nouvelle-Calédonie after the Matignon Accords, has appeared in a collection of his short stories entitled Iles sur un horizon de paroles (2000) and his co-authored collection with Déwé Gorodé, Le vol de la parole (2002). A number of these texts re-

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verse the perspectives of a colonial era and create new ways of disturbing European categories, but in a shared modern world. Weniko’s texts are often gestures of reclaiming and reversal but also of humility and reconciliation. Paris My Tribu, Paris My Village—Weniko Ihage The flame trees in flower were a sign of the approaching Christmas celebrations in the town of Nouméa. From the bandstand, focal point of the Place des Cocotiers, people could be seen thronging into the shops of the town centre. Only the petanque players, eyes glued to their jack, were untouched by the imperatives of time. Their passion never measured the passing of the seasons, or indeed the arrival of the festive season, even when this came around just once a year. Two old men in deep discussion on a yellow park bench, hardly noticing the stream of busy traffic around them or the shouting of the children playing football in the park. One was a New Caledonian of European origin, in a white T-shirt bearing the smiling face of good old Uncle Marcel, the popular local cartoon character. His short trousers drew attention to a pair of well-worn flip flops. The old Caledonian asked the old Kanak, “So then, ready to live for another year?” “Life goes on, eh.” “Yes, and at the end of it all, what are the strongest memories of your life?” the old Caledonian asked him. This question deserved long and careful reflection. The Kanak needed to leaf through the pages of his history, to unearth the most outstanding bunches of memories from the yam garden of his existence. He looked at his neighbour and said in a warm, friendly voice, “That would be in 1976, in Paris, when I went with the other New Caledonian mayors to Metropolitan France. It was a great moment in my life. The Caledonian delegation was welcomed to the Elysée Palace by the Great Chief, Georges Pompidou, surrounded by the chiefs of the clans that make up the great Chefferie. His spokesperson welcomed us and the Great Man himself made a big impression on the gathering of New Caledonian officials, with his simplicity and his universal sense of brotherhood. The humility of his welcome speech reminded us of the welcoming word that we say at the entrance to the Case. “Following this, we had to go down a great number of customary paths to see the Council of Elders at the National Assembly. Our eyes were wide with admiration for the noble bearing of these elders in their

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three-piece suits. And then we followed many roads which took us to a great rock, in the form of an arch, where an unknown warrior lies. This place is a bit taboo and the French have great respect for the symbol it represents just like the caves in our land that house the invisible spirits. “And you know, since we’re on the subject of spirits, they have a place there they call the Musée de l’homme, it is also quite unforgettable. A place where the sacred objects of our ancestors are preserved. A place of deep and indescribable emotion. “This is why PARIS is my second village or tribu, where I feel at home, twenty thousand kilometres away from home, where I become a child again. The place whose horizon I can always see from my island, from where I can see more clearly my own little islands of ignorance in a sea of knowledge, where I continue to be an eternal apprentice of openness to others, where Otherness is the necessary reflection of identity.” W. Ihage (2000), Iles sur un horizon de paroles, pp. 85–87

New Caledonians from Metropolitan France Catherine Laurent Catherine Laurent, born in 1962 in Lorraine, left France in 1993 to teach first on the Isle of Pines, then later in Bourail, a provincial town in the bush. Her texts suggest some of the difficulties in being part of the generation of New Caledonians who have recently migrated from France or other former French colonies, sometimes on contracts or as civil servants. They consider New Caledonia to be their ‘home’: “There are a number of us here/Europeans lost/Uprooted/But [ . . . ] Enhanced by the Pacific/Rooted in Melanesia” (Laurent 1999, p 54). Often grouped together under the label “Metropolitan French” or, more colloquially and problematically, “Zoreilles”, many of these recent French arrivals have been either secretly envied (the famous ‘colonial cringe’) or rejected as arrogant or as outsiders by those whose grandparents or parents were born on the island. In light of the political stakes of the demographics for the 2014 referendum on independence, there is concern by some, both Kanak and Caldoche, that recently arrived, retired civil servants or army personnel might stack the vote. The Nouméa Agreement requires eight years of residence for entitlement to vote. We note the recurrence of the verb “to be” and the noun “being” in the poetry of Laurent, an emphasis on the copula that appears to characterise all New Caledonian writing.

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Laurence Leroux Born in Paris in 1948, Laurence Leroux and her husband Didier travelled to join Didier’s father in 1969 when the latter set up a pharmacy in the centre of Nouméa. These were the ‘boom’ years of the nickel industry and of quite major Metropolitan immigration. The eruption of violence in 1984 and the unexpected fracture of society prompted Leroux to write a novel (Une saison folle, 1984) about the dramatic events unfolding. These events also marked the discovery of emotional rootedness in the ‘wounded’ land that the newcomers realised they had come to love as their own, in all its massive contradiction. In other stories Leroux explores similar fractured personal relationships between couples, set against the background of her childhood in Brittany, for example. This Land —Catherine Laurent It is by being Within myself become so Calm No regrets Lifted weight of those other lives Freed Immersed in the soul breath Of this Oceanian That I realised The great transformation Metamorphosis Born of this place Strong Silent Pacific C. Laurent (1999), Le coeur tranquille, p. 62

If I wear out my eyes By gazing at her Then perhaps she will see me

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If my heart grown fuller every day Marvels at the clouds And then perhaps she will accept me If my entire being vibrates With the trace of her valleys and hills Surely she will hear my desire Surely she will make a place for me This land C. Laurent (1999), Le coeur tranquille, p. 10

Writing Back to Kanak Texts Déwé Gorodé—Kënaké 2000 ou KNK 2000 In 1985, although Laurent and Gorodé stood on opposite sides of the political divide, Laurent bought and appreciated Gorodé’s poems, collected in Sous les cendres des conques. By the year 2000 both writers were members of the same Association of New Caledonian Writers. Gorodé’s play, Kënaké 2000 ou KNK 2000: Une adaptation du jèmââ de Tèâ Kënaké, shows that despite their shared objectives of recovery and valuing of Kanak history, culture, and perspectives still alive beneath ‘the ashes of the conch shells’, and their reflection on the mixed character of New Caledonian culture, for better or for worse Kanak literary texts are the product of individual writers, marked as much by their differences and evolutions as by their common purposes. Indeed, as a writer rather than an orator, Gorodé stands at least partly outside the group and outside tradition, doubly a rebel. The ‘first man’ in Tjibaou’s 1975 Kanaké, the ancestor who emerges from the tooth of the moon placed on a rock left dry by the receding waters, is a black man, legitimizing the claims of his descendants to the land. Gorodé’s Kënaké 2000 was produced in public by Pierre Gope at the Eighth Festival of Pacific Arts in Nouméa nearly a quarter century after the 1975 Melanesia 2000 festival. This text’s reference to ‘the first man’ might well be an allusive one to the martyred Tjibaou himself. Gorodé claims that her story replays that part of the jèmââ, or traditional founding story, in which Tèâ Kënaké was killed by his brother in a fratricidal struggle. Ataï, the chief who led the rebellion against the French in 1878, was also killed by a Kanak ‘brother’ from

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Canala. Tjibaou, for his part, was assassinated on Ouvéa on 5 May 1989 by his ‘brother’, Wéa Djubelli. The main character in Gorodé’s play is called TK. Tjibaou thus appears to be an avatar of the origin figure, Tèâ Kënaké. TK has two brothers, Frère 1 and Frère 2. Frère 2 may well represent Tjibaou’s Kanak ‘brother’ and assassin. The subject of the play, it can be surmised from reading between the lines, is TK/Tjibaou’s signing of the Matignon Agreement with France, and his subsequent martyrdom. The leader’s assassination by a fellow Kanak, and thus a ‘brother’, is presented in the play as a recurring mythicohistorical pattern, a tragic destiny that cannot be prevented, or an implacable retribution or ‘curse’ affecting several generations. Gorodé’s play thus stages complex questions of fatality and of the ‘thickness’ of history and memory. More specifically, it recalls Tjibaou’s refusal to go back on the Matignon Agreement with France, to which he has given his Word, although he is warned of the disarray of his second ‘brother’. The latter seeks revenge for the killing of eighteen young Kanak in 1988 during the French Special Forces’ assault on the caves on the island of Ouvéa, where the group of young rebels had been holding a number of French hostages following a botched raid on a police post at Gossanah during which two French policemen were killed. Although Gorodé herself has denied that Kënaké 2000 refers directly to the dramatic events that led to Tjibaou’s death, a historical postscript exists to this fictional history. Between 17 July and 8 August 2004, fifteen years after Tjibaou’s assassination, four ceremonies of forgiveness were finally conducted in the chefferie of Hwadrilla at Gossanah to bring some resolution to the bitterness of the loss of so many lives. The extended families of both assassin (Djubelli) and victims (Tjibaou and Iéwéné) were present at these traditional ceremonies of reconciliation of the clans concerned. The elements of the original jèmââ foregrounded in Gorodé’s retelling of the traditional myth are fratricide (the struggle between brothers for territories and power and betrayal) and the story of an original incest. These replace and critique the central figures in Tjibaou’s own play, Kanaké, of the heroic and virile chief, and of the boénando—that is, a peaceful coming together of the two communities, French and Kanak. Tjibaou’s death may be that of a consenting victim, suggests Gorodé, but it is also a story of repeating history—a history of male competition, malediction, betrayal, and revenge for which women pay the price.

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In the opening scene of Gorodé’s play, TK is presented as a brother and a lover in dialogue with Woman (W), who will become a central figure of the play. The sacred is modernised in this character of Duée, a traditional and genderless ghost or spirit who now becomes a very human mother or sister figure or psychological inner voice. Despite the pleading of Woman, who is the customary sister of the two brothers and the first love of TK, the latter remains unwilling to take steps to defend himself. He is curiously fatalistic, perhaps determined, as Hamid Mokaddem—reading TK as Jean-Marie Tjibaou—has suggested, to enhance his image, to “give”, and to be “re-arranged like the bones of the dead” in order to take on the status of ancestor and of myth. When TK is shot by Brother 2 (B2), Brother 1 (B1) retaliates and shoots B2 in his turn, taking over the political leadership as TK had planned it: “TK is dead. Long live Kënaké”. The martyr is given a hero’s state burial, and the political myth is born. W insists on a customary burial for both the assassin and the assassinated in the name of tradition and the right of the maternal uncles to claim back the body and blood of their relative (“They are my brothers”). B1, as the consummate politician, prefers to see that the assassin’s body is taken away secretly by night for burial. The spectator also identifies allusions to the Oedipus cycle, the story of Antigone burying her two warring brothers despite the interdiction of her father, King Creon. In the final scenes, Duée, who plays the role of confidante to W in her loss and despair after the two killings, is both the nurse of Shakespearian tragedy and the Kanak grandmother. At the end of the play Duée and W speak with a common voice as the former persuades a desperate W not to die from her sense of abandonment but to live as a woman, with all the limitations and possibilities of sharing and loving entailed by being a woman, but in rebellion, to live to construct the future Kanaky. Like Antigone, then, W is a voice against death and abandonment, pleading for respect for the life of both her brothers, and repeating the resistant gestures of Gorodé’s other fictional heroines, the generations of independent-minded Utê Mûrûnû who refuse polygamous or undesired customary marriages at the same time that they assume the responsibility of being the guardians of traditional knowledge. The love poem woven into the threads of the first scene between TK and W also evokes women’s enslavement as consenting victims to sexual and political domination. Duée’s voice prefigures the voice of Léna in L’Épave, who finally shakes off the servitude of the abject attachment to her sexual violator.

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Gorodé’s novel, like her play, attempts to speak of the unspeakable, the seduction of sexual potency, figured as mana or charisma, and the negative use of the arts of the supernatural, of “sorcery”. The central figure of Old Tom, the ogre, seduces and abuses his own children across generations, aided by his ogress, also a figure of Kanak legend. Jean-Marie Tjibaou’s first version of Kanaké has come to be identified with a resurgent Kanak cultural consciousness and cultural politics that Gorodé’s party, the PALIKA, initially rejected in favour of more direct political activism. In her play, however, Gorodé, too, uses culture to affirm a Kanak identity and advance a new political consciousness. But the traditional role of Duée, or of custom, or indeed of male heroism and sacred Word are interrogated in her work. The efficacy of the leader’s boénando, the ceremony of sharing with France, and indeed of his own sacrificial death is put to the question. Tjibaou’s land of Kanaky, despite its homage to the blood and the fertile belly of the mother, remains a virile universe where name, land, and status come from the father. Gorodé’s Kanaky is the conception of a woman resisting the teachings of the indigenous Church that formed her and espousing the radical movements of 1968. Her lyrical praise of Kanak values is counterbalanced by critical probing of the power relations between the sexes. Gorodé thus sets up the bold Kaavo as ‘heroine’ in opposition to a traditionalist (and masculinist) hero, Kanaké. Tjibaou was of the generation and gender of Machoro, Burck, and Paita, who formed the Union Calédonienne out of their shared experience of the seminary at Canala and Tjibaou’s faith that the coherence and strength of the group are a function of the circulation of this Word and its intensity. Gorodé belongs to the generation of 1968, and her ludic play functions dialogically, transformed by a different, ‘hybrid’ relation to the Word. Gorodé’s texts proceed to open up Tjibaou’s essentialist characterisation of Kanaky as Nature and as the power of the Word, also deconstructing the French language with which she works by using multiple narrators, shifting focalisation (often concentrated into a ‘we’) and register. Events recur in layered spaces presented simultaneously, in much the same way that an artist such as Yvette Bouquet layers spaces in her painting or Micheline Néporon draws the multiple scenes of daily Kanak life on the same plane. The multiple connections of the scenes in Bouquet’s Les Trésors de la femme and the play with the French language of the painting’s title remind one of the open and dialogic character of Gorodé’s text. Sometimes forcing French to take on the forms of Paicî, and orchestrating a battle in which the common understand-

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ings carried by the French language are pushed to their limits, and sometimes losing herself in the pleasure of the text, Gorodé’s texts are both critically playful and intensely socially engaged, as they describe her grandfather’s case or the sharing of a bougna, or make fun of the self-important Kanak politician hurrying along with his briefcase but decry abuse of his wife or daughter. As we have seen, Gorodé’s short stories, like Tjibaou’s, are often ‘ethnographic’ in content, but this is an insider ethnography writing the sacred face of the land. Independence is a piece of Kanak garden to work; the inhabitants of the city of Nouméa are victims of that concrete jungle of cultural dispossession. Yet if Gorodé’s texts share Tjibaou’s general distrust of an alien Nouméa, they construct a less idealised and more critical image of both tribu and town. In Kënaké 2000, W and B1 argue out the possible futures for their children, elaborating opposing arguments, drawing on linguistic opposites that are contradictory but not mutually exclusive. These oppositions are resolved within the play by their acceptance in a system of mutually recognised differences, perhaps as Gorodé’s texts resolve the many paradoxes in her personal and political life. These paradoxes include the current negotiations for the opening of a nickel mine at Koniambo by the leaders of the Province Nord, her own political colleagues, or her life as a Kanak woman in solidarity both with her group and with her gender. For Kënaké 2000 is partly a love poem in enthrallment before a man and a destiny, TK, without whom life appears impossible, and partly a rebellion against the domination and marginalisation of women by men. Hybridity in Gorodé’s work is figured in her image of writing as an outsider “in this language that is not mine”, writing dialogically, interrogatively. In the double movement signalled by the title of her recent collectively authored volume of short stories, Le vol de la parole, French is de-territorialised in what is both “theft” of the mother tongue and (Deleuzian) pleasure in language, use and abuse, “lines of flight”, defined as textual openness and new possibility. Kënaké 2000—Déwé Gorodé Characters

W = Woman TK = Tèâ Kënaké B1 = Brother

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W: TK hurry, I’ve got to talk to you. TK: What’s the matter, little sis? W: I’ve been seeing things. TK: What things? W: Terrible things. Things concerning us, TK. TK: That’s only natural. We’ve been through some really tough times lately. That’s why it’s coming back to you. W: No, no TK! What you’re talking about is behind us. What I’m seeing is ahead of us. TK: Well then, if these things have to happen, we’ll face them. W: Then we have to do it very soon. You gotta leave TK. Straight away! TK: Hey, slow down. No need to panic, little sis. Cool it, babe, let’s just take a moment to try and see things clearly, OK? W: But it’s all foreseen, TK. I’ve seen it. He’ll get you. TK: That’s history. W: I don’t give a damn about history. I just want to prevent the irreparable happening. TK: Irreparable. Whoa! That’s a pretty big word. We’re always repairing, always fixing things. W: What about you, TK. You can’t be fixed. You’re not a flat tyre. If they nail you, that can’t be fixed. TK: They’ve had us die a thousand deaths and we’re still here. W: TK, if you go down, what’s gonna become of us? TK: We’ve lived through a thousand deaths and we’re still here. W: Don’t talk about “we,” TK. “We” is nothing. Nothing at all, TK. It’s about “you.” You and you alone. TK: But I am not alone. I only am with you all. Without you all, I am not. W: For heaven’s sake, TK. Think about you for once. Just once in your life, TK. Just once! TK: Just once, that’s once too many. W: For the love of God, TK. If you won’t do it for you, do it for us, TK. We need you. TK: Nobody’s indispensable.

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W: You are indispensable, TK, because we need you. TK: That’s what you’ll all believe, until the death of this mere mortal that I am. W: It’s not a belief, TK. It’s a fact. There’s nothing I can do about it. TK: That’s what they call a personality cult. W: Stop it! We’re not talking about Mao here. We’re talking about Kanaky. And I’m telling you again, we need you! TK: We create needs and construct images for ourselves. And we transform them into scapegoats when everything falls apart. W: Yes, everything’s falling apart right now, TK. That’s why I’m begging you to run. Now, from the death that’s coming for you. Go back up there to the tooth of the moon. TK: The moon’s never had teeth, no more than hens have teeth! W: Go back up your mountain then! TK: That’s where I’ve always been: up there, up on the mountain— stretched out on the moss, lying under the ferns. You can see me up there, from dawn to dusk. W: Go, TK. Save yourself. Let me die in your place. I’m a woman. I’m a nothing. TK: You are everything. You are Woman. You are life and you must not die. You will live. W: I will not survive your death, TK. TK: You are young and you will survive. Death doesn’t want you, Woman. W: I know. Death is for the heroes, for the brave, for the warriors. Death is for you men. TK: You bear life, Woman. W: TK, I’m talking about the survival of the movement. TK: You are the movement, Woman. You are life. W: You are the guarantor of our unity, TK. There’s still time to save it all. TK: I’m not the saviour. I’m not the Lord. W: Oh, leave God alone and get out. Before the other one arrives. TK: I’m not scared of him. W: I know very well you’re not afraid of him but that’s not going to stop him from taking you down.

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TK: You said it. W: But, TK, for heaven’s sake, why are you looking for death when we all need you alive? TK: My death will be doing you all a favour. W: TK, for the love of God, go! You know what he’s capable of. TK: We all know what he’s capable of. He’s our brother. W: TK, he’ll kill you. TK: He’ll kill me. W: But it’s so absurd! Shit! What’s the goddamn point of it all, you tell me. TK: To serve the march of history. W: History, History, it’s always History. I couldn’t give a shit about your History! TK: It’s our History, Woman. W: Oh no! Not at that price. NO thank you! You men can stick your History! I don’t want it TK: You’re part of it, Woman. W: No, I, me, woman, I won’t have a bar of your History of crimes and assassinations. TK: History teaches us what we are. W: A History of men, the same all the world over! Me, I’m just a woman. TK: But You, Woman, will be the one to tell it to our children. (B1 arrives, Woman exits) D. Gorodé (2000), Kënaké 2000 ou KNK 2000. Produced at the Théâtre de Ville, Nouméa, 1999, by Pierre Gope.

Kënaké 2000—Déwé Gorodé S  an island W   Treasure Island S  an isle of jade W   a strategic rock S  the isle of light W  a postcard S  lulled by the tradewinds

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W   threatened by radioactivity S  an island of blue mountains W   decapitated for their nickel ore S  of clear rivers W   polluted by the mines B1  their future is the country we must build W   underdeveloped? developing? industrialized? B1  a country of the land W  nickel country B1  the land of thatched huts W   the land of tin shanties B1  the land of the yam W   between rape and incest B1  the land of the taro W   the whore of Old Nick B1  the land of the columnar pine W   razed by bush fires B1  the land of the coconut palm W   that would rather have Nestle’s coconut milk from a can B1  the land of your fathers W   I have no father B1  the land of your brothers W   my brothers are dead. And I too am going to die. It’s the land of the dead. D. Gorodé (2000), Kënaké 2000

We give the final word to this section on the character of the future of cultural mixing, however, to a ‘moral’ fable by Weniko Ihage and Déwé Gorodé in their collective volume of short stories. The title of the volume, Le vol de la parole, once again evokes the overarching structure of Gorodé’s complex work where apparently contradictory spaces coexist without being mutually exclusive, a structure of linguistic and cultural hybridity. The Migratory Bird—Weniko Ihage and Déwé Gorodé  ◙ It was the season of the flying foxes. [ . . . ] The flying fox seemed happy to meet the migratory bird again, after

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his long journeys. It is a species with many varieties, highly appreciative of the seas, beaches and the inland spaces of the Kanak land. Some change their plumage, and leave quickly after three years so that they can return. Some even make nests. Others, more and more numerous, guided by their instincts and chance encounters, abandon their pedigree and lay their eggs on the tiny Island of Surprise. The original occupant of the indigenous tree, the flying fox, approached the migratory bird and with her claws shook the branch on which her most recent visitor was perched. At no time did she let him say a single word, and after a suitable pause she said, “I’m happy to see you again, Migratory Bird. No doubt your journeys will have opened your mind. Forged your personality and enriched your experience. But respect for the Other demands a customary gesture if our exchange is to be fraternal and amicable. Look at my house, just beside you. If the entrance is small, it’s so that you must bend down to go in, thereby respecting the master of the place and all those who live there. But anyway, I bid you welcome onto my banyan tree and into my house.” The migratory bird remained strangely motionless. Perhaps he had just learned a lesson in humility? Immediately the flying fox began again, “You see my friend, here in our country, the gentle Alizes breezes blow but also occasionally they give way to the Eek, the light West wind which carries the spirits of our dead ancestors and transmits the secrets of life that our Elders pass on to us so that we may live through better tomorrows. [ . . . ] “Before I fly away for other skies, I would like to propose we each give the Other our Word. [ . . . ] “Like the tip of the banyan tree which reaches with its highest point towards a creator God, like the smoke that rises towards the latticework surrounding the central post in the Grande Case, like the sublime ascension of the spirits of the faithful in a cathedral, this word simply asks that you take it with you in your initiatory quest for a universal destiny that unites us. “In your encounter with the Other, from sameness to alterity, from hot to cold from white to black, from here and elsewhere, from the specific to the universal, humility must lift our consciousness towards the sacred in order to build a universal cathedral. Stay proud but humble, migratory bird. You too are a simple descendant of an indigenous tribe or local family, you too have your roots in a certain place. Take the time,

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as do my brothers and sisters of this district, to look at the world from upside down to see it otherwise.” W. Ihage and D. Gorodé (2002), Le vol de la parole, pp. 89–91

This ‘fable’ has the moral tone and literary characteristics that suggest it may be Ihage’s work rather than Gorodé’s. Different Hybridities: The New Generation Jean-Marie Tjibaou and Déwé Gorodé have produced Kanak histories/ stories of Kënaké/Kanaké that are different. They are inflected by religion, by gender, by different (and shifting) positions on the independence spectrum, by the generation gap (Tjibaou was born in 1936 and Gorodé in 1949), and by their different (religious and secular, respectively) educational contexts in France. Tjibaou’s principle of permanent reformulation, grounded in a return to tradition, and Gorodé’s woman-centred critique of the degradation of Kanak custom are nonetheless both distinctively Kanak. They share a particular sense of time and place and social investment and make claims for the existence of a Kanak history. Their texts share traditional metaphors, including the génies familiers, or household spirits, who welcome the visitors from Europe, highlighting both the Kanak tradition of hospitality (the absorption of strangers into the tribe to prevent them from swelling the ranks of the enemy) and the status of the Kanak as first inhabitant in the figure of Kanaké. The histories/stories of the younger generation are also mixed, different from one another and carrying different messages, yet distinctively Kanak. The rewriting of Kanaké by the poet Denis Pourawa as a bilingual (Paicî-French) children’s story, Téâ Kanaké: I pwi âboro nä caa kärä î-jè wâro kê/Téâ Kanaké: L’homme aux cinq vies, sponsored by the Agence de Développement de la Culture Kanak and the Centre Culturel Tjibaou, seeks to transmit the ritual and poetry of Kanak oral expression in a text that brings together elements of traditional oratory and direct address to young urban Kanak. The themes of his text inscribed within the Paicî story of Téâ Kanaké are the magic, power, and vigour of (Kanak) man’s origin. Pourawa’s commitment to the preservation of the Kanak world is intense. His children’s version of the ‘history’ has a didactic thread. “He is strong/and will bring you victory/he is wise and knows his lineage”. But Pourawa’s work,

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too, necessarily has a foot in both worlds. His verses recounting the memory of the clan’s initial journeys through mythological space, the emergence of his first man connected to local place, also have a biblical ring. The young Kanak artist Eric Mouchonnière’s illustrations for the book, too, bring together the vibrant spiral of rainbow colour and nascent forms of the mythological universe of Kanak creation myths and cartoon-like, skateboard-riding kids of different skin colours and appearance. Pourawa sees rewriting Téâ Kanaké as a reconnecting with roots. With this myth I found myself face to face with a Word that I had to write. But this Word is sacred, it is so profound that you cannot master all aspects of it. I had to reinterpret a story that has been transmitted from generation to generation. A task which has at once the weight of a burden and of a feather. The weight of a burden as it is a sacred Word that I had to write for young people. The weight of a feather as through this act of creativity, I am paying homage to all the heritage that has made the Word a noble expression. (Pourawa, oral communication, 2003)

His most recent publication, Entre voir: Les mots des murs (2006), with Tokiko (the pseudonym of Laurence Viallard, director of the Grain de Sable Press, which was instrumental in the emergence of the new literatures), is another ‘hybrid’ invitation into history as collective memory, this time through texts (by Pourawa) and accompanying documentary photographs (by Tokiko). The book presents the graffiti that covered the walls of the abandoned shells of houses after the quasi–civil war of the 1980s—markings that include the name of Éloi Machoro, the ‘martyr’ of the ‘Troubles’ and the new figure of Che Guevara. Dominique Jouve (2005) notes the unreadability of the bilingual passages presented in the Xârâcùù language that make no concession to the reader, the sense of irreducible Otherness, indeed of the sacred, that Pourawa imparts, the Word(s) that imply rituals or chants, respect and emotion, and the insistence once again on a present that is fully present only when it embraces the past. Despite the performance mode shared with Tjibaou and Gorodé, Pourawa’s modern work infused with the “mysteries of ancestrality”, his recall of both past tradition and contemporary militant reality, differs considerably from the work of this older generation and even more so, again, from the rap-poetry of his contemporary, Paul Wamo.

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The New Generation—Denis Pourawa Kanaky-Caledonia life people life spirit life All those who have gone life All those who are coming life the land (p. 18) “UDJO” Union of Forgotten Youth Two shields The ghetto The tribe Two weapons Hate Respect One inevitable outcome Struggle (p. 95) Old Kanak Old Caldoche Of this land My country Each bearing his own silence The long, learning march (p. 19)

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Sombre recognition The leader’s casquette Visionary glasses Mustached man We remember you Eloi Fragments from D. Pourawa and Tokiko (2006), Entre voir: Les mots des murs, p. 73

Note: The graffiti that figures below this text is that of the martyr/terrorist Éloi Machoro, the Che Guevara of young militant Kanak. Similar graffiti appears on bus shelters throughout the Northern Province of New Caledonia. Paul Wamo The poems of this charismatic and media-savvy young Kanak teacher and spoken-word or performance artist express a very different approach to history. His “soul wanders lost through History’s maze”, cries with rage against self-dispossessions, or rap-laments a history that is loss/lost. If the present is fully present only when it embraces the past, then the central condition of this young man—“Endlessly torn apart from within/kicked in the guts from without”, nostalgic for a ‘tradition’ of which he is critical and from which he is excluded—is, as the title of one poem puts it, in “Traditional Amnesia”. Pourawa is still rooted in the tribe and tradition. Wamo, for his part, can be only a citizen of a hybrid global world, “lost in a jungle of urbanization/ Rocked by the lullaby songs of television/Even inside my own clan/I talk different, walk different”. The young rap-poet seems to be both affirming and lamenting his urban contexts and modern individuality, in language that separates him from the group and makes him stand outside it. Like Gorodé and Gope, he expresses both a sense of loss, of nostalgia, for the past and a critique of this past. This is felt as the hybridity of ‘exile’, of being diasporic or in-between, unsure of which culture one belongs to, rather than as the productive new ‘third space’ the postcolonial critic Homi Bhabha (1994) speaks of. Yet Wamo clearly knows where he comes from, and there is much that speaks to young people, both Kanak and non-Kanak, much that derives from

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both worlds in his vibrant poetry. His cultural mixing is not a threat to a ‘common destiny’. Sleeping Beauty—Paul Wamo  ◙ Culture I have not consigned you to oblivion But your cries are muffled By so much commotion Too many kinds of smoke have clouded my vision And time has stripped bare My naked tradition Culture From the poison of progress toxic fumes rise And my thatch roof is ablaze against a predator sky Behind the scenes of the past I search the night For your shadow presence in this black light Culture You left me a legacy Masses of treasure from our ancient history But I Flirted with the pirates of Chronos Phantom Tomb raiders of my Paradise Lost Culture Your child raises a voice from a desperado soul torn by choice Facing tomorrow armed only with my rhymes In this immanent present I shall defy time Culture Listen to your weeping orphan child Lost amongst the flower beds of these urban wilds

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Adrift, my earth mother has abandoned me Poetry, I implore, deliver me Culture You sleeping beauty Text communicated by the poet

Traditional Amnesia—Paul Wamo  ◙ A cry of rage Rips at my roots Encasing emptiness Hollow shell My soul wanders lost Through history’s abyss Memories crack In my skull full of crack Where I’m from Who I am, Sole master of my fate Lone rider at tomorrow’s gate I been slapped around Clapped around, punched in the heart Endlessly torn apart from within Kicked in the guts from without But I don’t budge Stand my ground Shut out of my so-called traditional society I opt in to a so-called urban problem zone Wretched of the earth Uprooted homeless Other I find my true roots In the belly of my mother Been judged too long by black Judges in White gowns Blood-stained hands The verdict is heavy

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And the jury is deaf Tried and found guilty of innocent ignorance I’m like that other Tarzan clown Lost in a jungle of urbanisation Rocked by the lullaby songs of television Even inside of my own clan I talk different, walk different Don’t even recognize my own Tell me now who’s gonna take me home? P. Wamo (2005), Le Pleurnicheur, p. 38

Non-Kanak histories in New Caledonian literary fiction, as we have seen, are essentially written rather than oral texts, sharing a number of themes, including the ‘hybrid’ condition of living between an old world, usually Europe (which they reject or seek to transplant in significant respects) and the new (New Caledonia). This position in-between may allow for the development of double alliances, critical perspectives, or ‘third’ (hybrid) spaces. The stories/histories we have examined often arise from engagement with hegemonic geopolitical realities (Europe/ France) to assert their own specificity. Their ‘hybridity’ derives from the concern to resolve the relation to the Other/Otherness, to manage this hybridity, and to assert their own origins and spaces of memory, often for political purposes. The departure point of the Kanak histories we have considered is different, as is the predominance of ‘performance’ forms. New Caledonian literatures thus suggest that hybridities, mixed cultural forms, are themselves different; the hybrid is multiple, shifting, even conflictual, a polemical instrument. The term itself, which has nonetheless served us so well in our reflection on cultural transfer, may have only limited or context-specific definition and application for this Oceanian collectivité sui generis of two major cultures, Kanak and New Caledonian. Yet, these are intricately bound, deeply hyphenated cultures legitimating our still politically controversial use of the title A Cultural History of Kanaky-New Caledonia and the hope for a “common destiny” it embodies.

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About the Editors

Raylene Ramsay and Deborah Walker-Morrison teach in the Department of French at the University of Auckland. Both have lived and worked extensively in New Caledonia. Translators of the poems of Déwé Gorodé (Sharing as Custom Provides, Pandanus, 2004) and of the first Kanak novel (L’Epave [The Wreck], Little Island Press, 2011), they have again worked as a team on this cultural history. Raylene Ramsay (editor) completed her doctoral studies on twentieth-century literature in France and taught at the Universities of Toulouse and Cambridge before returning to New Zealand to teach at Massey University. After a decade in the United States at Clark, Tufts, and Brown Universities and as associate professor at Simmons College in Boston, she took up a chair in French at the University of Auckland. Recipient of a major award (Chevalier des Arts et des Lettres) from the French Ministry of Culture, and a Fellow of the Royal College of New Zealand, Raylene has published books on French life writing and on the French “new novel” and modernity. Her study of women’s writings on power, French Women in Politics, won the Choice Outstanding Academic Title award in 2003. The Francophone world, the French Pacific, and particularly New Caledonia have been the major objects of her large number of published chapters and articles over the last decade. Deborah Walker-Morrison (translation editor and author of the DVD) is a part-Maori New Zealander with French nationality who lived and worked in New Caledonia from 1979 to 1989. After returning to New Zealand, she undertook postgraduate study in the mid-1990s, completing a joint doctoral thesis on the cinema of Alain Resnais in 2001 with the University of Auckland and l’Université de Paris VIII. She has published on French and New Zealand cinema and has a particular interest in indigenous cinema and the translation of indigenous texts.

Production Notes for Ramsay / Nights of Storytelling Cover design by Julie Matsuo-Chun Interior design and composition by Wanda China with display type in Christiana and text in Scala Pro and Scala Sans Pro Printing and binding by Sheridan Books, Inc. Printed on 50 lb. House Opaque, 606 ppi.